Dotty

Arriving in Brattleboro, it had been explained to me as the most liberal and earthy town in Vermont. Described as a progressive town built upon the foundation of a nudist city. As we rolled into town, we realized it would be a town worth checking out. Some towns along our route are merely a blimp on our little Google maps screen. Others are worth spending a little time in. Having not washed our clothes since staying with the Verite family in Maine, our clothes needed to tumble around in a washing machine for a while. Making our way to the far side of town, we found a laundromat right next to a place with soft-serve ice cream. Cramming our mouths full of ice cream sounded like a wonderful way of waiting out the duration of time our clothes needed. Walking around for a brief period of time, we quickly realized we wanted to spend the day and evening in this town. Unfortunately, darkness was only a few hours away and it isn't necessarily easy to find a spot to camp within most city limits. I decided this would be a great time to use Warm Showers as a traveler. I have hosted cyclist, but never utilized the receiving end of the wonderful network this website has created.

Dorothy MacDonald. Residing in Brattleboro, VT. I am a teacher, a hiker, a biker and a dog lover. I have finished working on a three part quest of riding across the U.S. Five years ago. I finished the last leg from Minnesota to here in Brattleboro. This last section I did self-contained and loved it. Three summers ago I rode for several weeks on the Petit tren du nord in Canada. Last summer I rode from Rochester, New York up to Lake Ontario, Thousand Islands and then through the Adirondacks back home to Brattleboro.

Before making any sort of contact, I knew this would be a wonderful encounter with another who has similar interests. It didn't take long for her to confirm that either. Within a minute of calling her, she provided us with her address and an assurance that we had a place to lay our heads for the night. Packing my clothes into stuff sacks with no conscious organization, we gather up our gear and pedal up a short hill to Dorothy's house. We arrive to a warm house containing great conversation. As it turns out, Dotty herself had just arrived home that day from a month long trek on the John Muir trail in the Sierras of California. I recently spent a few days backpacking in the Inyo National Forest over Fourth of July weekend, which is in close proximity to the trail. We shared our experiences of the area with each other and tried to find the proper words to describe the Sierras. Exposed. Beautiful. Granite. Expansive. Patchy. Pines. Gorgeous. Massive. It was the first time, since I flew out of San Diego, I was able to have a dialogue and shared experience with somebody about something close to home that I loved. Since I had arrived here in the East, everything had been a new experience. It felt wonderful to sit back, relax, and share a conversation about something familiar with another. 

Brattleboro is an eclectic little town. Murals painted on many of the walls. Recycling bins next to all the trashcans downtown. Cracked pavement streets with faded lines. Art and wine galleries on numerous corners. Steep hills with roads graded by people who must not have taken into account going up them. Hole-in-the-wall breweries. Bicycle racks in front of most establishments. Hipsters smoking cigarettes and singing in the streets. Looking for a place to eat, we came across McNeil's brewery. After a few minutes we realized two things. 1. All their food is prepackaged and simply thrown in a microwave. 2. They have a delicious IPA on tap. Taking both into account, we decided to get a quick beer, then find somewhere else to eat. As Wes was outside talking with his father, a man named Mike picked up on my out-of-towner demeanor and asked my story. Literally. Turns out he's a man in his forties with 25 years experience as an RN. We naturally ended up in the never ending discussion of health care and our voices became louder and louder. Not in an aggressive way. Simply with smiles and interest in the other's opinion. He paid for my second IPA and told me I had better things to spend my money on while bicycle touring. I agreed. Once Wes returned, and my stomach began pointing towards the door, it was clearly time to move on. Finding a neat restaurant on the river, I had a mediocre dinner while Wes devoured a hamburger covered in peanut butter. If you've never tried such a thing, you should do so as soon as possible. Make a normal burger and spread a dollop of creamy peanut butter over the patty. You won't be disappointed. Perfectly rich contrast to a juicy burger. At this point I was one meal and two brews deep. That's about as crazy as I can go without feeling like the train that couldn't the next day. We pedaled up the steepest hill in all of Vermont/the world and crawled into our levitating beds. 

