Columbia Trail

31 October 2014

The Columbia Trail is a long drive for a short ride, but it's worth it.

Chris picked me up at my house.  We met Jim, Tom, and Jack H at the High Bridge parking lot.  Tom and Jack were the only ones who didn't have trouble finding the entrance.  Next time we go, I'll tell people to look for the sign behind the trees.

The ride was pleasant and uneventful until we approached the intersection with Middle Valley Road. We've descended Middle Valley.  It's the road with the hairpin turn at an obnoxious grade; it's the road Tom swore he'd never ascend without a jet pack.

Or, as it turns out, a mountain bike.  I'd told him that we had the gearing, so when he called out "Left turn!" I wasn't surprised.

I have to back up a bit here and explain that the last time I had Grover tuned up was probably in 2008. That's probably around the time I last changed my tubes, which are Slime tubes, the Slime of which has, over the years, hardened and reduced the valve inner diameter to something that now requires about an hour of pump-and-wait to get to 50 psi.  This, of course, I'd forgotten until the night before.  My tires are notoriously difficult to remove (it even took professionals 20 minutes); it was a toss-up whether my unprofessional skills would have taken more time on two tubes than the pump-and-wait method would have.  I opted for the latter so that I could get other chores done at the same time.  Also, the rear cassette has more than a little rust on it.  The chain did, too, until I drowned it in heavy lube last year until the glops dripping off were no longer red.  All of this goes a long way towards explaining what happened next.

"Left turn!"

"I'm in the wrong gear," I said, and attempted to shift to the tiny ring.  Instead, nothing happened.  I doubled back down the hill and tried to shift again.  This time the crank seized.  I got off the bike to take a look.

The rear derailleur was all the way forward, the chain wrapped all the way around the front ring so that it was now touching itself.  Shifting the front derailleur did nothing.  Pulling the cranks back did nothing. Bloody Cannondale, elder brother of Miss Piggy. I didn't fancy having to coast back to the parking lot; I wasn't about to wuss out on a big hill either.  With nothing to lose, I slammed the cranks forward.  The chain came free.  I proceeded up the hill.

I figured they'd all be on their way back down by now, but I was wrong.  Jack was off in the bushes. Chris was tacking halfway up, nursing a sore knee.  I took the hairpin as a straight line, cutting from behind Chris to in front of him without turning.  Tom and Jim were at the top.  I told them what happened as they passed me on their way down.

I know it looks flat, but it really isn't, honestly.

Not too long after that, we encountered a sign. "Temporary end of Columbia Trail," it read.  "No access beyond this point."

Right.

We proceeded.

There are homes being built along the side of the trail:

At the other end of the construction site we encountered a wall.

As we pondered alternative routes, a local biker approached.  "Is there another way around?" Tom asked her.

She said, "Just go around it," and that's what she did.  So we followed.

We were almost at the far end of the trail.  When we got there, we turned around.

The route back to High Bridge is more scenic.  It's slightly downhill, and the Raritan River is more visible.

This is a stream leading to the South Branch of the Raritan:

There's a nursery north of Califon.  Tom and I took pictures through the mid-day haze:

My plan was to go off the trail in Califon for a rest stop.  Jack and Tom decided to skip it.  Jim, Chris, and I were all for it.

Jim got the last pumpkin muffin, damn him.  I made him give me a piece.  Chris got so much sandwich that he had half of it wrapped.  I got a "morning glory" muffin, which tasted a lot like pumpkin pie without pumpkin.

I looked more carefully for the troll houses south of Califon; I hadn't noticed any on the way up.  This time I found a few.  I think there were more last year.

My favorite part of the trail is just north of the Ken Lockwood Gorge (or Kenny Rogers Gourd):

The Ken Lockwood Gorge:

At the bottom of the gorge is a dirt road that leads from Cokesbury Road to Califon.  We found a spur on the trail that leads to Cokesbury Road.

Next time I come up here, and it will be soon, we are going to take the road along the bottom of the gorge and follow the river all the way to Califon.  We'll return on the Columbia Trail and get the view from the top.  Come with me next time.  I know where the parking lot is now.

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, October 25

23 October 2014




Saturday's ride will be on the Columbia trail.  It's a flat, 30-mile, out-and-back MTB/hybrid trip that should be beautiful this time of year.  We'll start at the High Bridge side, go to the end, double back, and have our rest stop at the Califon General Store (they love us there).


The trail is very well maintained, wide, and mostly crushed gravel.  Mountain bike tires at 50 psi are fine.  Hybrids are fine too.  The pace will most likely be a low C+, but the effort to get that speed will feel like a B.


We'll start at 9:00 a.m.




More information about the trail can be found here.


This is how to get there:


From 31 north, turn right on West Main St (Route 513).  Follow 513 to the right and under the railroad tracks. Follow 513 to the left.  The parking lot is on the left past the borough hall. For GPS coordinates, use the Borough Hall at 71 Main Street in High Bridge Borough.

