(Not) Camping, Still Riding, Day 2

February 8, 2023

A really enjoyable outing, and a truly Good Day all around

THE DAY BEGINS WELL, and ends better (at least insofar as the cycling part is concerned- the rest hasn't happened yet but let's assume it will go well too). Having seen to the usual morning necessities (coffee, breakfast, second breakfast, and more coffee), I check the current weather conditions to see how the day may shape up. The weather's looking good for a mid-morning departure and, since I've decided to take on the hilliest of the routes I've planned for this outing, it seems foolish to squander it.

Dressed and out the door a bit before 10:00 my first task is to get to the actual ride start. I planned the route based on the assumption that I'd be starting from my campsite but since I'm not there I need to cover the two miles or so to get to it.

That's easily accomplished, but in so doing I become aware that yesterday's ride took a bit of the shine off my legs. Certainly the past three or four months of "living well" have also done their bit, eroding my fitness level and simultaneously expanding my waistline. So there's that, but of course it's precisely to combat those sad facts that I'm out here.

From the campground there's a short stretch, maybe a half mile at most, along the shoulder of U.S. 15 before I reach the turn that will launch me on the first long climb of the day. Later in the day U.S. 15 will be very busy but at the moment it's not bad. The shoulder's plenty wide, too, so there's no real concern in my mind about the traffic whizzing by several feet to my left.

Still, I'm glad to make the turn onto Catoctin Hollow Road even though it means I'll quickly find myself in granny gear. Before that happens, I pass three volunteers doing roadside trash pickup. "Good on you" I tell them, and they give me cheery greetings in reply. One of them hints that I have an uphill battle ahead of me, which is hardly news to me.

The road follows a wooded ravine, closely paralleling a small, splashing, rock-strewn mountain stream. Here and there I see homes tucked away in the woods, as well as the southern boundary of the state park. It's trout fishing country and, despite that I am going upstream and uphill, very pleasant.

I don't think "Raceway" means a competition of speed in this context.

Nope, it means "Here be small trout, raised to be released into the stream across the street."

Trout fishing country. Good cycling too, as long as you don't mind a bit of a climb.

Appearances to the contrary, You Are Not Alone.

Taking my time (what's the hurry, after all?) helps me stay "within myself". There are opportunities to stop for photos every now and again, too, so I'm not burned out and gasping before reaching the final hill crest.

The hillside is strewn with rocks and boulders, on their way down to the stream bed. They're the product of millions of years of erosion, from mountains that flanked a range that rivalled the Alps at its... errrrr, peak.

The empty road climbs steadily up the east side of the ridge. I climb too, albeit somewhat less steadily.

Part of the route is along an unpaved section of road but that turns out to be a total non-issue. It's very hard-packed stone dust and fine gravel, almost indistinguishable from pavement and in far better condition than some "paved" roads I've been on elsewhere.

I'm on the east face of the ridge, and there's evidence that it's been cold here recently. A few patches of snow remain in shaded spots along the creeks, and the road's wet. Since it hasn't rained, I conclude that the moisture is from the meltoff of overnight frost.

I seem to have been somehow transported to the Pacific Northwest. How and when did THAT happen, I wonder?

Someone's spent a lot of effort and taken a lot of trouble to construct this fence made of fallen branches. I wonder why?

There are still small patches of granular snow in shaded nooks along the sides of the stream.

I'm never sad to reach the top of a climb, and today's no exception. The road rolls along easily for a couple miles then turns and plunges down the west side of the ridge. The road's narrow- not even wide enough for a center stripe- and of course there's the odd bump or two to get my attention. Sight lines are also pretty limited, going into curves. Having acquired a habit of caution, I moderate my speed somewhat more than a more daring and competent rider would feel necessary.

Almost before I see her, a white-tailed deer skitters across in front of me, tail waving in alarm and consternation at this crazy figure on a weird contraption careening down "her" hill. She's far enough ahead of me that there's no danger of my hitting her, but I'm reminded that I'm in deer country and they often travel in groups, so I'm suddenly alert and on the lookout in case she's got friends nearby.

It's the first real test of Serenity's disc brakes and they pass with flying colors. I'm far more confident in them than I ever was with the rim brakes on Odysseus. So, that's another indication that changing bikes was a good move though in truth that's a conclusion I reached after just a few minutes with Serenity.

A small scattering of graves alongside the road. A family plot, presumably. There are more of these out here than I'd have guessed, or expected.

