Taking Backroads to the Past
This journey was inspired by reflections I'd been making on my French Canadian heritage. My family name is Lussier. My grandfather was born in the U.S. but his father had been born in Quebec province south of the St. Lawrence. I knew very little about the location except that it was near Ste. Hyacinthe which is east of Montreal.
My wife had been tracing her lineage using Ancestry.com and I used her account to do a bit of investigating myself. What I discovered was that my great grandfather's birthplace was the small town of St.-Damase which indeed is close to Ste. Hyacinthe and about 260 miles from my home in Ashfield, Mass. Google bike directions provided me with a route that followed the Vermont/New York state line up to and through the Champlain Islands, a place I was eager to visit. It even included a ride on the bike ferry across the “Cut” in the Colchester Causeway which is a present-day bikeway following an old railroad route from Burlington to South Hero Island in Lake Champlain. It seemed like a fun route which would take me to a worthy destination.
I usually take about two weeks off during the summer to have some kind of adventure. Lately it has been bicycle tours using my vintage Bridgestone MB-1 mountain bike fitted out with aerobars and the usual assortment of racks and panniers and a handlebar bag. It has 26 inch wheels and the tires are fairly wide but lack the mountain bike style knobs which allows me to ride pretty swiftly on pavement but still take to a gravel-surfaced trail without discomfort. I've been pleased with the arrangement which has has involved riding thousands of miles on all surfaces including gravel highways and logging roads in Maine and Canada. It also proves to be a combination well-suited to Google Map bike directions which are something of a crap shoot as far as riding surface is concerned.
To fill out the two weeks I decided to retrace my great grandfather's route to permanent settlement, raising a family, establishing a business and finally burial in the U.S. His entry into the country, according to immigration records, was through North Grosvenordale, Conn. He worked there either in, or collateral to, the mills that operated there at the time. He returned briefly to his home in Quebec but left to come to the U.S. once and for all, settling in Woonsocket, R.I. I decided to return to the U.S. with North Grosvenordale as my objective, followed by Woonsocket and then turn toward home. It was a bit shorter than my usual goal of approximately 1000 miles but at 704 it was still a respectable distance and about right for my typical daily goal of around 70 miles, if done over 11 days instead of 14.
Being a shorter distance than usual also meant I gave myself permission to forego packing the front lowrider panniers and rack. It would save some weight. I had only recently adopted using the front panniers on the previous summer's trip. I would continue using the set up I was most used to: an Eclipse front bag and two rear JandD mountain panniers with the gussets unzipped to expand them to their maximum size. My sleeping bag, hammock and fly, and occasionally rain gear, would be strapped on top of the rear rack.
Setting out, typically, behind my hoped for departure time, I rode the length of our main street and passing Elmer's Store (now primarily a restaurant) one of the patron's as well as a waitress, both friends, called out and asked where I was headed. It was obvious from the load I was freighting it wasn't just a trip around the block. “Canada!” I yelled, which produced a couple of thumbs up and I continued on feeling very happy my choice of adventure produced admirers.
My Google directions called for me to follow some strange local routes which are typically more for mountain bikes than touring bikes. I avoided taking the worst of those but it made me wonder what might be in store later on when I would be more at their mercy without the benefit of local savvy. By and large they were useful and helped me avoid the busiest streets as I traversed the area around Adams, North Adams and Williamstown which have their share of such things.
It was getting close to dusk when I crossed the Vermont state line near Pownal and stopped at a Stewart's store for what would come to represent my dinner. The main thing I felt was thirst. I bought a quart bottle of lemonade but Stewart's test marketing of the concoction must have been among McDonald's customers who, judging from the typical McDonald's drink, crave sweets. The lemonade was over the top too sweet for me. Fortunately I could dilute it with the remaining water in my water bottles, which I did. I eventually got it to a point were I could drink it. A pastry was added for the solid portion of the meal and I was ready to start out. I met a young guy coming down off what must have been an ATV trail alongside the railroad tracks near the store. I asked him if he had some local knowledge of where I could sling up a hammock for the night. He told me there was a “nature preserve” not far west of where we were along the route I was planning to take. He said to look for a road, blocked by boulders, that I would find on the right after I passed a big rock cut.
It was getting pretty dark as I followed Rt. 346 west from Pownal center. Owing to the fact that I didn't have an exact distance to go by I just kept riding and before reaching either the rock cut or a road blocked by boulders a group of three kids riding their bicycles swarmed down from an intersecting road and pedaled along as if late for supper. I rode up even with them and asked if they knew whether there was a side road that led up into a nature preserve along this stretch of highway and the answer was “just up ahead,” and sure enough a few moments later we went past the rock cut and they pointed out the dirt road climbing the hill to our right.
I thanked them and stopped in front of the boulders. It was dark enough now that I fished out my headlamp and switched it on. Working my bike through the boulders I proceeded up the overgrown old road to a point where it steepened considerably and was strewn with loose rocks from having been considerably washed out. I laid my bike on the ground and continued up the road looking for an area of good hammocking trees. Up to that point the road was bordered by mainly briars, brush, shrubs and sapling-sized trees. At the first level spot above the incline I could see enough space between the now larger trees to admit my passage and I found two adequately spaced trees with enough diameter to their trunks to support a hammock. I walked back down and retrieved my bike and pushing it, with difficulty, reached the spot and began to set things up.
