Building Brick by Brick

Brick.  And stone.  There is much of both here at Nuestro Pequenos Hermanos (NPH).  It is also a metaphor for the children here - a large family supporting their individual structures, pieced together day after day, year after year to a structure of hope and possibility.  I like coming here - it inspires me.

The Conference Center rising

 And so it is that I could inspect the work of the surgery center, to start the construction of the new stone chapel, and the Conference Center and Dormitory, to check on its progress, elevated higher and wider, brick-by-brick by eighty workers.  There is little equipment here, It is mostly hand work.  Men moving dirt via wheelbarrow, at least they have packers to compact the soil. The building has its form defined: the great hall is now set by its length and width, its height only imagined.  The rooms are also defined, causing my speculation on the future inhabitants - how they may see the verdant landscape and the spirit of this place from the windows and courtyards, as I do.  Progress is slow, but expectedly so, but quality is good, unexpectedly so.  Much greater care and attention.

Brick by brick

Worker safety is not always a top priority in Central America, but there is an evolving culture of safety here.  The crew has constructed their own steel scaffolding, rather than using cobbled wood structures to gain height, causing delay and very unsafe conditions.  Hardhats, vests and signs advising of safety are now part of this culture.  We do not need accidents.  But my only observation over these past several days is  the absence of good footwear for work.  Many of  the workers barely have their shoes staying together, flopping around.  And with all the stone and brick work, that is a recipe for an accident.  We must get some better shoes out here - it will be a bonus well received, where even though Honduras has a strong shoe manufacturing industry, that does not mean the locals can afford them.

And speaking of stone, the vision of the main wall in the great hall made of local stone, quarried by hand and further honed by hand was perhaps a nice idealistic dream where brick is so common, but these workers created a beautiful stone wall, well crafted, as if to rise out of the very platform of stone we build upon.  It will be a magnificent backdrop to a convention of doctors or a celebration of volunteers.

The Keyhole window

And the tens of thousands of bricks, locally made in Tegus, are culled by hand from the output of the factory, an aging red-colored place with two wood fired tunnel kilns.  The bricks must be good, not cracked, so we observed a load being picked up by a crew of workers from NPH, to make sure we have the best.  It was interesting to walk through this site, not as productive as perhaps it could be due to limited work.  That is why this is such an important project - we are providing a vital source of work and pride for the locals where diminishing opportunity exists.  Pride built brick by brick.

The brick yard

Brick extruder

And then there is Axel - I am his Padrino - godfather - and also we are "tocayo" - people of the same name.  In all my prior visits, I have not had the opportunity to spend as much time day after day with him, as he schools in Tegus.  But this is now over, he has one year left, and strong ambition to become a doctor here on the Ranch.  It will take many years, perhaps 10 or so plus his service to the ranch after high school.  But through our walks and talks, in the hills, I can see his life coming together, full of ambition and warmth for his NPH family here.  His life is building as well, brick by compassionate and thoughtful brick. I only hope I can continue to be one ingredient of many in the mortar of his future that builds a strong house.

Axel and Axel: "tocayo"

Sunset on the ranch

Playing Paxton

Sir Joseph Paxton (1803 - 1864) came back to life last week.


The gardener, "architect", writer, business manager, railroad tycoon, and liberal member of Parliament as a champion of  the working class, addressed a gathering of 225 Architects at the Minnesota Chapter of the American Institute of Architects convention in Minneapolis last Wednesday, November 11, under the theme of Disruptive Design.  And why the parenthetical "architect"?.  


In his own (my own?) words at the convention:  

"This is the first time that I have ventured across the Atlantic to the colonies, to be so warmly greeted by an esteemed group of colonial Architects.  In my long and quite busy career, I dare say that the learned society of Englishmen that call themselves Architects have never taken much public notice of my accomplishments, and if so, merely by a grudge to be certain.  I can say however, that while I have been in the company of the highest nobility, even knighted by Queen Victoria, I can say that this audience does finally make me proud to recite my story - a story of humble beginnings, humble service to my benefactor, Lord William Spencer Cavendish, the sixth Duke of Devonshire, and service to my very dear, and I dare say, patient wife Sarah (who could not join me this early morning)."

