The Joy of Unmet Expectations

“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.

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. 

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.

The four-step locks in Lockport, circa 1825

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.

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. 

At Lake Durant State Park, dinner with new friends...

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.  

The descent into the Ticonderoga Valley.  YES!!!!

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. 

Mural depicting historic transport of canon above
Fort Ticonderoga

Friday morning, August 15^th.  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.

Inbound Amtrak from Montreal. . .

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.

On the road to Essex

Crossing Lake Champlain in late afternoon

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.

The magnificent Island Line Trail

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!

Ahh yes.  Maple soft serve ice cream with sprinkles!

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.

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. 

Crossing the Missisquoi River

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. 

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.

Cresting at Lac Mohawk

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. 

Climbing to the top overlook

Panoramic view looking south to the valley and USA.

That was August 19^th. 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!

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. 

The ride to Montreal could get ultra-rural!

With "bluets" abundant, Mariya's favorite

A tunnel of trees

And the Montreal skyline from across the river.

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.

Visiting a year-round farmers' market

A picnic in the park with Mariya's Bulgarian friends.

The famous steps to the upper-level apartments that
are ubiquitous in the neighborhoods

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.  

Our last day together, leading me out of the city.

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.

Short ferry across the Ottawa River to Ontario

Midwestern farm scene

And here.

The rail trail providing shade.

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.

Sculpture and the Museum of Art

The edge of Parliament overlooking
the Ottawa River

The seven-step Rideau locks, circa 1832

The original equipment still workable.

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!

Throwback to year 2022 - Mariya and me in St. Johns,
Newfoundland at the end of that journey.  Still smiling!