How to See a Reservoir

23 May

The third time's a charm, as the saying goes. The air was warm but not hot, a little humid but not too much. The sky was a bit cloudy and there was hardly any wind at all when I set out from Frenchtown with Mike B., Theresa, Phyllis, Chris, and Lenny (a newcomer to the Slugiverse).

We climbed out of the Delaware River valley north of Milford on Javes Road, crossing
the same little stream four times in less than a mile.

On Schoolhouse Road I stopped for a picture even though the sun put everything in shadow.



From the river to the top of Michelin Corner Road it's one long, gradual, 10 mile ascent. I promised a long downhill on the way home to make up for it.

After the Route 78 underpass Chris looked up and asked, "Which of those are we going up?" He was talking about two imposing, forested bumps on the near horizon. I wasn't sure.

We were going into Spruce Run Reservoir first. The last two times we were here Mike paid the $2 per bike entrance fee. I made sure I was first to the toll booth this time and paid for all of us.

The first order of business was to get to the spot Mike swore the last two times had the best view. We finally saw what he'd been raving about.





On the other hand, the picture of this rock that Tom took in the fog is much more interesting than what we saw today:



I posted Tom's picture last year, too, but it bears repeating:



Hmm... I guess the water level was lower back then.

Anyway, more scenery:





I caught Phyllis shoving $2 into my saddle bag. She wouldn't take it back.

We moseyed along on a sidewalk to the reservoir's beach. As I snapped this picture Chris said, "Don't get any people in it, now." I never put people in my pictures. That splash in the middle is from a person diving underwater.



Spruce Run Reservoir has a boat launch and a marina. This is the view from the launch:





Phyllis asked, "How much further til the rest stop?"

I looked at my computer and said, "It's at 25 miles, so about five more miles."

"I ran out of food," she said. I gave her a couple of Shot Bloks, ones that had been aging in my pack for six months and were no longer sticky. She wrapped them in a napkin.

At the intersection of Van Syckels and Route 31 two EMT's were collecting donations. I reached into my saddle bag and pulled out Phyllis' $2. It was a long light, so we all had time to donate.

"Where are you coming from?" the older one asked. We told him. He said he wasn't in shape to ride that far anymore. The light turned green. I gave everyone a warning about what was coming next.

Buffalo Hollow Road, the part that's just off Route 31, is annoying. Just plain annoying. It starts off looking like a warehouse driveway, then turns abruptly into the woods at an unrealistic grade. Just when you think the worst is over it takes a sharp turn to the left and becomes a railroad overpass in the full sunlight. The pain only lasts a few pedal strokes, but still.

It gets pretty very quickly, though, before diving downhill. I took this same picture with my cell phone two years ago. I stopped again this time for a clearer shot:



The road climbs again after this. Last year we went up and turned onto Observatory Road, a steep, wooded climb of 350 feet. The payoff was meager, so I decided to skip it this year; we turned off onto Poplar, a bumpy moonscape for a quarter mile or so. At the other end is Cregar. Looking south we could see where we'd come from and just how high up we were. The view was too industrial, though, so I didn't take a picture. We turned north and climbed some more.

At the end of the road was the Hilltop Deli, our first rest stop.

"We're stopping here?" Phyllis asked.

"Yep."

She looked relieved. "I thought we had another twenty-five miles to go."

"Oh! No, we're stopping at twenty-five miles. "

"Cause these hammerheads I ride with, they go fifty miles without a rest stop."

"I'd never do that." Hill Slugs are all about stopping every twenty-five to thirty miles.

Hilltop's muffins are nearly Stanton-sized. I picked out one that could easily feed the six of us. We sat outside. I drank something that tasted vaguely like coffee and ate half of my Jack bread PB-Nutella & J sandwich. I felt the caffeine right away; it was verging on too much.

We consulted the map. My plan was to change the route from last year. I wanted to see Lake Solitude before the rumored dam removal happened. I always get turned around in High Bridge anyway, so giving it a miss by following the river out of town suited me.

"How bad is Herman Thau?" I asked Mike, who used to come through here a lot during his solo riding days. I plotted a course that would let us see Round Valley Reservoir from the top of the Cokesbury ridge.

We followed a river towards Lake Solitude. I hadn't studied the map, but I bet myself that we were riding along the North Branch of the Raritan River. No matter where I go, it's always the Raritan. (I checked when I got home; it was indeed the North Branch again.)