A nice collection of farm buildings tucked into the landscape. I speculate as I ride past that the humble log cabin might once have housed the household servant(s) or possibly a field hand, and that they'd almost certainly have been slaves. But I don't know that for certain.

At the bottom of the descent I'm deposited onto Wolfsville Road, and turn to begin the northward leg of the loop. I'm now in the valley, and the landscape's more open. The late morning sunshine feels good on my back, and the road is completely dry although I can easily make out where vehicle tires have been. They leave stripes in whatever had been applied to the road surface to prevent icing, or perhaps in overnight frost now vanished.

Along Wolfsville Road there's a stand of these trees (sycamores? I think) that runs for a half mile or so right along the roadway, forming a picturesque border. There are others set back from the road in small clumps, too.

A very well-kept stone house, quite typical of the area, stands watch over the landscape.

The road undulates and wriggles along the edge of the valley, gradually gaining back some of the elevation I just finished shedding. It's barely perceptible but after a while I become aware that I'm reaching the point where a prolonged break would be welcome. Plus, I've emptied my first water bottle so it's time to switch to the secondary.

Before I find the right moment- something in the sun but sheltered rom any breeze- a better opportunity presents itself: a small country gas station and store. I treat myself to a Payday bar (the "poor man's PowerBar") and a Coke and refill the empty water bottle with Gatorade, which will be welcome on the remaining part of the ride. Sitting inside the warm and cozy store, I relax for a few minutes as an irregular stream of customers comes in and goes out. The woman operating the cash register gives each one a cheery greeting; I presume she knows them all and that they're locals and regular customers.

She's accompanied by a silent, heavily bearded older gent with a vaguely dour expression on his face. When I come in I am given a once-over, expressionless glance that leaves me feeling I was something between barely to be tolerated and outright disliked. I'm probably wrong in that but it's funny how those impressions are so quickly (and probably baselessly) formed.

Having finished my break, I feel adequately refreshed and ready to carry on. I've only got fifteen or fewer miles left to cover, and a big fraction of that total will be downhill so I'm confident of finishing relatively comfortably and not absolutely shattered.

Salem United Methodist is my first church of the day, nearly 20 miles into the ride. It's taken from a weird angle because I was trying to exclude from the photo the inevitable power and phone wires that run in front of it.

Another fine old stone house, across the street from the church in "downtown" Wolfsville.

It occurs to me as I continue making my way around the loop that although I'm climbing almost to the same height as I did on the east side of the ridge, this time it's over a greater distance so the grade's gentler. It's also more stair-steppy. Those nearly-level interludes provide some recovery time, though in truth I'm not in significant distress on the steeper pitches, just slow.

I'm still open to stopping for photo opportunities, too, when they present themselves.

The stone walls separating these fields have doutless stood for a long time.

This must've been an impressive tree. There are parts of it still in place where it grew around the overhead wires.

Once a humble home, now an even more humble ruin.

Advertisement for a local produce vendor, at the end of their driveway.

The Garfield United Methodist church, a decidedly more modern structure than many (most?) of the country churches in the area. I didn't check but just judging by the size of the field of graves and the number of stones, I bet there's been a church on the site for much longer.

I eventually reach Mount Bethel United Methodist church and stop for the photo. I decide to take my final break and wander into the churchyard, which is also the cemetery.

Mt. Bethel UMC. The stained glass has a theme of "let the little children come unto me"

Looking at the gravestones it occurs to me that I might have a look to see whether I can get an approximate handle on when the congregation was founded. I find several that date to the early 1880s and a few from the 1860s. There's a marker for a member of the 12th MD Infantry; its style is consistent with those officially provided by the Army to its Civil War dead (or surviving veterans, at the time of their passing) but I can't make out the date of death so I don't know whether the occupant died during the war or later.

Many graves at Mt. Bethel UMC date back to the early 1880s, and a few to the early 1860s.

Remounting after my small foray I glance at Ride With GPS and am delighted to discover two facts: I have less than ten miles to go, and I've reached the crest of my last climb of the day. It's downhill, at varying pitches, all the way back to the hotel. Woo hoo!

Less than a half mile from the church my attention is caught by another small burial plot. This one appears to be a private, family plot. The oldest stones date back to the 1870s and 1880s, and tell a sad, sad story.

It's divided into two areas, presumably two brothers and their respective family lines. Looking at the markers I see repeated tragedy and sorrow in both branches. On one side lie a father and his wife, in a corner spot. To their left are the graves of four children, none of whom lived to be a teen ager and some who died before reaching their first birthday. The death dates of the children (at least those I can make out) are about two years apart.

