The final day
We woke up in Millinocket, Maine and ended up in Waterville Valley, New Hampshire. In a somewhat cruel way, the weather that last day was simply gorgeous, what a football announcer (I am thinking Dick Enberg) would describe as a “classic New England fall day.”
I was glad to leave Millinocket. It was depressing and, I think, the way a lot of small towns in northern Maine (and elsewhere) are going to end up (many are already there) – no jobs, high crime, lots of drugs and people who have simply given up. It is true that the Great Northern Paper Company has recently re opened up one of its mills, employing 200 people, but this town used to have 7,000 people working in the mills. The lumber “harvesting” remains, yet, tragically, most of the trees that are cut are actually shipped overseas to be milled and then many are returned to the United States to end up at a local Home Depot, not far from where they were originally cut. Something is very, very wrong here. I am sad that we have essentially given up on the Millinockets of America. As my Dad used to say, the local economy is now based on people “just taking in each other’s laundry” and that cannot last too long.
Controversy about what to do with Great Northern Woods remains. Some wealthy “out of staters” have bought up large tracts of land, refusing access to snow machines, ATVs and hunters. There is a movement to have the federal government buy much of the land owned by the seven largest paper companies that clear cut large sections of the woods, and then convert most of the area into a National Park. Locals hate the idea, arguing that it would shut down what remains of the logging industry. But those jobs are falling with more efficient machines that do the tree cutting. So would there be more jobs if we left the forest alone and brought the tourists in? Would they come? It’s a long way away, but a truly beautiful area. I tend to side with the locals but I also understand the environmental degradation that occurs from clear cutting. No matter what, this beautiful place seems to be dying. The people here are scared and they are scared for good reason.
We headed out on the motorcycles toward Skowegan. The intercoms were working well which was not the case for at least three days. Readers of this blog might wonder why the intercoms were so important. First, there is the safety factor. Since I always go first, it allows me to relay critical safety information to protect George (“Pick up truck ahead with rifles in the rack; proceed cautiously;” or “Crazy teenager I just passed in ’82 Omni, smoking and texting”). But mostly we just talk. I have never been able to talk to someone for an entire day and say basically nothing of import. I don’t really remember what we talk about; I am the recipient of a large number of unprovoked insults but there are also the occasional recollections of life events from George, some of which I would say are thoughtful and even moving, but those are rare. But there is non stop talking. That’s what George is good at, I tell him, “you just have that talking thing down really well, so you just keep at it with that great personality of yours.” He finds those statements really funny.
I was anxious to get home because I really missed Celia and my kids were going to be in Boston, so I know we were going to have a long day. I wanted to see Celia when she got back Saturday morning. George wanted to stop around 12.30, to nurse his aching back and hip (I was not in good shape either; everything seemed to be aching), but I cajoled him onward, with promises that we would stop in Berlin. At about 260 miles we actually made it to Berlin, the largest town in Northern New Hampshire. Nice people, but, like Millinocket, a dreadful economy that will hopefully improve when the new federal prison gets going. Still, it is only a matter of time.
There were few motels in Berlin and we did not feel comfortable there. We went back to Groveton, where there were a lot motels, but they were all booked. We went to one of my favorite places, Twin Mountain and the same story there. It is starting to get dark. Our only alternative was to “book it” to Waterville and, since George does not do interstates and he has an irrational fear of going through Franconia Notch, the only alternative was to head up Bear Notch Road from Bartlett and onto the Kangamagus Highway to Lincoln. He is not happy that we have not found a cheap motel and a bar to meet the locals (not all of whom appreciated George’s shtick on this trip, particularly up in Canada where he made little effort to speak their language).
Those last hours were the most spectacular on the entire trip. It is simply impossible to describe how beautiful this region of the White Mountains is. While it is almost dark in the valley, the top half of Mt. Washington is ablaze with sun. I figure that if we can get to Bear Notch Road, which has an elevation of about 500 feet, it could get lighter as we go up the Kank (as it is called), which peaks at about 2,200 feet.
I am right. We are pushing the bikes hard around twisty Bear Notch Road because it is no fun to driving a motorcycle through moose country at night during rutting season and it is sort of fun to see how fast you can take the corners. I have to admit that George is now really good on the bike. He is safe and under good control but he no longer uses the blinkers or let the cars pass him in no pass lanes. He keeps up.
We don’t even stop for gas and George is really running on fumes. We hit the gorgeous top of the Kank at sunset and are in Lincoln around 6.30. Because it is now dark and because there is much better visibility on the highway, in terms of moose and dear, George agrees to take the interstate for twelve miles and we are back in Waterville by 7pm. 330 miles. Easy to do if you are on the highway; much harder if you are going through the secondary roads of Maine and New Hampshire.
We both agree that this was the best trip. They are all fantastic, but this was the best. No days off, 1,300 hard miles through four days of completely cold, wet, windy and miserable of weather without we don’t see a single other motorcycle for six of the eight days. People can’t believe that we are in this region in this weather. But the adversity made it fun. This was not Mt. Everest, but it was a real challenge. We (or I) got to speak French and there was that first day when George got to fall asleep under a tree and I got to drive 80 miles to find a tool to fix the motorcycle. I think we both thought that there was going to be a good chance that the trip would end on that first day, but, miraculously, it did not. That made it even more special.
As always, it is the chance to spend eight challenging days with a good friend that makes it an amazing experience. Our friendship has evolved. George has taken to calling me “Jack,” as in “Let’s go meet the locals at that bar, Jack.” For the first time, he also addresses me with a more profane salutation, that will not be repeated here. But it is all hysterically funny and we laugh until our stomach hurts so much that we just have to stop. These trips are special and important for me and I want them to go on. Whether our shared physical deterioration can match our ardor for such adventures remains to be seen. We both could probably use surgery to address infirmities in a combined total of approximately five different joints. But as long as I have the patience to wait for George while he ritualistically tucks his gloves in into his motorcycle jacket (this OCD behavior occurs regardless of the weather) and as long as extra strength Tylenol and Advil remain on the market, these trips will likely continue. So good bye for now, dear reader. I will probably be writing to you from Norway next year. I hear the roads ice up in October.
-Eric
- Posted from George's AT&T
iPhone