The narrow river tumbled over rocks and made whitecaps. It poured over a shallow spillway and opened into Lake Solitude. Behind me someone said, "This gets an A plus!"

Mike said, "They don't know what's coming."

"You're scaring me."

"It's no worse than any hill you've ever climbed."

"That's not comforting."

"It's not Federal Twist."

That wasn't comforting either. "You know, last time you mentioned this road you said it was tough."

"I did?" He had some backpedaling to do.

"Turn here," he said.

"But it says 'Wilson,' not 'Herman Thau.''

"This is the turn. Trust me. I used to come here all the time." I couldn't trust him; he's too easily disoriented.

I pulled out my map and Lenny his cell phone for Google Maps. Mike was right.

"See? See?"

"It's a double-humper," he said. We were staring at a pretty impressive incline. Phyllis went first and I followed her up. The road seemed to level off a little and then it started in again. Although the road was straight and in the woods, I couldn't see the top. I tried not to panic. When Phyllis angled out towards the middle of the road I did too. It helped cut the grade down and let us see more of what was ahead. When I finally spotted the top I said, "I'm gonna smack Mike." I figured we were done.

But we weren't. "There's a steep downhill and then the second hump," Mike warned. At the end, as we caught our breaths, I said it was a good thing I'd skipped Observatory.

We'd seen road signs along the way up here, and not one of them said Herman Thau. Befuddled, I made a mental note to check my county maps when I got home. (I did, and the road officially changes names just outside the High Bridge border. Somebody ought to tell that to the road signs.)

We still had some more climbing to do to get to the top of the ridge, but it was gentler. We were going north and east just to go south again for the view. It was worth the work. Below us was Round Valley Reservoir:



We dropped over 400 feet in a mile or so on Cokesbury Road. Somewhere in there Lenny's cycle computer skittered off, but he found it.

We passed through Lebanon. The luncheonette looked closed. I checked the time. It was only 12:30, and this was Saturday. This could be bad. One more near-reservoir rest stop down the tubes? I'd have to call when I got home.

We turned right on Cherry to start up the north side of Round Valley Reservoir. At the top I pulled off to the left and motioned everyone to follow me. Phyllis rode on ahead. I turned around. "Look over there," I said. "That's where we just were."



We turned back around and followed the reservoir. I can never get a good picture from here; that damn fence gets in the way.



But I got a good one of the berm, finally. It's steeper in real life:



Mike or Lenny wondered what the berm looked like from above. "Like crop circles," Mike suggested. Lenny said something clever about a message written in the grass that I've completely forgotten.

Phyllis was waiting for us at the boat launch.

How many pictures have I taken from this spot?



Somebody asked me how many more big climbs were left. "Well, there's a 350-footer, and then there's the Fucking Hill."

"The Fucking Hill?"

"Yeah."



Phyllis finished a conversation with a fisherman and told us what they'd been talking about: There are too many trout stocked here, so the season opened early and people can take a lot of small ones. "There's not enough food," she said. So they're letting the big ones stay and taking the little ones out.

Where the reservoir road turns it goes down to the north and up to the south. "Are we going downhill?" Phyllis asked.

"Nope. Wrong direction. We need to go left."

"Drat."

"We're pretty much fucked from this point anyway. No matter where we go we still have to climb up the next ridge."

So we worked a little to get to the top of the reservoir and then enjoyed our swooping downhill into the (what else?) Raritan River's valley.

We crossed Route 31 at Payne Road. On the other side was a view of the next ridge over, with a peculiar stand of trees. "It looks like a Dr. Seuss drawing," I said, and took a picture. Look in the middle of the far ridge.



I just spent some time looking at my maps, and I'm still not sure where those Dr. Seuss trees are. They could very well have been where we were going next, but I really can't tell and I didn't think to look for them when we got there.

I got a little confused when Kickeniuk took a sharp right turn that I didn't remember having to take last year. I stopped. My map was no help. Phyllis called a local friend, but he wasn't sure where we were. I went straight for a bit. I remembered having to cross a little bridge over the river, but the brige ahead didn't look right. I remembered green; this wasn't green. I doubled back.

"Let's get lost," Mike whined.

"No." Not with six people, one a newcomer, and a huge ridge to get across.

"But you got to go over the bridge and I didn't."

"So go over the fucking bridge." I was feeling a bit shaky and light-headed. I downed the rest of my non-caffeinated Shot Bloks. I still had a pile of caffeinated ones, but they were off limits for the rest of the day.