The next morning we woke up amongst a team of construction workers in Dotty's backyard. This alarm clock was as good as any and we decided to use the earlier morning to make Dotty breakfast. Eggs and pancakes doused in Vermont Grade A maple syrup! We shared stories of bicycle touring and of Vermont itself. Turns out Brattleboro was never a nudist city. There are actually no laws at all about taking your clothes off in Vermont. Some kids, Dotty's students at the time, found out about this lawlessness and decided to make their band popular by performing up and down the town streets naked. There the Brattleboro nudist attraction began. It attracted so many people from all over the country that now you cannot walk around the five blocks of downtown naked, although everywhere else you still can. We didn't see any buns. 

Of everything Dotty shared with us, the most memorable was her view of Maine once we told her we started there.

Maine Maine

What a pain

All it ever does is rain

If I owed Hell and I owned Maine,

I'd live in Hell and rent out Maine. 

With that important bit of wisdom, we pedaled onward into Massachusetts. 

New Hampshire's Wicked Witch and Redeeming Star

Descending out of the White Mountains of New Hampshire, we enjoyed the soft rolling hills between ourselves and Vermont. Navigating the crumbled shoulders caused by frost heave and carrying our momentum through slight uphills, we grinned while thinking about the 9% grades we climbed up the day prior. The route we chose skirted a creek at the base of the mountains. I felt my legs begin to drain and therefore realized I had already waited too long before eating lunch. 

Beginning to look for a pretty place to rest, we found the creek to have steep banks and protective guardrails in many places. After about five miles of rolling along, we came across a little pull-off towards the creek. Turning down it twenty feet, we came across a private property sign and saw that a house may sit a few hundred feet down the road and around a corner, but couldn't see a structure. We walked our bikes fifteen feet down the drive and laid them on the ground near a little view of the creek. Two vehicles drove down the road within a few minutes of us arriving. Chowing down on some salmon sandwiches and fruit, we noted the contrast between the cobbled rocks in the creek compared to the big granite a little north in the mountains. Feeling fueled and adequately stretched, I begin to pack up my little food satchel and stand up to let everything settle into place. Right as everything hits its resting point in my stomach, something very unpleasant hits my ears. 

HOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!! I straighten up to find a blue Chevy truck, which passed earlier, blasting its horn from only a few paces away. 

Unhappy lady in truck: "Could you not read the sign!?"

I instantly realize this is going to be a struggle for me to contain my sarcasm and dislike. I naturally begin to pack up my gear, all while going into this discussion with a smile. 

Me: "I'm able to read quite well, but figured the owners would be happy to let me enjoy a lunch on this river bank."

Lady: "This is private property. I get off of work, only to find two bicycles in my front yard. You think I want that?"

I must note this is not a front yard and is not within a few hundred feet of where there possibly even could be what most would consider a yard. This is five feet off a basic gravel road. 

Me: "I had no idea it would upset somebody this much."

Lady: "Do you want me to call the cops? How would you feel if I brought my bike to your lawn for a lunch?

Me with an overly curved smile: "After this I wouldn't want you on my property, but prior to this you could have brought your whole family, bicycles and lunch to my front yard. I would have joined you."

The wicked witch: "You must leave. Now."

My gear is nearly packed up at this point and the lady begins backing all the way back down to her possible dwelling, which may have been 300 feet or 3 miles down the road. I do not know which. Wes informs me that I handled it much better than he would have and we walk our bikes to the highway, about ten generous paces away. 

As we reorganize and stretch on the highway, a lady from the other truck which previously passed, walked up to us from down the road. She was very polite and indicated to us the nicest place to enjoy the creek a little ways back down the highway. Without saying so, her actions and mannerisms showed that she realized she was being the mediator between an unpleasant friend/neighbor and a couple guys eating lunch. 

As we rode away, we analyzed what had happened. The reason for it, its deliverance, and the person who provided it. As we pedaled into camp that night, we concluded she has probably already retold the story to a few unfortunate people. Some will roll their eyes at her, while others will rant about private property and freedom. Wes explained this lady perfectly by simply stating, "She'll tell her grandchildren that story."

We're experiencing people on this trip. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Each of them teach us a new perspective. Everybody interacts with the world in their own unique way and it reflects upon them. Some through guts and glory, sadness and uncertainty, pride and honor, caring and content, uneasy and dissatisfied, and others wild and crazy. We met New Hampshire's wicked witch, but I'm sure each state has its fair share of them. 