Annoyingly my headlamp would switch off at times and I realized how difficult it would be to set up things in total darkness. I wondered how easy it would be to use my taillight, with the red lens removed, as an emergency light source. I decided to purchase a second headlamp if the opportunity presented itself. It was warm and muggy. The surrounding vegetation stifled any breeze so I decided to leave the tarp off my hammock. Using the mosquito netting tube that surrounds the hammock is a breeze-killer by itself. There were enough skeeters, though, to force the use of that whether I wanted to or not.
The trees were a bit too close for an ideal night in the hammock which is usually quite comfortable when pitched correctly. That requires about 9-10' of space and two trees substantial enough not to bend with my weight. If I tie the ropes about as high as I can reach, the hammock still hangs low enough for me to use the center as a seat and I can lie nearly level when I orient myself at a slight angle to the long axis. I am a committed hammock camper since they provide so much more freedom than using a tent. In this particular situation I would have had trouble pitching a tent. The ground was not level and was covered with woody debris and stones. I could have searched a bit more and perhaps found a place that might have accommodated a tent but I'm convinced I can find a couple of good hammock trees faster in the majority of such situations.
Leaving the tarp off the hammock turned out to have been an unwise decision when a line of thunderstorms rolled through the area around 4 a.m. I quickly got it pitched as raindrops fell and was not overly damp when I crawled back into my sleeping bag, but it added up to a generally uncomfortable night's sleep when all of these variables were factored in.
The day dawned sunny as I packed up and headed on, stopping briefly at a ball field in North Pownal in an unsuccessful attempt to find some water. Beyond North Pownal, Rt. 346 enters New York state and follows the course of the Hoosic River paralleled by nearby railroad tracks. Where the tracks and the highway diverge, just before county road 95 leaves right, I saw a gentleman running a wood splitter near the road and stopped to ask if he knew some place to get breakfast. He told me I would find a spot about three miles up the county road at a crossroads. I did find a place at the Big Moose Deli and Country Store in the village of Hoosick. The choice was limited to a breakfast sandwich but it was made to order and fresh coffee was also available. The one downside to the location was the lack of a bathroom. They only had a porta-potty so the washing up part of my morning ritual was not possible and the temperature inside was like a sauna so I emerged covered in sweat.
I continued north into the center of Hoosick Falls and past a plaque commemorating Grandma Moses who was a famous resident in her later years and is buried there. Her work was hanging in a drugstore window in town when it was first noticed by a visiting art collector and following that her fame began to grow. Leaving town was a challenge since there is quite a climb where the road leaves the river. It was short but steep and did not have much of a shoulder so I retreated to the sidewalk to avoid antagonizing the local drivers. It was the steepest climb, albeit very short, that I'd been forced to do on the trip so far. Had it come after what lay in store for the remainder of the day though, I doubt I would have remembered it.
Those approaching hills were actually not on the route Google had mapped out for me but I was only just beginning to use Google bike directions and not familiar enough with them to know what was safe to ignore. In this particular case there was a White Creek Rd. on the right just after leaving North Hoosick. The directions said to take a right on a road so named, so I did. The error, discovered later by studying the route on the computer screen, was taking the White Creek Rd. in North Hoosick rather than the similarly named road in Eagle Bridge.
The latter road could have been safely ignored, it turns out, since it merely avoided a 0.4 mi. section of the highway. I never had to discover that since my particular White Creek Rd. ran due north over hill and dale depositing me at a T intersection some 10.5 miles north after about 800 ft. of climbing. A local resident, in her car, was able to tell me which way to turn to find the center of Cambridge some 4.5 miles to the west, or the same location I would have reached in half that total distance, with only 200 ft. of climbing, if I hadn't been lured off course.
I rode into Cambridge center looking for sustenance and found a bakery. While still in the neighborhood, another touring cyclist and I struck up a conversation. His name was Larry Bingham and he was riding his bike from Berkshire Country Day School in Lenox, where I once lived, to his parents house on South Hero Island, so our respective routes from that point on were nearly identical. He was planning on visiting friends in Middlebury and would probably be a day behind me when I went through South Hero. Nevertheless he told me to give him a call when I was in the area of the house and he would see if his parents would be able to put me up for the night. I wrote down his phone number and the names of necessary landmarks so that I would know when I was in the area of their house.
I left Cambridge and continued north, expecting to veer back toward the Vermont state line once through Salem. It was the middle of the day and the temperature was very high and with all of the work I'd done I was feeling a degree of heat stress that I felt obligated to address. I found a shady spot in front of an Episcopal Church in Salem. Sitting in the shade seemed to help but only just. There was a dirt road beside the church leading down to the side of White Creek (I couldn't seem to escape that name). I wheeled my bike down to the creek side and, taking off my shoes, waded out into the stream and sat on a rock splashing my face and neck with water. That did the trick. While I was there an old white-muzzled golden retriever ambled down to the creek and laid himself in the stream beside me. We both had the same remedy for the heat it seemed.
