468miles, the Independence Long Run... part 2, the Fort

   I don't know if it was worth $95 when the bed leaned downhill on the off side and the carpet showed a decade of hosting travelers. We got in so late, it was this or the park bench out front. When we stepped out to assess the weather Sunday morning, another hot day, we saw four other motorcycles parked silently in the morning sun. Kewl, it's always good to see like-minded guests sharing the roof over our heads. After fumbling with saddlebags, showers and stretching (for me at least), we found a tourist map and mounted up for the leisurely ride to the Fort.
  The Sunday morning roads were empty and store fronts and homes were decked out for the day of national celebration. We wanted to avoid the parade and it's traffic, so choose the long way around the big town's Main street. It took a few tries to find the access road as we motored around back roads admiring 800 lb round bales of hay. 'Why can't I find any thing that good looking up home?' My driver was tuned into my longing and joked about towing one home... Spotting a small banner on a town light pole, we made a graceful lean right and turned onto the smooth black top that would take us to our point of interest. Immediately I was thinking, '...how come our roads don't look this good?' My biker man said it out loud, "...these roads are awesome..." "Yup, NY may be poor,  but they have great roads!" I was happy for the smooth surface and his eager hand on the throttle. We were flying  between the lane markings, making the flag snap behind my ear as I swelled with patriotic pride, '...it's the fourth of July; let's show her off...' In tune with my thinking, he would roil the throttle faster...until, there it was. A large sign indicating FORT TICONDEROGA; not too far away, sprawled a modest A-frame sign-board naming the 'Log Cabin Restaurant ~ breakfast was now being served'. We needed breakfast and it was right where we wanted to be.

