Hill Slug Chronicles: Vermont Part 2: Ferry Ride

9/20/12: FERRY RIDE

I wake up minutes before my alarm to see a great blue heron on the lake. I’m up and dressed in my bike clothes before Cheryl comes padding in, still wearing pajamas. “I’ll make the coffee soon,” I assure her. The others trickle in.

Lynne and I fuss with a carton of water, and I set a pot to boil. I grab my camera. I open the screen door carefully and walk down to the water’s edge, my camera on and focused on the heron. It startles and flies to the neighbor’s dock. There it poses for me.

we have a moth on our screen door

Coffee poured, the house wakes up. I fire up the laptop, eager to write the blog posts so that all I’ll have to do when I get home is add pictures.

“Laura, your fisherman is back,” Larry says. I go out for more pictures.

Soon Larry and Cheryl are outside with their cameras. I stay in, typing. When they come back, Tom is briefing us on the rides we might do tomorrow and Saturday. “For Saturday we can do a hilly ride, or I’ve got one that’s flat and 73 miles.”

73 miles? I turn towards him. “Now you’re talking.”

Today’s plan is to ride south to Burlington, take a ferry for 10 miles across the lake to Port Kent, NY, and then ride back to the Plattsburgh ferry. In the afternoon we’ll drive back to Burlington to walk around the city.

To avoid the cow pies and gravel we drive the mile down Wally’s Point Road. Across the street is the South Hero township administration building. Larry goes in to ask for parking permission. He comes out with an administrator in tow. He encourages us and gives Tom some suggestions.

I look towards the road. A lone cyclist passes with a cadence that suggests strong headwinds. Larry goes across the street to check the hours of the pizza parlor. His jacket billows.

We stick to Route 2. It reminds me of Route 72 through the Pinelands, down by the Pygmy Plains. We climb low, slow grades, descending into stiff crosswinds. We could be in New Jersey, roadside corn stalks replaced by marsh grass, roadkill possums replaced by toads, beach bums replaced by logging trucks. Here there are mountains in the distance.

We cross a causeway from South Hero to mainland Vermont.

Tom is aiming for the Champlain Bikeway. We’re on a broad, paved path now, much smoother than any I’ve been on at home. We’re not going as fast as we would on the road, but that doesn’t matter. Today we are sightseeing by bike.

The trail takes us into residential neighborhoods. On these roads we could be in Anywhere, USA. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of the lake.

We enter a wooded stretch bounded by railings. Bike traffic picks up.

Tom says he can tell we’re getting closer to Burlington. “The path is getting crummier.”

We arrive half an hour early for the ferry. Biding our time at a dockside café, we watch the water and get battered by the wind. The ferry arrives, offloading a stream of antique cars.

We have time before the ferry pushes off. One of the ferry staff suggests hanging our bikes over the edge by one handlebar to secure them. We say no way.

we will learn in a few minutes that these are the exhaust vents

Cheryl and I wander downstairs to the gift shop. The moose I come upstairs with is perfect.

Tom says Burlington looks better from a distance.

We have a long, windy, choppy ride.

legs of Cheryl, Larry, Tom, and Lynne

More antique cars await us in Port Kent.

Tom leads us up a hill over the ferry dock. We’re riding next to train tracks. I think I’ve been here before, four times, as an Amtrak passenger between New York City and Montreal.

Cheryl drops her chain. I take pictures of Wickham Swamp.

Then we have a hill. A real hill. (It still counts even though I don’t fall down.) I let everyone get ahead so I can take a picture of the tracks along the shore.

We’re following the tracks into Plattsburgh as we ride along the bike trail.

I hear the train’s whistle from behind. I want it to come over the bridge as we’re standing there, but it doesn’t. We pass the Plattsburgh train station. We’re in the middle of the city when I hear the whistle again, closer this time. Tom turns right but I wait at the corner, looking two blocks left. Gates have come down over the railroad crossing. I hear the whistle. First the engine, then a sleeper car, then a line of silver cars too far away for me to see the telltale Amtrak stripes. I turn away, sprinting to catch up to the group. It’s 2:50.

Tom turns us off the main road, but Cheryl is shouting. “Stewarts!” She insists on stopping for ice cream, so we do. I tease her mercilessly, for which I am rewarded with an angry response. I apologize over and over again as she relishes her chocolate peanut butter cone. While we’re waiting I check Amtrak’s schedule. The Montreal train was scheduled to arrive in Plattsburgh at 2:15. Maybe it wasn’t Amtrak after all. No, wait. Half an hour late is on time for a long-haul Amtrak train. That was the one. The others don’t seem to be interested in my strange obsession; they’ve never taken the train to Montreal in mid-October when the leaves are changing.

Now the wind is picking up. Between here and home the best we can hope for is a crosswind. The pace to the ferry is plodding, the headwind keeping us to 11 miles per hour. It’s a relief to get to the dock. We walk to the front of the ferry, but the steward steers us to the back. “You’ll get soaked up here,” he says. In the middle of the short trip, the boat sways so much that we have to hold onto our bikes to keep ourselves upright. Cheryl grabs the truck next to us for stability.

When we leave the ferry, the front half looks as if it had been in a rain storm.

I stop for pictures of a beaten barn. Dogs bark at me from out of sight.

When Wally’s Point Road finally comes into view, I turn onto it as the others head to the cars. I want to get pictures of the ivy-covered barn on the way to the house.

Somehow there’s enough hot water for all five of us to shower.

Cheryl makes coffee for herself and Larry. It’s far too late to drive into Burlington, so we eat in with take-out from the pizza parlor at the end of the road.

After dinner Cheryl makes more coffee for herself and Larry. At 10 p.m. Tom shows me how to take pictures of the stars.