The road past that point brought me back to the Vermont state line and a rendezvous, I hoped, with the Delaware Hudson Rail-Trail. The directions were vague however and I missed my first chance to join the trail because I didn't recognize the “4WD Rd.” referred to in my Google directions as my avenue for access. The trail paralleled my route of travel however and when it was next possible to follow it I left the pavement in favor of the old rail bed. It was an overgrown mixture of loose rock, puddles and cinders and, for that particular stretch anyway, more of an ATV trail than a bike trail. Since the paved road was still close by and this section of the rail trail held no attraction for me, at the next opportunity I returned to the pavement.
I reached the center of Rupert and turned left. If I had continued straight, in the direction of Manchester, I would soon have passed the road leading to Merck Forest a location I was familiar with from past years leading overnight retreats using one of the buildings on the property.
Not far out of Rupert I had my one negative experience of the trip. A wasp, or other stinging insect, flew into the side of my face and got trapped behind the right lens of my sunglasses, stinging me at least once in the process, until I was able to release it. Knowing I would shortly begin to swell up in that place, as I passed a fellow in his garden I asked if he had an ice cube he could spare, explaining my need for it. Either he didn't, or didn't want to take the trouble, so I continued on toward W. Pawlet while the skin around my right eye slowly swelled, distorting my vision.
I hoped to both regain the trail as well as find a store in W. Pawlet but when I got there I discovered the only store in town had burned down the previous winter. I had some food for supper which I carry for those occasions when I find myself in just such a situation but there was no source of water and my bottles were nearly empty. I really wanted to just ride down the the bike path and find a couple of convenient hammock trees but the lack of water seemed to be forcing my hand into continued riding. A fellow on a very nice carbon hybrid bike set up, which seemed perfect for the type of surface on the trail, arrived at the road crossing while I was standing there weighing my options. After it was obvious he was finishing up for the day and I was still trying to make up my mind about what to do, he offered me the remainder of the water he was carrying. That little gesture went a long way to helping me decide my next move. I reasoned that with a bit more water I could stay and since there was activity in front of a nearby house I walked down to ask if they could spare some water.
After introducing myself, I learned the woman I saw in front of her house in the village was called Stacy. She told me she also had French Canadian ancestry after sharing my plan for the ride. She was very willing to fill my water bottles and even put ice into one of them so I could hold it against my eye which was still quite puffy. She also said she didn't think anyone would mind if I set up my hammock alongside the bike trail. Gratefully I returned to the trail and located a spot on the bank a good way up from the actual path. It wasn't at all level so I found myself actually standing on my bike to tie the lower anchor rope high enough up the tree on the downslope so that the hammock would hang level with the upper one. Again, the value of the hammock over a tent was demonstrated to me. The location for the hammock also proved to be adequately secluded as I remained unseen by some passersby on the trail below.
I did descend to the trail to cook my supper while sitting on a bench by the wayside. I needed my mosquito headnet to keep the critters at bay while I boiled water to add to my Enertia dehydrated dinner. It was nearly dark when I finished washing up and rolled into bed with the sound of a brook down below the trail helping me to fall asleep.
I was told the trail did not continue north from that spot for more than a short distance so the following morning I followed the paved road back into New York state and turned north on Rt. 22 following it until I reached a Subway restaurant at the approach to Granville. I had a breakfast sandwich and continued on through the town. The trail was supposed to resume somewhere around there but I wasn't following the Google directions and had no map to synchronize where I was with where I was supposed to be so I just hoped I'd cross its path somewhere. I took the road that paralleled the state line heading north and eventually crossed into Vermont heading in the direction of Poultney.
When I arrived in Poultney, home of Green Mt. College, it was another chance to rejoin the rail trail. I stopped at a Stewart's Shop to refuel and asked the cashiers where I might find the rail trail crossing. They were without any suggestions. I mentioned it had been an old rail line and there must have been a train station somewhere. Did they know where that might be? Such things, if they aren't the stuff of direct experience for the average person, seem to get lost in the shifting sands of time. I expected I'd see something along the way that could orient me to the trail. I eventually found some other bicyclists who gave me directions and I joined it on the north side of town.
The trail was definitely better in this stretch, seeing more use by bicycles than ATVs. It was shaded and pleasant and the surface, though gravel, was smooth and fast. It brought me into Castleton past the university football stadium and then I turned left on Rt. 4A to find a market to buy something for lunch and then turn north on Rt. 30 in the direction of Middlebury which I hoped to reach for that night's stop. After riding along the east shore of Lake Bomoseen the route began to undulate and I wondered if I should have descended to the eastern shore of Lake Champlain to avoid the hills in this area. There was a fairly strong breeze from the northwest so I rationalized my current choice of route as being at least more sheltered from the wind.
I arrived in Middlebury pretty tired and ready to call it quits for the day. I was also very thirsty but mostly for a cold draft beer. I found one at the Storm Cafe down by the banks of Otter Creek that flows through the center of town. I also had a bowl of gazpacho and, while sitting at the bar, asked the bartender for any suggestions for a place to string up a hammock for the night. He told me to go to a local swimming hole on the New Haven River off of Dog Team Rd. It was the site of a former restaurant that had burned and so there was ample parking and people came and went without any problems. I thanked him and when I found the spot it was still pretty crowded. I tried scoping out a site across the river but found it was the water access for a private residence so I returned to the more public side and as the sun set the area quieted down and I eventually put up my hammock between two riverside cedar trees. I went for a swim and washed off and then turned in for the night.