   The long access road was smoothly paved and lined with tall hardwoods, mostly ash, framing the tunnel of green. Every so often a humble plaque or cobble-stone monument would stand to the left or right of the lane. Markers to remember the fallen soldiers, encampment areas, magazines in hiding. All among a youngish forest on good soils in a flattish plain surrounding the Fort. Trees intrigue me; this forest was maybe 70 years old, by my guess. Not so long ago, it was farmed, grazed as a massive pastoral apron to the great em-battlement. They would be able to see for miles with no forest to occlude their viewing. On the bike, with nothing between me and my five senses, I could easily imagine the historic scene. Only the sound of the loud pipes kept my imagination anchored to our present time. '...it's worth the trip just to see the lay of the land...' I thought as the images appeared before us.
 Rolling to a stop beside a picnic area already claimed by a pair of Harley's and their riders. A custom soft tail showing a lifetime of miles and a dresser with small American flags on the trunk. The riders looked old enough to have served in the military as they were covered in ride patches, insignia and club colors of their origins. Our massive flag raised broad grins on all three of them. We chatted about riding, answering their queries about the hassle  of the flag and it's influence on the drive as I attempted an ungraceful dismount, careful not to disturb the gallant banner. I had to remark with some sarcasm; "...who's idea was this anyway..." as I wriggled my right leg off the seat,  around the pole. "I don't see why you are struggling; it was your idea..." my biker man pointed out, in his understated Vermont-speak. He began to chuckle at my comical movements to dismount and the presence of spectators evoked my thoughts on the episode; "f _ _ k you, sweetie; I can drive and you can ride, you know..." The lady rider laughed and shared a quick story about her husband bringing home a puppy on his bike...Where ever we go, riders will have something to say, thoughts to share and stories to swap. We will never see them again but for a brief moment, we were friends in the journey. It's always a pleasure, even my very shy driver lights up at the chance to connect with other Harley enthusiasts. They mounted their bikes, we turned for the Log Cabin thinking about a good breakfast. Before us stood a stockade of sorts, a picket set far back from the west wall of the Fort. In the interior parade field, five empty flag poles stood at attention the late morning sun light.
 The specials sign at the doorway listed ham and eggs with fried potatoes on the side. Yum, that would hit the spot. We placed our order, took our number and found a seat under a fan. No ac here, it was very comfortable on this hot, muggy day. I would struggle in such heat, until we got rolling. When the heat impaired my balance and stamina to ride, I would soak my white shirt with cool water and let evaporation ease my heat stressed brain. My biker would smile and lament that it was not the front of my blouse. "you can't see me anyway, you better be looking at the road..." I would retort as I held on tighter to his waist. I felt blessed to have him in my life. He gets me; and is patient with my odd needs. This day would be one of those days.
  Breakfast devoured, we walked about the ample gift shop and found the entry to see the Fort. To my surprise, the sign said $15 per adult. '...seriously, just to go in and walk around, see some stuff and maybe watch them raise the flags...' Apparently, he was in time with my musings as he whispered, " ... do you really want to see it... I hoped it'd be $15 for both of us..." Knowing he would have paid if I'd wanted it, my answer was "no way, that seems kinda steep to me..." We excused ourselves, and walked outside, along the pickets and down to and old moat...Across the gray stone wall, they began to raise the flags with ceremony. The sound was fifes, drums and commands from a costumed re-enactor. We could only see the tops of their heads as flags rose to their perches. Ours still looked better and no one had to pay to see her.
Back at the ticket desk, a dozen tourists in new sneakers and fresh clothes had paid to see the historic site. My blood chilled as I wondered: " did our founding fathers intend that such national treasures be "private" ventures where only those with 'luxury' dollars would be permitted to see the very spot that the tide of the  Revolution turned in our favor? Lamenting the fees, we snapped some pics of the picket and walked away. My  humble green mountain man, remarked: "how can something that should belong to every American have a price on it to see? So only the rich people can go in, but a hard working tradesman like me has to walk away..." It reminded me of a statement made by a Bhutanise at the Tiger's Nest monastery in Bhutan. At 10,200 feet it was built as a tribute to a Buddhist monk. The views were beyond inspiring to the journalist who made the ascent. The kind citizen gave him these words: "In our most beautiful places, we build temples and monasteries and everybody goes there. In your most beautiful places, you build five star resorts and only the very rich can go there..." (taken from National Geographic Traveler July/Aug 2010, Boyd Matson)
   I am aware this facility is in peril due to lack of funding, that it crumbles by inches back to the earth. But still, $30 would pay for our fuel for the next 250miles. It just seems this is the kind of landmark our tax dollars should be supporting with gratitude. There must be some middle ground here...but then, Great Briton didn't think so 300 years ago either. For fascinating incite to the Fort, check out these links
http://www.fort-ticonderoga.org/ for the tourist story and visiting information; but for the most interesting background and photos, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Ticonderoga..
   We wandered to our waiting bike, strapped on our helmets, mounted up and headed for the east side of the lake. No more bill boards on smoothly paved roads.  The forth was in full swing on every mile. The smell of bar-b-q and corn roasting in backyards,  teased our noses and affirmed that all was well with this day of remembrance. We followed the land roads to Vermont and counted more acres of perfectly made round bales of hay...even the air felt different, we were heading home with miles to go...

hope you enjoy the journey.    luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this is an engraving of Ethan Allen demanding surrender of the Fort...

468miles, the Independence Long Run . . . part 1, NY

   It began with an innocent wish when my biker man asked, "...where would you like to go for the 4th?" My simple reply: "Everywhere." Two weeks later, on July 2nd, I had a plan. "...it's The 4th this weekend, let's put a flag on the bike and ride the roads..." I proposed with a timid gaze knowing most bikers don't like to 'distress' their chrome with accessories. My face broadened in a child-like grin when he promptly said "ok, why not?" I didn't say it then but, 'I wanted to mount the biggest flag the bike could carry without it hitting the ground.'
   Saturday morning, on an errand to the local hardware store, I discovered  the perfect flag. She was all cotton, Red, White and Blue with grommets for easy hanging. An unbelievably low price for July 3rd, at $5.95, my delight was only slightly dulled when I saw that our national symbol was made in China. At 5 x 4 foot and made of strong-enough construction,  I grabbed it and a wooden flag pole I hoped would be stout enough the handle the job. When I asked the store clerk "if it could tolerate the wind sheer at 70 mph...", he was silent at first. "Whatcha gonna do with it?" was his puzzled remark. "Mount it on the back of my sweetie's Harley for the fourth." I replied proudly.  He didn't just laugh, he chortled that back-country Vermonter way when he sputtered "...not likely..." I took it home anyway.

