travellingbennetts

Salem. The Puritans decided that Jeru’ was a bit artsy so went with ‘salem. Over time, it was capitalised and the shortening apostrophe was dropped, and through the next 399 years it prepped itself for our arrival, this time at the end of a day rather than the start of a new one. We lobbed into our accommodation in Beverly, sweating buckets as usual, quickly threw on walking tourist gear, and summoned an Uber via the App. Our Salem walking tour was booked for 5pm. Uber dropped us off at 4:59pm, so we were first to meet the guide while the rest of the group assembled with the precision and efficiency of sheep crossed with cats. Anyway, off we went. Salem was founded in 1626 so is seriously old, and was a major port. But no-one is interested in that, Salem is all about the 1692 witch trials. It all started with young girls, aged between 9 and 17, claiming witches had harmed them. It is very surprising that young girls, especially those that spent like 8 hours in church every Saturday, would not act completely rationally, and anyone who has had or has observed teen daughters is simply amazed about their behaviour.

It got totally out of hand, with more and more accusations and ludicrous stories being given as evidence in the court. 20 people were executed; 19 as witches and Giles Corey who refused to plead. The safety valve was finally released when the girls started accusing people who were socially a bit out of reach, including the Governor’s wife. That managed to shut it all down, and everyone said yeah, even though teen girls are so unemotional and rational, let’s just pretend that it never happened. And then Bewitched came along in 1970 and really set things off again. Apparently during Halloween it is just insane and hundreds of thousands pack the place.

A beer then back to Bev, this was the most convenient place we’ve stayed, with a full supermarket 200m away, a vape shop even closer, and a huge wine and beer shop even closer than that.

We were well set for Day 51, with a train trip from Bev into Boston. A HOHO bus was the plan, and we rode around on it, HO’d for lunch and a stroll, then HO’d to get back to the station. It was pleasant but still bloody hot, like just about every one of the days following Cortez Colorado. Boston has a lot of familiar history, with JFK, the tea party, and various other momentous events in the US. Unfortunately our HOHO bus driver had a very strong Boston accent, so it was like “Thar building on the rahrt wahrz [indecipherable] [still no idea] [now lost interest] thar British”.

Speaking of dining, which we were doing before the stroll barged in, the US is still fairly hard work when it comes to grabbing a quick bite. The vast majority of eating/drinking places are full service, so get into our story Uber, unsurprisingly a Camry, and experience a dining event with us. Scenario: It is 5pm, we’ve had a 450km day, and a nice drink is the objective. We enter the craft brewery. The bar seats are full, and we are scanning the room. A young lady materialises. Hi! Is it just you two? She’s grabbing menus, which is a bit like watching an Aged Care nurse in the dementia ward grabbing a high-density low-permeability pillow, it’s way out of control and someone is in trouble. Us as it turns out, we sit as directed. She wanders off even though we already know what the drinks are – a Chardy, and an IPA. Just as I’m thinking about heading to the bar Australian style, she returns. A House Chardonnay and a Mule’s Breath IPA? Just great! Have you decided on food yet!?! No, we’ll have a drink first, as it is but 5:01pm, and even pensioners would be embarrassed. OK! I’ll give you a minute! By 5:30pm the pressure is intense, she has literally returned every minute to see what food we’ve decided to order. Typically we crack under the menu-boarding at around 5:45pm. We’ve let everyone down but surely the shared appetiser won’t arrive until after 6pm so we’ll avoid ostracism. 5:55pm it arrives. Luckily there are others who have cracked way earlier than us, so we don’t risk accusations of witchcraft, but we don’t make eye contact just in case. 6:30pm we are back in the hotel. Only 3 hours before we can go to bed at a normal time. But might as well get into the jarmies now…..

Continuing our state consuming north push on Day 52, we were quickly up to Newburyport and out to the coast, going into New Hampshire on the way.

As always, we had zero knowledge of what the coast would look like, maybe a mangrove bog, maybe houses with boats, but this was full blown beach, and crowded with holiday people. Fortunately there was motorcycle parking otherwise it would have been impossible to find, and even more fortunately the motorcycle parking was directly opposite a coffee place. A wander out to the water, we were on about the same latitude where the Titanic sank so surely the water must be Jack freezing. Not the case, it was actually very pleasant and explained why so many punters were out in it. Slip, slop, slap isn’t a big thing in this neck of the woods, getting the full boiled crayfish sunburn seems to be in keeping with the absolutes of the New Hampshire motto.

