“I think we’re lost.”
Darkness draped Mount Sutton like a blanket, the deep woods
dark and quiet; nary a sound nor a whispering breeze. The creek beds rocky, dry from drought. The owls silent, likely spying us unseen with
their steely gaze. Indeed, we enjoyed a
quick, steep climb up to Lac Mohawk to catch the waning light of day, but spent
a mere 15 minutes taking in the serene beauty of the place, aware that our
descent back to camp was likely to take longer, absent the lack of daylight to
guide us back. And yet here we were, a
wrong turn somewhere uphill, pondering. The darkness was intense, her face dimly lit by the glow from our cellphones, our headlamp light absorbed by the deep darkness.
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| Dusk settles the woods |
It is a remarkable feeling to be lost in the dark woods at
night, uncertain of the way forward except downhill, and confused by multiple intersecting trails that beckon us to traverse them.
But which way was right? So was
our dilemma. Getting lost was not expected
on my bicycle trip. Was there joy in
this situation? Well, you need to know
more.
My friends would admit that I am an itinerant planner, always
starting several months ahead of departure, examining maps, options, and
routes. On this trip, I was expecting to
meet up with Mariya Moneva in Niagara Falls and ride through upper New York
state, crossing through northern Vermont before entering the eastern townships
of Quebec, taking the long way around to Montreal, Ottawa, and then Toronto. Mariya and I met on my TransCanada journey in
2022 (see Old Friends, New
Friends), and finally found the opportunity to reconnect for another
adventure. My 1100-mile plan laid out with reasonably clear expectations of the days, distance, and accommodations all the way across New York and through Vermont to the Richford border crossing into Quebec. Thereafter, the plan was a work
in progress, a blank slate about where we should travel in the eastern
townships. That was for Mariya to guide.
I departed St. Paul, MN, on Amtrak the morning of August 7, 2025, bound for Chicago, with a layover before connecting on an overnight sleeper, a “roomette,” from Chicago to Buffalo, NY.
The roomette, essentially a micro-cabin, was an interesting study in efficient design, although it was a bit worn from long use. It features a bunk bed
arrangement that converts to two seats, then the narrowest of space to stand. It included a cleverly hidden toilet, a small
sink, and a small pull-out table. I
entered with the bed turned down, the upper bunk raised all the way up, and was
offered a drink from the bar nearby. Pricey,
yet comfortable, sleep came easily and comfortably.
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| The Amtrak Roomette - with wine and a view |
Arrived in Buffalo shortly after 9:00 AM. It is always an exciting, though anxious, moment, hastily gathering my panniers and retrieving the bike from the baggage
car. In a matter of several rushed moments, this massive metal tube rolled noisily
out of the small Depew station, with quiet and a sense of emptiness settling on
the lonely platform. I reassembled my gear on the bike and began my journey, pedaling downtown to connect with the Niagara River, riding through an urban landscape that was tired, worn out, even outdated, with no hint of refresh but rather a striking display of abandonment.
Niagara Falls is about 30 miles from Buffalo, but the plan
had changed only days prior when Mariya mentioned she would meet me at the
Westport, NY Amtrak station on the other side of New York, due to personal
matters. An easy adjustment, as Westport
was on my itinerary, I now just needed to get there in one week. So, I turned my bike instead toward Tonawanda, where the Erie Canal empties into the Niagara River, and then toward Lockport, a town I had fondly visited years earlier on another bicycle trip.
Lockport was planned so I could revisit the system of “step-locks”
created in 1825 to bridge the divide and enable long-boat vessels to reach the
Great Lakes. For some reason, these
locks fascinate me with their sheer ingenuity and the complications of their
construction. Over the next two days, I would ride the towpath along the Erie Canal, taking in the history and imagining the times gone by when the 363 miles of canal were the vibrant mode of intrastate transportation, connecting the Great Lakes to the Hudson River.
