The Windy City

It was as if Jethro was talking to Elly-May: “ We is in the big city now, cuzz we be seeing what we breathing.”

We left upstate New York thinking that our trip to the Mid West would be laid back and rural. We camped that night on Lake Erie. It was a nice sand beach – but the fact that we were situated between two power plants spoiled the ambience.

Driving the next morning we crested a hill. There were no clouds in the sky, but the only blue was above us. A band around the horizon was brownish grey. As we drove the band increased, and the blue patch shrank – until at about 100 miles from Chicago smog was all we could see.

Entering into Chicago, multiple power transmission lines began following the ever-increasing freeway system. Buildings got higher and closer together, traffic got heavier and the air got thicker. The Sears Tower was barely visible through the haze.

Not only did we feel a bit like Jethro in the Big City – I think we looked the part too. Visualize TWELVE lanes of traffic. Now visualize us – Jim with the map open on his lap (‘keep on the 94 – that will take us to the Skyway’) and me driving the rig at 100km/hr and still getting passed. I’d like to say that with our bikes, kayaks and trailer on the central Chicago freeway people looked twice at us. However, I think they’re all in way too much of a hurry to notice things like that. That’s what happens when you live in an area smaller than PEI with a population bigger than Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, PEI, Newfoundland & Saskatchewan combined.

Illinois Beach State Park again had a nice sandy beach. This time we were on Lake Michigan and this time the campground itself butted right up against a power plant. And the power plant was nuclear. That evening we walked the beach. The half moon was red overhead.

“It’s like a Harvest Moon – but not as romantic,” Jim commented.

We were in Chicago so that Jim could meet with his Stock Photo Agency. Business over, we decided to give ourselves a treat and go to Wrigley Field to watch a Chicago Cubs Baseball game.

It was a beautiful evening – perhaps even a bit too hot. The stadium was packed. We had great seats. We were about 20 rows back from home plate. We had a cold, cold beer and sat back with a big smile.

Wrigley field prides itself on tradition. There is no Jumbo-tron there. Red-shirted score keepers look over the field from small windows in the scoreboard. They change the numbers by hand when needed.

The Cub fans also pride themselves on their pride. It is a thrill of a Major league ball game that if you catch a ball you keep it –the most sought after balls being from home-runs. In Chicago this is not the case. Cincinnati hit a home run into the left field bleachers. Chants of ‘Throw it back’ were repeated while the fans frantically searched for the ball. Soon it was lobbed back onto the field. This was greeted with wild cheering from the crowd.

A similar performance happened in the 8^th inning. Cincinnati hit a three run home run – putting them ahead of the Cubs by 4 runs. The ball was tossed back, but the fans had had enough. They all booed and started to leave.

Radioactive Beach

Urban Camping

Take me out to the ballgame

Chicago

And he winds up

Race Day at Watkins Glen

Want to be, racer

Glen Canyon

Glen Creek Falls

Race Parade

The old street Course

Glen Creek Trail

I was looking through our CAA travel guide to New York. The blue ‘gem’ symbol was placed beside the name Watkins Glen State Park.

“This sounds good,” I said to Jim. “It says the park has 19 waterfalls.”

“I think there’s some kind of race track there as well,” Jim told me.

Not only was there ‘some kind of race track’ - but it was their 57^th anniversary of the first road race in the US following WW2. Our truck, complete with the compliment of kayaks and bikes on the roof, towing our trailer managed to drive on some of this racecourse as fans, vendors and officials lined the street.

After a bit of fancy driving, we made it to our campsite. The park was what we had come for – the race was a bonus. It was truly convenient that the hiking trail that followed the gorge ended up at one of the big display car parking lots. This was off Main Street, which was start line for the race.

We walked downhill from our campsite through tall trees. We entered the official ‘Watkins Glen Gorge Trail’ by way of a gracefully curved stone bridge. Even at low autumn water levels, Glen Creek made a beautiful sight.

We were down in the gorge bottom. At places it was quite wide. The creek made large gentle pools, which dropped over graceful curving rock edges into another pool. Other places were narrow where the water squeezed through tight rock openings. Sometimes it scurried down rocky troughs - sometimes it leapt through the air into a pool below.

The trail itself was a work of art. Besides the stone bridges, there was a spiral tunnel and miles of stacked rock railings. The actual footpath was formed of either natural rock or was pieced together by craftsmen like tile work. However it was the actual route that was the real highlight. As the trail wound its way down the gully, it closely followed the creek - so closely that we actually walked behind three waterfalls.

