Day Six: Sunday September 25 (the beginning)
Sunday September 25, 2005
Between New York & Vermont
Whitecaps ride the crest of wind-driven ridges to the east of the churning ferry as it scorns tugboat-like against the wishes of Lake Champaign. If we weren’t already veterans of ferry runs in the San Juan Islands of Washington State, this would be an adventure. Instead, John is trying to nap in the passenger seat while Will is in the passenger galley upstairs reading a magazine. Thirty more minutes of wave spray across the bow and we’ll be in Vermont. We’re hoping for some picturesque scenes that compete with the travel books, but from the looks of the dark skies and grayed out hills in the distance, we may choose to make this a black and white day.
The one-hour drive from Lake Placid to East Kent along the lake late this morning was nondescript with the exception of the White Mountain ski area. There, it wasn’t the gondolas to the top of the mountain that caught our attention; it was the way water had cut its way through solid rock barriers as it created the stream-turn-to-river. We remarked that it doesn’t seem that the name ‘creek’ is used hereabouts, either. Stream, brook, branch, yes, but no creek.
Placid wasn’t. This is a busy recreational getaway, even this time of year. The history of the Olympics, held here in 1932 and 1980 (the year of the Miracle on Ice), keeps this an attraction to people like us. The recreational opportunities for cyclists, canoeists, fishermen and ice-skating types give the town its flavor…and likely its sustenance. We were shut out of the local hotel we wanted to stay at last night. It was booked and this was another of those nights that we’ve chosen to simply find a place once we decide early in the day where we’ll stay for the night. The number of people in the town surprised me, since I was expecting the number to be more like the number we found in Cooperstown the past couple days.
The quest for good coffee continues. The Farm Museum had Starbucks labels on their carafes, but I’d argue that Howard Shultz wouldn’t put his stamp of approval on the brew we found in our cups. Too much water in almost every drink we’ve had (even the Heineken has too much water in it for my taste). When you can see the cup halfway down the drink you’re being served, it’s the same as drinking diluted kool-aid.
In rural and upstate New York at least, ice cream stands command the attention that espresso stands do in the northwest.
We dock in Burlington, Vermont. Off to see if there’s color in the hills up north.
Between New York & Vermont
Whitecaps ride the crest of wind-driven ridges to the east of the churning ferry as it scorns tugboat-like against the wishes of Lake Champaign. If we weren’t already veterans of ferry runs in the San Juan Islands of Washington State, this would be an adventure. Instead, John is trying to nap in the passenger seat while Will is in the passenger galley upstairs reading a magazine. Thirty more minutes of wave spray across the bow and we’ll be in Vermont. We’re hoping for some picturesque scenes that compete with the travel books, but from the looks of the dark skies and grayed out hills in the distance, we may choose to make this a black and white day.
The one-hour drive from Lake Placid to East Kent along the lake late this morning was nondescript with the exception of the White Mountain ski area. There, it wasn’t the gondolas to the top of the mountain that caught our attention; it was the way water had cut its way through solid rock barriers as it created the stream-turn-to-river. We remarked that it doesn’t seem that the name ‘creek’ is used hereabouts, either. Stream, brook, branch, yes, but no creek.
Placid wasn’t. This is a busy recreational getaway, even this time of year. The history of the Olympics, held here in 1932 and 1980 (the year of the Miracle on Ice), keeps this an attraction to people like us. The recreational opportunities for cyclists, canoeists, fishermen and ice-skating types give the town its flavor…and likely its sustenance. We were shut out of the local hotel we wanted to stay at last night. It was booked and this was another of those nights that we’ve chosen to simply find a place once we decide early in the day where we’ll stay for the night. The number of people in the town surprised me, since I was expecting the number to be more like the number we found in Cooperstown the past couple days.
The quest for good coffee continues. The Farm Museum had Starbucks labels on their carafes, but I’d argue that Howard Shultz wouldn’t put his stamp of approval on the brew we found in our cups. Too much water in almost every drink we’ve had (even the Heineken has too much water in it for my taste). When you can see the cup halfway down the drink you’re being served, it’s the same as drinking diluted kool-aid.
In rural and upstate New York at least, ice cream stands command the attention that espresso stands do in the northwest.
We dock in Burlington, Vermont. Off to see if there’s color in the hills up north.
posted by Pete Vander Meulen at 6:44 AM
2 Comments:
:-( we didn't find the colors hoped for. It seems we're about two weeks early for the leaves to turn. Off we go to NH. Many of the backroads here compare to Hwy 9 from Sedro Woolley to Acme / VanZandt or roads along Whidbey Island.
No color on the trees, no color in your coffee. Pete, give up the singleminded quest for Starbucks out there. Independent roasters show more care in their roasting and brewing. Open your eyes and mind!
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