ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
I stop in Milford for coffee and a Subway chicken sandwich. Sun shines. Woods fall back The country opens. Route 209 crosses Interstate 84. I ride the frontier of New Jersey. How many States have I crossed? This has been a journey of calculations - kilometers to miles, liters to gallons, distance into minutes - anything to pass the time while crossing the deserts of Argentina or Central Brazil, any distraction that took my mind off the pain in my butt. Next trip I will buy a custom saddle. Next trip? I'll be 76. What am I planning? I'm crazy...
Showing posts with label Delaware river. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Delaware river. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
SUNSHINE HERALDS A GLORIOS DAY
STATE PARK: APRIL 8
A barrier closes the road midway through the State Park. The detour winds through woods and a narrow valley. Trees part to a scattering of clapboard houses, a couple of churches, a jail - or perhaps a down-market holiday camp? The lane climbs again out of the valley before dipping to the river. Clouds break. Sunlight glistens on wet tar and on the clear waters of the Delaware. Joy is instant.
A barrier closes the road midway through the State Park. The detour winds through woods and a narrow valley. Trees part to a scattering of clapboard houses, a couple of churches, a jail - or perhaps a down-market holiday camp? The lane climbs again out of the valley before dipping to the river. Clouds break. Sunlight glistens on wet tar and on the clear waters of the Delaware. Joy is instant.
ROUTE 209
DELAWARE RIVER: APRIL 8
Cold, cold, cold. Yet the route is beautiful. The two-lane highway follows the wooded banks of the Delaware. Mountains rise to my left. Dressed in Spring-green this would be wondrous. Now the naked trees seem frozen in their stillness. Skinny branches drip at the border of a patch of bald plow. I stop a while, beat my hands on my thighs and watch two men cast for trout in clear waters. The fishermen wear waders; the river drags white water eddies round their thighs.
Cold, cold, cold. Yet the route is beautiful. The two-lane highway follows the wooded banks of the Delaware. Mountains rise to my left. Dressed in Spring-green this would be wondrous. Now the naked trees seem frozen in their stillness. Skinny branches drip at the border of a patch of bald plow. I stop a while, beat my hands on my thighs and watch two men cast for trout in clear waters. The fishermen wear waders; the river drags white water eddies round their thighs.
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