  My biker man looked it over, fetched the tools and pipe clamps he would need to make it happen. And he did; successfully adapting the pole's base end for a perfect fit and securing it tightly to the gleaming,chrome sissy bar of his vintage Harley. It looked good, seemed plenty strong with the lowest corner of the fabric missing the ground by an inch while at rest. Wow. It looked really good; the ultimate 'bling' on his spotless bike. We fastened the saddlebags and went through the pre-ride check list for our Independence Long Run, a 3-day weekend adventure. I was pumped, though swinging my leg over the back to mount my pillion seat proved to be a most challenging act in agility I no longer possessed. The width of the bags and the immovable flag pole proved to be a clumsy and comical recital for my coordination. An amusing scene repeated often throughout this ride. After two tries, I got the method down pat and with a tap on his shoulder we were good to go. We had only vague plans to ride the length of Lake Champlain, both west and east coasts, observing our nation's annual celebration of our Declaration of Independence along the way. It would be the first time either one of us would skip our home town parades. We were curious how other small towns would show their pride. Somehow, I expected it to look almost foreign by comparison. The adventure would prove otherwise.
   He asked where to begin our adventure and my sincere reply was anywhere. I did want to see Fort Ticonderoga though, since we'd be on that side of the Lake. Wearing my 'Doug for Gov' tee-shirt on the VT side of Champ's lake was a bit hot, but I had promised and so it made the trip in fine contrast to the brilliant flag. The smallest movement of our classic ride would unfurl the flag in all her glory. I would catch glimpses in his rear view mirrors and our traveling shadow in the late day.  A stunning display on a blue sky outing as we headed for the Lake Champlain ferry. I imagined how we must have looked to the world and wished for someone to snap a picture of this handsome turnout. My driver wanted to begin with the NY side in Plattsburg and follow rte 9 down, south to Crown Point and our destination,  the once mighty Fort Ticonderoga.

   On the hour long web of back roads to the boarding ramp, we got waves, honks and silent stares from folks along the way. We stopped at the Sand Bar crossing the Lake and he snapped a picture of me and his ride. His two "favorite girlz." The breeze off the water was enough to wave the light weight banner with elegance. I thought of how significant this Lake was in those historic early days of declaration followed by revolution. So many essential battles pitted and won by principled men with every thing to gain and even more to loose. I had to wonder, "why isn't more attention paid to Vermont's pivotal role in our nations's birthing?" I don't recall anything more than a passing notation in my American history lessons. Yet that war could not have been won without Vermonters and the scrappy battles fought on these waters.