This was an amazing man.  With little formal education, he lied his age into the Royal Horticulture Society gardens at Chiswick in London (next to Lord Cavendish's London estate), to perfect his knowledge of horticulture and gardening, and became a master gardener, garden planner, landscape architect, greenhouse builder, writer and publisher, and effectively a business manager in the service of the Duke of Devonshire at his estate in Chatsworth.  He was the first to create a physical environment mimicking the Berbice River in Guyana, where the giant lily Victoria regia prospered, and then the first to get this lily to prosper and bloom in less-than-thoroughly-sunny England

Lily pond in Kew Gardens (R. Hilger)

Victoria regia flower (R. Hilger)

The Great Stove at Chatsworth (Public Domain)

And he constructed a "Great Stove", actually, a very large glass greenhouse, to house the growing collection (pun intended) of flora being gathered from around the world for the Duke.  The magnificence of these accomplishments gained notice of Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert - indeed Paxton had to organize a visit of the Queen to Chatsworth, the event itself drawing international attention. 

Paxton Doodle Sketch
Victoria and Albert Museum

But his most significant accomplishment followed - a design for the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park to house the 1851 International Exposition, conceived by a simple sketch on blotting paper in a Midway Railway board meeting.  In partnership with the Fox Henderson company and the Chance glass firm, this building at nearly a million square feet, constructed of iron and glass, was completed in 9 months.  As a temporary structure, even enclosing live Elm trees, it was reconstructed in Sydenham as a Winter Garden, where it finally succumbed to fire in 1934.

Scene of the Exposition of 1851 (Getty Images)

Yet with all this notoriety, Paxton was never accepted into the design community, a community that preferred the heavy, candied Victorian visuals in masonry and stone.  But so modern were these structures, foretelling the industrial revolution transcribed into the elegant details and connections of the frames that held up a quarter million pieces of glass.  And one of his lesser known accomplishments, but one of huge import, was his conception and design of the first public park in England "to be equally enjoyed by all classes" - at Birkenhead in 1847 - inspiring a visit by the young American, Frederick law Olmsted, purportedly inspiring his design for Central Park in New York  

This was one busy and productive fellow, with a wide variety of interests.  I can relate to this fellow, both for his interest in gardening and design, mirroring some of my own interests and "busy-ness."  And yet he paid a price.  This, in his own (my own?) words last week:  

But let me leave you, each and every one of you, another, more important lesson, my one true regret, and it is this: In my life, my hard working life, I was long away from my dear Sarah.  Dickens once wrote of me that "very leisure would kill a man of fashion with its hard work."  Indeed, I achieved for us wealth, and for me fame and access to the highest royalty in the land. After the Crystal Palace, I was knighted by the Queen.  I served as a member of Parliament, a liberal working on behalf of the gardener classes.  I was comfortable and wealthy, designing grand estate houses in England and France, but ever more distant from my beloved gardens managing this evolving empire, distant from the aging Duke, my devoted benefactor who influenced and supported all that I did, and mostly from Lady Sarah and my 6 remaining children.  One, my only surviving son, did not see his father much, and I was unable to discipline him when he needed it, and so I lost him to society, not knowing whatever became of him, for which I am profoundly sorrowful.  My dear Sarah was left with the burden of caring for the children, the gardens, and much of the Chatsworth affairs in these later years, which she managed quite well.  We have many letters between us - we wrote almost every day while I was away - for she was my rock of Gibraltar who supported me all this time, but I could not, did not, give her the time and quiet life by the Chatsworth kitchen garden she so desperately wanted, not before I was permanently prevented from fulfilling that wish, at age 61 in 1864.

So here is what I must say to all of you.  Work hard on the betterment of mankind, each and every one of you, build your own Crystal Palaces for that betterment of mankind, but do not abandon those that love you in pursuit of that goal.  Wholly live your life, well and happily." 

   

Paxton - momentarily returned to life (courtesy AIA MN)

Helen

You know the drill.  A friend of a friend says that a relation of that friend of a friend will be at the  University of Minnesota, to which I always offer to meet the relative of that friend of a friend, if for no other reason than to provide a warm welcome.

This is how I finally met Helen Abele, a diminutive young woman with a bright glimmer in her eyes, from Ethiopia, attending a six-week fellowship program for future African leaders at the Humphrey Institute, just before she departed for a tour of Washington DC and back home to her government job. Only a handful of Fellows were selected from many applicants, and she was one.  Our schedules just did not align until last week, and not knowing what to expect, I merely set my hopes on small talk - "Gopher" talk to welcome her on this, ironically the day President Obama was addressing Ethiopia and the African Union.

