Maps and (Nit) Wits: All Good Things Come to an End...? (HUON, PT 4)

Log: Monday, June 13th- Thursday, June 16th, 2016.

When travelling, I've learned to recognize that there's a time to stop, and a time to go. The difference is usually a matter of "gut" feeling, and honing and heeding that feeling is part of my life's work. On that last morning at Camp Tamarack, a graceful Great Blue Heron had stopped for breakfast in the nearby marsh (see the last picture of HUON: Part 3), and after silently watching it for over half an hour, I was ready- and knew it was time to go.

The day's aim was Ottawa, and the route would take me north and then east through the Algonquin Provincial Park.

My encounter with the deer in NY had left me feeling fortunate and a tad hypersensitive. Had that collision involved a MOOSE however, well, that would have been a horse of a different color :)

Algonquin Provincial Park
At ~ 7700 sq ki (3000 sq mi), it is nearly 3.5 times the size of Pennsylvania's Allegheny National Forest.

The APP has but one road (Rt 60) crossing the southern tip, which restricts access to the majority of the park's nearly 2 million wild and wooded acres to the hardy woodsman/ explorer-types. For those of us who enjoy the convenience of the "drive-thru" design of the US park system, APP may disappoint. Of course, if you fancy yourself a genuine Michael Runtz experience, bring your canoe, koonskin cap, and maps, and get lost in this renowned ecological preserve.

Traveling one-up by motorcycle affords me the opportunity to find and set my own pace in the world. This pace will vary based on circumstance and mood, but I do favor a certain rhythm. I wake shortly after the sun, take my time breaking camp, and put on 300mi or so before settling into camp once again. Some seasoned travelers find this pace a bit brisk, others, overly luxurious. If I wasted time caring about the preferences of others, though, I might miss out on the little things, like a sign pointing me down a side street to visit "The Original Home of the Beavertail." Yes, I have time for that :)

Home of the tasty, fried-dough Beavertail- Killaloe, Ontario

It's not all fun and pastries when I travel; I do work as well. My then-current project was what took me into Ottawa, as I sought out a Yamaha dealership having the bike for which I was designing a new accessory. While the website claimed the bike was in stock at this location, a devoid showroom and apologetic salesman proved otherwise. Determined to be of help, the salesman searched around and found what I was looking for, but it was further east- in the little town of Montreal, Quebec.
Thus far, it had simply been the signs posted in kilometers, waving red maple leaves, and obnoxiously slow and observed speed limits that reminded me I was in a semi-foreign country. Upon entering the province of Quebec, however, the abrupt change in language from English to all French both written and spoken was a sobering slap. My interest in French hadn't extended beyond the closet kissing games of my youth, so the part of my brain that solves problems through context clues was now called front and center to navigate the roadways, shops, and a pub.

Back in Ottawa, when I learned that Montreal was to be on my agenda for the day, I immediately thought of an attractive and adventuresome couple I had made acquaintance with just a couple days earlier at HU. We had gotten along easily, and an invitation had been extended to stop by their place in Montreal should I ever find myself there. Now, sometimes people say things in the joy of the moment, things they genuinely mean but don't necessarily expect to be called upon- at least, not right away. When I contacted Simon to let him know my evening's destination, I could tell he was still feeling the joy when he immediately invited me to a home-cooked meal and a couch to surf for the night.

A Dakar 650 and classic cafe'd Triumph kept the Red Rocketship company for the evening...

...While Simon, May, and I indulged in a delicious meal, wine, stories, and laughter in their beautiful and tastefully appointed condo.

I thoroughly enjoyed the company of this eclectic and interesting couple (and their fluffy cat), but come morning, it was back to the grind for them and on to the open road for me.

Upon inspecting my bike that morning, I discovered that I had ignorantly been party to something very dangerous- something that could have had very dire consequences for me and/or another traveler.

Morning inspection revealed that something was amiss.

The cap to the left tool tube that I had used for drinking at HU- and the metal coffee thermos that had so snuggly resided within- apparently decided to go AWOL somewhere between Camp Tamarack and Montreal- a distance of around 300 miles. It could have happened anywhere along the back roads or interstates upon which I had traveled that previous day. At first, I was saddened at having lost the thermos, as it had been a very thoughtful gift and useful addition to my kit. But after some consideration, I was incredibly thankful that the missing gear seemed to be the extent of the loss, as this story could have had a very different outcome.
Following are two possible scenarios that played out in my pre-caffinated mind that morning as I stood in the driveway of my Montreal hosts' chick uptown abode.

