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| Welcome to Noo Yawk. You gotta problem with that? | I think there might be a curve up ahead. Maybe. | The I-84 Fish Bridge over the Hudson River fish |
Note: Clicking on any of the pictures will bring up a larger version, in a click-thru album for that day. Enjoy!
After two straight days of tiring tourist action, we weren't all that eager to roll out of bed and get moving again. But we were fully aware that Maine was still over 400 miles away, and sitting on our tired butts wouldn't get us there. After bidding a fond farewell to Regina and her snow-white pup Holly, we again loaded the Monte with all (OK, almost all) our crud and steered northish on I-287 to bypass (we hope) all that megalopolitan congestion. And before we knew it, we'd crossed the border & merged onto the northbound New York State Thruway for more toll-road travel. The GPS was strongly suggesting we keep going to Albany and east on I-90 for the fastest route to New England, but Richard thought a scenic drive to Bear Mountain near West Point seemed like a much better option. But in the messy maze at the toll plaza, we missed the exit for US 6, and instead chose to split the difference by turning east on I-84 and a tall trip across the broad Hudson River on the Hamilton Fish Bridge (don't believe you can actually fish from it, though).
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| Welcome to Noo Yawk. You gotta problem with that? | I think there might be a curve up ahead. Maybe. | The I-84 Fish Bridge over the Hudson River fish |
Only a relatively short distance to the east is the state line and our entry into Connecticut at Danbury, and we continued to follow 84 into the middle of this somewhat small state. We veered onto I-691 and exited onto US 5, which seemed to have all those cool old-style motels we needed during the earlier legs of our trip. Near Berlin, a voice from the back seat after spotting a familiar orange-and-pink sign: "Can we get some Dunkin Donuts? Or as I like to call them, 'Me Donuts'."
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| Connecting to Connecticut |
In the checkout line with a dozen hole-enhanced bakery items, Richard was still looking at his map, and spied a town name he'd seen on innumerable shipping labels and magazine pages through the years. A glance at the watch: we might be able to make it on time. "C'mon, back in the car - we'll eat on the road."
A layer of powdered sugar and sprinkles was unevenly-deposited in the Monte by the time we made the turn toward Newington, and it looked like Richard's plan might be successful. But then in the main intersection of the town: disaster. Now a malfunctioning traffic signal in all-red flash shouldn't be a big deal - if everyone waits their turn and goes in the clockwise order ordained by law, custom, and innumerable drivers' license tests.
But not here. Chaos. Apparently Connecticut drivers took a different test (or didn't show up for the test) - the observed behavior was a nightmare of me-firstedness, with mobs of cars surging in groups randomly through the intersection in all directions, apparently driven by testosterone, gall, and a disregard for insurance deductibles. And the local police just sat and watched. Our side of the intersection was thoroughly bullied into interminable delay, and what should have been a few short minutes turned into many nerve-racking moments of honking horns and unprintable gestures. We finally floored it across in a sudden gap, and continued on with our slightly-frazzled life. But the dashboard clock made it clear: they closed a while ago.
What is this place? We saw the antennas above the trees, and the large sign of the headquarters of the American Radio Relay League, the nexus of the national association for Amateur Radio operators in the United States. And the empty lot & locked doors confirmed we'd shown up just past closing time (Suzanne was undeniably, um, disappointed ;) We still got a few nice pictures of the grounds and the stately building housing the W1AW station, and then northward toward the suburbs of Hartford and more afternoon highway travel.
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| Home base for amateur radio in the US | Quite the antenna array | Memorial to fallen volunteers |
We were making good miles on I-84 post-Hartford, but it seemed we were missing out on seeing the "real" rural Connecticut, so we exited onto the smaller highways and made our way over to US 44 for more-relaxing driving under the trees and over the hills.
Was that a giant ice cream cone we saw? No - make that two? Now that's something to stop for. And so we pulled into the driveway of the Harvest Garden Farm Market in West Ashford, and parked in front of the Concrete Factory. Now this factory doesn't make silly statuary or precast objects, but instead produces a more yummy form of concrete - an aggregate of candy or other mixings cemented with rich frozen custard. It may not have good compressive strength, but who can resist? We chatted with the young lady behind the counter as we devoured our treats, and then said our thankful farewells before setting course east through a passel of Pomfrets and Putnams.