Nearly an hour later, small talk had long evaporated, replaced by a lengthy dialogue on America, Ethiopia, their differences and similarities, and the lessons learned by Helen during her six week stay, and me by my much shorter visit.  What I saw was a bright, 28 year old engaged bundle of energy, inspired by her stay here to bring this energy and enthusiasm back to her homeland.  In particular, what struck me as most interesting is her perception of American charity - the difference in the application of charity by Americans and Ethiopians.  After visiting many charitable organizations here as a part of her fellowship, she was surprised and inspired as much by their variety of purpose and mission as by the charitable resources they have to spend.  It is a rarity, as I understand it, to find Ethiopian charities serving Ethiopians with generous donations by fellow Ethiopians - in Ethiopia.  This message was delivered with awe, and no small amount of enthusiasm.

I asked her what she wants to be doing in 10 years.  "Be a Minister"  Not a minister in a religious sense, but a government minister doing good, honest work.  Admitting she is not "political", she acknowledges the challenges she faces, the male domination in government and politics, taking a woman seriously enough, and the usual impediments women can expect.   But her determination was sincere, strong and steadfastly unwavering, even to the point of sacrificing nurturing a family to do good for the country.

Ethiopia, get ready for Helen Abele.  Her passion, drive, vision and optimism is contagious.  I hope you catch her contagion, but know she would do well to set her sights higher than merely a Minister. She is seemingly capable of much more than that.  And perhaps the compassion and dedication she would bring to her people would be a breath of clean, fresh air to the political savanna.

Good luck, Helen - go get 'em!  And thanks for inspiring me.

My former student Ermias Mekonnen with Helen Abele

Going Back In Time

Living close to the east bank of the upper Mississippi River in St. Paul, Minnesota, my framework of "old history" is perhaps the mid-1800's, maybe a bit later, in terms of the existing architecture.  Sure, there are a few older structures, but very few.  The industrial boom in this area was in the 1850's onward, and Minnesota became the 34th state in 1854.

My bike trip ended July 23rd in Groton/Ledyard/Mystic Connecticut seaport, where no road is straight, and the houses routinely date to the mid-1700's.  In between, I have biked through northern Ohio, southern Ontario, the entire "western frontier" of the 1700's that is New York State, the idyllic Berkshires of Massachusetts, and the gently descending roll of Connecticut countryside toward the  Long Island Sound..

The Erie / Mohawk terminus in Cohoes, confluence with the Hudson

I have traveled back in time.  Slowly, evolving with each pedalstroke, visible in all the tangible evidence of "western" human constructions.  And it now makes sense to me.  That sense of the unknown beyond, to find out what is around the next bend.  That is what drives my own sense of adventure on these trips, and what also drove those early pioneers.

The one constant is agriculture - expanded over time farther from the navigable riverways, requiring much arable land to service the expanding population, and the need to move product to ever distant and more populus markets by whatever means most cost and time effective.  And there was much agriculture along this journey - I took advantage of the fruit often.

Water made conveyance easier.  I could imagine the maritime effect on the great lakes - the port villages linking the Erie coastline and imagine such a connectivity even before western civilization arrived, from my perch on the ferry deck.  I could see the curiosity of man unfolding in finding a way to navigate from the Atlantic via the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers to the "great west" of western New York and thus the Great Lakes in the 1700's, passing the six mile trading portage known as the "Oneida Carrying Place" at Fort Stanwix before reaching Lake Oswego and the Seneca River flowing west to Lake Ontario.  Though proposed as early as 1768. it wasn't surveyed until 1808, with the engineering minds then kicking in and figuring a way to construct a canal, with Governor Clinton breaking ground on "Clinton's Ditch" 40' wide by 4' deep in 1817, completed over the next 8 years.  Though certainly not a new concept, the engineering of the canal required immense thought, planning and perseverance - which some consider the Eighth Wonder of the World.

George Harvey:  Pittsford on the Erie Canal, 1837

It is interesting to see what a monumental construction effort the canal was in the early 1820's, and its widening between 1836-62, since there are parts that are up to 70' above the adjacent landscape, viaducts spanning creeks flowing under the canal, and even a road.  It is nothing more then a level aqueduct, originally with 83 locks overcoming 563' vertical rise, of which there is much historical precedent.  So it is no surprise that the concept evolved, but to such a young nation, that it was conceived, engineered and built, paid for by tolls, with such a vision of the future, a risky vision perhaps, that makes it so interesting.  

