Day 2. Conway to Orford, NH. 77 miles.

STILL HOT! Ugh. It got up to 90˚ today. Better than 93˚, but not much.

The started beautifully, after a lovely muffin and coffee from the Conway Quicki Mart (or whatever it's called). The first 7 miles were up a little used road that parallel the state highway (on the other side of the Swift River). Lovely start to the day.

Covered bridge over the Swift River on Passaconaway Rd.

The first order of business was to be Kancamagus Pass, the highest on the trip. I figured doing first thing, when it's relatively cool and I'm relatively fresh would be a breeze. Oh I could have used more breeze. The first 18 miles were great. Either gradually up, or even stretches of flat. But the last five were serious mountain pass action. I was able to do it in middle chainring/easy rear cog, so not nearly my easiest gear (which was lucky, because I couldn't get the front derailer to pull the chain onto the small granny gear.) But it was a long slog. And pretty darn warm. The views were great, and the ride down the other side was outstanding. Three miles of 9% grade, followed by 9 miles of steady down, to Lincoln.

Crossing the summit after a long climb.

I learned that people take offense when I insult their towns (see my discussion of Ohiopyle, PA), so I won't insult Conway. But I could. But Lincoln was better. Seemed more vibrant. Maybe it's just more touristy. And it had a McDonald's! I installed myself and started drinking diet Cokes. I also had a Filet O Fish sandwich and a blizzard or flurry or flizzard or whatever they call them. I felt rested and refreshed when I left. And I hadn't looked at the elevation profile on my route guide, so I was able to kid myself that it would be mostly flat to North Haverhill. I mean, it looked like it went along a river . . . that could be a nice meandering river valley, couldn't it?

Not quite. This not-called-a-pass pass was shorter than Kancamagus, but significantly steeper. And hotter. I was suffering, at least until I managed to bend the front derailer and rediscover my lowest gears. That was a relief. But this "pass" was perhaps even more spectacular, since it goes up the flank of a nearly 5000' mountain, which is big around here. (Mount Washington, the highest in these parts, is 6200 or so.) This pass was where the Appalachian Trail crosses the route, after it goes over said 5000˚ mountain. That must be quite a hike.

From the top of the not-pass, I could see that the sky was darkening. I knew that there were storms moving through the area as a cold front moved in (please!), but there was no way of predicting when that would be. So I set out at the beginning of the day and hoped for the best. So there was the ominous sky in the west, obviously moving my way. Could I make to to North Haverhill before the storm did? I gave it my best shot. 

It was lots of downhill, of course, as I descending into the Connecticut River valley. Not all downhill, however. There were a few nuisance climbs as I wound around for the final plunge.

I had about 13 miles to the "town" of North Haverhill, which my route guide promised had full services.  Figured I'd be safe there. So I hurried. The storm hurried. I hurried. The storm hurried more and won the race. I was one mile short of "town"  when it hit. The rain came a pummeling down, and I needed a place to hole up. And there it was! The sheltered side of a bus repair service garage. Just an overhanging roof, really, but it was enough for me. I cowered in the shelter and watched the storm rage. Not a lot of wind, but lots and lots of rain. Copious amounts. Torrential amounts.

It did let up, and I did venture out, hoping to find a place to sit and ponder my next move. I didn't find it. Just a convenience store. I bought orange juice and was on my way. Maybe the rain was done.

Not.

Why did I hole up during the storm? As I was riding south toward the only port in the storm, The Pastures (odd name) campground, the sky opened up again.

By the time I arrived I was totally soaked. But I have to say, that last 15 miles in the dusky rainstorm along the Connecticut River was very pleasant.  It was a blessed relief to be cool (if wet). When I rolled in to The Pastures, the nice owner charged me only $10 and said I could pitch my tent under the pavillion, a covered area that is used as a little performance space in summer (complete with glitter ball!).

So as the rain pounded on the metal roof of the pavillion, I set up my tent, using chair legs instead of tent pegs. It was perfect. All of my clothes (at least what I had been wearing) were soaked, but my tent and sleeping gear were dry.

The Pastures was a typical private "residential" campground. Lots of parked RVs, many with decks, most with party lights, serving as summer homes. But why there, on the not very beautiful banks of the Connecticut River in a not very beautiful campground? Don't get me wrong: It was a typical private campground of its sort. Perfectly usable restroom, quite nice showers, but not where I'd want to spend my summer.

I went to the "store" up the road and bought their finest baked beans. (Actually, I bought Campbell's, instead of the much better Bush's) and a 24 oz PBR. Cooked it up on my little alcohol stove, went to bed dry and happy. Luckily, my air mattress made the hard wood floor of the pavillion as soft as a feather bed. (I always sleep very well in my lightweight mummy bag on my full length Big Agnes air mattress. Highly recommended.

So what did I learn on this day? I can ride the mountains, but I don't like heat. My little clown bike (OK: Bike Friday, New World Tourist) rides great. It even carries quite a heavy load in panniers.

I didn't learn this today, but I remembered it from previous trips: I don't like that feeling at the end of the day of not knowing where I'm going to sleep that night.  To be honest, I was hoping for a cheap motel, where I could dry off, drink PBR, and watch TV. The Pastures was fine, I slept great in my tent, but it's not exactly getting out into the great outdoors.

So in this way, the shorter days that Jon prefers are ideal: You set a modest goal, and when you get there you quit. None of the end of the day scramble for a place to stay and its nagging anxiety. You go 50 miles and you stop. But that's not in my nature.

 I know that I could always do a Ken Kifer and stealth camp, but that just doesn't sound fun. I admire Ken Kifer's style of bike touring, but it's not for me.

Really, what I like about these trips is the biking. Camping is fine, but it's hard to call it camping when you're in a pitty private campground surrounded by party lights and satellite dishes. I enjoyed going 77 miles today, over a couple of whopping passes, and being in the middle of the beautiful White Mountains. Perhaps I should just do loop tours through beautiful areas: Green Mountains, Adirondacks, Rockies, Cascades, staying in Inns and motels at predetermined distances. Hm.