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| The four-step locks in Lockport, circa 1825 |
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| Typical Erie Canal scene near Brockport |
I won’t bore you with the daily details of the next six days; instead, I'll summarize. After two days
riding the Erie Canal, I veered northeasterly to the shores of Lake Ontario at
Sodus Point, then proceeded easterly across New York state forest lands and
the Adirondack Mountains. Nothing about
this travel was unusual or unplanned, except it was quite hot, and I had the
unfortunate surprise of finding my planned Selkirk Shores state park campground
closed down for reconstruction after a long, hot and hilly 65 miles. This happens, so while not entirely
unexpected, it does cause one to consider options. In my case, this was easy. There was a small motel one mile away that
had abundant vacancies and was perhaps the cheapest rate I might ever find again, at $67. It was clean, pleasant, and
came with another motorcycle traveler a few doors down, with whom stories were traded.
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| His bike was a bit faster than mine! |
But there was one unexpected event. I made a wrong turn. This is quite rare for
me. I camped for the night at Lake Durant State Park and enjoyed the company of two fellow bicyclists from Burlington, Vermont, with whom I shared an evening meal. The next morning, I assumed I had to continue
on the route I had come in on, turned right into the early morning sun, and started to climb a steep hill immediately. A
roller coaster of steep hills, both up and down, followed for about 9 miles,
with a convenience store stop for chocolate milk in Indian Lake. As I was sitting there, I realized I had gone east instead of north to Lake Placid, which was part of my plan. The campground had been off route and required a backtrack of a mile or so to follow the northerly route to Lake Placid. And at this moment, after what I had just
ridden, there was no way I would go back.
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| At Lake Durant State Park, dinner with new friends... |
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| followed by the most amazing sunset! |
I readjusted and set my sights on Ticonderoga on the shores
of lower Lake Champlain, expecting a long, gradual descent to the lake. That did not happen; after 71 miles of hilly
riding across the mountains, I could finally enjoy a long, speedy descent into
the hot Ticonderoga valley, and a stay in a quaint family motel.
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| The descent into the Ticonderoga Valley. YES!!!! |
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| One of the amazing murals of Ticonderoga. |
That was almost the same distance and terrain
I would have faced had I gone to Lake Placid.
But what Ticonderoga has that Lake Placid does not is what surprised me
most. Set in an old grocery storefront in
the rather quaint downtown is a Star Trek museum (huh?) featuring the original series set, with an event happening
that weekend. As I wandered around town, I noted several marvelous building wall murals. No need to beam me up, Scotty; I had a great pizza and a salad.
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Mural depicting historic transport of canon above
Fort Ticonderoga |
Friday morning, August 15th. This was the day planned to meet Mariya about
30 miles north in Westport. I took a leisurely
morning to depart and had a scenic ride on the New York Bicycle Route 9. The road should really not be listed as such, as there was next to no shoulder and a decent amount of traffic – a bit of white-knuckle riding as the milk tanker trucks rumbled by. Reached Westport with about two hours wait
for the train, entertained by watching the local county fair across the train
station and its tractor pull competition.
I confess, I really don’t understand that type of event (or shall I say "Oh Deere! "). The train rumbled in around 4:00. A front wheel, then a rear wheel, popped out of the door, followed by Mariya, marking our 3-year reunion as complete.
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| Inbound Amtrak from Montreal. . . |
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| And out she popped! Meet Mariya Moneva - again! |
I had arranged for a WarmShowers host stay that evening in
Essex, an 11-mile jaunt climbing a steep hill and descending to a pathway along
the lakeshore. Essex is a small town
with a ferry crossing. We stopped to
sort out where the WarmShowers host’s farm was, as the app indicated it was in
or close to town. We asked in the local tavern
where the host was, and they showed it was some 11 miles out of town – the wrong
direction! Its location was mismarked on the app. Over a spot of ice cream, we reconsidered our options, much like our first day three years earlier, when, after a 10-mile detour, we had to navigate a different path to our campground. It was
still light, so we ate a snack dinner on the ferry dock and chose to make the 6:00pm
evening crossing to Vermont. We rode another 10 or so miles on perfectly scenic
country roads to Shelburne, where we camped for the night. A familiar reunion with an unexpected outcome.