“This place is a bit like Johnson’s Canyon,” I told Jim, thinking of one of our favourite hiking spots in Banff.

“Only this is way, way better,” he added.

Leaving the canyon we were abruptly in another world. Lines of classic old and new sports cars were parked at the trail entrance. Hundreds of people were milling around and admiring the extraordinarily polished display vehicles.

Main street was now closed and in two lines were parked an amazing collection of vintage Alpha Romeo racing cars. These had attracted even more people – they were peering into the vehicles or examining them back, front and sideways. Groups of men wearing assorted racecar gear stood in small groups drinking beer and discussing the vehicles or the race history in detail. We joined the ogling. Jim was much better at it than I was however. I felt a little like he must have felt at the cheese factory.

After a singing of the National Anthems of both Canada and the USA, engines were revved and the Alphas rushed off as the first of three groups of cars. (Some of the cars seemed to be running so rough we wondered if they would make it up the steep hill that started at the end of Main Street.) The next group of ‘racers’ was a collection of classic racing cars. There was everything from mini coopers to Porsches. The final group was the noisiest. The ‘muscle cars’ were so loud they rattled your insides as they roared past.

This was a ‘race re-enactment’. Barring breakdown (an ever-present possibility) where you started was where you ended. There were other differences from a real race. We saw only a few helmets being worn. Most vehicles were without seatbelts. Passengers (yes, passengers) often sat on the floor. One car had Dad driving with Mom and two small children. A couple of cars had pets. Over half the drivers were not alone.

With two laps of the 6-mile road course completed, the race was over. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to for such a short time – but looking at the faces of the participants as they finished, they wouldn’t have agreed with me.

Darryl and his other brother, Darryl

I’m not sure what makes Vermont so fascinating to me. Perhaps it is the memories of laughter and fuzzy sweaters from “Newhart”. Maybe it’s the many photos I’ve seen of red barns, red leaves and black and white cows. Whatever it is - I was excited to actually arrive there.

Actually, I wasn’t that excited when we arrived – because I was so tired. We had driven all day after we left our ‘beautiful Bayport Pad’ (Nova Scotia) at 1.30am to catch a ferry. I was excited when I woke up the first day in Vermont. We decided to tour around a little.

Jim humoured me – I wanted to go to a cheese factory outlet (can you visualise the excitement on his face at this prospect). Vermont is famous for its cheeses and I can see why. We left with pepper jack, pesto, garden onion and then treats beside. Then he agreed to stop at ‘Ben & Jerry’s’(for you foreigners – it is a very well known upscale ice-cream manufacturer).

We followed route 100 south down the middle of the state. The road wound up, down and around wide, rotund hills - all thickly covered with deciduous trees. These trees all seemed to be thinking about starting to change colors. Every so often we’d turn a corner and find one fully enflamed in red. The valley bottoms were scattered with farmhouses, chequered with cornfields and dotted with cows.

And then there were the towns. The main streets were lined with colourful old buildings with big patios. Flowers hung from balconies, window boxes and even bridges. In one town, the streets were populated with strangely painted mooses – my favourite being the one painted like a zebra (including the antlers).

One is reminded at every turn that you are in the U. S. of A. Bunting and flags adorned all available buildings and posts – one gas station displayed 16 full sized American Flags.

Vermont is famous for its “country stores”. We visited one and actually bought ourselves a flagpole (to be shared by the Canadian and Australian Flags when we get to Canmore). This store had much more than flagpoles. It took three interconnected buildings to house all the paraphernalia. They had everything you could think of – old-fashioned candy in those big jars, hand cut cheese, cookware, clothes, soaps, linens, books – and on and on. Over the top of the toy section, a foot-tall monkey on a bike pedalled the high wire to-&-fro while on a shelf below,s a group of three puppets danced continually.

We chose to stay in the Vermont State Park site of Jamaica. Our campsite was wonderful. We were cosy under the cover of trees – some hundreds of feet tall. The West River burbled by us and just a minute’s walk upstream was ‘Salmon Hole’. We’ve been swimming there twice. Wide, deep and warm, it’s like our own exercise pool – pick a spot and swim against the current and stay in the same spot.

The park is situated on an old railway bed that made for great mountain biking. Pedalling was easy on the wide smooth path. At the end of the trail, we climbed to a vantage point from which you could see for miles in either direction. It was a great view – but no shade from the hot sun. It was a quick trip back down the trail and straight into the water at Salmon Hole for one last swim.

We just got a taste of Vermont. It’s the kind of place I’d like to come back to again and explore some more.

Moo

Grafton