The ferry quit for the season without me
The plan was simple, which is how most of my plans start. Ride twenty-two miles down the east side of the river, cross on the little cable ferry, eat lunch on the far bank, and come back up the west side. That's about forty-five miles in total, flat, with the leaves at their best. I left at nine. It was 48°F, with a soft gray sky that never quite settled on rain.
The east road was lovely. The maples had gone orange all at once, and somebody had stacked pumpkins on a hay wagon with a coffee can for money. I kept the old steel bike in the middle of the cassette and let it roll. The tires were at 55 psi, a little soft for the road but kind to the gravel shoulders.
A chain across the ramp
At the landing a chain hung across the ramp, and a hand-painted board said the ferry was closed until spring. The last crossing had been the Sunday before. I stood there for a while, as though that would help. A heron on the far bank watched me without much interest.
The nearest bridge was eleven miles upstream, in the wrong direction. So I ate my sandwich on the ramp, looked at the water I wasn't going to cross, and turned around. I rode back the way I came, which meant I saw the same pumpkins from the other side and a headwind I hadn't noticed on the way down. The ride came to forty-four miles, nearly what I'd planned, just less clever.
What I'm keeping from it
- Anything small and seasonal, like a ferry, a farm stand, or a water spigot at the park, can be gone by late October. I'll ask before I build a route around it.
- A wind that pushes you gently on the way out will be waiting for you on the way back.
- An out-and-back isn't a failure. It's the same road, and it looks different in the afternoon light.
I got home a little before four with cold fingers and a good appetite. The ferry runs again in April, and I'm already a bit pleased about that.