Batsto to Oyster Creek Metric

Timberline Creek (Wading River watershed)

15 October 2014

Barry's van was in the Peter Muschal School parking lot when I drove in at 7:45 a.m. I'd woken up to darkness again for one more Saturday-moved-to-Sunday ride from Tom, the self-coronated Rain King. Marc pulled in next, then Tom.  He gestured towards Kermit, for me to load into the back of his truck. Marc, wanting to put miles on a new transmission, said he'd follow us.  That left Barry.  I said, "Better drive yourself so when you break down you won't have to wait for us."

We were heading to Batsto, where we'd park outside of the village to start the ride.  Most of the drive was south on 206.  When we got to Atsion Lake, Tom turned left down a dirt road, Quaker Bridge, which he said would across Wharton State Forest to Batsto Lake.

A few hundred meters in, we met a water-filled crater and turned around.  We took county roads instead.

This is the boat launch parking lot at Batsto.  We were the only ones there at 9:00 a.m.

"I promised you flat.  I didn't promise you scenic."

That's what Tom said when I asked him if we'd be in the forest for the entire ride.  It's pretty and all, but -- and I say this as someone who spent a few years studying in the Pines and used to be able to name most of the plants in Latin -- after a few miles, it gets dull.

"The scenery will change in half a mile," he promised.

It did.  This is the Timberline Creek, a tributary of the Wading River:

We entered Bass River Township, and later crossed the Wading River on a lift bridge. There was a lift bridge where we crossed the Mullica, too.  The cement ugliness is the counterweight for the bridge when it opens.

I zoomed in on a windmill on the shore to the northeast:

The river and brackish marsh:

Our rest stop was at 38 miles, in Smithville, at a CVS.  There was a flock of domestic geese in the parking lot.  They crossed the road to a cemetery:

Tom bought a pack of cookies to share.  I read the label out loud:  "Chocolate flavored chip cookies. Not chocolate chips.  Chocolate flavored chips." I ate an almond Snickers bar instead.  Not the best rest stop.

Tom lead us to Oyster Creek, where I'd been once before (we were chased by flies on our way out that time; today was too cold for that).

A great egret, I think:

Cattle egrets, I think.  (This is what 20 years away from having to know this stuff does to one's memory.)

This is every picture taken on the east coast:

This is a salt marsh, with Atlantic City in the distance.

Breaking his breakdown streak, Barry finished the ride without falling off the back, hitting a desk, bending his derailleur, or snapping his chain.  His bike still gets the Miss Piggy Award for September, though.  There must be something about bright green bar tape...

We ended the ride a few tenths shy of 65 miles.  This was the longest ride I'd done in a while, and, given the time of year, might be the longest I'll do for a while.

Bike commuting season is over too; it's too dark at 6 p.m. these days.  This morning I was back in the gym for Spinning class.  March can't some soon enough.