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| Giant ice cream cones? Two giant ice cream cones? Sure, we'll stop. | Service with a smile | The family is gruntled |
Rhode Island is the smallest state of the 50, and is tinier than a decent-sized city. But we thought it would be something if Duncan could brag that he'd actually visited, and so we drove across on US 44, seeing the wavy-background bluish license plates that are so difficult to spot elsewhere in the country (even rarer than Hawaii!). A stop at the visitor center to place our feet firmly in the state, and then before you know it, the freeway takes us into our fifth state of the day as the Massachusetts signs shine dimly in the evening light.
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| Small sign, smallest state | Two wrongs don't make a right, but a really long right makes a left | Can we start a second lap? |
The GPS said it would be an even match between taking the longer loop around I-95 / route 128, or taking I-93 on the Big Dig through downtown Boston. But the windshield view clearly showed a massive rainstorm right on top of Beantown, so we chose the roundabout (not rotary!) way through the suburbs. The storm, seeing the opportunity to mess with our travel plans, chose to intercept us north of Waltham, and the drive became a dark moist mess as we alertly searched for our correct route. But with the late hour and added stress, it seemed wise to call it a night, so we took the ramp onto US 1 at Peabody to seek shelter for the evening.
And nearly the first sign we saw was the bright red neon of the Plaza Motel, which looked to be a classic mid-century property. And although it seemed to be in decent shape, the mood of the management (which clearly wasn't helped by the score of the final game of the Stanley Cup final), plus the very high quoted price, plus being treated like we were trying to defraud them, had us unhappy with the choice. But we were too tired and the weather was too uncooperative for further searching, and so we bedded down and washed up in the brown-tiled bath, and after a bit of television (what was that channel again? Duncan, close your eyes!) we drifted to sleep as the storm smacked the door & walls.
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| Bright neon on old US 1 |
After our respite from last night's stormin', we tossed the key back to the Plaza's desk under bright blue skies and popped out of Peabody on US 1. The main reason for taking the older road (notwithstanding the better scenery) was because we knew we'd be trapped in downtown Portland for several days, and would be much happier there with a full larder of edible goodies, and that our odds of finding a well-stocked market would be much higher on the older highway. Soon enough a busy Market Basket appeared by the roadside, and we loaded up on provisions to last us through Maine and well into the second part of our journey. Only one drawback - not much spare space in an already-laden Monte. "Here, son, put this on your lap for the next 80 miles or so. But don't eat too much of it."
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| Thiff if uh graht bruckfusft, Mowum and Dath | There's a kid in there somewhere. We think. |
More than a week of driving has given us time to adapt and adjust to the different styles of motoring found in other regions of this country, but the sociopathic behavior patterns exhibited by what are so aptly described as "Massholes" can still surprise and amaze. Erratic lane changes, driving in whatever lane is convenient, and turns made regardless of signal phase or conflicting traffic are just a few examples, accompanied by a horn apparently stuck from birth in the "on" position. And one incident displays this all too well - we stopped at a full-service Gulf station for a fillup, and no sooner had the nozzle left the filler tube than the jerk behind us was laying on his horn because by golly he had more important things to do than wait a few seconds for us to actually start the car & get going.
Let us try to achieve a higher state of being. New Hampshire will do for now. We skirted Seabrook and continued our cruise through a short part of a not-all-that-large state, but the summertime crowds were beginning to clog old highway 1, and so we decided to detour over to the Interstate to speed things up a bit. This almost didn't work all that well either, for as we approached the mystifying maze of different categories of payment, we somehow ended up in the purple-signed Ez-Pass lane, and were at the gate by the time we realized our error - staring directly at a sign warning of dire penalties for toll evasion. But the driver behind us (who did NOT have a Mass plate, by the way) had deduced our quandary and gave us lots of room to creep out and over to one of the cash-only lanes, where the attendant (once she stopped laughing) wished us a good trip.
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| Or Else. | I think it was the purple that confused us. |
As we approached the other border of this state, we passed under the large green signs referring to "All Maine Points" (so what was our maine point in this travelog, anyway?), and for fun we exited again to cross the Piscataqua River on the vehicular level of the Long Bridge (not all that long, actually) and emerge into our northeasternmost state and the outlet-store mayhem of Kittery. Stayed on Route 1 for a while through the quaint environs of Ogunquit, and then off our starboard beam Duncan spied for the first time in his young life the blue expanses of the Atlantic Ocean. However, even though you can see it, you can't actually get theah from heah, as land ownership and road geometry effectively blocks beach access to all but those who own or rent shorefront cottages or stay in seaside resorts. So we promised Duncan we'd actually touch that other ocean sometime later, and kept moving.
