Kingston, ON to Ashfield, MA: The Missing Link as an Afterthought
The only reason the description of this bicycle ride is a “missing link,” is because without it, my account of riding across the continent in sections would be incomplete. It's an afterthought because when I did it I wasn't thinking about doing a cross-continental route and yet it has become integral to that route in the way it finally took shape.
This was actually the homeward bound segment of a ride that had taken me as far north and west as Portage du Fort, Que. That ride started from home and was intended to take me to Algonquin Provincial Park but I was still a day away from that objective when I decided to turn toward home after traversing the Gatineau area of Quebec. Time had run out for me to reach Algonquin and return by the day I needed to get back. That decision turned out to be fortuitous because it led to the highlight of the trip, riding for two days on the K&P trail from Renfrew to Kingston. In fact, it was such an enjoyable experience I wrote about it for submission to Adventure Cycling Magazine and, while it wasn't selected for publication, it represented the sole account of the trip, from which the ride from Kingston back home, pale by comparison, had been left out. That omission is being corrected now.
The above mentioned account ends with the sentence: “From Kingston it was still quite a few miles to home but the rest of the journey seemed somewhat anticlimactic. The northern K&P had been the centerpiece and especially the solitude of Graham Lake and the hospitality of the Shanks.” For anyone interested in the rest of the story it is posted here: Two Days on the Kick & Push.
Returning to the U.S. from Kingston was most easily accomplished by taking a ferry to Wolfe Island, ON and then another ferry from the other side of the island to Cape Vincent, NY. I caught the ferry to Wolfe Island quite early in the morning and spent the first few minutes of the journey conversing with a couple of cyclists from Kingston who were planning to ride around the island for the day. Drawing away from the ferry slip gave one a wider perspective of the greater Kingston area which had an historically strategic location guarding the connection between Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River as well as the entrance to the Rideau Canal leading to the capital city of Ottawa.
The previous century's gun emplacements of Fort Frederick, as well as the buildings of the Royal Military College of Canada were easily seen from the deck of the ferry as the view of the Kingston waterfront receded. A dingy race was in progress. The windmills of Wolfe Island became more visible. Those windmills were not without their detractors and the complaints about them sounded very similar to those I was hearing back home regarding a plan for windmills along a north/south trending ridge in our town. The Wolfe Island wind farm had gone in three years before and I had been treated to comments and overheard others that indicated it wasn't universally welcomed.
Leaving the ferry and entering the town of Marysville on a warm, early August day gave me much the same sensation of arriving by ferry to places like Martha's Vinyard, Nantucket, Block Island, and elsewhere. Perhaps it was the placement of tourist-attracting gift shops, etc. that are ubiquitous in such cases. I didn't stay long and soon had the road to myself, the wave of ferry traffic leaving me far behind. The island was very rural in character with numerous hayfields and pastures. Dominating all of them seemed to be wind turbines. I found them innocuous but if I had been predisposed to disliking them it would have been an unpleasant place to visit. I knew some people from my town who would not be visiting Wolfe Island anytime soon.
When I reached the opposite side of the island there was a sign declaring the ferry to Cape Vincent “out of service.” The sign indicated that repairs were underway but no definite time could be given for when it would be back up and running. I decided to wait and see. The alternative was not really workable. I believed that crossing to the U.S. without the ferry would have required me following the St. Lawrence back to Cornwall, ON, where I'd entered Canada, since the closer Ogdensburg Bridge was closed to bicycle traffic. I now know the Thousand Islands Bridge would have accepted me and my bike for a crossing but I hadn't that knowledge at the time I needed to decide what to do. I reasoned that it would be better to stay and even camp for the night than to try to ride to Cornwall. I was worried though, that getting too far behind schedule would make me late for attendance at the Mass. Teacher's Assoc. conference.
I went for a swim in the St. Lawrence while I waited. I must have stepped on a sharp piece of shell or something similar because I sliced my foot while wading out into deeper water. The water temperature was perfect however and I enjoyed the swim. The toll booth attendant finally took down the out of service sign and I packed my things and got into line. We arrived in Cape Vincent at 3 p.m. The U.S. customs agent first told me to remove my sunglasses and then criticized me for having a dirty passport card, the “dirt” coming from the silvery coating on the inside of the sleeve in which it was supposed to be kept. She seemed to be having a bad day. I found a place to get a sandwich for a late lunch. When I left Cape Vincent there were only about three and a half hours of daylight left. I really didn't know where nightfall would overtake me but I planned on finding someplace to sleep when it did.
It wasn't until 10:30 p.m. that I finally stopped riding and strung my hammock up between two trees in back of St. Joseph's Cemetery in Redfield, NY. about 50 miles away. I had managed to heat up a bowl of noodles in a cemetery in Watertown but at that time it wasn't yet dark enough to stop for the night, though that served as my supper. I was following Google bike directions and would have reached Redfield sooner but a fast descent in the gathering dusk had sent me flying past the correct turn and off into a maze of dirt roads that I was forced to navigate using a headlamp, compass, and a NY state road map with a scale that didn't show most of them. I was quite exhausted when I finally crawled into my sleeping bag. I didn't get the hammock adjusted correctly and was up again in a couple of hours fixing the problem. Needless to say it wasn't a restful night and consequently I didn't get up particularly early.