The five locks in LockPort - a classic town rising on the canal

But don't so many projects with bold objectives rest on a vision? And an uncertain future?  The construction of the canal is no different than the construction of the railroads, the highway system, or even today, light rail and tollways (or perhaps the flyby of Pluto occurring during this trip).  They have spurred new development and required the abandonment of old development, or at least their re-purposing.  The impact of the railroads, and subsequently the automobile, all led to the demise of the canal and the many villages along the route that had sprouted to service the canal, at least in its original version, now returned to the green woods with perhaps a foundation stone to mark its past.

My time travel journey from the late 1900's back to the late 1600's over 888 miles west to east, is over with the meeting at last of my two grandchildren, standard bearer's of some future vision.

Axel Peter Caspar with Henry Peter Caspar Hilger

Journey's end with Charlotte Hilger

Granny, There've Been Glaciers Here

July 21, 2015 - Schenectady NY to Pittsfield, MA
65 miles

I knew this day was coming - had better than a week on the Erie flats to prepare.  Today, I was meeting Granny, and she did not disappoint.

For those dear readers not fully attuned to the lingo of biking, we are talking the smallest forward chain-ring in combination with the largest rear cog - the granny gear, the combination that propels, if the legs are duly prepared, a rider and his gear up a hill.  Typically a steep hill, maybe even a long steep hill.  Now I like my granny, but I don't see her much.  She may be disappointed, but she is a reserve granny, the one you know will be there when you need her, with tea and crumpets and anything else that will help.  She speaks to you every stroke of the pedal, And hopefully the visit is long enough, for granny can get a bit disappointed when you abandon her, dismount, and walk uphill.

I did not disappoint granny today, but we did have a pleasant visit.

Bike Tourists ahead - Mohawk River ramble

I left the wonderful, historic stockade neighborhood and headed north out of Schenectady to follow the path along the Mohawk River where it meets the Hudson River at Cohoes (at quite a waterfall).  A beautiful morning, I was pedaling along and noticed two bike tourists ahead of me.  It is always of interest to run across bikers when traveling in the same direction - permits a possible conversation for a mile or two.  Rarely do folks stop to chat going in the opposite direction - its a momentum thing.  This was, however, a most unusual encounter.

Joost and Rienke

Permit me to introduce you to Joost and Rieneke van der Plicht.  Following the usual questions of "where are you headed" and "where have you come from/started", it was the normal followup question "where are you from" that drew my interest.  "Eastern Holland."  I proceeded to mention my maternal grandmother's origin is also eastern Holland, a place called Landfort near Gendringen in the German border region.  Landfort is a 2,000 acre estate, a former castle, that had been in the family for many generations until it fell into disrepair and was purchased by the State and has since been restored to its former glory by a long term tenant land lease.  Joost not only knew of the place, but also knew the author of a book (in Dutch) on Landfort, and participates in a regional historical society. Needless to say, this enabled long conversations about ancestry until Cohoes, when after coffee, we parted as they were staying in Troy a few days on their nine-week circle tour before returning to Boston.  When I return to Holland, I will have a contact to visit the estate again, and look forward to that opportunity.

Albany on Hudson

 But it is always a marvel that you run into people at a precise moment when it seems least likely, and find a common connection.  Had I not stayed in the Stockcade neighborhood and did my century ride yesterday, I would have missed this encounter.  Had I left earlier than my 8:45 AM departure, or later even, I might have missed it.  This encounter made me smile well into the hills.

Which after a lunch in downtown Albany, I encountered east from the Hudson and almost immediately started climbing a long rise to the crest of the Berkshires between New York and Massachusetts, winding through country roads.  I even was the one person audience for a group of bluegrass pickers practicing on the front porch of a house.  I stopped, listened, applauded, and was immediately entreated to a piece of lemon cake and conversation.  Only on a bike.

Pickers of  East Shodack, NY

Western Massachusetts and the Berkshires are a lovely landscape, I look forward to finishing my trip understanding them better - but hopefully through valleys - though I should not want to disappoint granny!

From whence I have come, down in the valley

Was Fast Approaching a Century When . . .