OLPH Blows Glass

"Sea and Sky" garden globe with dichroic accents

21 October 2014

There were two instructors and eight newbies in the glass blowing class that Chris and I took at Luke Adams Glass Studio (the link isn't much, so I'll spare you).  We were going to make two pieces each.  In the first round we could make an ornament, a garden globe (essentially a huge ornament, with an extra charge for the extra glass), or a pumpkin.  In the second round, we could make a fluted vase, a tumbler, a bowl with a foot, or a fluted bowl.  We had a choice of basic colors that we could mix. Adding dichroic glass would cost a little more.

We broke off into two groups of four as the instructors gave us a lesson on the instruments we'd be using, and that was it.

I dared go first in our group. That ended up meaning that I had no idea what was coming next, and that I was the demonstration project for everyone else.  The blue and green glass mixture was called "sea and sky," and I added some dichroic glass for sparkle.

This was a team effort.  We started with a thin pipe that was dipped into an oven of white-hot clear glass. We learned how to turn the pipe so that the molten blob on the end would stay round as we rolled it onto our choice of crushed colored glass.  The instructor then blew quickly into the end of the pipe and sealed the opening.  A small air bubble appeared in the glass.  He brought the pipe to the work bench, where I was to help roll the pipe back and forth, and to pinch the end of it while he twisted the rest.  Chris sat at the end of the pipe to blow into it when she was instructed to.  A fourth person was the shielder, holding a thick piece of wood between the glass and the arms of those of us working on the piece.  The instructor did all the difficult maneuvers.  At the end, I didn't feel as if I'd made the piece; I'd only helped.

When it was Chris' turn (she made an ornament), I was the blower.  When it was the next person's turn, I was the shielder.  

Molten glass is hot.  Standing more than a foot from the glass I was shielding,  I could feel the heat radiating through my jeans.  When I wasn't working, I kept my distance from the oven we used to melt our colors onto the glass.

The third person (he has a PhD in robotics!) made a pumpkin.  Here it is being finished off:

The propane flame keeps the top hot while the instructor gathers glass to make the stem.

The glass is dipped into a mold to make ridges.  Cooling a little, the glass is now red instead of white as the instructor drips the stem onto the pumpkin.

In seconds, the instructor wraps the glass around a metal rod, removes the rod, and ends with a twist.

As the glass cools, the stem turns green.

For the second project, I went first again.  I chose a fluted bowl in amber with dichroic accents.  This time we gathered glass, rolled in the dichroic, melted it, gathered more glass, added color, and then more glass.  This time we opened up one end, and that's where the best part came in.  The glass is heated again, then spun.  As the spinning slows down, the glass slumps, and the bowl is formed. Here's our instructor working on a bowl for the third person in our group:

Someone in the other group was making a bowl too.  Here they are finishing off the bottom by heating the spot where the pipe was before smoothing it out:

When the pieces are finished, they go into an annealing oven, where they stay at high temperature and slowly cool.  That's my bowl in front.

Chris, as well as the fourth person in our group, opted for the fluted vase.  Here's the molten glass, with the air bubble inside, being slowly swung so that it elongates before the end is opened.

This is Chris' vase, a lime green to pink fade, being finished off.  The glass is still hot, but the colors are beginning to emerge.

Annealing takes two days; my pieces would have to be shipped.  Chris picked hers up today.

Additional Birds, Bicycle Belle

18 October 2014

I've been in the Boston area since last night. I'm here on my annual bead show pilgrimage that involves staying with my college roommate, buying beads, and eating Etheopian food.

The bead buying was this morning, after a workout at a deserted gym (bereft of equipment, staff, and other customers), while my friend took a Pilates class at a private studio next door.

At the show it was a light buying day by comparison; two of the artists I regularly buy from were absent. That freed up more cash for silver findings. I did well in that department.

We've added to our tradition be eating lunch at the Red Lentil vegetarian restaurant around the corner from the show in Watertown. My body was 80% sweet potato by the end of the meal.

A craft-oriented do-it-yourselfer, my friend dragged me to a do-it-yourself frame shop, where I waited while she pieced together the necessary bits. 

At the counter, a postcard under glass caught my eye.

"Additional Birds," it read (pardon the reflection of the overhead light).

"Birds added into old paintings accompanied by various other bird related illustrations."

I looked up, puzzled. "Well, that's a niche market," I said.

The clerk pointed me towards a painting in the back of the workshop.

Boston is trying for the weird title again.

We went on to the Taza chocolate factory so that we could load up again since our last visit in August. In walked a commuter cyclist wearing a helmet disguised as a sun hat. We got to talking, of course, and she told me I should visit the shop where she bought the hat-helmet.

So off we went, a few minutes down the road, to Bicycle Belle, for a little bike porn.

The place was aimed at women commuters. I tinkered with a few horns designed to make the most plugged-in jogger take notice. I decided not to buy anything. If the students I regularly slalom around ignore my regular old bell -- a recognizable sound -- what would they make of the strange skwawk coming from a $65 device? A student jumping straight up in the air would still be in my way, just taller.

I was ready to leave when I noticed something. "Y'know what I like about this place? There's not a fast bike in here."

We ended the evening at an Ethiopean restaurant with another friend from college (Jack's roommate), talking about everything from poop to nuts.

Tomorrow morning we're taking a glass blowing class. Although everything about my personality and skill set would suggest I should be good at this, I fear I will suck at it.

Whatever molten disaster I create, you can be sure it will appear on this blog tomorrow.

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.