The next morning I rode as far as Vergennes before finding a place to have breakfast which turned out to be a bakery and expresso bar on the main street of town. After that I was treated to a nice alternative to Rt. 7 in the form of Greenbush Rd., courtesy of the Google directions. That series of turns brought me back to Rt. 7 in the vicinity of the Shelburne Museum. At that point I was getting close to Burlington and had plans to visit the Outdoor Gear Exchange store on Church St. to see if I could get a new headlamp.
Again, Google directions gave me a nice series of bike paths to follow to reach the downtown Burlington area. At one point I stopped to don rain gear but it never rained too heavily and I probably could have gone without and not gotten too wet. The O.G.E. had a Black Diamond headlamp of the kind I was looking for and their prices are always lower than most others so I bought the lamp and some batteries as a back-up to my on again off again current one. I did get scolded by a female cop while riding my bike, at walking speed mind you, up Church St. I guess it's verboten to actually ride one's bike on Church St. which has been turned into a pedestrian mall.
I left Burlington on the bike path that eventually takes one onto the Colchester Causeway and its Cut with the bike ferry. That was going to be one of the highlights of the trip but I had recently learned the causeway was closed due to wave damage when the lake reached record levels in the spring. I was now required to follow the lake shore around to the Sand Bar Bridge leading to South Hero. The island end of the bridge was where Larry Bingham had told me to make the turn to reach his parents' home. I didn't want to arrive unannounced so I called Larry's phone number and, when he didn't pick up, left him a message. Mostly it was to say thanks, but no thanks, for the offer and to tell him my plan was to head for Grand Isle state campground further up the island.
I stopped in Keeler Bay at a convenience store and bought what I expected to need to heat up for supper. Upon leaving the store I was startled by the wall of dark clouds massing on the horizon. Anxious to reach the campground before the sky opened up, I pedaled hard and reached the window at the entrance building just as the first fat drops began falling. I was relieved to learn that a lean-to was available, making cooking supper so much more pleasant if a heavy rain was going to fall. Just as I was leaving the window two other touring cyclists started approaching. I told the individual at the window that if they wished to share the lean-to I was happy to do that since I was told this was the last one that was available. I also told the young couple on the bikes that I was happy to share so they could factor that in when they weighed all their options.
They showed up at the lean-to not much later and I learned that their names were Charles and Sarah Gratton from Joliette, QC. They were riding their bikes to NYC and returning by train. He was a consultant in the renewable energy field and she was a chocolatier in Joliette. This was their first long bike tour and were trying out various items of gear. They had questions for me about my equipment preferences and dislikes. One thing they had done, which I had never tried, was staying with a Warmshowers host for one night. They were very pleased with the arrangement and had other W.S. sojourns arranged for later in the ride. They also mentioned following sections of La Route Verte, which is a Quebec network of biking trails. I tucked away both of these as good things to look into for the future.
We had ample space in the shelter and it was a nice addition to my trip to have some bicycle-oriented conversation. I told them the shelter was my treat and since their route would approximate my own, as they ventured south, I recommended the Delaware-Hudson rail trail, at least the sections I had done, as worth following if they were in the area. The next morning we exited the campground and headed in opposite directions. It did not take long for me to reach the border station in Alburg Springs.
The border guard questioned me regarding my reasons for entering Canada. He seemed somewhat apathetic toward my desire to visit the birthplace of my ancestors. I suppose I was expecting a more enthusiastic reception but what right did I have to expect that? Perhaps everyone who comes through his station says that.
Not far beyond the border I encountered a line of thunderstorms moving through the area. There was a seemingly vacant house with a “for sale” sign (à vendre) and an empty front porch that I took a chance would be safe to shelter under. The rain came down quite hard and then abated. I prepared to go on but a second line of storms moved through and rain fell even harder. I had to don my rain gear just to sit on the porch. I wrote in my journal and eventually the rain abated enough to start out again. My route took me through mostly farmland and past few stores. I did pass through some small town centers, each with their church, the majority of which were stone with metal roofs painted with bright silver paint, that I took to be zinc based. A diagonal arrangement of the metal tiles that made up the roofs seemed to be typical of them as well.
It was starting to get late and I was skeptical I'd make it all the way to St.-Damase so I began to wonder were I would spend the night. There weren't many groves of trees that provided shelter for a hammock. My hope was to find a campground (terrain de camping). I was following my Google directions with success until directed to “turn left toward” Chemin Saint Francois after 0.9 miles from my last landmark. I went further than the specified distance with no signs indicating a needed turn. I retraced my route back to the original landmark and tried again. As I have since become more familiar with Google bike directions I've since learned the “turn toward” directions mean there is no named route involved. The Google algorithm for plotting bike routes identifies a route of travel and if it is not officially named just deals with it that way. Inspecting the route later, I noticed some farm roads that could have connected me with the road I was looking for. In this particular case I was stumped since I had no map to help me find an alternate route.
I saw a gentleman parking his car in his driveway and rode up and asked, in my far from perfect French, how to find Chemin Saint Francois. He gave me directions but I also inquired if there was a campground in the area by any chance and he told me where to find the Domaine du Reve, the name of which was hard to puzzle out from his pronunciation of it. None of the words formed in my mind when he said them. It wasn't until I saw it written that it made any sense. I suppose loosely translated it means “Land of Dreams” or maybe “Dreamland.” His directions were adequate and I found it not far away. It had some trees, though widely spaced, in one of the campsites but I decided they would do. It also had a laundromat and cafe/snack bar/store on site.