Only 10 miles into New Hampshire and it ended in Maine, the most north-eastern of the USA and our No.31. Off to Kennebunkport for lunch, the parking situation was a little more challenging in the ‘bunk’, we could only find one about 2 miles out of town, so reversed to a sandwich shop that sounded good; Bennett’s Sandwich Shop. It was good apart from the temperature inside being way above safe food storage levels – some of the pre-ordered sandwiches awaiting pick-up were hopefully pastrami and cheese and not a hot gangrene melt. Outside at the picnic tables it was much more pleasant. Slogging on again in the relentless heat, we made it through the suburban nightmare of Portland, before hitting every English town name on the way to Camden, including Bath.

We made it early enough to Camden to do something never before attempted on this trip. The No.3. The just-before-closing walk-in was successful, the Barberess took one look and decided there were zero technical risks, so I did the usual barber shop thing and sat there catching up on a few emails while guarding the door against any just-before-closing walk-ins. My turn. Where are you from, not here obviously. Australia. And off we went, with the hair falling like the first gentle snows of winter. Only not white yet people.

The target for Day 53 was as far east as we’d get. Acadia National Park, only 100 miles from the furthest east point in the USA. The NP is on Mt Desert Island, named by a Frenchman who had been in the temperate zones for way too long to recognise a desert. First we needed coffee, and Ellsworth just to the north of the desert delivered.

Some navigational challenges with Acadia NP. It was all set up in Garmin, which behaved strangely and refused to take some roads. No worries, we’ll just do it when we are there. But many of the roads are one-way. How on earth do we get onto them? We decided riding through a camping ground was both revolutionary and rebellious. Then a ranger appeared. The revolution petered out. Hello, how do we get onto that road I can see through the trees and rocks that are the natural prey of the adventure motorcycle? Oh, back out the way we came and 10 miles up to join it? Righto. Pause while staring at them and waiting for the “OMG, I recognise you! Because you are amazing people doing all 48 states, I can tell you that there is a track beside that huge rock that takes you onto the road. We have your photos in our church by the way!” Staring becoming a little creepy, maybe we’d better just do the 10 miles. Many of the roads here were built purely for summer carriage touring by the insanely wealthy, including J.D. Rockefeller, so adventure motorcycle capability isn’t required, and it is very pleasant riding, if a tad foggy.

North and east were now officially done. No more of either of those. South was a long time in the future. Which narrowed it down to west according to the cheap compass we were using. So west it was, to one of those random towns selected based on the following criteria:

• In the general direction heading, i.e. west-ish
• Big enough to have a craft brewery
• Well away from large suburban centres
• Roughly the right day’s distance, say >250km and <450km

Random town was Skowhegan. No clue about it whatsoever. Into the hotel, which used to be a woollen mill. One of those very modern places, huge open spaces, whole room for motorcycle stuff, lounge and kitchen area, first ever USA kettle, bathroom with sustainable organic eco-shampoo, and a bed used for polo tournaments on the weekends. And with the best view out of the window in our history.

Down to the very close craft brewery, we were escorted to an outside table. Where the view was even better than our room, overlooking a dam created to feed water through a paper mill. This was a seriously industrialised town, and highlighted a big difference between the USA and Australia – water. The USA has ridiculous amounts compared with us. But we have better beaches, so a draw.

Day 54 started with wishing we could stay a few more days, waking up casually, and looking out the window at the dam whilst in our pyjamas. But that isn’t motorcycling, which is waking up to the alarm at 3:30am, the Screeching Succubus the preferred iPhone alarm tone, doing maintenance from 3:45am to 5:45am, splashing water on the face and armpits from 5:45am to 6:00am, using the used maintenance rags to dry off, and hitting the road. West was the only option, but it was excellent, out in the bush and drifting roads through beautiful countryside. No distractions from motorcycling scripture allowed though, we needed to find coffee.