Union Street neighborhood, Schenectady

I unexpectedly wandered into the Stockade Historical District in Schenectady.  I knew I had arrived when I slowed my pursuit of reaching 100+ miles today (and the end of the Erie Canal in Troy) and gaped instead at the age and quality of the architecture in this neighborhood, the original site of the stockade fort abutting the Mohawk River.  Instead, I walked my bike down Union Street, and casually inquired at the English Garden B&B if there was room at her Inn.  There wasn't, but she instead directed me two blocks back to the Stockade Inn, a site first acquired from the local natives in 1661 by a Arendt Van Curler (everything is of dutch descent here) when the fort was started. It served as a tavern, and sheriff's residence until it was burned during the French and Indian War, then rebuilt in its present form as a Bank in 1818.  Over the years it was used as a home, a school and the Mohawk Club (for men only of course), and now an Inn with a cavernous, well appointed guest room.  Or consider the old St. Georges Church a block away that housed and protected revolutionary war troops.

And this is but one structure in this amazing neighborhood, reflecting the fact that I have gone back beyond a century to the early 1700's when this neighborhood evolved, from the early 1820's when the Erie Canal on its western terminus was being planned and constructed.  What a surprising revelation, one that is likely more obvious to locals, but not a midwesterner where the oldest buildings seems of 1880's vintage.

The Stockade Inn, Schenectady

July 20th will go into the log as a day of architecture, and a perfect riding day - low 80's, dry, a perfectly blue sky, and a magnificent tailwind all day heading east along the Mohawk.  I made stops along the way in Frankfort, Herkimer (which figured prominently in the Revolutionary War), the Herkimer Fort Church (1753) in German Flats, the General Nicholas Herkimer House (1750), the cliff hugging town of Little Falls, a lunch stop in Canajoharie, and the old Erie Lock 28.

After an evening wander of the neighborhood, a cold beer at the Van Dyck Lounge was quite appropriate, with all beers brewed on site. In all, a perfect day for riding only 85 miles, short of the certain 100 mile mark that could have been, and a perfect end.

Herkimer Church in morning

St. Georges Church (1762)

Little Falls along the Mohawk

Old Erie Lock 28

Erie Canal

July 17 - Niagara Falls. Ontario to Rochester, NY
87 miles, mostly wet!

Anxious to start the new part of this Erie journey, not along the lake, but the long canals, I made a bee-line for Lockport from Niagara after crossing the border.  And a beeline would not be inappropriate, for compared to thee Canadian side, the American side of the Falls is a pretty dreadful, lifeless, ill-maintained place.

Locks in Lockport

Though the canal meets Lake Erie just north of Buffalo, Lockport is famous for its four step  ladder type lock, right in the heart of town.  While the "new" canal of circa 1918 replaced the original, paary of the original remains today, and is quite interesting to see.
I followed a well groomed towpath to Albion in a light rain - a town entirely on the National Register for Historic Preservation, all beautifully restored, but strangely empty of life and aactivity, with many storefronts empty and offices closed on this Friday afternoon..  Took lunch at only place on Main Street - a small Mexican restaurant.  The proprietor confirmed my sense of the place, frustrated at the lack of tourists.

However, the next town of Brockport was quite a different story (and also to its benefit, a college town) - a bustling town on also on the National Register as well, with a vibrant Main Street. How does one succeed and the other not?  Proximity to Rochester may be the reason.

Typical canal route

As it was getting late, I tried my luck at a B&B in Adams Basin - a tiny town indicative of the "way stops" along the canal that sprung up, now just a collection of a few buildings.  There was no room at the only inn, though still being used as an inn when originally constructed in the 1820's.  I then hustled in to Rochester - an intersection of waterways, the Erie canal and the Genessee River flowing north to nearby Lake Ontario.  And also where I took my rest at a Holiday Inn by the airport.

Rochester or canal reborn?

Groomed willow

July 18 - Rochester to Weedsport
75 miles, mostly hot

Clinton Square - site of former Erie Canal - Rochester

Massive thunderstorm early in the morning, awoke me.  Turned sunny though, but much flash flooding, even an alert on my phone!  Hot day ahead - 90+ degrees and very humid, and much local complaint.  Spun into downtown Rochester, best on a Saturday morning when there is no traffic - using bike trails along the Genessee River.  Some amazing old architecture, saw the High Falls downtown in the Brown's Race area, where the mills used to be, now a loft neighborhood.  Headed back out on city streets to intercept the trail at Pittsford, a bustling suburb, very active, many people out and about on the canal trail, as expected, between Pittsford and the equally quaint Fairport.  Followed the trail as the people evaporated, and some of  the trail conditions were less maintained.  Appreciated the shady ride though, as the temps were rising.