Pitching the hammock was a challenge since the trees were at the absolute limit of the reach of my guy lines. Another challenge is that the farther one has to stretch them the higher they need to be tied, otherwise the sag is so great the hammock won't clear the ground. I leaned my bike against each tree and stood on my top tube to get the ropes high enough. I was quite a spectacle for my neighbors in the nearest campsites. It became especially amusing when I went to sit down in the hammock to see how much stretch I would get and flipped over backwards. I was tired and getting punchy. I guess and didn't react quickly enough. I finally got things set up and was able to get something to eat at the cafe.
The place was quite a testament to someone's ingenuity fitting the most people and all imaginable services into the smallest possible space . There were “lakes” and a water park and a train ride and hundreds of RV hook ups and a few tentsites. I was definitely not in my native surroundings, nor would I have chosen to spend a night there if anything else had seemed available. I was grateful for finding it however since throwing up a hammock in the trees in someone's yard didn't seem like a great idea, especially since I would have had a difficult time talking my way out of the ensuing trouble I would likely find.
The morning consisted of buying breakfast at the cafe and trying to figure out the coin op shower and laundromat. I had to find another camper who was willing to make change since it was the policy of the store not to do so. I never did successfully operate the shower, settling for an anemic trickle of cold water for the most part. The washer and dryer were easier to figure out, but the lines for both of them were quite long and it took me most of the morning to get everything done and get on my way.
I was able to find my way to St. Cesaire then Rougemont where I turned north eventually reaching St.- Damase. The church is the biggest building in town and I hoped I might actually meet a priest or someone who could provide access to baptismal records but the building appeared closed. Hoping the cemetery behind the church might provide some clues I walked around back. To put this into context I knew the names of my great grandfather's parents were Nectaire Lussier and Eliza Beauregard. The first view of the stones in the St.-Damase cemetery were of one stone after another with either the name Lussier or Beauregard. Even if I had no other confirmation that I'd come to the right place that was enough.
As things turned out I was successful in finding a stone with both of my great great grand parents' names engraved on it and on the adjoining face of the same stone the names of Nectaire's father and mother: Amable Lussier and Therese Letourneau, with birthdates of 1810 and 1813 respectively. I didn't get to see monuments to ancestors dating back to the days of New France but I was at looking at one that was within two generations of them. I was humbled and awed by the connection I felt with these people and with the community of cousins who'd remained behind when my most immediate ancestor left his home there to find his fortune in a new land.
Afterward I went across the street to a small restaurant and ordered a chicken salad sandwich and boasted to the waitress that I'd found the monument of “le grand père de mon arrière-grand père” or the grandfather of my great grandfather. After eating I reversed my route of arrival and began a journey of homage to that ancestor who'd made that same trip, though of course by different methods and slightly different ways. My route was essentially the shortest line, by bicycle, between the two towns of St. Damase, PQ and North Grosvenordale, CT. I did modify the route in one place. I wanted to cross Smuggler's Notch north of Stowe, VT. It was picturesque and also, since it is quite steep, I wanted a challenge.
Returning to the U.S., therefore, meant a different path than the one I approached once clear of St. Cesaire. Google directions don't indicate what towns one goes through just giving specific route numbers and road names. Once I reached Rougemont I was directed to “turn toward Rue Notre Dame/QC-233 S.” I still didn't understand the “turn toward” type of directions as I have come to in subsequent exposures to the directions. This particular distance was 62 meters. It made little or no sense. There was a bicycle path so I assumed I needed to head south since that was my general direction of travel. I did venture down a farm path for a short distance but gave that idea up as unproductive. I returned to the bike path and followed it east but then returned to my original junction with it and wondered what it meant. I posed that question to a retirement-aged couple who were out enjoying the bike path themselves. The directions seemed undecipherable to them as well but based upon the route number I was supposed to “turn toward” they recommended following the bike path to St. Cesaire where I would intersect the next road mentioned in the directions. It's clear to me now that the “turn toward” meant “follow the bike path.” Why it couldn't say that, since the path has a name: “La Route des Champs,” is filed under the continuing little mysteries of Google bike directions.
When I reached St. Cesaire via the path there was an information center beside it with maps and other helpful information regarding the area. I was given a regional cycling guide for the area of Quebec province that I was in, called La Montérégie. It also showed the location for La Route Verte; La Route des Champs being a “piste cyclable” but not one of the designated parts of La Route. I would cross paths with an actual section of La Route in the next town south, Farnham, the location for a large Canadian military base which the Google directions also had me traversing, but I declined to follow them, since it looked like I would probably get into a bit of trouble particularly as a non-citizen.
I visited a store in Farnham to refuel the internal furnace and followed Google directions south through some very pretty and increasingly wooded countryside. It looked less and less like the farm country to the north (St.-Damase has an annual Festival du Mais and looks, for the most part, like Iowa corn country) and more like northern Vermont. I had hoped to cross the border into the U.S. before nightfall but as it became increasingly obvious I would not make it, I decided to gamble on a sign announcing “Camping aux Chutes de Hunter” (Hunter Falls Campground) 1 km. It was a much less intense campground than the previous night. They had plenty of trees to choose from, a store (closed by the time I checked on it unfortunately), a kitchen serving dinner and breakfast, and a pay phone to use to call home. The price was less, by more than $10 CAD, than the previous night's location as well.