After an Aroma Joe’s, the motorcycling through Rangeley into western Maine was just fabulous. First nice roads, then a stop for a stroll to a waterfall, a chat with a seriously interesting family who actually had a van for off-road adventures, a rare thing in the US, and to top all that off the Bennett Bean covered bridge, which we were incredibly tempted to ride through but decided not to push the luck.

Then over the border and back into New Hampshire, where we had to once again decide whether to live free or die. Living free seems more convenient as you can change your mind, so we went with that again. Down past a huge lake and Berlin, not the more famous Berlin, and we ended the day in Gorham. There was a plan for Gorham, because it is close to Mt Washington, not the more famous Washington.

Besides Mt Washington, Gorham met all the location criteria including the craft brewery within a pleasant strolling distance. The only problem with craft breweries, beside the obsession with feeding you dinner before any other person in the western hemisphere gets theirs, is that they can be frightfully expensive, especially for the non-craft beer drinker. A glass of wine can cost US$12, or three-quarters of a million dollars Australian. A servo 0.5 litre box wine costs US$4. No need for anyone to do the math there.

Day 55 was a day off, so a casual breakfast rather than getting up at 3:30am. Then to Mt Washington, the summit a mere 15 road miles away. It costs US$36 for each motorcycle to go up, equivalent to 4.5 litres of servo box wine. Hard choices. A big sign at the start says it is steep, narrow, and without guardrails, and motorists with a fear of looking over the edge into a rock-strewn oblivion may not appreciate the experience. Neither of us bothered to read this, but one of us has a fear of looking over the edge into a rock-strewn oblivion. Going up was way worse than going down, simply because the US drive on the wrong side of the road, and the wrong side was the edge above the tree line. The day was perfect, so the cool embrace of visibility limiting fog was sadly missing.

Mt Washington is not very high, even our Mt Kosciuszko towers over it. But is in a position that makes the weather very cold and very windy. It held the strongest directly measured wind gust record of 372kmh from 1934 until a 1996 Western Australia cyclone cracked it at 408kmh. It also holds the US wind chill temperature record of -77.8°C, definitely time to put on a cardy. It was t-shirt weather while we were up there, so getting a photo at the summit sign was never going to happen with a huge queue snaking down the mountain.

Giving up on finding options for not riding down, we rode down. Some stopped for photos, some didn’t. Then one discovered that the traffic was moving so slowly one could take photos with one’s iPhone while rolling down the hill. Back to Gorham, a budget supermarket dinner and a servo box wine to compensate for the expensive craft brewery – Mt Washington combo rounded out the day.

Day 56 target was the Kancamagus Highway, because this is an awesome road through the White Mountain National Forest. Another big event this day, with all the zips closed, a neck warmer on, and a medium thickness waterproof pair of gloves chosen. Many people have asked me about choosing gloves, with many an estimate for maybe one person or perhaps no-one ever. But I believe you need to learn at least one thing per day so polish up the reading glasses and focus. I like to have 1 thing when it comes to motorcycling – 1 motorcycle, 1 riding suit, 1 pair of riding boots, 1 helmet. When the 1 thing wears out, I buy a replacement 1 thing. But 1 pair of gloves is an impossible pipe dream, because you just can’t wear Motocross (MX) gloves when it is freezing, or thick winter gloves when it is boiling hot. I ended up with 4 pairs of gloves for this trip. The original packed selection was 2 pairs; thick winter waterproof gloves, and thin but windproof gloves. Surely all climactic conditions covered. At the last second before we headed to the airport, I chucked a pair of MX gloves into the bag. Then I panicked and threw in a pair of medium thickness waterproof gloves with them. I suddenly knew how Imelda Marcos got started with the shoes. And as it turns out, at time of writing, I have worn the MX gloves out and bought another pair. And I’ve put the medium thickness waterproof pair on a few times in the morning, never on for a full day yet. So the 2 original pairs of gloves suitable for the entire trip have not yet been put on. Just like maybe 900 pairs of Imelda’s shoes, but we both still have time to wear them all. Anyway, back to motorcycling, we did the awesome roads through Lincoln and into the tiny town of Warren. Which had a Redstone Missile in the town garden. Another joy of the USA, this Redstone Missile carried a thermonuclear payload 250 times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb, but when it was retired, some bloke from Warren just bought it. Not sure how he managed to ship it home, presumably Two Men & A Truck or something, again this is the USA.

