Theresa, New York

 

If I were relying on mini-solar panels, as I have done in the past, to keep my iPad charged I’d be out of luck, as I’ve had virtually no sun the past four days with a heavy overcast and lots of rain.  With no sun to dry my gear I had to rely on a slight breeze to dry my tent yesterday afternoon, allowing me to slip into a somewhat dry tent for the first time in four days. 

It was only by a stroke of good fortune that I didn’t have to resort to solar once again on this trip, as I inadvertently left home without my generator hub, neglecting to swap the non-generator hub front wheel I had used on my Surly when in Telluride.  Luckily I discovered this gross oversight when I stopped at a post office four miles from home to send off a package and realized I didn’t have to disconnect the wire to my hub as I ordinarily have to do when I detach my handlebar bar with all my valuables when I leave my bike.  At least I was still conditioned to do that. 

If I hadn’t discovered my oversight until I got to the train station I would have been quite disappointed, as I wouldn’t have had the time to return the eighteen miles to retrieve it.  My solar panels are nowhere near as effective as the generator hub.  It would have meant a lot more time finding and sitting by electrical outlets charging, rather than riding as I’d prefer to be doing.

I feared I may have jinxed myself, as I had been reading Nicolas Bouvier’s seminal travel book “The Way of the World” published in 1963 before I left.  During his time in Iran he mentioned that Persian caravan drivers had a saying, “First stage, short stage,” because invariably those setting out on a long caravan through the deserts would remember shortly after they had set out that they forget something important and would have to turn back to get it, usually no further than a farsang, four miles, the exact distance I had gone when I realized I had forgotten my wheel with the generator hub. When I read that I felt happy that I had never forgotten something of importance before setting out on any of my many journeys and couldn’t really imagine doing so as I have so much experience in packing, even having a short “don’t forget” list.

Bouvier’s memoir was a most literate rendering of his eighteen months driving from Europe to India through Turkey, Iran and Afghanistan with a friend departing in June of 1953, lingering in places to write and lecture.  He stirred many memories of my time biking through Turkey and India and elsewhere.  His frequent mentions of smoking, his own, and of those he encountered,  revived smoking-related memories that somewhat defined my travels in various countries.  In Morocco I was regularly besieged by shepherds spotting me in the distance, who would run to the road shouting “un cigarette, un cigarette,” taking me to be French.  China was just the opposite.  I was there just as a large proportion of the population was emerging from poverty.  Men were regularly offering me a cigarette, as a sign of welcome and generosity.

In Chile a cigarette may have saved my life, or at least injury.  I was biking in the dark while deep into Patagonia closing in on the Straits of Magellan when the days were very short with winter coming on.  A full moon was imminent and I was slowly gliding along following a white line on the edge of the road in the pitch dark awaiting the bright illumination that would come with the moon.  All of a sudden a tiny orange glow appeared a few feet in front of me from the drag on a cigarette of someone else trudging towards me  in the dark.  If not for that cigarette I would have plowed into him and who knows what would have become of us.

Bouvier also wrote a book on traveling in Japan.  Surprisingly he doesn’t once mention Mount Fuji nor the snow monkeys in a nearby national park that were the two highlights of my time in Japan.  Among my strongest memories of Japan is all the girly magazines I’d see along the road.  Road side scavenging has been on my mind with Israel at the top of the news.  I was warned when I cycled there not to pick up any debris along the road as there was the possibility it could be booby-trapped.  The Israelis were always on guard.  I biked along the Gaza border and through the towns that were recently attacked, knowing that at any time a bomb might be lobbed over from Gaza.

One such memory leads to another as I cycle along when not tuned in to a podcast.  It is nice to have such a wealth.  I never know what will be triggered or what memory will follow the one presently possessing me.  I could spend several minutes reliving my time in Iceland or pay it just a quick visit before moving on to Madagascar or Oman.  I never know.  

As always, it is nice to be collecting more.  After three Carnegies on Saturday I have gathered just one a day the following two days, both in small towns and both maintaining an outward appearance not much changed from when they were built over a century ago.  Each was a small gem that I was happy to add to my bank of memories.

Fulton’s Carnegie had a scenic location along the Oswego River reminding me of others that had a similar privilege.  It was graced with the usual unostentatious adornments that are frequent distinguishing features of these libraries.

It was seventy miles north to the seventh and final of the New York Carnegies on this leg of these travels.  It came in the tiny town of Theresa not far from Canada and the St. Lawrence Seaway.  It was a basic square brick building without adornment, but in its simplicity as dignified as any Carnegie.

If I hadn't been delayed by three weeks in setting out on these travels I would have ventured over to Canada from Theresa for five nearby Carnegies to the west and south of Ottawa,  but with the days getting colder and shorter I must forego that loop and head east to Vermont one hundred and fifty miles away over the northern hump of New York and the Adirondacks.  No Carnegies for three days until I reach Fair Haven then head north to Burlington for another.