I had a chef's salad for supper but north of the U.S. border chef's salads come without meat I guess. The next morning's deux oeufs et saucisses was a bit more along familiar lines. The border crossing went without a problem. I even used the bathroom, with a spectacular view, and then noodled south to a crossing of the Lamoille River. Since it was, by then, the hottest part of the day, I joined others using the swimming hole near the bridge.
Sufficiently cooled off, I began the 7 mile, 1,600 ft. ascent of Smuggler's Notch. Having a fully loaded touring bike made it impossible to dance up the road but the extra weight I was carrying made the descent on the south side an adrenaline pumping, 52.5 mph, thrill ride. The Google directions led me onto the Stowe bike path which, in turn, brought me to the center of town. It was late enough in the day to induce in me thoughts of supper and, in this particular instance, visions of something like a juicy hamburger kept dancing in my head.
I pedaled on thinking Waterbury would be the place for a burger and beer and sure enough the Alchemist brew pub was there waiting to answer the call. I parked my bike outside and found a seat at the bar. I ordered a burger and had three pints of their “Lightweight” which was light in hops but not ABV. I wobbled out of the bar into the now post-sunset dark and pedaled about wondering where I could set up my hammock in downtown Waterbury. As it turned out the Green Mountain Coffee Roasters packaging and distribution center, quite a large complex, had a wooded slope beside its wrap around road leading to the parking lots out back. I found two trees in the woods a good way up the slope and, again grateful that I had a hammock and not a tent, got things set up for the night. The night was still young so I walked back to downtown and had a coffee with a piece of coconut cream pie for dessert.
I was up and off the next morning before being noticed by anyone and had breakfast in the same restaurant I'd had breakfast in on the fourth day of my first long tour riding the length of Vermont about sixteen years before that. From Waterbury I headed east through Montpelier and then south through the hills following Google directed back roads that paralleled Rt. 89 and alternated between dirt and rough pavement. A mix up at one road junction got me off course and after a speedy descent deposited me on a valley road I decided to follow it to Randolph after consulting the maps in a convenience store. I was not to regain the Google route until the following day.
When I got to Randolph I ended up sheltering under the spacious eaves of the train depot coffee house waiting for rain showers to pass. After an hour of waiting, the rain showed no signs of lessening so I suited up and rode through it reaching Barnard around dusk. The general store in town sold home made pizza slices and after a couple of those I went out into the gathering darkness in search of a hammock location. I spied the soccer goal posts behind the elementary school and wondered how they could work to support a hammock but the woods behind the school provided two perfectly spaced, but rather large hemlock trees. The wet bark and large girth of the trees made the hammock lines difficult to secure but with a bit of adjusting I got them to stay put, rolled out my sleeping bag, stripped off all my wet clothes and since it was a warm night just got into the hammock as I was and was able to dry out enough before needing to get into the bag.
My hammock tarp kept me snug and dry despite some heavy downpours during the night. The rain had stopped by morning and the sun was shining brightly as I loaded up after breakfast at the general store wearing dry clothes with the wet ones strapped to the outside to dry out as the day went by. I rejoined the Google route and followed lightly traveled back roads down to the center of Woodstock where I stopped at a bike shop to replace a worn front brake straddle cable. After Woodstock, more ridgetop gravel back roads brought me down into Windsor, birthplace of Vermont, where I stopped at the Cumberland Farms store and bought something to eat. While there I talked to a guy on a single day 200 mile ride from his home south of Concord, NH to Killington and back. That certainly put my 70 mile days into perspective. Of course he wasn't laden down with all the gear I was but it gave me a desire to try a lightly loaded 200 mile day sometime.
After crossing the covered bridge between Windsor and Cornish, NH I turned south and followed Google bike directions without interruption until just north of Keene. There was supposed to be a bike trail leading into Keene from the north. The first section just didn't seem to exist where the directions said it did. I afterward discovered a section of the trail that appeared under active reconstruction. It was not paved and, in fact, after getting past the newly filled section it was all roots and rocks and I bailed out a short while later where it crossed a road that took me back to the highway. My intention was to find the southern end of it where it entered Keene and use it as my camping spot. However reading the directions backward didn't provide a clue to any obvious trail.
I pulled in to Ashuelot Park and followed paths heading north until I encountered two guys (one swimming in the bend of the river) who both had bikes. I asked the older, bearded, non-swimming, one if the bike path continued north any great distance. In answering my question it was determined that I could find the section of the path I was looking for, with difficulty, but if what I was looking for was just a campsite, he could offer me space next to his own which was nearby. It turned out he, Bradford, was homeless and the younger guy, Dustin, was his friend who also had a tent next to his. Bradford had a knowledge of bikes, especially Phil Wood components. I never got much of his backstory but he referred to himself as “King of Keene” at one point.