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| So what is the maine point of this trip? | An uplifting bridge on US 1 connecting New Hampshire and Maine |
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| We Maine-d it so far | Dunc's first view of the Atlantic Ocean |
As we wheeled into Wells, or bellies were a-grumblin, and the colorful sign of the Maine Diner seemed to promise decent fare. Turns out this place has been featured in TV shows as a great example of Maine grub, and the line out the door seemed to indicate it was slightly popular as a lunch spot. We were eventually seated and served in the jam-packed dining area, and the food, although not the best we'd ever consumed, was quite acceptable.
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| Ay-um. | Maine-ly tasty diner grub |
A glance at the watch indicated that it was time to get this part of the trip wrapped up, and so back onto I-95 for the final few miles. The signs were in our favor as we exited onto 295 and on through downtown, and then...
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| Hey look - it's the East Coast Greenway | Almost there! |
Hey wait GPS... why are you taking us away from downtown?
By the time we figured out the error, we were already on the other side of the harbor, and an exit to turn around became an aggravating exercise in trying to hunt a ramp in the right direction. Then a long slow tour through the narrow streets of Portland in order to make sure we'd find the correct place, and then (Wait! Up the hill! No, wrong way!) we eventually wobbled into the portico of the Holiday Inn By the Bay, shut off the engine, and considered our outbound leg of this journey complete.
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| We made it! |
Oh yeah - we have to still check in, don't we?
The fine folks at this establishment had sold us a room with an expansive view of the waterfront, and Richard did his sherpaly duty by hauling everything in from the car. And then some precision maneuvering of the Monte into a exceedingly small spot in the basement, and some time to rest and relax.
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| Room with a harbor vista | Monte gets a well-deserved subterranean rest |
Isn't there an event this evening? OK, forget about rest. Wash up and head down the elevators, bundle onto a bus for the drive down to the pier, and then onto a very full ferryboat for the magical voyage to Peaks Island for the evening's festivities. OK - maybe not magical, but the ARTBA folks made it entertaining nonetheless, while Duncan made entertainment of his own with his antics on the bow promenade. Our waterborne travel took us past Civil War fortresses, Irving oil tankers, and historic light houses, as we wove our way through a myriad of commercial and pleasure craft plying the waves.
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| Cap'n Dunc says 'ahoy'! | Scenic view of busy Portland Harbor | Old fort looms in the harbor |
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| Heaving to at Peaks Island | Obligatory Duncan + Rich Brown photo, 2013 edition |
After an uphill walk that seemed endless (at least to a somewhat-addled family), we beheld a very agreeable scene at the Lions Club picnic area, as the silver sheen of the harbor created a backdrop for the verdant reception area. It was great to see many old friends and acquaintances in such a pleasant place, and Duncan found a couple new friends for some dynamic play.
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| Nice view. | Making new friends far from home |
Soon, bubbling pots of boiling water disgorged piles of bright red lobsters to be served to the waiting guests. Richard, however, was of course eyeing the grilled steaks over on the other side of the serving area.
Duncan had never made the acquaintance of such a large deceased crustacean before, and he stared eye-to-eye with the oversized ruddy bug as his desert-dwelling dad began the task of figuring out how to defeat the exoskeleton and access the white yummy stuff within. Eventually the meat was reached, and our son pronounced it "excelllent" as he eagerly gobbled the Down-East delicacy. That is, until he noticed that one big bite included some unidentifiable green goop, at which time it was suddenly "Eeeeewwww!!" and all thoughts of finishing were abandoned. But, as you can imagine, the rest certainly didn't go to waste.
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| Hello, I'll be your exoskeletal meal this evening... | Conquering the Lobstah |
After such a sumptuous meal, it seemed like an excellent idea to stroll the grounds and shoreline amid balmy breezes. But nature had more interesting plans - as the last bits of claws were cracked, a storm swept in accompanied by too-close lightning strikes and howling wet winds. And now we had incontrovertible proof that Duncan was too dumb to come in from the rain - he insisted on staying outside in the downpour, water gushing out of his shoes and coat, with the happiest grin you could ever expect to see on an 8-year-old. And given that level of joy, as long as he didn't encounter any megavolt bolts, we decided to let him be as he cavorted in a most wet way.