Over the border into No.32, Vermont. More spectacular riding with lakes and forests, we worked our way west. Vermont ain’t huge, maybe 100km across, so we didn’t spend a night there. But we did find the oldest service station bowser in the US.

The target for the night was back in New York, Glens Falls. We’d stayed here on a trip in December 2011, when there was snow everywhere. This time there was a blizzard of snow, but the type of warm liquid snow that finds its way into anything not zipped up. It was just torrential, with lightening and all the streets becoming deep river crossings. We made it to the hotel, and rode up the footpath to park on the red carpet under the marquee. The hotel staff didn’t care, it was a New Hampshire-level choice of Live Under Cover or Die.

Luckily it was a true tropical storm although we were way above the tropics at 43° north, and it just stopped as quickly as it had started. MX gloves wrung out, we checked in and hung everything up to dry. A craft brewery was conveniently in the hotel lobby, so we didn’t need to risk going outside. Day 57 the west commute continued, with the destination criteria used in full to target Hancock, just inside the NY – Pennsylvania border. This was a day of lakes, there are a lot of lakes in this area and many of them are water supply for the huge urban morass to the south and east. The lakes have very few public access points, but we did manage to find one.

A couple were the only others there, trying to put their large kayak back on their car roof. Having nearly died of hernia doing this many times, I offered to help. Then the conversation, he builds specialised engines for Japanese motorcycles and sends them around the world, he’d just sent one to New Zealand and was complaining about trying to get the gasket glue through NZ customs. Then the question – why on earth aren’t people allowed to swim in the lake? Giant Snapping Turtles? Answer – they do, but there are no lifesavers on duty in these areas so to avoid being sued if someone drowns, the county council put up the signs. No-one has ever been or ever will be prosecuted, it’s just closing a loophole.

Getting to Hancock was good riding, this region is fairly sparsely populated by north-eastern USA standards and the towns are small if staying off the interstates. It wasn’t too hot, but it was surprising warm in an area we’d expected the MX gloves to be retired. As usual the trip was about coming across interesting random things like the Warren missile, the USA is just full of them. Today’s was the Blenheim covered bridge, it had the second longest span of any single-span covered bridge at 64 metres, although there is naturally raging competition with other covered bridges and Blenheim claim that others were cheating and theirs was actually the longest. The 1855 bridge was surviving until 2011, when it was picked up and washed away by tropical storm Irene, allegedly sent north by another town with a slightly less long covered bridge. Blenheim re-built it exactly as per the 1855 original in 2017, just higher up from the river to cheese off the competing cover bridge towns, they ain’t getting this one.

Hancock was one of those fairly forgettable places, but the following Day 58 destination certainly wasn’t – Punxsutawney. I wasn’t a huge fan of the “let’s go to a place because it features in a great movie/TV show/song” and we’d probably dodged a few bullets and long days avoiding them. But it was within the criteria, so let’s do it. Again more off-interstate riding through nice countryside, but the MX gloves were on and all zips were open, it was still unreasonably warm.

So into Punxsutawney, staying in a hotel outside town near a big shopping centre. Which leads to another USA thing. In Australia, the rules across the country are generally similar, but the USA states have a lot more power and so every time we crossed a border we’d have to figure them out. The big one is marijuana, not at all interesting to us, but beer and wine also. In some states, every servo and supermarket and primary school tuck shop sells wine and beer. In some, only state-controlled liquor stores can sell it. In some, there will be wine and spirits outlets, no beer and nothing cold at all. Some states are like Australia, and if you are our age no-one bothers about ID, we could only be 21 if we were Benjamin Button’s relatives. But some have to record your date of birth with every sale, so an 80 year old bloke is at the counter proving to the sales girl that he is over 21.

A thing about Punxsutawney was I thought it was just a place and they’d made up the whole Groundhog Day thing for the movie. No, it is an actual thing that has been going on since at least 1886 on the 2^nd February. There is a group of old local blokes, they gather on Gobblers Knob on the day, and take Punxsutawney Phil out of his burrow. If Phil sees his shadow, there will be no early spring and 6 more weeks of winter. Given that they do this on the 2^nd February, it isn’t really surprising that Phil sees his shadow a lot more than he doesn’t.

And of course, ending with the map, which proves we are heading west.