Getting the Pinelands Right

10 February 2008

Johanne and I follow John down to the Pinelands again and meet Chris at the Wawa on Route 72. She's had her bike fixed (and shamed me mercilessly a few weeks ago at Mercer County Park, where she braved a descent I was too chicken to try) and has proven to be a powerhouse, a good sport, and great fun to ride with.

We park near Pakim Pond this time, and I remember leading field trips here when I was a TA in grad school. John says this starting point has an advantage over the one at Mount Misery: heated bathrooms.

Today is still cold, but at least it's above freezing. This helps when, barely five minutes into the ride, through a fire ditch, I fail to navigate a massive puddle. Only John makes it across without going ankle-deep into the black water. Of course, I'm the only one wearing mesh shoes. It's warm enough that I decide my wet feet aren't worth panicking over.

John leads us into another fire ditch, this one newly-cleared. We bounce around in the sand, trying to stay on track and upright. The guys disappear ahead of me, Johanne behind me. I finally lose my balance and plow into the sand. It's a soft, comfortable landing, and I consider remaining there, half-upright on the side of the ditch, until Johanne comes along. But I decide I might look injured like that, so I get up and dust off. By the time we reach the end of the trail, we're out of breath.

Over our heads a cold front is moving in. We can hear it in the trees. But now it's still warm enough for the sand under our tires to be soft. Every turn is an opportunity to skid.

As we round a corner on a sandy road, a woman on a wheeled dog sled pulled by four huskies calls out to us from behind. Her sled is made of blue metal, with two wheels in the back and one in the front. She stands at the back, on a small platform, a roll bar over her head and a bucket with a dog bowl in it at her side. The huskies are paired, each with a purple harness. If I stop to dig my cell phone camera out of my Camelbak, she'll be too far ahead to photograph, so I ride behind her instead, drafting.

John pulls along side the dogs, who look up at him as if to say, "Hey, wanna go?" The woman says, "They want to race you," and laughs. So John pedals faster. The dogs speed up to match his pace. He goes a little faster. The dogs speed up again. John is laughing. The woman is laughing. I'm laughing. The dogs are looking over at John: "Is that all you got?" He speeds up again. I don't know how far we go on like this, but it's enough time for me to ask the woman about the dogs' ages (from one to four) and if she's going to race in the Iditerod (no, but she'll race elsewhere in Alaska). It's only when I hear John and Chris calling out my name that I realize I'm about to miss a turn. The dogs gallop off and we go back into the woods.

We reach Pasadena Road, on our way to the terra cotta factory that was burned down in a worker's dispute a century ago. Now full-grown trees emerge from stone foundations. After pulling out the soggy hand-warmers in my shoes and shoving new ones in, I get my cell phone ready for pictures. Without thinking about how they'll get up there, I point to the remains of a building and instruct everyone to climb on top for a picture. Stiff shoes and all, they do it.

I clamber up after them to take more pictures. The only evidence that anyone ever comes here are the ubiquitous splotches of paintball on the stone walls. We goof off around the ruins for a little while, then get back on the trail towards Five Points.





We find it this time. I used to come by here in grad school, when we were just exploring after being in the field. I never knew for sure how to get here from the gaging station; just drive north on the dirt road for a while. Nobody in the group knew then what the strange cement plaque reading "Pomeroy Crossroads" meant, and none of us do now. [6 March 2008: I found it online.]




We take the road that points south and pass an encampment of wheeled sleds, tethered huskies, and sled drivers. I look for our purple-harnessed friends and see a few among the pack. Across the road is a solar-powered outhouse. At the corner we turn left.

This time I don't scream. This time I get off my bike and pull out my camera. Five years ankle-deep in peat out here and I never took one picture. The gaging station has changed. There are solar panels up a tree to power the place. An aluminum lean-to flanks one side of the concrete station. An antenna pokes out from the top. Gone are the days of USGS visits, I guess. It must be all automatic and remote now.



As I frame a long shot east down Butterworth Road, I say to John, "I'm not screaming."

Johanne says, "She's working through it." I think she's right.



We duck back into the woods to follow the White Trail. The sun slices through gaps in the trees, lighting the trail as we zip over soft pine needles and around curves back towards Pakim Pond.

As we pack our bikes and get out of our gear, clouds are rolling in. It's colder now. We stand in a snow squall.

John has to go home to pack for a business trip to Ohio, but the rest of us drive to the Apanay Cafe, or Apanay Diner, or maybe it's the Apanay Cafe Diner. The sign says both. On our way home we stop at Chris' house to pick up a set of SPD pedals for Johanne. We spend time in his basement playing with his train set and Hot Wheels cars. We learn that Purrsy likes to steal the model trees, but he and Phoebe are chicken-pusses in hiding right now.

Johanne is off to Reno next weekend, and the weekend after that I'll be in New Orleans. Maybe it'll be spring by the time I get back.