Dinner was cooked in the park after a trip to a nearby Hannaford supermarket and a local convenience store. It consisted of a can of Chef Boyardee lasagna and a 24 oz. can of P.B.R. I sat on a granite bench near the dam on the river and hoped the yellow flames my alcohol stove released as the fuel ran out wouldn't attract any attention from the crowds entering and exiting a Starbucks directly across the river from where I sat. I figured there were at least a couple of city ordinances of which I was probably in violation.
Shortly after that I turned in for the night. I heard the others return around 2:30 a.m. I was up on the early side (for me) but didn't want to disturb Bradford until I was leaving. I woke him up and gave him $20 with the words that if I had gone to the city's Wheelock park and paid as much for a tent site I wouldn't have had anywhere near as comfortable a night's sleep. He was grateful. Afterward I went in search of breakfast which turned out to be a nearby Friendly's. Following that I was riding east looking for a bike path mentioned by Bradford when we crossed paths and he told me to go more to the south. I found a path heading due south but abandoned it upon intersection with the highway.
I followed the highway south through Troy, then Winchendon and, on approaching Gardner, stopped at a convenience store/gas station where I got a pizza slice and, while eating it, noticed bicyclists on a path paralleling the road. I followed it to its conclusion and then continued on toward Gardner admiring the twin wind turbines at Mt. Wachusett Community College. Another bike path brought me into downtown Gardner and from there I followed various roads of the Google variety to take me to Hubbardston and another convenience store stop. While it was only mid-afternoon I still wanted to line up a place to stay for the night. I felt a shower would be nice. The clerk at the store allowed me to look through his phone book and I found a place in Rutland, the next town along my route of travel, that looked like it would do.
I was able to locate the place but no one answered my knock on the door. Before leaving completely I walked around back and found a couple using the pool. They said they were only animal/house sitting and couldn't help me with a place to stay nor did they have any alternate suggestions. I found some firefighters at the fire station in town, cleaning up after a call, and checked with them to see if they had any ideas. A firefighter named Paul and a friend tried to arrange a place for me at the local scout reservation but were unable to get it approved. There was a vague supposition that something existed in Spencer.
Reaching Leicester around dusk I went into another convenience store for directions succeeding only in provoking disagreement among the gentlemen in the store on the best advice to give me. I was finally convinced to travel west along Rt. 9 to Spencer with the promise of a B&B there. I found it. The Red Maple Inn was on the main street but no one was home. Two male guests arrived on what looked like a tryst and though the price of a night was no where in evidence it gave off the air of being uber expensive. I retreated in search of a hammock spot. Next door was the Congregational Church of Spencer and up on a hill behind the church was a cemetery so I went to investigate there. What I discovered was a collection of trees on the slope toward Main St. beside the church directly behind a chain link enclosed basketball court. There were a couple of trees capable of supporting the hammock up near the top.
Right beside the slope was a former municipal building, of Victorian vintage, that had been converted to senior housing. I figured there was no better way of being discovered so I calculated I had a 50:50 chance I'd be asked to move along, or worse. I set up the hammock and left my bike locked to the adjoining tree and walked down to the pizza place nearby. I got a pastrami grinder and a large lemonade from the neighboring Cumberland Farm store which I ate and drank while sitting on the steps that climbed the slope between the court and the church. My sleep was less than perfectly sound. Beside being nervous about detection the court had a flood light on a pole which cycled on and off at regular intervals. Added to that was the warm sodium glare from a similar light on the wall of the senior housing illuminating the alcove behind the court. It was blink on and off all night long coupled with a rather loud sound of the central a.c. unit located in the same alcove.
I was up very early, compared to most of my mornings, and went in search of breakfast which I discovered at the Kenwood Diner a bit further along Main St. It was a nice, typical local eatery. After breakfast I traveled cross lots to connect with Rt. 31 heading south. I was in North Grosvenordale by noon. The library with its a.c. was a welcome respite from the heat. They were very helpful allowing me access to reference materials and computer time to do research on the French Canadian history of the Thompson CT area and to look at Ancestry.com to do some additional fact-finding and confirmation work on my great grandfather. After leaving the library I went to St. Joseph's Catholic Church and although my intention was to look at stones in the cemetery, the grounds keeper referred me to the church secretary for info concerning my great grandfather. She was very helpful and pulled out the baptismal and marriage records. She found a date for the marriage of Philippe Lussier and Adeline Cote on Nov. 17, 1890.
I had lunch at the local family restaurant (L.B.'s) and then departed into a still sweltering afternoon for a ride toward Woonsocket, RI. The Google directions (printed at the library) directed me without confusion until a right turn onto New Rd. (at the Mass/CT state line) and a supposed 33 foot journey to pick up the beginning of the Southern New England Trunkline Trail. I rode down New Rd. and back with no evidence of anything resembling a trail entrance. Further along on E. Thompson Rd. I saw an ATV scarred slope that might have been an access to said trail. I wasn't interested in off-roading at that point and so continued on following the same road which took me through Douglas State Forest as a line of thunderstorms passed through the area without much effect, rainwise. The humidity remained quite high and it was uncomfortable enough that I almost wished it would rain.
