Connecting the Lines

17 November 2013

At first I didn't want to do it.  I didn't want to drive an hour each way for a ride, especially for such a short one.  But I'd passed by the Columbia Trail on Vernoy Road out of Califon many times.  I'd always turned my head, looked down the trail, wondered.  So, with Cheryl as the ringleader, I dutifully posted the details here, then dusted off ol' Grover for the second time this year.

As map geeky as I am, I didn't look for an online map.  I didn't go to ridewithgps to figure it out for myself.  All I did was read on a Hunterdon County site that it was a section of old rail line from High Bridge to Califon.  There was no indication of it on the 90s vintage Hunterdon County map on my wall.

Chris, whom I hadn't seen in a while, decided at almost the last minute to go on the ride, and offered to drive, too.  Jim had been wavering; I cajoled him into joining us. Ron was raring to go; he and Cheryl drove up together.

We met our real leader, Tommy from Up North, in the ShopRite Wines and Spirits parking lot on Route 206 in Chester.  He'd figured it'd be easier for us to find this than the trail head.  Plus, there was a Dunkin' Donuts in the strip.  It's always good to have a bathroom handy at the start of a ride.

"Okay, so where are we going?"  I asked.  I had my phone's map ready.  Tommy tried to explain, but he couldn't remember the road names.  "Just follow me," he said. Jim looked worried.  "I can get myself lost in a parking lot," he said.  "I'll go behind you," Chris told him.

We piled back into our cars and followed Tommy farther north, then west a little, then south a bit, then turned into a gravel lot across from an air conditioning warehouse where Tommy had received permission to park.

The trail head, a few hundred yards away, was already full of cars.  One more rider met us there.  As we pushed off, an official for a charity run that was, apparently just ending (Run for God?  No, thanks.) called out to us, "You want a workout, come run with us!"  I shouted back, "Ride with us in the Hunterdon hills!"

We were following the South Branch of the Raritan River (of course), crossing many tributaries along the way.  Many times I called out, "Picture," and Jim would stop too. Sometimes people waited. Sometimes we had to sprint to catch up.

Most of the time we were in the woods.  Once in a while, though, things opened up. I looked at the hills on both sides of us and knew that if I hadn't hauled the Slugs somewhere up there, Tom surely had.

This was the valley we'd been seeing.  This was the bottom of every hill.  This was every Raritan River crossing on every hilly ride north of the Hunterdon reservoirs.

Even from within the woods we'd get a glimpse of the wall of hills around us.

We passed a car graveyard, the corpses too far gone for any salvage.  "If Larry were here I bet he could name every make and model year here," I said.  Larry, if you're reading this, have at it.

I don't even know what this is, but I know I like it, whatever it is.  A tow truck?

We crossed Route 523.  Someone said we'd crossed from Morris to Hunterdon County.  A tree farm at the base of another hill wall gave way to woods, and then we were following a road that I recognized.  "We're about to hit Califon," I told Tommy.  We were at Vernoy Road.

We stopped to cross Main Street. "Jim, Ron, look to your left. Look familiar?" They groaned, the pain of the ascent from two weeks ago flooding back.  We crossed Academy.  "This is how we came in last time," I said.  They remembered the descent.

The woods swallowed us again.  Next up would be Hoffman's Crossing.  There was a road high to our left.  It didn't look quite right, but what else could it have been.

I didn't ponder it for long because we all became distracted by the gnome homes. Gnome homes are, apparently, a thing.  Google it.  The Columbia Trail neighborhood gets its own mention.

Jim casts a shadow on a gnome-sized birdhouse.

Did somebody leave candy for this gnome?

And these weren't the only ones.  They were all over, on both sides, from Califon until we reached Hoffman's Crossing.  In all the times I'd come barreling down that road, I'd never seen the trail.  No wonder, really.  It's a hairy descent; once we did it with patches of ice on the ground.  We were crossing the road about halfway down the steepest part.

Then there was the Ken Lockwood Gorge.  We were high above the river now, above a road and a drop-off so steep that Jim and I spent several minutes trying to capture the angle.  You'll have to use your imagination, I guess.

The forest got thicker, the gorge deeper, and then we were on a bridge so high that it was enclosed by a fence to keep jumpers from jumping.

Beneath us, far, far, beneath us, was a fly fisherman.  I don't think he looked up at us once, and we were there for more than a few minutes.

I was ecstatic.  This was like mountain biking through the woods, but without all the falling.

Beyond the gorge, the river widened.  We were approaching High Bridge.

We passed over Cokesbury Road.  If you've been on a Double Reservoir Ride with me, you've been there.  Ditto Fairview Avenue; we crossed it down the hill from the Hilltop Deli.

We stopped at the parking lot at the end of the trail to use a rickety-floored port-a-potty, take pictures, and plan.  "Can I invoke my ride leader privilege and suggest that we take a detour to the Califon General Store?"  Nobody needed convincing.

Here's Grover in High Bridge, enjoying his longest day out since my L5/S1 disc went out:

This is the first I've seen of Animal since then, too:

My Running Funky tights were a hit.

The path had been slightly downhill from the gorge to High Bridge.  I hadn't noticed until we turned around. The group got spread out.  We gathered again at the far end of the gorge bridge.

Outside of Califon I stopped for this.  Like, um, whatever?

A half mile on the asphalt, up a small hill, and we were at the general store.  My other bikes have had their pictures taken here; it was Grover's turn.

Two words:  chocolate muffin.

The final ten miles passed in a flash, although those who weren't clipped in were starting to feel it.

Cheryl and the North Jersey group had planned on lunch at the Long Valley Pub and Brewery.  It was already coming up on 2 p.m.  With over an hour's drive home, Chris and I decided to make a day of it and join the crowd.

There was a bison burger on the menu.  Nobody went for it.

Three words:  sweet potato fries.

Chris and I were behind Cheryl and Ron as we drove south on 517.  I kept an eye on the intersections, passing roads we'd been on, connecting the lines.  When we reached Oldwick and Route 78, Cheryl turned onto the highway. We decided to go straight, the scenic route, following Route 523, passing Stanton and the Readington Buffalo Farm and hot air balloons, connecting the lines all the way to Route 31.

*****

The Columbia Trail doesn't show up on road maps, which makes sense, because it's not a road.  But if you want to see it, I've put our route here.   To really get a sense of the elevations, click on "terrain" in the map menu.

Wikipedia has a decent entry on the Columbia Trail.  I'm glad I only read this today. Knowing how it got its name kinda creeps me out.