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| Not enough sense to come out of the rain. And loving every minute of it. |
Once the squall let up, we hurried back to the ferryboats for the cruise back across the harbor, as the lights winked from the buildings and boats. Then time to take our waterlogged boy for a wring-out up in the room, and for Richard to commence his preparations for the next three days of rather important meetings.
Our first full day in Maine began plenty early - for Richard, anyway. While the rest of the family rested, he was downstairs at the AASHTO Subcommittee on Traffic Engineering meeting, seeing many of his colleagues from across the country. And given that it was a joint session with the AASHTO Standing Committee on Highway Traffic Safety, it was a full one, with several items of interest to the assembled state DOT staffers.
So what were Duncan & Suzanne doing? Sleeping and relaxing up in the room.
Afternoon rolled around, and while Richard set about the task of chairing the Bicycle Technical Committee of the National Committee on Uniform Traffic Control Devices, the wife & kid had pizza and salad, and then went strolling around downtown Portland (and its statues commemorating the local lobsterfolk) to catch a movie and some luscious Maine Sea Salt Caramel ice cream. Then back to the hotel (Richard was still in meetings...) for a dip and splash in the indoor pool, and then some snacking in the room (Richard was still in meetings...) and then goodnight to lights in the harbor outside the window and into bed - and Richard finally finished up the last of his meetings just before... midnight.
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| Nice and cool in the coastal Northeast | "Claws" for concern with the lobsterman statue | Movie time |
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| Ice cream - yay | Local ice cream. Even better. | Mainely happy ice-cream grin |
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| Taking a splash in the hotel pool | Snuggled into our Holiday Inn beds |
Let's get Richard's day out of the way early. He was in NCUTCD meetings all day. Exciting, huh? OK - not really. So let's switch to Suz & Duncan instead.
So what did they do on this Mainely cool and foggy day? Breakfast at the hotel cafe for a start, which was brightened by a visit from our very good friend Maggie, who brought smiles to our son's face as they swapped stories from times old and new.
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| Ready to eat! | Hearty hotel breakfast for Duncan and Suzanne |
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| Our friend Maggie and our crazy kid | Suz n' Maggie |
Fed. Now what? Isn't there a great children's museum here in downtown Portland? Yes, yes there is. Duncan and his mama had a most excellent day amid the exhibits and displays, including the lobster boat, auto repair, giant whale, treehouse, and timber products displays. And wooden you know that he found the interlocking planks a lot of fun to assemble and reassemble as he wore his bright yellow hard hat, with only one minor incident occurring when Duncan told a kid about to destroy the wooden table he built: "I'm as angry as my dad right now, and trust me, he is really angry!"
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| The view from the hotel room is a bit different than before... | Let's Mainely have fun today | A jam-packed schedule |
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| Ahoy there | Cap'n Dunc navigating the doughty vessel | Cleanup on Aisle 1 |
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| Checking the feeler gap on the condenser regulator or something like that | Burning desire to not be a fire victim | Building stuff with new friends |
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| A complicated timber table takes shape | Let's see if these hard hats really work... | Plummeting headgear |
Hmmm, I wonder just how Dad's meetings are going...
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| Schubert explaining diverging maneuvers (say that three times fast) |
The gang reunited in the early evening, with Richard released from his toil and the wife & kid tuckered out from all that museuming (but not too tired for a trip to the indoor pool). But the family still needed to be fed, and Richard somehow was "volunteered" to fetch some supper. He trudged down the steep hillside to the docks and waterfront, and hauled in some heapin' helpins' of good chow from Becky's Diner, a classic neon-bedecked diner that's become a favorite of visitors and locals through the years. Then back up that grade for a fine dinner in the Holiday Inn room, and then a chance to catch some rest to prepare for the long trip west set to begin the next day.
Our final day in Maine commenced with more early-morning meetings (at least for Richard, anyway), and then the process of assembling (or, in some cases, disassembling) our items for the next leg of the journey. At the NCUTCD General Session, Richard successfully fast-talked the National Committee into approving new diagrams for work zones on bicycle facilities, and much brainpower and exhortation was expended on a proposed strategic plan and vision (now we're seeing things?) for the long-term future of the MUTCD to take the traveling public well into the 21st century (no matter what they're driving or riding).