High Falls of the Genessee River - Rochester

Typical old bridge crossing

Stopped for a banana and chocolate milk recharge in Palmyra (four churches on four corners of Church and Main) where Mormon church started and something of a mecca for that faith.  Arrived in Newark for lunch and a power nap by the park, as the heat and humidity was getting a bit stifling. Concerned because the trail was going to follow the road for awhile, in full sun exposure, so hydrated well. Turned out the road riding on State  Bike Route 5 was quite pleasant as a change of pace, with some gentle climbs, and I seemed to be recharged and not as affected by the heat.  Passed through Lyons, with their Peppermint Festival and witnessed the 'Tractor Dance".  More chocolate milk in tiny Clyde, along with a wetting down. Finally pulled into Weedsport for another room stay at the Best Western (with a dip in the pool) as the campground was quite a way off the route.  Met Greg, a retired music teacher - bicyclist doing an out-and-back century from Brockton (west of Rochester), so we spent a pleasant evening over dinner talking bikes and kids.  Just another day on the trail!

Lyons Peppermint Days Tractor Dance

July 19 - Weedsport to Utica
91 miles, very hot

Old section of Canal

After about mile 75 today, this was feeling like a Hilger Death March - heat and fatigue combined with a bit of a monotonous trail vista.  The day started out pleasant enough, and I made good time through the cool wooded pathway, mostly along the old Erie Canal, basically a long, stagnant flat ditch.  So I changed it up a bit and rode on a parallel roadway, only to find myself suddenly caught up in the bicycle race portion of the Gillie Girl Sprint Triathalon.  Hard not to try to keep up anyway.  But I did change a flat tire - just not mine - helped a gal along the way who couldn't get her tire off the rim.  She seemed desperate to finish her race (and was likely in my age group, though it would be impolitic of me to ask).  Finding the small puncture hole in her sidewall, I lined her tire with a $1 bill to keep the tube from expanding out the tire.  And off she went, a grateful thanks.  Hope she finished.

Remnants of  former commercial glory along the canal

The rest of the day was largely spent on the trail, some well groomed, mostly single-track in the less populated areas.  Makes for a slower go.  Though there was a fair measure of urban riding, especially in downtown Syracuse, where again the architecture of an earlier age caught my shutter, and Clinton Square where the canal had earlier bisected downtown.

Jordan Viaduct, formerly of water over water.

But I am continually fascinated by the thought of my passage along this historic trench - knowing so many preceded me 190 years ago, except with a team of mules (as the preferred draft animal).  Now, much of the original canal is grown in, and a shadow of its former self, though the viaducts, levee walls and other engineered structures are still visible - ghosts of a former time.  And during the heat of the day, I seek ways to soak my shirt as a cooling method, and did so at Lock 21, only to be further drenched shortly thereafter is a welcome downpour.

I continue to take comfort in the credit card camping option, though I almost camped  a lock, but there was no shower, and I was dirty and hot from the trail.  You might even say a bit gassed.  But nothing a great shower, a good recovery meal, and a good nights sleep can't cure.

Going Gassed

July 16, 2015  - Niagara Falls (Ontario)
72 miles

Invariably, there is a day, and hopefully only one or two in a journey, where the body doth protest. Today was such a day, and for no good reason.

Perhaps it was my restless sleep, too excited (also for no good reason) to fall asleep quickly, and wakeful at odd hours, marveling at the stars through my open tent flap. Ruth and I were served breakfast by Lisa, in a basket, and could tell the joy she had in this new adventure catering to cyclists. And even having oatmeal along with her egg, scone, yogurt, cherries and jam, was apparently not enough to fuel the journey.  But what a joy this breakfast was, on a most beautiful morning.

A robed Lisa bringing us her fare, and joy

The wind had died down when Ruth and I took off, and we soon parted ways as she headed north toward Toronto, and I proceeded east to Fort Erie, across the Niagara River from Buffalo, and the true end of Lake Erie.  It was not a hard ride, it was flat and remarkably beautiful in most parts, and aided as well by a milkshake at a wonderful candy and vintage toy store in Port Colburne, where a package of items appropriate for the grandkids at the other end of this journey were strapped on my bike.

Or the long, flat but actually monotonous Friendship rail-to-trail to Fort Erie and the absence of good eating options that might have slowed me down, so PB&J had to do in front of the Niagara Parkway Memorial Arch (a good idea in 1939).  Or even the rather splendid Niagara Parkway that skirts the Canadian side all the way to Niagara Falls, one of whose tress sheltered me for a short power nap.