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| On the road to Essex |
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| Crossing Lake Champlain in late afternoon |
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| A buccolic rural evening ride to Shelburne |
I was looking forward to the next day, a Saturday, riding north
through Burlington (with a pleasant lunch and a stop for groceries), and connecting with the Island Line Trail, a long-converted rail-trail featuring a single-track causeway across Malletts Bay to South Hero Island.
Flat, with the expanse of the lake on either side and the distant mountains
as a backdrop, it was a stunning piece of engineering that, likely due to environmental reasons, could not be repeated today, but certainly pleases the
cyclist. With a break in the causeway at
the north end, a bicycle ferry manned by volunteers connects riders on the trail
with South Hero Island, a few hundred yards away.
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| The magnificent Island Line Trail |
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| And the ferry to South Hero Island |
We rode north along quiet country roads, looking to camp at Grand Isle State Park, though we had an offer from a farmer to stay at his place nearby. That ride was interrupted by a farm stand serving only one flavor of soft-serve ice cream – maple. Don’t ask for anything else. And if you want, they will top it with maple sugar sprinkles. That, my dear readers, is what powers a touring cyclist!
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| Ahh yes. Maple soft serve ice cream with sprinkles! |
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Mariya was our Camp Fire master,
Grand Isle State Park |
After studying the map the next morning, Sunday, we decided
upon an alternate, recommended route toward Richford, the border crossing, and
a campground not too far from there. We back-tracked
to the South Hero bridge crossing and headed on backcountry roads (more hills)
toward Milton, trying to avoid the main Highway 7. Those backroads took us along the east shore
of Arrowhead Mountain Lake, with a growing grey cloud bank building up. We planned to cross the Lamoille River, only
to find it blocked off for reconstruction.
This meant the potential for a long backtrack to Milton and further
riding on the busy highway. Though
barricaded on both ends, with heavy equipment parked on the bridge and this
being a Sunday, Mariya suggested we try to cross. Reluctantly, I walked across the bridge to
assess its condition, and it was passable.
We hefted our loaded bikes over the barricade on both ends and then
gratefully moved on, eventually reconnecting with Hwy 7. During a quick stop at a convenience store, it
started to rain. We rode on, putting on our rain gear, and were soon pelted with a cold, wind-driven downpour, the first
of the trip. Not pleasant.
It lasted for over an hour, drenching us, when we finally
rolled into St. Albans City mid-afternoon to find a coffee shop to warm up a bit and have some
lunch – an outstanding quiche. As it was
so late, with the detours and the miles ahead to a campground that was likely
sodden, we pressed the easy button – we would stay in a motel to dry off. We rode first to one motel that appeared to be
a flop house, then rode to the next one that had no vacancy, and then rode to
the Hampton Inn that could accommodate us.
It was a relief, though the storm soon passed and the sun returned. We decided to walk around this quaint historic
town, checking the neighborhoods and parks as the sun descended. An unexpectedly great end to a shortened day
of only 35 miles.
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| One of the many historic At. Albans structures. |
With still no firm plan for what could happen north of the
border, we headed out the next morning after oiling our chains and attempted
to follow a rail trail all the way through Sheldon Junction, Enosburg, and then
Richford. The trail was being reconstructed in parts and was mostly closed during this stretch, but it did offer some fine views. The main road, Hwy 105,
was a pleasant alternate and not heavily travelled. We stopped in a small Richford city park
overlooking the Missisquoi River that had carved this bucolic valley. I had been on this route on an earlier trip to
Canada, and it looked familiar.
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| Crossing the Missisquoi River |
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A familiar sight, but with adjacent
low-traffic road options |
We were soon on the road to the border crossing, with
absolutely no traffic heading in either direction on this, perhaps, 2-mile
stretch of road. The crossing is very
small, and no vehicles were present when we approached. Somewhat magically, as we could see no one in the building, the light turned green and the gate arm rose as if to welcome us. We rolled up to the window, greeted
by a young woman with a somewhat serious countenance. “Passports, please.”
Now, I can see how this situation might appear to the border
agent. Two touring cyclists, one an older gray-haired American, and the other a young-looking, middle-aged Canadian woman speaking French with a Bulgarian accent. Was this somehow nefarious? Human
trafficking?
“So how do you two know each other?”