   Picture taken, a beauty at that, we mounted up and rumbled to the ferry docks. The ticket seller was nice (from VT I'll bet), the ticket taker was hasty and curt (from NY I'll bet). By the grace of some angel, we were the last vehicle put on this ferry. Crammed into a dingy back corner, we would see nothing from our placement. We walked along the cars, pinched into the steel railing. Half way from the bow, my balance was shaky at best with soft swells heaving the boat. I'll take my picture from here. The ride was over in 20 min and the bike started easily announcing our landing in NY with a grand Harley entrance under a flowing flag dwarfing our bike. More people waved, beeped and gave us the thumbs up. My driver was glowing, any reservations about this holiday accessory were forgotten and he reveled in the happiness our vision gave total strangers.
  I felt equally pleased with our presentation. "This is way better than riding in a parade, and I've done many of them on horses. This lifts my heart. Thank you for indulging my dream." was my  gentle statement into his ear. He reached back and patted my left knee in his approval. Lifting his visor, he spoke over his left shoulder, "thank you for thinking of the best way to spend the 4th..." I thought of my motivation for this tribute. So much has gone ugly in America, it seems. Blunders in the world scene and deception in the Capital. I was beginning to feel disenchanted and depressed as an American citizen. So much angry talk filled the airwaves. But I wanted to believe that we could over come our national misdeeds, heal the blight of hideous deeds in the world; I needed to rekindle my faith in my homeland. My dream to fly this huge flag on a three day motorcycle ride was an affirmation to myself: 'don't  give up; each individual has the power to set the story right and re-balance this amazing experiment in democracy. One person, one vote; we each held the power to overcome the discord.' This over sized flag was my testament to this. Our vintage chrome pony was my instrument in this concert of color and loud pipes.  My biker man's kind heart made it possible to perform such.
   Pulling away from the ferry in NY, people honked and shouted out " Nice flag!". The bike purred her HD melody as we rolled through Plattsburg stopping briefly at the golf course that harbored our breakdown last summer. Not much action this year, we sported water bottles not beer on this shade break. The 'Doug for Gov' shirt was tucked away while in NY and we saddled up for this side of the Lake and the long run to the Fort. The NY landscape looked all together different up close compared to our long distance views across the Lake. It had better soils and little sign of the granite that Vermont lives with. The trees were tall softwoods, mostly red pines rustling in the sun. As we glided away from the defunct air force base marking the edge of the 'city' it became apparent that this side of the Lake, the Upstate of NY, the eastern fringe of the Adirondack Park, was poor very poor.  Only our most remote towns in Vermont might seem this forgotten, devoid of commerce and even community pride, but these places were like ghost towns. Victims of an Interstate highway that left them behind. It made me glad to live in the Green Mountains.
 Along the way, I wasn't fast enough with my camera to catch some of the extraordinary geological scenes. We spent much of the ride cranking at 60mph or faster once outside the villages. We went through a dozen small hamlets with the rare gas station as the only sign of a township. Probably there were actual towns, just not so much along rte 9. We investigated a couple NY state camp grounds along the Lake and spotted some familiar places found on the map. We took a stretch break at Ausable Chasms which, as an ancient natural phenomenon, was breath taking. The tourist development of it's existence was harsh to me, as it was hosting a tour of Canadians speaking Chinese who were more than willing to pay for the story. Though the building itself was large and uniquely retro in the Ralph Loyd Right kind of way, it was grungy and clammy from hundreds of visitors that day. There were no interpretive displays as to the history or formation of the impressive gorge. People had to pay for a guided tour to get that benefit. I was annoyed that a natural place was so commercialized and made to be like a bit of Disney World in these great mountains. Too often the awe of a place is lost in a packaged tour.  I walked away thinking out loud, "Why does everyone have to be entertained?" As I stood on the bridge over the canyon, I wondered at what the aboriginal peoples must have thought of this place; what reverence did it hold for them? With his hand on shoulder, it was time to pour myself back onto the bike with an ungraceful reach across my seat and continue the south way down the lake side. I would  need a better camera to capture the scenery as I missed many remarkable scapes.

  Three more hours would roll by easing us into the lazy afternoon and the first sounds of backyard fireworks. The flag continued to fly in all its glory. I, on the other hand, was wilting. The Low Ride is a fun Harley. Smooth and nimble on these winding wilderness roads. But the pillion seat, though plush for it's small size, was not very supportive for such long, hot miles. It was not a touring bike.  I was squirming in my skin and my driver knew it. He stopped and we found a dinner as we rolled into the area of Ticonderoga NY. An excellent fish dinner in the tidy campish eatery refueled my resolve to continue. That and the adjoining motel was sold out; all three rooms. We had to go a ways for the next bed.  We at least got directions to the Fort, about 45 minutes away he thought (as the crow flies, maybe). The young, handsome waiter must have meant NY minutes as it took a full hour just to find Crown Point, the actual home of the Fort. With the hazy pink sky behind us, we pulled into a gas station and fueled our empty gas tank. Good timing is better than money when one is a long way from home, we needed to find sleep. We entered the store(?) to pay and get directions to a motel, any motel. The attendant was a young, busty girl seated on a tall stool behind bullet-proof glass. '...don't see that in VT...' I thought. She spoke to us, all of us as it seems several people needed directions for their next stop, through a hole in the glass. She expertly directed all parties to the places they sought with confidence in her accuracy. My partner smiled and remarked quietly to me that "she just saved all our asses and she is only getting $8 an hour..." We found our motel and overpaid for a mediocre room just so I could lay my aching, sunburnt body down. 'I will remember sunblock for the next time...' A few wimpy fireworks filled the night air as we drifted into dreams of our day's long run on the west side of this historic Lake.  Tomorrow we would divine our way to the Fort on the 4th, find breakfast and cipher the way through the maze of small town parades we would find in VT... morning would come too soon and part two of the Independence Long Run would unfold by the mile...
thanks for coming along... luv, peace, ride ~ ell

learning and living dreams....

