UP THE CATSKILLS AND ALONG THE ERIE CANAL.
Now that the trees are bare, the terraced appearance of the Catskills
is plainly visible, and in climbing up by the new mountain road to the
Hotel Kaaterskill, along the northern slope of the Kaaterskill Clove,
one wonders at first why the numerous little houses scattered all along
up this Clove are not in danger of the catastrophe that befell the
Willey House in Crawford Notch, New Hampshire. The sides of the Clove
are as steep as the Notch, although not as high, but the rock formation
of the Catskills preserves these little hamlets. A landslide here would
have to go down a gigantic pair of stairs, while in the White Mountains
it would be like slipping off a gothic roof. Half an hour's rest was
sufficient after the tough climb of four miles up the gentle grade,
as they called it, of the new road. It was very steep all the way up,
and at places very dangerous, a single wire holding up a row of posts
which themselves seemed bent on going over, being the only protection
against a fall of fifty feet or more. I reached the falls in the rear
of the Laurel House just as the western sun was filling the Clove with
rainbows, and after convincing myself with some difficulty that the
whole mountain would not tip over if I stepped too heavy, I crawled
around the amphitheater, little by little, till the water came down
directly between the stairs and myself. The ice all around the pool
rose up very much like the crater of a volcano, down into the center
of which the water plunged from 150 feet above. While I was creeping
along backside of this ice crater there was a loud crack, loud enough
to be heard above all the other noises, and my feet went down about
three inches. A thin shale of ice under my feet had broken, that was
all, but my heart came up as my feet went down, and it remained about
six inches above its ordinary level for some time.
That night the lively conversation, accompanied by sly winks, and
short little words of the gouty but genial proprietor, J. L. Schult,
helped to make the evening pass pleasantly, especially when Mr. Schult,
of Dutch descent himself, would slyly refer to the Yankee origin of
his wife, a quiet, kind lady of Connecticut parents.
Sunday morning came off delightfully clear and cool, and after a ride
of a couple of miles by the railroad station and the lake, on one side
of which the ice still covered the surface while on the other side
buds on the trees were bursting, I reached the Mountain House and
sat down for a few minutes, but wishing to be alone crossed over to
the Pine Orchard Hotel. A few steps farther brought me to the Beach
House where, avoiding contact with people when Nature had so much to
say to me, I sat down under the shade of the Catskill Mountain House,
and for four hours was undisturbed as I lay there taking in the fine
view of the Hudson, the finest, I think, to be had from any of the
mountain hotels. If any one is puzzled to account for so many hotels
in this section of the mountains, he is no more confused than I was
when I had the same building pointed out to me at different times as
the Mountain House, the Pine Orchard Hotel, the Beach House, and the
Catskill Mountain House, but like the various officers which centered
in Pooh-Bah they are all one.
Celebrated as the Catskills are, Connecticut can boast of some hills
that out-rank them in one respect, and that is age. The Litchfield
Hills in plain sight across the river are not only the tallest in
the State but they claim to be about as old as the Adirondacks. The
river Saguenay has worn a wrinkle 1,500 feet deep down the face of
some rocks of the same age. But the Connecticut hills don't show
their age like that, old as they are. They were well along in their
youth when the rocks were born over which flow the waters of Niagara,
and the White Mountains, now both bald and grey, had then not even
been thought of. They were in the meridian of life when the Rockies
came upon the stage, and had passed that point long before the Alps,
Pyrennes, Himalayas, and the rocks of which the pyramids are built,
had risen above the surface of the ocean. So their real grandeur
consists, certainly not in their size, but in the fact that the group
of mountains to which they belong, the Laurentian range, as well as
the Adirondacks, has remained above the sea level longer than any
other land upon the face of the globe. Not once during this time have
they ever bowed to the god of the sea. They are not so pretentious
as some of their richer and more lofty followers, but in their ripe
old age the Litchfield Hills have acquired a weather-beaten and a
most enviable title to the first families of creation.
I understood from a wheelman that the coasting down the other side
of the mountains toward Catskill was fine, and to enjoy that was my
idea in working so hard to get the machine up, but the road was too
steep and rough and so all the labor was lost. Crossing the river
again at Catskill I rode on to Hudson by moonlight, and the next
day kept on, over mostly fine roads, through Kinderhook, where some
writers claim the identical "Sleepy Hollow" of Washington Irving is
located, to Albany. Washing off some of the dust and dirt I put on
a coat and went up to the capitol. Finding I was a stranger those
in charge furnished a guide, who took me all over the magnificent
structure. To give an idea of the cost of the interior decorations,
it will be enough to state that one side of the senate chamber is
covered with slabs of Mexican onyx, the cost of this room alone
amounting to over one million dollars. On the way out of the city I
stopped at the Albany Bicycle Club House, a large two story building,
situated on a prominent corner, with a fine lawn in front. The house
is nicely furnished, with all conveniences, but the club has of late
become more of a social than an athletic club. At Schenectady the
only glimpse I had of Jacob W. Clute, the active wheelman of this
thriving city, was through the cracks of the court-room door as
he was cross-examining a witness, but S. R. James, who has a large
crockery establishment here, mounted his tricycle and piloted me along
the sidewalks to the tow path. Mr. James has been at different times
president and captain of their club, and is a good-sized man of sixty,
with side whiskers and moustache.