A pleasant discovery that morning was the Gathering Place Diner about a mile further down the road. It gave me a spot to get cleaned up and write in my journal while sipping coffee on a full stomach. It is an important morning ritual on my bike tours. The rest of the day would find me reaching the Erie Canalway Bike Trail but not before confusion with Google bike directions left me wondering where it was and getting stung by a wasp while I searched for it. I stopped at a convenience store to ask if there was ice I could put on the sting. They didn't have a fountain drink dispenser but the girl running the cash register suggested an ice pop. I was about to go to my bike to fish out my wallet when another customer gave her the 50 cents needed. I immediately held the cold pop to the site of the sting on my face and it was the perfect antidote to the pain and growing swelling. Even better it was enclosed in plastic so it didn't drip as it melted and I was able to eat it when I was done using it as an anesthetic.
My good Samaritan also agreed to take me to the bike trail if I followed him on his ATV, which he did, waving good bye as he rode off into the distance. He said he was going to be late for his weekend jail confinement if he didn't hurry. The remainder of the day was a hot one and I looked at every stream and river crossing as well as the barge canal but couldn't find anything that would serve the purpose. I did wash off in the canal when I stopped for the night. I found a spot along the bike trail a couple of miles past Mohawk, NY. At that point, I was about 140 miles from home with two more days to cover the distance. It seemed doable.
The spot where I'd spent the night was very nice. The two trees I used were set back in a grassy verge alongside the bike path. The early morning joggers and walkers and dog walkers were treated to the sight of me packing up (and at least clothed.) One was kind enough to give me a heads up for an upcoming 5S interconnection. NY state bicycle route 5 parallels the Canalway and carries its traffic for sections where the Canalway is closed to public access. There had been many during the previous day. Fortunately the Parks & Trails New York Erie Canalway Bike Tour had gone through a couple of weeks before and the spray-painted route symbols were still visible. They guided me back to the bike path each time I reached the end of a detour.
I had breakfast at the Ann Street Deli in Little Falls, then visited the lock below town and made good time all the way to Cohoes where the Canalway had given way to the Mohawk Hudson Bikeway which petered out in Colonie. I suspected that it continued further but a “dead end” sign put me off the search and it was already getting dark enough for my headlamp, flashing headlight and taillight and reflective vest. Supper had been provided by the Blackbear Inn in Watervliet, which was a nice discovery. They let, actually advised, me to bring my bicycle inside. I had a couple of beers to go with the Cusabi sandwich (roast beef & onion on ciabata with cucumber/wasabi dressing.)
I followed Broadway, which was also NY State 32, into Albany and then asked another cyclist how to get across the Hudson to Rensselaer with my bicycle. He gave me directions which seemed simple enough to follow and in fact were, if I'd looked more carefully. Instead I meandered north and south a bit returning to the spot where I should have seen it earlier. It was essentially a sidewalk that was part of the Dunn Memorial Bridge carrying Rt. 20 over the river.
I stopped for a break in Rensselaer and tried to figure out which way to go from there. I had abandoned my Google bike directions at that point. I saw a sign for a NY bike route which followed Rt. 151. It led me to an intersection where I stopped at a Stewart's Shop convenience store and borrowed one of the Albany county map booklets from its rack to plan my next move. One of the cashiers asked me if I was lost. I said, “No, just a bit confused.” I found a town park listed for East Greenbush and jotted down the names of the succession of streets I would need to follow to find it.
I found the park. It was closed for the night, which was fine with me. Past a closed gate on one of the side roads in the park I found a place to string the hammock and in the morning found it secluded enough to remain essentially out of sight of all of the early visitors. It had been a pleasant night's sleep under a full moon and a cloudless sky. While at the Stewart's Shop, the night before, I had also jotted down the names of the roads I needed to follow to get on to Rt. 20 heading for Pittsfield and then home. Just before reaching the intersection with Rt. 20, I stopped at the Country Farm Mini-Mart on Rt. 66S in East Nassau.
I got a breakfast sandwich: egg, cheese, and sausage on a kaiser roll. I washed it down with coffee and a quart of orange juice. They let me fill my water bottles at the sink and I should have asked to use the bathroom but instead did that later at a convenience store in Lebanon. There I also loaded up on my favorite form of fuel, gummy candy. In this case, Sather's Gummy Worms and Darlin Marlins (Sather's version of Swedish fish).
The ride from Lebanon to Pittsfield was fairly uneventful though it did require a good climb to surmount the Taconic Range. Pittsfield drivers seemed to be the rudest of the trip with cut-offs, etc. I saw more discarded nip bottles between Lebanon and home than I had on the entire ride before that. The last little adventure was riding through a cloud burst in Swift River. It was pretty much over by the time I got to Judd's (Goshen Stone). I stopped at our local convenience store, Neighbor's, to buy a 4-pack of Bud Chelada to celebrate with when I got home.