Time to check out and depart. The heavily-laden bell cart creaked and moaned on the trips to the waiting Monte in the basement, and soon (OK, not all that soon), we had everything loaded and prepared for departure. Said farewell to all our friends until next time, and wended our way through the narrow, foggy, and damp streets of downtown Portland in search of a road that would lead us to our next destination.
But first, a detour. Several days earlier, Duncan had finally spied the blue waves of the Atlantic Ocean. But he hadn't yet been able to actually touch its waters. So, we followed the GPS's convoluted instructions, drove past the DEAD END signs, and found ourselves at the very end of a long shared driveway in a rather exclusive neighborhood.
But there - between the mini-mansions and tasteful bungalows - the sea! Hope the residents don't mind us sneaking across their yard, though. Duncan resolutely hopped over the rocks, crouched down to the water line, stuck his hand in purposefully, turned to his dad, and said:
"OK, we can go now."
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| Can't see the other side of the ocean today | Touching the Atlantic for the very first time | "OK, we can go now." |
We set our course westward as we cruised past the churchyards with gravestones etched two centuries previous, as the fog and drizzle lent an otheworldly air to the scene (hey, isn't this Stephen King's home state?) Then out of town on the old US highway, which went well until a glance on the map indicated we should actually be on a different highway - no problem, we'll turn left, OK, right, well, just straight for a bit.
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| 70 degrees, 13 minutes of longitude. It's all west from here. | Now what would make you think that this is the state Stephen King lives in? |
Maine is blessed with any number of picturesque small towns, where laconic locals and vivacious visitors mingle and muddle. We puttered through Poland, and then stopped at a charming-looking frozen custard stand - which, unfortunately, was staffed by some teenyboppers who seemed most interested in anything but customer service. And no, we couldn't use their restroom either.
Hey, where's Duncan? Our son had heard the happy screeches of playing kids in the custody of a day care center next door, and had managed to become part of the play group. The staffer smiled and said it was no problem at all - it's good to have new kids once in a while. So our westbound trip was delayed for a few happy minutes as Dunc frolicked - and best of all, these folks weren't stingy with their sanitary facilities (thank you!!)
As the road wound westward, the clouds hovered only a few hundred feet above the roadway, leaving us "sandwiched" between the gray above and the green below. The road wiggled down into the hamlet of Bryant Pond, and Duncan had fun playing with the large statue commemorating the fact that this was the last place in the United States that used hand-crank telephones - in fact, it wasn't until the early 1980s that this system became part of the national network.
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| One ringie-dingie... | Plaque explaining the phoniness | Helllooo! |
Approaching Bethel, we saw one of many small shops dotting the roadside offering crafts, trinkets and other items reminiscent of an upper New England experience. Although the word "discount" on the sign did grab our attention, we kept driving west. Then it occurs to us: we're only a few miles from crossing the state line and leaving Maine behind - and we haven't actually purchased any Maine souvenirs?
We executed a U-turn on US 2 and steered into the parking lot - just in time to see the saleslady turning off the lights and furling the "OPEN" flag. Oops. But when she saw there were new victims, er, customers, the lights came back on and the door stayed open. She had the kind of "Downeastah" accent one could only obtain from long residence in central Texas, but her happy "Howdy!" as we prowled the aisles laden with moose hats, popguns, and some very tempting fudge. We settled on some shirts and a birdhouse (and some of that fudge), and continued westward as we entered the foothills of the mighty White Mountains.
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| Suz's favorite even-numbered US highway (eastern edition) | Mainely a good stop for us | Scooting barely under the scudding clouds |
As we entered New Hampshire, the town of Gorham has an uncommonly nice common, with an older Boston & Maine train framing the greenery. Duncan had a great time with other kids in the sandbox, slides, and swings, and Mom & Dad appreciated the cool weather and the impressive glimpses of the Presidential peaks through the clouds.
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| Uncommonly good common | Gorham rail museum | Trying to outrun the B&M F7 ;) |
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| Scooping up granular grins | Earthwork is more fun with a friend | Sliding with new play buddies |
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| Mount Washington materializes through the overcast |
But a thought was troubling our minds: we're in a busy tourist area, on a Friday night, with no reservations - and the lodges, resorts, and cottages were looking rather full or not very affordable. So as we toodled west on US 2 into the rapidly-diminishing sun, our concerns began to grow as our lodging options seemed to diminish.