On the tow-path, at last. A path nearly 300 miles long and perfectly
level for forty, fifty, and sixty miles on a stretch. How I looked
forward to it. How I longed to get to it. How I thought the hard work
was over when I reached it. What fun it would be to ride for hours
without a dismount; what time I could make. This and a great deal more
I had thought about, read of, and talked over. The great tow-path,
the bicyclers' paradise! Now I was there. Well, to state facts, it
is no path at all, it is a common highway, and a very common one too,
for everybody uses it. The soil is a mixture of clay and coarse, very
coarse, gravel. Round, loose stones filled the ruts and every part of
the road. The inside edge of the bank is cobbled and the outside edge
full of little cross ditches. Now, where was a wheel to go? Go in the
middle and the wheel would take a serpentine course; try to follow a
rut and the loose stones would throw the wheel in and out. The outside
edge was terribly jolting, the inside edge dangerous, for a variation
of an inch or two and the course of the wheel would throw a rider
into the mud and water ten feet below in the empty canal. But for all
that I tried the celebrated tow-path for ten, twenty, thirty miles,
and long miles, too. After bumping along for a mile or two I would
get off and walk. Then pound along for two or three miles farther
and dismount again, more to prevent the saddle from becoming ruined
than anything else, for even a Kirkpatrick's saddle couldn't stand
everything. Water is as necessary to a wheelman as to a locomotive,
and yet there was none to be had excepting at the lock-houses several
miles apart and then only in a well, down in some warm swamp; no
gushing little streams of sparkling, cool water, such as spring out
of the rocks and hills all along the regular highways. The only shade
was under the bridges that cross the canal at frequent intervals,
where a rider can sit down in the dirt and think how nice it might
be on the grass beneath the shade of a pine tree. No matter what part
of the road you took it required the strictest attention to business,
and after following a rut with every muscle hard and every nerve taut
for an hour or two, it became monotonous, to say the least.
The canal follows the south side of the Mohawk River and passes
through very few villages, while on the other side of the river are
many places, through each of which there must be a mile or two of
nice riding, yet I stuck to the canal on principle for six long hours,
and left it at Fonda for good. It may be, when the boats are running,
that the mules' kicking abilities are employed, when they slack rope,
in firing the million of round stones out of the road, and in that
way make the tow-path rideable, but if every mule on the line of the
canal had kicked me, personally and individually, with all four feet
and all on the same spot, I should not have been any sorer than I was
that night. The next day fifty-six miles were made with less labor and
decidedly more pleasure over the common roads than was the forty-five
miles the day before, and if the tow path was the only way to Buffalo,
the next train home would have had me for a passenger. All the way
to Syracuse the tow-path, from what I could see in crossing it, is
very much the same rough riding, and whenever anyone advised me to
take it to a certain place I writhed with pain at the very idea.
At Little Falls the West Shore double tracks, the canal, the river,
the four tracks of the New York Central, and the highway are all
brought into close proximity by the perpendicular ledges of rocks on
both sides of the valley, and the rocks along the highway and in the
river are worn and scooped out by action of the elements, very much
as they are at Diana's Baths, near North Conway. It is no uncommon
occurrence on the Central road to see a passenger train chasing and
overtaking a freight train, while a third train will scoot in between
the two, with a fourth train close on to them. There is nothing dull
about a trip up the Mohawk valley, even alone on a bicycle.
It is the general opinion that the mud this spring has been the
deepest of any for many years, some say twenty-five years; and often
I ride over places, now dry and dusty on the surface, that bend and
crack like thin ice. A wagon laid up beside the road, with a wheel
wrenched off by the deep hard ruts, or a place where rails and boards
have been used to extricate a mired horse, are sights of almost daily
occurrence. Once I passed a hole in the road where a fine pair of
draft horses were ruined. A week sooner and the roads would have been
impassable for a bicycle. Even now the ruts prevent any very fast
riding. The road scraper has only been used in a very few places,
and as the roads have become more dry and dusty the small wheel has
become more independent, going off to one side on little excursions of
its own, to the natural disconcertment of its rider. After traveling
over 400 miles I have had no tumbles, but as I was following a narrow
ridge between two ruts, a fly, about as large as the head of a pin,
flew into my eye, immediately enlarged itself to the size of a barn,
and the next instant I was in the dust. It takes the weak things of
this world to confound the bicyclist. The religious crank who has
painted the stones and rocks of Connecticut with warnings in regard to
the future life has been using the same means of conversion all over
York State, and in many places he has taken advantage of alarming
situations to enforce his arguments. For instance, in the Highlands
below West Point is a deep ravine, down the sides of which the road
winds and crosses a bridge nearly 100 feet above the river, on which
is posted a sign "dangerous." The bridge totters under my feet,
and right here, painted in staring blue letters are these words:
"Prepare to meet thy God," and "Repent now or you will go to hell."