I reached the center of Douglas, MA and went into the Cumby's there and, ice tea in hand, looked at a map book that helped me decide to follow the Douglas Pike. It turned out to be a reasonably sane bike route that took me into R.I. and a junction with a highway with a sign directing me left toward Woonsocket. I was clueless as to my location, not having a map of R.I., so I stopped to ask directions, first of an iced lemonade stand van with no success and then of a pizza place. They were very helpful with directions to a Holiday Inn which was what I led them to believe would be a good place for me for the night but later, when I arrived, learned I'd been routed quite a long way off a direct line into downtown only to find the place was probably out of my price range anyway. They gave me directions to their downtown location but I found a Quality Inn after a short distance.
When I stopped to ask about price they gave me the “bicyclist's discount” which I assume to be the standard knock-off when a customer is wavering. It was about 2/3rds what I expected I would be paying at the Holiday Inn and they gave me permission to keep the bike in the room which was at ground level. I took a shower and cleaned my clothes using the washer/drier they had for guest use. After that I pedaled back up the road to Crickets Restaurant and had a Sicilian Clam Zuppa served on a bed of fettucini which more than filled me up along with a nice $2 draft special. Back in the room I watched Dick Tracy with Warren Beatty and Madonna. It was not what I would have predicted earlier for my choice of entertainment but the Red Sox were off for the night.
Next morning I had breakfast courtesy of the Q.I. (with a Belgian waffle maker as part of the production) and then followed Google directions, obtained courtesy of the hotel computer, that led me to the Blackstone River Bikeway which took me directly into downtown Woonsocket. My great grandfather's carriage/wagon morphing into truck body business, which became my grandfather's, was on the banks of the Blackstone. In the days of his youth, my father told me, they tipped the spent calcium carbide, used in the production of acetylene gas, into the river out back. Thankfully those days are passed and the Blackstone no longer is an open sewer/garbage dump but instead is a very pretty greenway with a popular bike path along its bank.
The same cannot be said about the heart of Woonsocket which has all the markings of the urban decay typical of a post-industrial mill town. The enormous, and very ornate, French Catholic church seems to be abandoned. There are empty lots sprinkled everywhere with remnants of demolition debris in them. Some are surrounded by chain link fences and others are just open sores. I wanted to visit the American-French genealogical society's office on Earl St. but they weren't open until later. In the meantime I went searching for the cemetery in which my great grandfather was buried. My father had incorrectly told me the name of the street I should look on but I eventually found it one block over. The Lussier plot was immediately visible just past the wrought iron entrance arch proclaiming its name as the “Cimetiere du Precieux Sang.” The headstone bore the names of my great grandfather and great grandmother, a daughter-in-law (my grandmother) and five of their children. My grandfather's name was not on the stone and I wondered where he was buried but found a marker in the ground beside the others. I made a note to tell rest of the family we ought to have the name engraved on the central stone as well.
I mailed a few items home to save me the additional weight over the remaining 100 miles or so. When the genealogical society building opened the folks there were able to find my grandparents' address in a 1957 Woonsocket area phone book as Scott Hill Rd. in Bellingham. That was the same year my grandmother died from a heart attack. My memories of her and the house in Bellingham are therefore limited to those of a four year old.
From Woonsocket I rode north to East Douglas to visit my aunt Sue, the youngest member of my father's family. She was home and gave me a cold beer and a tour of her barn and we talked about the bike ride and family history. I didn't want to spend the night there and was anxious to limit my trip to only one and half more days, so I pedaled on through the remainder of the day, reaching the Clam Box, a familiar landmark in East Brookfield while it was still light out. A clam roll and two $2 Michelob Amber Bocks later, I was again on my way in the near dark when I spied a cemetery on the left. Far in the back, two trees, not entwined with poison ivy vines, served as my anchors for a tarpless hammock. My cell phone got service there so I was able to tell Faye where I was and then had, despite a nearby rail track and whistles during the night, a fairly restful sleep.
The morning was sunny and warm and I found breakfast at Haymaker's Grille in West Brookfield. It's a worthwhile spot for that particular meal and specializes in multiple variations of eggs Benedict though, not being a fan of hollandaise sauce, I didn't sample any of them. Continuing on Rt. 9 after breakfast brought me to the entrance to Quabbin Reservoir and, forgetting what a climb it was to go all around Quabbin Park, even without climbing to the tower, I managed to add additional pain to legs that were already sore from the climb up out of Ware. I stopped at the headquarters building to fill water bottles and then stopped once again in Belchertown to visit the McDonald's there. I managed to avoid most of the busy streets by taking some of the less traveled roads through Amherst and North Amherst then went on through Sunderland with a stop at Smiarowski's farm and creamy stand for a root beer float.
After that it was non-stop up 116 to the bottom of Hill Rd. where I decided to head in the direction of Sidehill Farm to see if Faye was still at work there with her yogurt boxing duties. Chugging up Bellus Rd., below the farm, I was passed by Paul and Amy, Faye's bosses, going down the hill in the delivery truck. They honked and waved and Paul yelled, “Welcome Back!” to which I replied “Thanks,” but not without having to stop and dismount. I walked the rest of the way up to the driveway. Danielle was cleaning up on the loading dock and Faye came out a minute or two later. I gave her the Green Mt. Coffee Roasters pin that I'd brought as a token. She seemed unimpressed. It was off home at that point for a shower and a beer. The odometer said 721.99 miles as I rolled into the driveway.
Photos of the trip are here: https://photos.app.goo.gl/Ez5yMEiNmmdYziTw9