Our camp location that night was surely the worst of our trip. Mosquitoes in thousands, undesirable hammock options, scurrying critters under our humble nests, and a race track less than a mile away with late night races and booming loudspeakers. We decided to skip dinner and breakfast in order to be fully packed and rolling away at 7:15am the next morning. Quite the contrast from the noon or 1pm starts we've found routine in. Miles come and go, but over fifteen miles in and we still haven't eaten anything since the previous afternoon. Upon feeling our obvious need for nutrition, Hueso (known by some others as Wes) yells back to me that his rack seems looser than usual. We stop and quickly realize a bolt on his front rack has been sheared off in the fork. This is not going to be resolved with a quick fix and high five. Arriving in the town of West Lebanon, NH, we attempt to find solutions to our problem. Searching for bike, auto repair, and machine shops in hope of finding somebody with a bolt extractor kit, I come to a quick realization that it's Sunday and therefore very unlikely to produce any positive results. As we begin to accept the fact we'll be in this town until everything can be fixed on Monday, we began running errands which have built up. Slowly perusing through a bookstore, I decide to shoot my father a photo of the shearing situation with an email which simply says:

"Any ideas outside of a bolt extractor? Sunday in a small town."

The following text conversation ensues:

Papa Wang...you're the greatest. You literally saved the day. You and a space machine designer (not actual job title) by the name of Bill. 

We walked toward the bike bench as I point at him and inquisitively ask "Bill?". He points back and states, "Clayton." He threw Hueso's bike up on the stand and began running through it. In the beginning, I watched and chatted with him, but began walking around the store after a short period of time. I fully admit I envied his ability to have a full bike shop at his disposal. While I love riding bikes, there is something about dissecting and rejuvenated a bicycle that's easily as beautiful to me as it is riding them. Rider and technician shared great conversations while I became lost in the gear throughout the rest of the store. Squishing sleeping bags I don't need, testing the sharpness of tent stakes, and finding the perfect container for my garlic and chili paste that's spilling in my pannier. After a couple hours of steady minutes, Hueso not only doesn't have a bolt sheared in his fork, but he also has a new rear rack which doesn't sway, a new stainless steel cookset to replace a destroyed one, and most importantly a sturdy installation of a front rack. He has left West Lebanon a new man. 

Bill countered all the damage the wicked witches had placed on my view of New Hampshire. While there will always be those who never operate upon happiness, there will also always be others who have extra to share with others. 

Ride on. Ride off. Right on!

Since leaving the coast of Maine last weekend, we've found ourselves in a stop-and-go routine. We're still trying to find the balance between enjoying areas as much as possible, while also getting to the West in less than a couple years. Bottom line, we're on this trip to see more of our country and interact with the people within it. Sometimes these experiences may soak up a few minutes, some may involve days or even a week. Creating a balance will simply come in the form of solid days in the saddle. 

After Camden, we spent three days simply spinning it out in the saddle. Fully loaded and not broken into touring fitness yet, days can feel longer than the miles which went into them. This however, is what makes being a Surly Snail so great. We don't push it. Nobody wants to push a 42lbs bicycle with 50+lbs of gear. The days cruise by slowly, pedaling onward while also taking time to smell the pines, lobstahs, porcupine road kill or fresh bread stands. You know what they say...slowly but surly!

Days in the saddle provide us with some gorgeous country roads, encounters with the random happenings which occur off a highway, stiff hamstrings, honks from fellow cyclists with racks on their cars and highways of equal splendor. Stops at gas stations for water refills and $1 bags of potato chips are common. Drafting is extremely beneficial while touring and we pass the hammering on with a underhand wave forwards. Anybody who rides road bikes knows the advantage of drafting, but it seems even more effective on a touring bike. Drafting somebody who is riding in an upright touring position, with stuffed panniers, knocks down on a ridiculous amount of wind. All the added focus of the latter rider goes to avoiding the potholes which pop up at the last second! 

We've been riding on, followed by periods of riding off. A few days ago, we did a full 40-mile, and hilly, ride under a never ending rain cloud. Threw swim trunks on, shirt off, Chacos on, and became a part of the wetness. Through pure coincidence and impeccable timing, Wes found out his childhood friend, Corey, was visiting his cabin near the end of our ride! Corey, his girlfriend Mya, and friends Lexi and Gabe were on a three day escape into the beauty of Maine. Warm hospitality shined through once again and we were provided with shelter, delicious meals, and great company. It took our clothes and shoes a full day to dry out, in which we enjoyed their beach on the lake, drank delicious banana and blueberry milk, devoured some pickled eggs, shared a few drinks, went to a local farm, fished from their canoe, and relaxed. It was a great day off the saddle. Corey is an amazing cook and both nights prepared possibly the best haddock and tenderloin I've ever had. Lexi and Gabe offered us a place to stay if we would like once we go through NY and we're very grateful. 