The knapsack attracts considerable attention along the route,
especially from the dogs. Some only give a single low grunt,
while others of more sound than sense follow it for a quarter of a
mile or more; but every dog has something to say in regard to the
trip. Coasting down into Peekskill the knapsack was accompanied by
seven (actual count) dogs of various sizes and colors, some turning
hand springs, others whirling around within a very small circle, and
all performing some sort of gymnastic evolutions in front, on the side
of, or behind the knapsack, and each one displaying his vocal powers to
the best of his ability. Sometimes a dog of light weight and wit will
chew away at my canvas shoes while they are revolving on the pedal,
and another will tug away at my stocking while I drink at a well,
but constant exposure has so toughened my sensibilities that I can
walk along with the cold nose of a savage bull dog bumping against
the calves of my legs without a shudder.
Going from Ilion to Frankfort I had a lively brush with a horse car,
the highway and track running side by side, of such uncertain result
that the passengers became as interested in the race as the driver
himself. When passengers took or left the car the stops would give me
the lead, but then the driver would run his horse and leave me behind,
for the road was not the best, but I finally left them behind for good.
At Utica I met a dozen or more of the members of the bicycle club at
their rooms during the evening. The members are mostly young men and
nearly all riders, and bicycling has certainly taken a firm hold at
this place. Messrs. Arthur J. Lux and F. E. Manchaw were especially
friendly to me. But at Syracuse, where I stopped the next night,
the atmosphere is very different. With equally good roads, a larger
population, with club rooms, rent free, in the Y. M. C. A. building,
a beautiful structure in a city of fine buildings, with all things
seemingly favorable, the club hardly numbers a dozen lifeless
members. Will. H. Olmstead, the first bicycle rider in Syracuse,
a middle aged gentleman with a full black beard, kindly assisted me
with information. For six miles out of Utica the sidewalk is without a
single gutter to oblige a dismount, and at Syracuse there seems to be
the same regard for the personal comfort of bicyclists. That day I met
the first unpleasant treatment at a farm-house. Stopping for something
to eat, the farmer, who was coming in from the barn to dinner, said
rather sharply, "What do you do for a living." I told him what I was
doing. "Why don't you go to work and earn your dinner," said he. That
"riled" me a little, but I only said I expected to pay for what I had,
and had intimated nothing to the contrary. He softened perceptibly, and
as the savory smell wafted from the kitchen had increased my ravenous
appetite, I jingled the few coins in my pocket in retaliation, till
the crabbed old man actually smiled and invited me in, as cordially
as it was possible for one of his disposition to do. Then disliking
to beg and buy both I said so, and went a few rods to the next house,
where I could not force any money on the good woman for the bountiful
meal I had there.
I stopped for a meal at a way-side hotel, when, upon leaving, the
German proprietor, knowing of the intended length of my trip, said,
"Hold on one minute," and he ran back into the house. Returning
directly with a small business card three or four inches square, on
the back of which was a railroad map of the United States, in which
the State of Connecticut did not appear larger than the end of a lead
pencil, he said, "There, now, you go 'long, and when you come to a
road you just take out your map and there you are. You will have to
ask no questions. I am glad I thought of it." Thanking him, I went on.
Passing through places with such familiar names as New Hartford and
Vernon, by houses--built of small cobble-stones, the size of an egg,
laid in cement in rows like bricks, and arched over the doors and
windows, making a very pretty appearance--by cheese factories with the
accusing question painted in large black letters on a board nailed to
the whey tank, "Who Steals the Whey?" (every farmer helps himself to
enough whey to pay for the milk he brings, and it looks as if some
helped themselves to a little more), by acres of hop-poles already
stuck, by droves of mules all tied together, with an immense draft
horse leading them along and another bringing up the rear: genuine
horse guards, that trudged along past the bicycle without so much as
deigning to look at it, while the captive mules, the tow-path mules,
shied out at it; through Oneida Castle and through Auburn, where a
minstrel brass band marching through the streets and a knapsack and
bicycle going down the sidewalk gave the small boys and big ones, too,
for that matter, altogether too much to attend to just at dinner-time,
I finally came to the lake at Cayuga. Here a pleasant ride of half
an hour across the lake in a row boat made a very agreeable change
from the hot, dusty riding of the last three or four days, and then
on to Geneva for the night. Next morning a cold rain drove me into a
barn and finally into the farmer's house where I surprised the ancient
granger in the act of making up his weekly letter to an agricultural
journal. Here ends the second week of the trip.
Distance traveled during the week 288 miles; distance from starting
point 557 miles.