Lenny saved the day with his Google Maps connection.

Now was as good a time as any to warn everyone about what was coming next. "We're going to go up a 350-foot hill," I said. "Near the top it'll level off and to the right will be a great view of the valley. I'm going to stop for pictures. After that is the Fucking Hill and after that we'll be finished with the big climbs."

I explained the Fucking Hill. I don't remember exactly what I said, but here's the blog entry from last year:

At the top Cheryl says, “I don’t think I can do any more hills.” Not do hills? She must be tired. We wait in the shade. As the guys arrive I tell them that we should be finished climbing.

I’m wrong, of course, because the minute we turn left onto Sidney Road there’s a hill there to mock us. And when we turn right onto West Sidney the road isn’t flat either. It’s not long before we’re facing an asphalt wall. Down go the gears. I’m not even trying now, just spinning quickly enough and slowly enough to keep moving.

Cheryl is a hundred yards or so ahead of me when I hear her. “Fucking HILL!” I smile, but I’m worried. It’s too soon for anyone to come apart. At the top she is leaning over her handlebars. “I can’t do one more hill,” she says. The guys are quiet when they get up to us.

So that's what we'd have coming. At least we knew this time. We took the sharp turn and wound up on the green bridge.

Spring Hill wasn't nearly as taxing this time. The first plateau appeared before I'd even thought the worst had begun. Five of us stopped; Phyllis went ahead. The neat thing about this vista is that it's the only break in the trees on either side of us.





By now, even though we were tired, Mike and I were realizing that it was the heat, not the inclines, that made the past two attempts at this course so miserable. Sidney Road rolls a little. After a small climb Theresa asked, "Is this the Fucking Hill?"

"No, it's later. I remember being in the middle of the road for some reason, with houses all around." We were still in farms.

Then it was in front of us. "Say it with me now: Fucking Hill!" I shouted. But the climb really wasn't that bad. For some reason I was in the middle of the road again.

Now the worst was over. We even got into our big chain rings on our way to Perricone's in Pittstown.

"This is where the cops were hanging out last time," Mike said. There was a police car in the lot today. The door to the bathroom had an "out of order" sign but the owner let us use it; it worked fine.

We could have eaten outside at one of the picnic tables on the deck, but instead we plopped down at a long table in the cool indoors. Chris bought a bag of chips. When questioned, he said, "Salt."

Phyllis was amused by a bottle of coffee soda. She held it out. "If I buy this will one of you try it?"

I said, "I will," so she did and took a sip.

"Phah!" she grimaced and held the bottle away from herself.

I gave it a try. Same grimace. "It tastes like an ashtray."

"What?" Lenny said, and reached for the bottle.

"You know, alkaloids. Nicotene, caffeine." There. I got to use some of my grad school learnin'. It happens once every few years.

Lenny read the ingredients: espresso, sugar, and carbonated water.

"It's just wrong," I said. He didn't think it was that bad.

If any of you out there want to give it a try, it's called "Manhattan Special." They have a website.

Not that my choice of drink was much better. I'd wound up with a Diet Coke -- more caffeine -- because it was the only cold sugar-free option apart from bottled water, which I refuse to drink on environmental principles (yeah, I wrote that Eco-Tip).

After I finished the other half of my sandwich I checked the map again. "We're going to have to climb a bit more before the three-mile downhill." I showed Lenny where we'd been. "This is the Fucking Hill," I said. Mike shushed me; a little kid was sitting at a table by the window. I kept forgetting, though, and he kept shushing me.

Route 579 rolls out of Pittstown towards Bloomsbury. My legs felt like rubber. Even on what looked like level ground I was only going 11 mph; the level ground was on an incline, and it seemed to last forever. I remembered this part from last year. I was pretty wrecked then; I was just getting tired now. The road seemed to go on forever. At each curve, at each crest, I thought, "We must be getting to the end of it." But we hadn't even crossed Michelin Corner yet.

Finally I saw Rick Road. We went downhill about three miles without pedaling. There was a little rise on Stamets but for the most part we coasted down that one, too. We could smell the barn. What rollers there were seemed tiny and we powered up them.

The last hill we got to cut short because our turn was right in the middle of it. In a few minutes we were back by the Delaware River, following it south.

"Is this Route 12?" Mike asked. This is why I don't trust his sense of direction.

Theresa pulled us home. We got to the parking lot with just under 62 miles. I couldn't resist going around the block to make the metric official.