There’s No Place Like Home

Harriman State Park – Sidney, NY, via Fallsburg

During my first year of college I used to get pretty homesick. I didn’t know anyone at first. It seemed like everyone else did. And it felt like half the kids at school had fancy cars and loved flaunting them. In other words, I missed home.

I missed it so much that it was actually a big deal to me when – among all those New York plates – I saw a Minnesota license plate – as if the mere sight of such a plate somehow brought me closer to the Land of 10,000 Lakes. 

So it was interesting when we finally arrived back in the States – and found that plates from the Empire State were the new welcome mat. Indeed, we’re no longer snot-nosed college kids. And it turns out that our “home” isn’t just Minnesota anymore. It’s a whole lot of little things . . .

• Like the call of a pileated woodpecker. 
• Like the mixed forest foliage that you only find in that broad swatch of the Earth that stretches from eastern Minnesota through to New England. 
• Like the sight of woodchucks, and skunk and porcupine road kill along the road.
• Like rock-strewn lakes and streams. 
• Like the deer – so many deer.
• Like State Parks with spacious grass fields for the tents, and real, honest-to-goodness fire grates – with firewood available for the collecting.
• Like the people – fellow Americans – we meet along the way. 

Don’t worry – I’m not going all xenophobic here. It’s just that I guess I didn’t even realize how much I missed talking to people who share a common history and culture. 

Let me give you a few examples . . .

The storekeeper in Woodburne – who was originally from India but has lived here for nineteen years and is now a U.S. citizen, with kids who were born and raised in America. He went on and on with fun information. We eventually asked what he thought of Trump. He demurred at first, but later came back to this:

People are tired of sending aid to foreign countries. People from these rural areas come into my store – and they say: ‘Look at us. We’re not doing well. We need aid.’ Why would we send tax dollars overseas to solve other people’s problems when we have our own problems here . . . People can send their own money to these places if they want . . .

Interesting take. Especially, I thought, coming from someone who is first generation from India.

Then there was the campground host we met at the Neversink River Campground last night. 

After a big (really big) day of biking, we arrive late in the day. Biking into the “campground” there is but one sign: “RO (with an arrow pointing to the left).” (Still not sure what that meant . . .) There’s some type of building that looks a little bit like a store on the right – but it’s closed. On the left there are a few “homes” – they’re not mobile homes but they have that feel – in various states of disrepair and with stuff everywhere. After a few minutes of confusion, a gruff man comes out of the first house.

Diana: “Is this the office?”

Gruff man: “What office? (Looking at Diana like she’s a moron)”

Diana: “The office for the campground.”

Gruff man: “You might find someone over there (pointing at the next house).”

We head over there and knock on the door. After a minute an elderly woman answers.

”Yeah? What do you want?” (Not exactly a hearty welcome . . .)

”Umm, wondering if you have a campsight for tonight?”

”Do you have a reservation?”

Diana steps in: “I called you earlier today.”

”But do you have a reservation?”

”Well, no, I didn’t make a reservation. But I actually called twice.”

”So you don’t have a reservation?” She’s starting to close the door . . .

”Umm,” I say. “Could we get a campsite?”

She is now totally disgusted: “You’ll need to fill out the form. And it’s $50 – cash only!”

She let’s us in . . . reluctantly. 

FOX news is playing on the giant flat screen tv. 

Every bone in her body is letting us know that we are not welcome in her house. 

Diana tries to break the tension: 

Pointing at a deer head mounted on the wall she asks: “Did someone hunt that deer?”

”What do you think? Yes, someone shot the deer . . .”

Still trying: “Was it a whitetail deer?”

We ended up getting a campsite – and, I guess, a little piece of Americana . . .

Then we met Peter this morning . . . 

We’re at the Robin Hood Diner. Peter, who is, I guess, our server, tells us the place is a genuine New Jersey diner, and was driven to its current location years ago. 

Peter’s father is the third owner of the diner. He purchased the place in 1981. Peter was born in 1985 and grew up with the diner, but is now a shop teacher at the nearby high school. He’s not working today because today is Rosh Hashanah, and he has many Jewish kids in his school so it’s a day off.

We ask whether the sausage is good. Peter points at his ample belly and says: “Sure, it’s good. Where do you think this came from? It’s certainly not from being on a bicycle’

Peter hears about our trip – and our recent adventure in New Jersey – and tells us that New Jersey is basically a hell hole. It really bothers Peter that both the Giants and the Jets actually play their games there. I point out that maybe he should be a Bills fan – because they’re actually a better team. (This is part of what we share: I can’t tease Europeans about their football or rugby teams, because I don’t know anything about them . . .)

We ask Peter – who is one of the chattiest people I have ever met – about the Hasidic Jews in the area. There are tons of them. Or, rather, in the summer there are tons of them because there are about a million Jewish “camps” in the area. 

Peter takes a moment – he obviously has something to say on the topic – but he basically tells us he’s a little uncertain as to what to say because he doesn’t know us real well. Eventually he tells us that they don’t frequent the diner. They don’t pay taxes because the “camps” all have temples on the grounds. 

Then he goes on . . . 

They marry in the synagogue, so they are married before God, but they don’t marry officially – so in the eyes of the state they are not married. But they have lots of kids, and, because they’re not married, they collect WIC and Medicare and the works. Oh, and the best part: they rent their apartments from their husbands using section 8.

Now, you can quibble at some of the sentiments expressed, but, at least with the shopkeeper and Peter, these are fun Americans – and they are expressing their views respectfully. Even the crazy campground lady was probably someone’s grandma . . .

Almost forgot . . . Remember how I love pancakes? Peter’s father – who still owns the diner – made some pretty mean hotcakes. 

Okay – that’s enough flavor for the last few days. 

The riding has been awesome, and hilly, and difficult, and a little rainy – all rolled into one. 

Poor Jon. His first big trip. All his biking and training are in the Big City – so there are no hills at all. And then the last three days: 

• Day 1 out of the City – 3,000 feet of elevation; 
• Day 2 (yesterday) – 5,000 feet of elevation and about 66 miles;
• Today – 6,400 feet of elevation and almost 70 miles. Maybe the second biggest day of the whole trip.

Anyone who says the Catskills aren’t a for-real mountain range is crazy!

But Jon has been kicking butt. Which is even more impressive given his bike: Cannonball. 

That’s its name. 

It’s an “Ozark” – so it’s from the same basic part of the world as Old Dan and Little Ann. It’s a $250 gravel bike that you order from Walmart. I must say I’m pretty impressed by it. It’s actually a real bike. But it is a bit heavy. And Jon didn’t pack super light. Upshot is that his bike does amazing on big descents – like a cannonball – but it’s maybe a little tough for climbing. 

But whatever. Jon has been cruising. Maybe it’s the sheer beauty of this area – complete with near-peak fall colors – that is propelling us all. I don’t know. But it’s been pretty darn amazing riding.

Tonight we’re staying in Sidney. No – not in Australia. Don’t get excited. It’s the New York version. Which is fun – because we knew at least three people in college who grew up in this little town. 

Tomorrow – on to Hamilton and Diana’s cousin, Carolyn, and Carolyn’s husband, Chris. Carolyn has promised to make us Chinese hot pot. I’m pretty excited about that . . .

And then we push on to Fairhaven – up on Lake Ontario. This is a late change. No more Ithaca – because Diana’s high school friend, Katrina, has invited us to stay with them. Also excited about that.

Life is good. We were nervous about this phase of the trip – but so far even the worst hills we’ve seen since Colombia haven’t been too bad. And, after all, with good pancakes around we can pretty get through anything . . .