The Niagara Parkway Memorial Arch

Finally seeing the grandeur of Niagara Falls coming in the distance perked me up a bit, and thereafter a slow procession to the Falls, packed with tourists and a marvelous glinting rainbow.  Deciding I could go no further, I stumbled upon the Rainbow B&B, just a few blocks from all the tourist hubbub, on a quiet street, with a great shower and my own balcony on the second floor on which I hammer away on this post.

Yup, a tourist shot - had to have it.

One can never really know what causes these days, they just happen.  Gotta dial it back, get a good meal, a good nights sleep, hydrate well, and start again tomorrow.  A new day, a new adventure, crossing back into the United States and making my way to the Erie Canal.

Fleeting Encounters

July 15, 2015 - The Bike Stop, Haldimand County overlooking Lake Erie

70 miles

What a difference a day makes!  Though the day broke cloudy, it was rainless, cool and spectacularly beautiful. The roads were still beautiful in such a sublime picturesque way, but the headwinds severe - all day!

On of the many views

This day was different and remarkable for the people encountered along the way.  Consider:

• Jim Hevenor, the proprietor and excellent chef at the Grey Gables B&B where I took refuge, explaining the story of the place, and his trip to Scotland, prompting us to scour a map and note that there was a roman wall farther north than Hadrian's wall..  
• Or Jim's neighbor 3 blocks away, who, when I had stopped and decided, in the unexpected chill of the morning to ride in my sandals, summoned me over to his garden to sit on the bench and put them on.  His wife's garden, as she had recently passed away, tended lovingly by him as we chatted about my trip, gardens and what not.
• Or the young man who sold me blueberries, upon seeing my Canada jersey, asked why I was wearing it when I wasn't from Canada.  "I was born in Canada."  "But how long have you lived in Minnesota?"  "Since 1980."  "That was way before I was born, therefore you are American, not Canadian."  "But by birthright we are both Canadians."  Smile.  Very good blueberries, and a tart!
• Or the seller of burritos along the waterfront in Port Dover, whose signs were strategically placed many miles before Dover. He asked "you the biker?" "Yes, and I saw your signs miles away and had to check it out."  "The Owner is also a biker, and I ride a little, but tennis and soccer . . " and so the conversation goes.  The bikers idea to put the signs out where bikers could see them.   It worked, and the burrito is what the doctor ordered.
  
• Or the many folks along the pier as I ate my burrito, commenting such as "you running away?" including the fat tire biker with a motor assist, with whom I compared notes and checked out rigs.  Or the older gentlemen from Toronto who was also a biker and asked intently after my route and trip.
• Or Mark and Lisa Mitchell, and daughter Meghan.  I had paused on the side road leading to Selkirk Provincial Park and a campsite there, but decided the day was beautiful, the route hugging the lakeshore, that I should continue on, finding about 10 or so miles hence a yellow bike parked into the side of the road with a sign "Bike Stop" - a warm showers, bike B&B type of place that really just got started a week ago,  I decided this was the stopping place for the night, with a tent site right on, though slightly above, the lakeshore where I could be serenaded all night by gently rippling waters.  Gracious, friendly, welcoming and generous hosts, to be sure.
  
• Or finally, Ruth McCormack from Chicago, another bike traveler who "booked ahead" and also rode from Port Burwell this day, with whom many biking stories were shared (of course), and who is making her first long epic circuit around the country, and both invited to an "impromptu" dinner of "a little extra pasta" by Lisa (call it a small mountain) that was a wonderful, warm way to end the day, full of conversation and storytelling.

L2R: Ruth, Mark, Lisa and Meghan over dinner

People often ask "don't you get lonely on these solo trips?"  That couldn't be farther from the truth - it's these encounters that make the trip so interesting.

My Campsite

Pelee to Ports

July 13, 2015
Pelee Island to Rondeau Provincial Park - 66 miles

Woke up early from a deep sleep, well rested and anxious to get going.  Decided it was early enough to at least peddle on the sunrise side of the island back to the ferry terminal on the sunset side, enjoying the morning light and sounds of the Erie shore. Boarded the same ferry for Leamington and over a cup of tea, absorbed the sunshine and scenery - watching the fading Pelee shoreline, and the emerging Ontario "north shore".  Arrived mid-morning and immediately headed east, generally along the shore, though not often visible, along the Talbot Trail. Its legacy dates to the American revolution when Loyalists fled to Canada to begin anew, and John Talbot survey the new road along the north shore of Lake Erie.  This landscape is characterized by an agricultural abundance - an abundance of large old, family farms, many of them century farms with old stately Victorian brick farmhouses immaculately kept, and windmills - many of them, laid apparently helter-skelter across this terrain, catching the continuous lake breezes.