There followed the explanation of being old friends that met
three years earlier at almost the exact day, on a reunion tour, a three-year
anniversary of our meeting, as I had crossed Canada three years earlier and we
met in Quebec City . . .
“I can see that” as she evidently saw from my
passport records.
After a bit more study and some discussion between Mariya and the agent in French that I could not understand, she handed us back our passports and said, “Happy anniversary!”
Continuing on the traffic-less Route 139, we decided to take
in some lunch in Sutton as it was (again) around 2:00, stopping at a bagel shop
in the center of this charming small town.
Over a great sandwich on the sidewalk, Mariya suggested we camp at Huutopia rather than
riding on, and take an evening hike, since it was close to 3:00 by the time we finished. Recall that she was in the lead on this, and she mentioned that Sutton is the center of gravity in this area in terms of activities all year round – biking, skiing, hiking, and canoeing. She called ahead, and the campground had space
available, located two miles up the road.
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| Our campsite at Huutopia |
It was, quite literally, “up the road.” A two-mile steep climb out of town to the visitor’s
center, the last bit was gravel that had to be walked. Huutopia is a chain of unusual campgrounds in that the spaces are all walk-in, no vehicles or RVs are parked at the sites, and they are reasonably far apart. They also have semi-permanent
tents set up for families more interested in glamping. We
finally located our spot in the woods and set up our camp. By 6:00 PM or so, we were ready to go for a
hike up to Lac Mohawk, water and headlamp in hand, with a pathway not too far from
our site directly into the forest reserve.
More uphill climbing, and parts of this hike were very steep and a bit
rocky. The entire mountain is a network of trails – including hiking, cross-country skiing, and gravel biking – with different types of “blazes” posted on trees, intermittently marking the way, along with a few
signposts. I had the presence of mind to
download the AllTrails app., which I had never used before, just to make sure
we were headed in the right direction.
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| Cresting at Lac Mohawk |
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| Darkening woods reflecting in the water |
We finally crested at the lake around 7:45 pm, taking in the
quiet, serene beauty in a particularly lovely evening light. Now you already know what happened next.
We were lost as darkness settled over Sutton Mountain. Though there was palpable fear that we could
spend a very cool night in the woods with limited water, we relied upon the
AllTrails app to help us navigate a way out of the forest back to our campsite,
taking a "short-cut" trail that traversed a dry, rocky creek bed and more or less followed
the creek downhill. Wayfinding was
enhanced by the occasional blaze that had a small reflective sticker attached,
so a single white spot in the dark woods would appear in the distance, almost
like the eye of an animal, marking a trail (but which one?). Thankfully, my battery held out, and after a few wrong turns, backtracks, and retraced steps, we were on familiar terrain and back at camp by 10:00 pm with no sprained ankles. While we had planned for a nice barbecue dinner that evening, we resorted to a snack dinner of sausage, cream cheese, and crackers before turning in, relieved.
So, I have answered your curiosity, but I have not ended the story.
We decided to remain in Sutton one more night and use our rest day (my first in eleven days) off the bikes, instead hiking up to the top of Mount Sutton
to take in the view of the Missisquoi River valley, the United States, and even
Lake Champlain far beyond.
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| Climbing to the top overlook |
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| Panoramic view looking south to the valley and USA. |
That was August 19th. We officially celebrated
our 3-year anniversary at Restaurant
a la fontaine in Sutton, having walked not only the mountain, but also
hiked back to Sutton thereafter. Uber
took us back to camp, thankfully!
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| Our 3-year anniversary celebration! |
Mariya was pressed for personal matters in Montreal, and I was unable to visit my cousin at his farm this week. Some of the sites I had set on my planned agenda, such as the crater of Mont Mégantic, would have to wait for a future trip. Instead, we rode 79 miles back to Montreal, where I stayed with Mariya and her flatmate, Remi, for three days.
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| The ride to Montreal could get ultra-rural! |
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| With "bluets" abundant, Mariya's favorite |
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| A tunnel of trees |
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| And the Montreal skyline from across the river. |
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| Mariya's second-floor apartment |
I chose not to do the tourist haunts, as I had already been to Montreal
several times, but rather to enjoy and get a sense of the neighborhoods and the
places that make them thrive. It was
perfect.