To the right of the parents lie four more small stones, each of which is inscribed simply "INFANT". What hardship and loss those people must have felt and endured to lose seven children, four of them not having lived long enough to even have been given a name.

Mama and Papa in the corner, flanked by the eight children they outlived. The row of small stones marked simply "INFANT" was especially and terribly sad to see.

In the adjoining corner, more evidence of untimely deaths and tragic losses.

The other branch seems to have suffered a similarly melancholy existence though I choose not to examine their markers as closely, feeling somehow that I've intruded on personal, private tragedy and grief long enough, perhaps too long.

Back on the saddle I reach MD 77, which is one of two main roads that carry traffic over the ridge and down into Thurmont. It's been recently repaved so the surface is excellent and, because of its importance as a significant trafficway, the lanes are wider and sightlines better than the very small roads I've been on for much of the day's ride.

There's also more traffic of course, but a "Share the road with bicycles" sign posted at a spot just a few yards from where I turn onto it gives me heart.

Confident that I'm well within my rights to do so I begin a long, sinuous, exhilarating plunge back down the east side of the ridge, sometimes nearing or exceeding the posted 35 mph speed limit. There's no shoulder and the guard rail is right at the edge of the pavement, so I take the lane and use it to its full extent where I need to.

Aware that I'm building up a string of vehicles in my wake, I pull to the inside of a 15 mph hairpin bend where there is actually a bit of shoulder, and let the accumulated traffic past. I'm rewarded with a gentle tap of thanks from the horn of the truck that's leading the procession as he sweeps by. Moments later there's a turnout into a small parking area that allows a repeat, and I'm again given an appreciative toot from another truck that goes past.

All too soon the fun comes to an end: I've reached the bottom of the hill. Recognizing the name of the street my hotel is on I depart from the planned route and turn into a residential area before reaching U.S. 15 and make my way to the hotel, about a half mile. I'm smiling and in an excellent mood: the ride's gone really well, I love my bike, the weather's still perfect, and what's better than a fast, fun descent to finish the day?

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After a shower and some journal writing it's time for an early dinner. The motel has provided a list of locally owned eateries, so I select one just a quarter mile down the hill and walk over.

It's a small pizza joint with a wide variety of other options as well, casual and inexpensive. It's not immediately clear to me whether I'm expected to order at the counter then sit, or should I sit first and have my order taken?

I ask and am instructed to sit. Another patron, hearing the exchange, remarks "This must be your first time here." I affirm that to be the case and she assures me "This is the least expensive place in town, and the food's good too."

My waitress must be from around here: I am immediately addressed as "Hon", which is as Maryland as it gets. She's attentive and the food comes out quickly: two more bonuses. When she brings my check she makes certain I've taken my credit card back: she doesn't want anything left behind if it can be avoided.

As I eat it's soon apparent that my fellow patrons are regulars here: the waitress remarks that they didn't order their chips as usual and the regular notes that they've changed brands. They also let her know they'll be gone for a month, so don't look for them.

I enjoy the next half hour as a steady stream of customers come for carryout and dine in meals. There's a lot of chitchat and banter between customers, and between customers and restaurant staff. It's an altogether homey, relaxed, familial place and suits me well. I'll eat there again sometime, but probably not this trip. Of the six pieces of my "small" pizza I've only managed to eat two, giving me opportunity for cold pizza breakfasts for the remainder of my stay this time around.

Today's ride: 31 miles (50 km)
Total: 155 miles (249 km)

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Charmaine RuppoltYou had lovely warmish weather for your ride yesterday! It was 64 or so at my house in Hyattsville. Great idea that you had to take advantage of the weather! :) :) If you ever are in want of a bike travel companion, let me know, be it a trip near or far. You and I have similar biking styles - - to stop and take pictures and take in whatever scenery is before you. :)
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1 year ago

Keith AdamsTo Charmaine RuppoltYou're on, friend! I have several tours in mind for this year, some short and local some longer and farther afield. No international trips, though.
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1 year ago

Bob DistelbergGreat photos, and looks like a great trip so far.
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1 year ago

Keith AdamsTo Bob DistelbergThanks Bob.

The scenery here isn't as spectacular as elsewhere but it's got a modest beauty of its own.

I'm glad to have taken advantage of the opportunity for a few days of cycling. That's a rare thing in February in these parts.
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1 year ago