And then: MOOOOSE! A very large cow moose, with the mass of a good-sized horse and the agility of an oversize deer, bounded onto the highway directly into our path. Fortunately, the driver's brain and Monte's brakes engaged in time to avoid hitting the ungainly ungulate, but this sudden surprise did little to soothe and settle our nerves.
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| MOOOOOOSE! |
Let's add "frazzled" to "tired". But wait, over there, on the right. A motel, with an open parking lot. Sure looks like they have some rooms available. We pulled into the curved gravel driveway past the seemingly-clean rooms, and saw several people sitting around an open fireplace between a set of buildings.
We'd barely stopped the car when one of them bounded up to our car. His stubbly face and fiery-eyed expression had us a bit apprehensive at first, but his friendly and open demeanor soon disarmed us. He explained the situation:
Our spirits began to sink until he delivered the last piece of information:
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| Mount Jefferson View. Seems like a nice place. | Cute cabins at Mount Jefferson View | And it does indeed have a view of Mount Jefferson (and other green presidentially-named White Mountains) |
Didn't take us long to unload into the cozy room that hadn't seen habitation for many months. We were invited over to the fire for friendly conversation, and got to know the gang. They're a happy family of South African expatriates with lodging experience and a can-do attitude, and they saw this little place (soon to be renamed Mount Jefferson View) as a perfect opportunity to create a friendly lodge in the northeast woods. We chatted about our travels, learned a few choice words in Afrikaans, and bonded surprisingly quickly as we shared our experiences.
Then Christo (the scruffy guy who first greeted us) posed a question: "Does Duncan know how to use a slingshot?"
Living in a big city with an amazingly distractible child surrounded by frangible objects has meant that Duncan hasn't yet had a lot of practical experience with projectile weapons, and the slingshot that we'd bought at Clines' Corners a year or so ago hadn't seen much use. And Mom didn't initially seem like too much of a fan of the idea. But the field behind the motel made for a great sling shooting range, and a bag full of colorful marbles was broken open and the whole family was sending small spheres at very high velocity into the White Mountain woods, as the two pups (Plato and Yoda) romped around and Alexandra (Alex for short), Christo's wife, shot many professional-quality photographs (much better than the ones slapped up here ;) .
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| Christo teaching the fine craft of projectile ballistics | Thwapping the targets with our marbles | Even Mom gives it a try |
But all that moving and marbling had our bellies rumbling, and the eateries of Gorham were several foggy moose-infested miles away. We started rummaging through our bags of snacks to try to assemble an impromptu meal, but Emmie, Christo, and Alex insisted that instead we share dinner with them as new friends. Juicy chickens were laid on the fire and side dishes miraculously appeared, and we all joined in on a wondrous feast. Then a walk in the cool night air back to the room, a pronouncement from Duncan that "this is the best motel everrrrrr!!", and a very pleasant evening's rest in our cozy room.
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| Dinner with our new hosts and friends | Unforgettable folks | ...and don't forget the pups, too! |
The early morning sun streamed in through the curtains of our room at Mount Jefferson View, and Duncan bounded out the door to greet Christo and Alex (and the puppies) as they tended the grounds. We reluctantly packed up from our room, slightly sad to leave such a welcoming place, but also looking forward to what promised to be an exciting day.
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| Strolling the grounds with the staff | Christo gives Duncan a big boost | We'll miss this place! |
We waved goodbye to the Steinmanns and turned west on US 2, passing the teeming crowds lining up for the contra-seasonal fun of Santa's Village.
We stopped at the visitor center in Lancaster where US 3 and US 2 collide, swatting at the Bunyan-sized mosquitoes as we made our way through the door. We didn't have time to view the display of fire trucks next door, but we did ask for a recommendation for a place for brunch.
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| Can't we just take US 2 1/2? | Big boys in a small New Hampshire town | Instead of showing you all the picturesque sights, we'll just show you a picture of the quilt at the welcome center. :) |
Her answer was intriguing. "Mooselook."
"Moose-what?"
"Mooselook. It's just a few miles up the road on highway 2."