Imagine being a driver, moving down the highway at a brisk 100km/hr (something like 20mph) and watching as this bright blue metal canister slowly slides out from the rear of the absolutely gorgeous bike with the out-of-country plate you're following. Before you could figure out what it was or react, you find yourself involuntarily bracing for impact as the metal canister hits the ground, bounces, and flips into the air, spinning wildly as it connects with and shatters your windshield. Reflexes kick in, the steering wheel gets jerked hard to starboard, and soon you find yourself rolling and tumbling and finally coming to rest upside down among a mixed mash of twisted metal, broken glass, and the strewn black ribbons from your rare Grateful Dead "Live at the Filmore" cassette collection. As you scream and pray for the fire company to arrive soon with the jaws of life to extract you from this metal coffin, you simultaneously think, "damn, I should have taken the bus to work today," and, "I'm never going to find another copy of that epic St Steven's track!" OR WORSE...
Let's say it had been the OTHER cap, the cap on the RIGHT- the right being the side where I store my extra liter of GASOLINE- that had let loose. Now the above scenario carries a different set of consequences. Upon striking the hard concrete surface at speed, the plastic cap of the bright green fuel canister cracks, allowing the fuel- lightly pressurized due to the warm ambient temperature- to begin its escape. And as it bounces and projectiles through the fascia of the vehicle- easily busting through the thin plastic grill, puncturing the narrow aluminum radiator and getting lodged in the spinning engine fan- a spark sets the whole shebang a-flame! Then, just like in Hollywood, KABOOM goes the entire car, leaving little more than a foul briquette smelling of burnt plastic and formaldehyde in a car-sized crater. Fortunately, the vehicle would have been one of those automated Google self-drivers, and no one got hurt, but because it was also street-mapping sensitive information on government infrastructure, I would have surely been arrested for terrorism, thrown in Canadian prison, and forced into hard labor tapping maple trees and sewing flags for the rest of my days. Phew. I really dodged a bullet there.

I double checked the remaining tool tube cap for tightness, and with normalcy restored, wandered into downtown Montreal in search of a highly recommended sandwich.
I got the sandwich- with a side of street art festival.

Schwartz's Smoked Meat. Yum.

I'll have whatever they're having :)

After dodging city traffic and making a short jaunt down breezy Rt 133, I crossed the Canadian/ US border into Vermont.

And just like that I was back in the good ole' US of A.

To my disappointment, I didn't see many old vehicles littering the Canadian countryside. Meanwhile, back in the US on Rt 100 headed south through Vermont, I encountered this sweet relic. Ah, it's always good to return home to the familiar.

The base of the ski resort at Killington, VT

Old friends

This may not come as a surprise if you know that I live in a small ski resort community, but I like Vermont. With crisp air, a refreshing absence of the ubiquitous and obnoxious, roadside billboards, and being full of quaint towns, ski villages, and dramatic mountain topography, Vermont is a small slice of paradise. Killington, VT also happens to be home to an old friend I hadn't seen in some 17 years. So, yes, I had time for a visit :)
One night's intended stay at Nick's mountain chalet turned into two, and I quickly found myself remembering a) why I so like the Vermont mentality, b) how good it feels to reconnect with old friends, and c) that I can't quite party like I used to- but it was fun trying. Even though I felt a bit amateur having clocked out in an easy chair prematurely that first evening, there was a silver lining. In my delirium, I had been granted a vision of my deceased father being nearby, providing a warm, peaceful sensation that made everything feel just fine.

The locals play some Softball.
Dudes, women, and dogs. Does it get more American?

Staying the extra evening afforded me the chance to hang and check out the locals' softball league. While Nick was catching pop-flys and eating some hard dirt, I was casually observing and catching up on my log. The temperature was comfortable; the noise from the players' chatter and their cheering families pleasant; the cotton clouds overhead moved along at an unhurried pace; things were textbook perfect. Still, I noticed myself getting distracted. Every time a group of cycles would motor by, a trigger would pull in my psyche. I was being summoned. Being both indifferent and demanding, the road is a fickle mistress.

Leaving Killington, I discovered that my cell phone was troubled and would not take a charge. I was feeling the pangs of withdrawal from the many conveniences this pocket-sized electronic device provided when I finally rolled into the Verizon store in nearby Rutland. Fortunately, the clerk was able to help me solve the charging problem, allowing me to reconnect to the familiar array of route planning, music, and social apps to which I may have become a bit addicted.
Rutland, as I remembered it from having visited many years ago on a skiing trip, was a decent-sized but still charming and quaint town. Times have changed however, and strip malls, megaplexes, and fast-food franchises scar the landscape. At one time, Vermont was able to boast that it was a haven for small businesses and permitted no Walmarts, no Targets, and no Dollar stores within its borders. VT seems to be losing the battle to at least two of those three as this bit of paradise, too, is slowly succumbing to rampant consumerism.

Consuming, as with most things, is not entirely bad.

To know me is to know my love of all things pizza, and like any pizza lover, I have my favorite spots. Being that I was passing through the NW corner of PA as I made my way home, I was very excited to be able to visit one of my top-two, all-time favorite pizza-eateries, Mariano's Pucceria!

Like coming home :)

If your mouth isn't watering, check your pulse.

I had my fill and mounted the bike for the last 200 miles of road between me and home. The goodness digesting in my belly and wonderfully scenic and curvy roads of my home state conspired to produce a feeling of peace and happiness.

As I was pulling into my driveway, three travelers who were utilizing the free campsite I established in the front of my property were just packing up and preparing to leave. Our exchange was brief but meaningful and carried out as they finished stuffing the tent and two tiny dogs into their very full compact car.

Standing in my driveway looking at my front door, a mix of joy and sadness washed over me. I was accepting that this journey had reached its end.

But then a sound distracted me- the crunch of gravel under tires. I turned. The three travelers, their two dogs, and straining car were just turning out of the end of the driveway, when I felt that trigger- the call of the road.

Smiling, I walked towards the door, content with the thought that for me, adventure is a lifestyle- and will always be with me wherever I am.