Across the border to Magog, Canada

June 8, the last five miles to Canada wound me through a residential area, onto a rail trail, ending with more road until I ran into the border.  Essential I paralleled the border, being careful not to accidental cross over by accident (big fine and maybe jail time).  Good talking with the border police, answering the standard questions about having firearms, reason for coming to Canada, how long, etc..  Fifteen miles down the road led me to Magog.  Plenty of hills contrary to the flattening out I been told about. Car drivers just don’t grasp the fact that every hill takes effort to bicycle up. Flat are the Salt flats of Utah and in the northeast and Canada there is no such thing as flat, at least for us bicyclists.  Thinking I could escape from the never ending hill, I took the green bike route west, recommend to me by the locals. Big mistake, forget about a rail trail, it wound up and down taking on a circuitous route that got me totally lost. Four miles of torture ended me up at the same intersection, totally disgusted. Once again the locals gave  a bum steer. Annoyed, I pedaled
west another fifteen  miles.  I rolled into Eastman pretty much toast.  Fortunately, three woman in bikes greeted me at a gas station I stopped. They led me down a lake side, FLAT, bike path to another picturesque campsite. Claire, the camp do everything person, checked me in. She led me to a idyllic spot by a gorgeous lake where I threw up my tent. Asking if I could buy a beer some where, she offer me one after showering down. Being an attractive woman perhaps a few years younger, it was nice sitting with her on a outdoor chair for two. The local brew she offered me was deceptively strong to the point that I stopped half way through the second beer as I began to slur my words.  In fact, she saved me by taking the beer from me. I drifted back to m tent and crashed for the night..  One interesting note about all these campsites is that most of the RVs are permanently left on site  by people who are longtime summer tenants. Some have been there up to forty years! Tenters like me are the exception, if not an oddity.  Privacy is critical because of the regulars’ curiously. Someone crawling into a small tent, having ridden in with a fully loaded bicycle, is way beyond their comfort zone.