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| Visiting a year-round farmers' market |
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| A picnic in the park with Mariya's Bulgarian friends. |
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The famous steps to the upper-level apartments that
are ubiquitous in the neighborhoods |
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| And, of course, sampling the best soft-serve ice cream! |
I finally headed toward Ottawa on Sunday morning, August 24, with
Mariya escorting me out of town on track to Montebello, in what turned out to
be a very long day – 88 miles! I had
shipped one of my panniers and my tent home to travel a bit lighter. The roads were quite scenic, but I was a bit glum as our reunion tour was not as long as we both had hoped, and we parted ways.
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| Our last day together, leading me out of the city. |
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| A wetland with early signs of autumn. |
Within a few miles of Montebello, there
appeared that typically ominous orange sign ahead – Road Closed! At this point, the only possible detour
options are the interstate-level road 50, which is not allowed for cyclists, or a backtrack to a ferry crossing and a long detour on the Ontario side of the river to eventually reconnect. This was
unexpected, so I decided to ride up the bluff toward Interstate 50 to see
if anyone local could help. Sure enough,
a man was sitting on his porch, so I called out, “Parles-tu anglais?” He did not, but went to get his wife, who did
speak some English. Between them, they
suggested it was passable. The bridge
ahead was not out, but two massive culverts were dug across the road, blocking
access. They suggested I try riding to
the construction site, and if I couldn't carry my bike across it, I
could walk on the railroad tracks right alongside the roadway until I cleared the
construction, and then continue on. I was
empowered by their suggestions, happy not to backtrack, and crossed the
barriers. Sure enough, it was easily
passible, my worry averted, and a traffic-free finish to my day followed,
ending at Auberge Montebello, an old boys' school converted to a hotel.
My last riding day to
Ottawa followed. I was now determined to
end the trip there, as I had already seen what I wanted to see and had the
adventure I hoped for. I had previously
traversed much of the country around Toronto and felt no need to do anything other than connect with a direct flight to Minneapolis.
Taking a ferry across the Ottawa River and following a rail trail and
other bikeways into Ottawa, I completed the journey with a 68-mile jaunt,
staying for two nights in the Marriott hotel.
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| Short ferry across the Ottawa River to Ontario |
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| Midwestern farm scene |
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| And here. |
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| The rail trail providing shade. |
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Arriving at Parliament. Trip over.
August 25, 2025 |
There were more surprises in store. Ottawa is an interesting town, the capital of
Canada, with the Parliament Building dominating a cliff overlooking the river. Many say it is boring, all government. I was intrigued to see the Art Museum and all
the old architecture. But interestingly, just as I had started my trip in Lockport, NY, examining the stepped locks with interest, so too had I come upon the Rideau Canal locks, which employ the same concept of stepping the locks higher to the level of the Rideau Canal from the Ottawa River. And as the Erie Canal sought to open New York to a wider network of farms and industries, so too did the Rideau Canal network tap the interior region of Ontario in a vast web of canals and dams. Comparing the purpose, age, and technology with the Erie Canal seemed a fitting end to my journey. I spent the evening over pizza
and a beer with Devee Nath, another trans-Canada rider I had met 3 years earlier.
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| Sculpture and the Museum of Art |
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The edge of Parliament overlooking
the Ottawa River
|
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| The seven-step Rideau locks, circa 1832 |
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| The original equipment still workable. |
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| Street step-art |
So, what is the joy of unmet expectations? I discovered something about myself on this
journey, thanks to Mariya. As a careful
planner, I was not accustomed to having a floating, indeterminate schedule; I preferred a mapped-out route and an intensively planned trip. I learned that a journey of 30-some miles that stops short of the plan, but opens up new opportunities, is fully worth it. I never planned to hike as we
did. I never planned to understand the
Montreal experience more thoroughly. I
never planned to take a wrong turn and not fret about it.
And I never planned to get lost in the dark woods. There was joy in these unmet expectations!
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Throwback to year 2022 - Mariya and me in St. Johns,
Newfoundland at the end of that journey. Still smiling! |