 Every four weeks or so, when I remember to phone,  our horses need their hooves to be trimmed. One of the most amazing designs of nature is a horse's hoof. It appears to be hard and invincible, until you get stepped on or take a swift kick, but really it is a living, organic piece of nature's finest engineering, when it is properly maintained. We have been shoeing horses with steel, hoof shaped plates and specialized nails since the time of the Romans. I have paid thousands of dollars, to shoe many dozens of horses through the years in this expected norm.
 Horse hooves never stop growing and require skilled attention when the ground they tread upon is too soft to wear down the resilient structures  appropriately. In Vermont, it's often soft going on our green pastures and too many horses spend too much time in softly bedded stalls. This puts us in the precarious position of trying to mimic nature's work in the care and keeping of horse hooves.
  Here at INFINITY FARM, where we have assisted many awesome brown horses, we have provided a practicum for several apprentices in farrierey over the last twenty years. That is, our abundance of horse feet from orthopedically normal to the maladaptively bizarre, has been a fabulous class room for women and men just getting started in their vocation with hoof care. It was and to some very small degree, is a wonderful place for such a person to come and learn their craft in a forgiving and grateful environment. These horses are easy to handle and well mannered for the farrier. They are patient to a fault, despite their racing roots. Mistakes will happen as an apprentice struggles through the physical and cognitive applications of their trade. We don't mind. Hooves grow, and never stop. Most errors will grow out and provide an invaluable opportunity for the green tradesman to learn what not to do. Benefits blossom as the novice skill set is not yet rigid with habits for the aspiring farrier and creative solutions spring forth to every one's happiness.
  Our current farrier came to us, like all the rest, by social accident. I met her at a restaurant where I over heard her conversations with the customer she was serving. She was enthusiastically explaining how she was waitressing only to pay the bills as she learned the art and science of 'natural balance' hoof trimming. She "needed more horses to practice on..." That tweaked my ear and I slowed my walk to listen to this conversation. She was young and fit and presented a convincing case for natural balance trimming to a table of tourists who likely couldn't appreciate her vigor. But I could; we had been without a farrier for several months and so I tapped her shoulder to interrupt. Her long, ebony braid swung around smoothly as she met my query with a broad smile.  I recognized her from other horse works and we struck an immediate bargain to come 'practice' on the rescued race horses at our farm.
 Her first visit was exceptional from minute one. Though her novice tools were less than professional, her strategic workmanship was amazing. Our first horse was a young gelding with a blown out knee. This healed with a malformed joint and made it nearly impossible to properly trim his hoof for the horse's comfort. She took a long look, studied all sides of the too long hoof, evaluated his range of motion to lift it for her work. "Yup. I think I can fix it." I was ecstatic for this wonderful horse. We used a 50# salt block to hold his hoof in his comfort zone so she could ply her 'magic'. Half an hour later, with detailed narratives of the orthopedic science and equine physics of movement,  he had a new, normal looking hoof! Now for the other 3, all done with equal precision and in site. "She will be a great farrier" I thought as I encouraged her through every phase of the reformation to normal hooves. During rest breaks, it would take many of these early on in this physically demanding work, she would share her passion for horses, their minds, their feet. She would exude her joy in the work in her hands after years of searching for that calling of what her life's work would be. Not breeding horses, nor training them. No showing or vetting suited her quest for practical science in the keeping of horses. It was their hooves, those miraculous wonders of equine mobility. The uniquely equine anatomy that makes it possible for them to gallop at breathtaking speeds with nimble course changes and aires above the ground as they defend their being.
  Her dedication is reaffirmed with every hoof she holds. As months went by and her skills became honed, she worked with other veteran farriers and learned what she would or would not do in her practice. Evolving into natural balanced shoeing, she sent herself to an intensive, residential school at a ranch out west. She returned with confidence, skill, and conviction in her craft. She has become an accomplished journeyman with a professional's complement of tools. She will achieve mastery and someday teach others what the hundreds of horses she attends will have taught her. It has become her life's work, a Ministry to her, a blessing to us.
   For my part, I have witnessed one more apprentice, answer their calling, hone their craft, and live their dreams... INFINITY FARM ~ learn, grow, live...come visit some time; bring carrots.
luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this one is for them that learn their dream and live it...