     

Wes and I are both feeling a bit stuffy. We rode for a bit today and crossed into New Hampshire. I can already see NH will be quite the contrast from Maine. More people, tourism, and cars. It's absolutely gorgeous though too. We've found ourselves in the White Mountains and I'm now nestled in my hammock at camp. This is surely the most beautiful place we've camped thus far. Right off the Kancamagus Highway and merely feet from a river with extremely clear water, thousands of precious little bugs scattering around the surface at sunset, and a rock we'll jump off tomorrow morning. Definitely the coldest night so far, but we're prepared!

Wanna follow our tour visually on a map? Click this to check it out.

The "Truth" in Goodness

Allow me to fill you in on the greatest segment of our trip thus far. Two days ago we found ourselves in a Camden coffee shop with hopes of its business hours outlasting the rain. Hope was not enough and therefore we found ourselves, once again, pedaling through roads of rivers, to the market. While food was on our mind, an additional period of warmth and dryness was our main focus. 

However, before even making it through the entrance, we were greeted by a man who changed our entire evening and weekend with a terse fifteen-second conversation. It went a little something like this:

Caring stranger: "Hey there! My name is Eric. I see you're bicycle touring. Where ya headed?"

Wes: "California."

Eric: "Awesome. Come stay at my house tonight."

Wes looked at me with an expression of awing disbelief, followed by both of us happily taking him up on his offer. As he walked away, his girlfriend and child walked out of the store to meet him and he yelled back. "We're making tacos! Get an extra pound of ground beef!" It's hard for me to use the phrase 'words cannot express' because I believe words paint the clearest picture, although in this case, words cannot express the extent of elation and warmth this moment created. Warmth created not by heaters or burning balls of gas, but by promising words. 

After buying the essentials (Twizzlers, Ben & Jerry's, and a Symphony bar), raging river roads now guided us to the address Eric provided. Upon wheeling our drenched bicycles and gear into his barn, we would have been so incredibly happy with nothing more than its roof above our head and places to hang our gear. However, the hospitality of Eric and his family extends much further. First things first, we exploded all our gear throughout his barn, ensuring everything was separated and airing. What would have otherwise given me great discomfort and miserableness in the inescapably aquatic outdoors that evening, instead gave me a great laugh as I hung up my soaking hammock and gear from the day's morning. We had been saved and this was the confirmation. 

At this point we had only met Eric and his daughter Phoenix, 7 years old, who was the first to scramble through the laundry room door and greet us. While slowly hanging our clothes and coming to realize how much of a sanctuary the barn is, Phoenix was trying to scare us with scary stories. Including ones about the ghost in the upstairs of the barn, who occasionally decides to use the sewing machine at night. We played off not being scared by telling her we would leave out our worn socks and pants for her to sew.

The dining room inside was quite a contrast from the slow-moving barn and entire rainy day we had experienced. Each of his kids was creating or participating in some form of lively entertainment. No television needed. Atreyu and Roma, 2 and 4 years old respectively, were rolling around the floor with each other, playing with a set of machinery ear muffs and Hulk gloves. Lochlin, 12 years old, was creating his own beat by softly drumming on a wooden dresser with his hands. Phoenix was still, and continued to throughout the evening, telling us her rendition of the scary stories she had memorized. All the while, Eric's girlfriend, Ashley, was making a delicious feast of tacos and taking equal part in addressing the needs of the children just as much as Eric. 

Sitting down and eating dinner with the Verité family, Eric is somehow able to address the needs from each of his kids directly and effectively. 

"What are you looking for?" I'll get it for you. 

"Have you washed your hands?" Do it before you sit down. 

"Milk. Who wants cow and who wants soy?"

Boom boom boom. It was, without a doubt, the best way of ensuring everybody and everything was covered. With each of the kids wanting to tell us something at once, I would personally lose track of all focus when more than one of them tried to tell me something. Everybody sat at the table happily and it was solely because of him. 