Over the many miles of the day, one eternal truth kept nagging at me: how much time people spend cutting their grass.  It is all perfect grass, right up to the edge of corn rows.  Along the entire stretch people were mowing their grass.  It occurred to me that if everyone had 50% less grass to cut, it would still be beautiful, we would save energy, reduce pollution, and have more free time! Oh well - one has time to ponder these truths mile after mile.

Stopped in the town of Wheatley for a bite of lunch, as I had not had a proper breakfast in my hurry to get away, in a very take-me-back-in-time coffee shop with a lunch counter.  No Starbucks here!  Mushroom soup and a BLT is all that was needed to power the pilot forward.  The road was not heavily traveled, but had no shoulder to escape the higher speeds - but certainly still manageable. Ran into some rain, into a few fruit stands selling strawberries, cherries and raspberries, and into a smoothie in Blenheim, a regional center, before heading off the trail on a back route to Rondeau Provincial Park.  Once arrived at the check-in office, the attendant suggested a series of campsite with good access to the lakeshore, and so off I went in search of one.  And to my ardent surprise, Jordan Richard  (the fellow I met on the ferry the day before, but who went ahead of me to Leamington that night) was doing precisely the same thing in the same spot.

Some things are just meant to happen!

Our camp spot at Rondeau

We shared a campsite, my abundant fruit and fresh asparagus, and both toasted our good fortunes over a beer which he procured from a local brewery and brought along.  And as the sun set, the drone of the mosquitoes was noticeable not only in the distance, but also around our heads.  Simply awful!  So we retired early - a good day behind us.

July 14, 2015
Rondeau Provincial Park to Port Burwell - 75 miles

When the lake was in view, this  was the view!

We were pounded last night with a torrential thunderstorm, making sleep a bit of a restless affair. Rising early during a lull, we scrambled to dismantle our camp and bolt our oatmeal for breakfast (improved with the addition of fresh berries) while desperately warding off the equally hungry mosquitoes.  The advantage of this storm, however, was a persistent tailwind for our days travel.


We covered the first 30+ miles quite easily aided in this way, chasing the storm clouds ahead of us and again being bathed in their wet richness, arriving at the single intersection of Wallacetown, a place marked by a tire store, two houses, and the restaurant/gas station/convenience store/bakery and gossip house rolled into one.  We decided a second breakfast was in order, as this is some of the best ride fare, and took in this center of social life, where everyone seems to know everyone else, where the table of ladies and an adjoining table of their men spoke in their own special daily chatter of a cup of coffee.  This place, this atmosphere, could never be replicated in Starbucks.

Tale Tales Cafe - Wallacetown

We resumed our journey, passing through perhaps the most picturesque landscape of Elgin County, with intermittent views of the Lake, past old and elaborate farmsteads, dropping through small valleys carved by creeks, and actually cresting a few hills!  And no wind turbines!  "Progressive by Nature" is how Elginer's refer to themselves, and they managed to keep the wind turbines out of the landscape, and yet I thought wind turbines were themselves a progressive initiative.

HMCS Ojibwa 

Port Stanley is a small, quaint port village, definitely geared toward tourists (how can one tell?  tiny cute shops that seem quite out of place in such a small town) and pleasure craft.  Jordan and I parted ways here, as he was planning not to get home quite so fast.  I pushed on in order to roughly reach Connecticut on time, reaching my destination of Port Burwell by mid-afternoon.  A bit tired as a tourist spot, this town does have the HMCS Ojibwa, a cold war era diesel/electric submarine on display, in which I received a personal tour.  These boats are not made for tall folks like me.  The young lady docent, a teacher, gave me the tour expertly narrated as if she had served on it herself.  When asked at the end how she has come to know so much intimate knowledge of the workings of the boat, she replied a lot of reading, but also listening to the stories of past sailors showing their families "what it was like."

Sodden Port Burwell harbor beach at dusk

The clouds were again thickening, and a series of rain squalls again pushed through, making my decision to take a room at a local bed and breakfast (as the only guest) rather than a damp, mosquito laden campsite at the Port Burwell Provincial Park just that much easier, enabling me to post my travels in relative peace.