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Covered Bridge "Who has never tasted bitter does
not know what is sweet." Near the town of Newry, Sunday River flowed unruffled and limpid beneath a covered bridge known as Artist's Bridge (in the state of Maine it is the bridge most painted by artists). This magnificent structure - an 1872 Paddleford truss - spans 87-feet. We stopped for breakfast under its cover, marvelling at its wooden peg construction. I dropped bits of cheese into the river, and watched as a dozen finger-sized fish darted in from all directions to nibble the offering. Upon entering New Hampshire, a state sign greeted us: Collisions with moose in New Hampshire: 211. "Wow!" I exclaimed. "That's a whole lot of moose!" "What do drivers think they are?" Sharon wondered. "Speed bumps?" "Only in Newfoundland," I replied. "Never a good idea to slap a moose." The Appalachian Trail intersected our route. "Want to check it out?" Sharon asked. "Maybe we'll see a moose." "Sure," I answered. "My legs could use a stretch." (Being chased by a moose does that.) We hid our bikes behind bushes, and struck out on the famed trail. Our brief portion presented us with a series of hummocks cloaked in immense stands of ghost-white birch. Devoid of leaves except for a puffy yellow crown, they imitated burning candles at a centenarian's celebration. After too short a distance, we forced ourselves to turn back. Just as in cycle touring, we'd found ourselves wondering: "What's around that next corner?" But lunch called - the mysteries of the Appalachian Trail would have to wait another day. "Let's eat at a nice restaurant today," Sharon said. "Aw, gee," I whined, backpedalling. "Do we have to?" "Yes, we do," Sharon declared. "We're out of stove fuel, anyway," she added. "Aw," I whined again. "Do I at least get to see what it looks like first?" My dislike of going into upscale eateries - and Sharon's insistence on them - was a source of friction. I didn't enjoy the restaurants because I felt grubby. (Worse, fancy-schmancy restaurants usually didn't serve biker-size portions and I often left hungry and feeling taken advantage of.) Sharon liked restaurants because she could relax, be out of the elements, and enjoy an appetizing meal we couldn't easily prepare for ourselves (cheese soufflés, even with Sharon's masterful culinary skills, were beyond the capabilities of a blowtorch stove). I suspect clean washrooms held an attraction, as well. I rode along, head down, not in a cheery mood. In Gorham, Sharon spotted a mamby-pamby restaurant. I groaned. Just by the outside, I could tell it was one of those places. Sharon cajoled. Still not happy, I reluctantly entered niminy-piminy and took a cushy seat, feeling as though I had to sit on the edge so as to not smirch the flowery fabric. With a frowny face I gaped around. The decor was much too posh for my taste. "Obviously," I griped, "they're spending my dollars on amenities other than food." (I preferred something similar to Coalmont's Heartbreak Hotel - where I knew the only things they spent money on were the basics. I tried to follow two time-tested observations when choosing eating establishments. One: Never eat at a place called 'Mom's.' Was she really that great a cook? Two: Never eat at a place that employs the word "grub" when describing their fare. Sorry, but 'pub grub,' or even 'good grub,' doesn't cut it for palatable chow.) A winsome lass appeared. I ordered the lunch special: 'American Chop Suey,' in hopes of a respectably large serving. When my meal arrived, I complained (after the waitress left, of course, like a good Canadian). Sharon squinted. "You're ruining my appetite." "That's a good thing," I shot back. "Look at the piddly size of this!" I pointed to my minuscule entrée. "American Chop Suey! Phooey! For plain old macaroni and hamburger, I'd think they could at least serve up a decent amount." I shoveled in my dainty portion in record time, then sat grumbling, complaining almost as cantankerously as my stomach. "When the waitress comes back," I whispered to Sharon, "and asks how I found my meal, I'm going to say, 'I lifted a mushroom, and there it was!'" "Don't you dare!" Sharon hissed. The waitress, wise beyond her years, never did come back. After 20 minutes, I rose and treaded to the till, paid and exited, my stomach still protesting its emptiness. Across the street, I spied a bakery with a promising name: Loafing Around. I strolled over and checked out their wares. They were more to my tastes. After inhaling half a dozen luscious cream-filled pastries I began to feel half-human again. "I hope you're satisfied," Sharon chided, still teed off about my boorish restaurant behaviour. Wiping confectioner's sugar from my lips, I muttered an apology. Hunger often elicited my less genteel qualities. We moved on to a hardware store, searching for Coleman fuel. When the fellow there discovered we were on bikes, and didn't need a whole gallon of fuel, he offered to fill our bottles for a buck each. Apparently I was still in my foul mood. "I'll think about it," I said. Sharon nearly died. "That's a good price," the proprietor said. "Go ahead ... look around. But most places won't even fill bottles." That was true. And it was a good deal. We left the good proprietor's premises. I thought about it for a full two seconds - realized the guy was right - and tried to send Sharon back in to do the transaction. "Oh, no," she said, shaking her head emphatically. "You're going back in there. By yourself." The owner was gracious enough to make good on his original offer (it would have served me right if he'd refused or upped his price). So, with two full fuel bottles - and my mood returning to a more normal level - we struck out toward Lancaster where we'd cross the yawning Connecticut River into Vermont. Cresting a long hill, a panorama of New Hampshire's Presidential Range in the White Mountains spread below us, rewarding our efforts. "Are you happy now?" Sharon enquired. "The view is free." I grinned. "Indeed priceless." |
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