Each of them were wonderful in their own way, but Lochlin, being the oldest, had formed a character which developed around each of his individual sibling interactions. The logical, reasoned, and kind overseer of the siblings. 

Towards Roma: "I'm going to let you continue pulling all that thread off of the spool, but I want you to think about what dad will think of it if you continue." She immediately stopped. 

Towards Atreyu: "You cannot expect others to let you play with their Hot Wheels if you don't replace them. Replace the ones you've taken out if you want to see more." Trey grabbed the previous grip of cars from off his bed. 

Towards Phoenix: "You have to make sure your scary stories don't end with a random death."

Phoenix: "...she walked around the corner and slice, he killed her."

Loch: "And THAT was a random death!"

It caused me to look back on where I was at in my development at 12 years old. 7th grade. I was a hooligan, not looking out for anybody but myself. Not nearly developed in any spectrum of life. Living only within the realms of want and self-satisfaction. I'm excited to hear where life takes Loch, for a kid of his caliber truly has a future of endless possibilities at his disposal. He guided us on a hike to nearby Battie mountain and shared thoughtful conversations the whole time. The day I met him, I turned twice his age, yet I enjoyed his company just as much as any buddy my age. 

Within being at Eric's home for a short period of time, he informed us of the reason he was so happy to provide us with shelter that night. In 1999, Eric was 22 years old, going to school, yet not quite sure about what he wanted out of life. Sound similar to my mindset and age right before Peru? He had no experience being a cyclist, nor did he know what he would gain from it, but he decided to ride his bicycle across the country. From his hometown in New Hampshire, down the entire eastern seaboard to Florida, across to California, then up to Washington. Now there's an important side note that changes his trip from exciting to exceptional. He wasn't going to leave his 150 lb dog, Falcor, behind! He had a trailer specifically made for his needs and set off on an old Trek 5200 mountain bike with 26" knobby tires. Falcor knew, without Eric saying anything, to get out before steep hills and get back in at the top. We spent the evening going through photos and having him show us his trip memorabilia. Traced maps, a quilt his community made him before leaving, his helmet, a bag of recordings and stack of journals. He told us of the many instances of incredible hospitality he encountered along the way. Thirteen years later, he has wanted to pay it forward to the next touring cyclist he came across, but never had the opportunity. We're thankful he finally came across two soaking wet guys in front of a Hannafords supermarket. 

Being in Maine, we had been on a mission for some bright red, fresh lobster. Upon asking Ashley where we could find some good lobster the next day, she replied with a smiley "Me!" and a thumb pointing to herself. As a proclaimed lobsterman since 2007, she had to be on the boat at 6 a.m, but would be back in the afternoon. We were hoping for 1-2 lobsters each at a deal price. Instead, she brought us three huge lobsters each, free of charge! We rode bikes down to the harbor with Loch and grabbed fresh seaweed for steaming the lobster. Eric, using his massive lobster pot, cooked us the most delicious lobster I've ever eaten. Scrumptious, hearty, free of charge, and fully dunked in melted farm butter Pheonix had made a few days prior. Ashley explained to us how she determines the sex and size of each one while lobstering, the regulations followed, where they live, how they eat, and even showed us the commonly missed meat in the tail flippers. All wrapped up with a day of playing in the yard. 

The Verité ("truth" in French) family delivered us the exact Maine experience we were hoping for, yet realistically could not have attained without them. 

We had run out of hours in our day and therefore Eric offered us to stay at his house another night. Fortunately there was a way in which we, more specifically Wes' family, was able to help repay what he had done for us. He was taking most of the family a few hours away to the Boston Aquarium the next day, but Loch wasn't able to go because he had to be back in the Camden the next late-afternoon. Wes called his family and arranged for them to stay right outside of Boston that night in order to get an early start on Sunday. Thank you so incredibly much Newbury and Munnelly families! Your hospitable spirits shine once again. 

Our Camden experience was exceptional, to say the least. All the months of work and planning were worth it, even if only for the weekend we just experienced. "Is this real life?" was a common phrase. While I'm still not sure why I'm on this trip or the purpose of it, I'm starting to get a grasp of it. I want to experience the inherent goodness in which every individual possesses. I look forward to the ways in which I run into the desire people have to place greater good upon others. To their community. To their family. To the lost touring cyclists that are sure to get into some miserable situations in the near future.