Things Change, Plans Change….
The original plan was to make our way east to South Portland, Maine, then south through Massachusetts. However, Ross struggled with the discomfort he felt in his back. His bike tipped at a stop and he wrenched his back in keeping it up. The pain kept him up the first night of our trip. When he got out of bed, he recognized how difficult it would be to ride with the soreness he felt. He suggested returning to Binghamton to obtain his car and make the trip keeping the video equipment and luggage in his car. I felt reluctant about this at first but it made sense. He wanted to take the trip around the United States, like he did as a youth with his father, so it didn’t matter what he was driving and it would be easier to handle some of the logistics. So it was decided, instead of heading east to Portland Maine, I headed south east to Wawayanda State Park in northern New Jersey, while he returned to Binghamton to get his car. We would meet on Friday morning in Warwick, New York , a quaint, well groomed village bordering New Jersey. The shops in the village center were set close to the street, giving it an intimate feel, unlike the strip mall that lay just south of the village.
When I arrived at Wawayanda Park, I learned that campsites are reserved for large groups, and that because I was alone, I did not even meet the basic requirement of a group, let alone a large group. After all, a group is two or more people. Perhaps it was the despondent look on my face, or my desperate tone, but the office supervisor, a dark hair pleasant women in her early forties obtained special dispensation, by phone from some anonymous higher up, to allow me to remain for the night even though I did not constitute a group. A man in his later sixties, wearing an official state park employee green uniform, and a full head of white hair, gave me directions to the group campsite. It was at least a mile from the office and the toilet facilities, an updated prefab version of an outhouse was about a hundred yards from the site.
“Campsite number one” he said. He was stern yet jovial. I paid the fifteen dollars to sleep on the ground while he explained that the wash house, which consisted of a sink in a even more updated version of an outhouse was about four hundred yards from the campsite near the beach on the lake. A quarter mile I thought. Oh well I was tired and just wanted to set up my tent. As I was approaching the door, Mr Jovial told me to make sure I locked up my food in your car.
“I don’t have a car, I’m riding a motorcyc le” I said.
He paused, looked out the window and responded, “well then store your food in the bear box”.
I was suprised, “You have bears?”, I said.
With an, as a matter of fact tone, he said, “Oh yes, of course” .He paused, ” and if you see one, don’t look the bear in the eye, make a lot of noise and don’t try to run. They run thirty five miles an hour. You can’t out run them you know. They just come around and sniff around campsites, but if you don’t have any crumbs in your tent it shouldn’t be a problem”.
Now I’m thinking about the peanut butter stain on my shirt.
I left hoping, he just wanted to frighten me a little. After setting up my tent in a small grassy flat clearing, I took the four hundred yard walk to the bath house to get some water. It was more likely a half a mile, as it took me ten minutes to get there and I was walking quickly. I was on guar, looking into the woods as I walked. I met up with a the rental boat house attendant, Alex, who had just completed high school and had just enlisted in the United States Coast Guard. I asked him if I could use an electrical outlet to charge my cell phone. He agreed and after I obtained some water and washed up using the sink in the updated version of the outhouse , I stopped back at to the boathouse to wait for my phone to charge. He was there till six o’clock, giving it almost an hour an a half to charge. We spoke on an off while he went about his chores of cleaning up. He shared that he was on his school swim team and rarely lost a meet. I did’t interpet him as bragging in anyway. He was proud and rightfully so. He was a volunteer fireman and trained as an EMT, essentially making a very good candidate for the Coast Guard resc ue teams. It made good sense to me. He was leaving for basic training in ten days. He was an affable young men, but I couldn’t help think about Mr. Jovial’s warning about the bears, so of course I asked Alex.
“I’ve seen bears here a few times”, he said.
Just great I thought. He closed up the boat house and I thanked him for allowing me to charge the phone. I left to walk the half mile back to my campsite, among the bears. I tried reading on the table near my about to be infested with bear campsite, but the mosquitos chased me into my tent. Thus I read the National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Mid Atlantic States until it was too dark for me to read. Then I waited for the bears. The bears never showed up, but the thunderstorms rolled in and drenched the area. I remained dry in my tent, and the bears stayed away. I didn’t sleep well, yet I was grateful the bears stayed away.
In the morning, the rain had stopped and I managed to pack up the tent and get my bike loaded under relatively dry conditions. Just as I was about to get on the bike, a clap of thunder shocked the air all around me. The light was nearly blinding. I had no comfort in thinking that I’m getting on a iron bike under a set of tall maples with a light storming rolling over me. I had no idea where to go. Remain under the trees or stand in laughable small grassy clearing where I had pitched my tent?. Nothing felt safe. I got on the bike and left the lighting, the bears, Wawayanda Park and Mr. Jovial.
Ross and I met at the Shop Rite Store in the stip mall south of the village. He rode in his car dry and listening to the audio version of “E is for Evidence” a Sue Grafton novel, while I rode in the rain on the Electra Glide until we reached Newton, New Jersey on Rt 94. We stopped for coffee at a McDonalds and the rain stopped. As we were leaving Newton I saw a man, launching something from a small trebeche in his back yard. We stayed on Rt 94 and headed for Bel Air, Maryland, with an interesting stop along the way.