We continued west on US 2 and crossed the weathered green truss bridge as our wild 'moose' chase led us into Vermont. Mile after mile of highway ticked by on the DMI and GPS - lots of forest, but no sign of a moose-themed feeding place. And right about when our tummies were about to "moose-tiny" from hunger, we rounded the curve and saw the sheet-metal porch of The Mooselook Restaurant by the side of the highway, and we seated ourselves at the wooden tables for what we hoped would be "moose-licious" food. No, moose isn't on the menu at Mooselook, but the sandwiches were first-rate (prompting a second order of one), and the heaping helping of baked beans and bright red frankfurters was most fibrously filling.
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| Over the green bridge to the Green Mountain State | Green sign, green state |
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| Moose-what? | Beans & wieners, epic-style | Happy fed family |
Moose-ving right along, we jotted through St. Johnsbury and into the middle of this wedge-shaped state, and soon were driving up the scenic streets of the smallest capital city in the United States: Montpelier, Vermont. The white-walled and gold-domed capitol building was an attractive place for a few minutes' stop, and then onto the winding freeway for some slightly-speedier driving.
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| Montpelier may be the smallest state capital, but the building is not not the smallest state capitol |
But what would have us in a hurry on such a nice day? Vermont is well-known for several products, but one near and dear to our taste buds is a bovine byproduct having pride of place on freezer shelves across the country - Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. And it so happens that Waterbury is the center of the Ben and Jerry's empire (a sweet yet fiercely independent chunk of the Unilever conglomerate), and soon we saw the iconic sky blue and bright green of the signs, silos, and buildings of B&J.
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| Mecca of Upscale Frozen Dairy Products | Big buildings on a rolling landscape | Tanks for everything! |
But as you can imagine of such a warm summer day, there were thousands of other frozeficionadoes also seeking icy enlightenment, and the teeming throngs were herded by the green-clad staff from the parking lot to the tour. We were told of the lore and history of the company and its battles for market share and corporate responsibility, and then were led by the spotless processing rooms to the Flavor Lab, where the eagerly-anticipated "new broccoli flavor" was nowhere to be seen, but the blueberryish flavor actually tested met with Duncan's approval. He worked off those calories in the thoughtfully-provided playground up the grassy hill, while Dad paid his respects to all those Ben and Jerry's flavors that had failed to thrive and had passed on to the Great Chilly Beyond, and whose headstones now dotted the Flavor Graveyard - and let us all now take a moment and remember Makin' Whoopie Pie, Ethan Almond, and Chocolate Comfort.
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| Moo-licious | The Laboratory of Dairy Doom | The new flavor passes the 8-year-old taste test |
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| Say ch, er, ice cream! | The infamous Cowmobile | Which one's Jerry? |
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| Burning off the calories | The Flavor Graveyard |
As the cartoon cows disappeared in our rear view, the weather began to shift, and as we veered north near Burlington sunny skies gave way to foggy drizzle, which made our drive a bit moody as we followed highway 2 hopping across the islands of Lake Champlain. We kept a lookout for "Champy", the legendary monster of this almost-Great Lake, but only saw the occasional boater plying the surface. But the lake does have its Heros, including Hero's Welcome, a general store (in the town of North Hero, of course), where color-coded outdoor seating is provided for Republicans and Democrats (Independents apparently sit where they want), the shelves are stocked with interesting items, and the old-style mechanical gas pumps filled up Monte's tank for our continued travels.
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| Lake Champlain from a Hero viewpoint | Hero-ic town on a Lake Champlain island |
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| Bipartisan benches | Good choice, son. |
Just before the northern border of the United States, US 2 veers west, crosses one more bridge into New York, and abruptly ends at the junction of US 11 (other end: New Orleans) just south of the international port of entry in Rouses Point. We continued west on US 11 (even if the signs said south), mooving through Mooers (hey, the name's almost correct) and eventually reaching Ellenburg as the late-day sunshine popped through (and reports of flooding in nearby Plattsburgh were received). Seemed like a nice place to stop for the night, and even if the place didn't look too fancy from the outside, Matthews Motel had big, clean, and comfortable rooms which were most appreciated. LaBarre's Store next door took care of our feeding and registration needs, and we wrapped up the day relaxing on the room's back porch in the cool post-rain air, watching Duncan chasing fireflies in the rolling green meadow.
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| Over the bridge and back into New York | What do you mean, end US 2? We haven't even made it to Watersmeet yet! |
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| Not quite spelled right | Suite. | Romping on the meadow behind the motel |
Next Stage: Canucks vs. Yoopers
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Latest Historical Revisionism 08 June 2014 (add MJV tag)
Scripting: Richard C. Moeur
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