Chris and Ann
Heading west south west out of the campground near Littleton, MA. we knew we were in for a long day. The next campsites down the road were either too short a distance for a day's travel, or too far to get to before dark. The map told us that there was a youth hostel in Dudley, which is on the Mass./Conn. border. A hostel is not just for "youth" but any traveler seeking a roof overhead, and willing to share sleeping, cooking, and bath facilities. We've stayed in hostels before and have generally found them to be an enjoyable experience. However, in this instance we had no street address, no locator, nada but a phone number to call . Our plan was to start out and call around noon for directions. We broke camp at 8:00 which is a good start. The terrain became increasingly hilly. We found ourselves in low gear for long periods of time, as we inched our way up through the foothills of the Berkshires. In Northbridge, we started to encounter a bit more congestion, and "latte'd" up before tackling the hardest part of the day. We gave the hostel a call and all we got was an answering machine saying, "sorry, we're not home, but leave a message and we'll be sure to get back". That's all well and good, except that we have not figured out how to get a message on our borrowed cell phone, so there was no use leaving one for them. Alternate plan B was to call them from Oxford, the town closest to Dudley, and try again.
One climb begat another, and as the day wore on, we began to discuss our options. We called the hostel two more times but never got through. Finally, around 5:30 PM we found ourselves in Dudley Mass., on the campus of Nicholls College. We stopped and asked a number of people for directions to the hostel, but no one had ever heard of it, or knew of its existance. We had come to rely on the Adventure Cycling listings, but were beginning to think that this time, we were led astray. With daylight fleeting, and very tired legs, we need to revaluate our options, which by this time were poor and none. There were no hotels, B and Bs or campgrounds for miles. The campus police would not let us pitch a tent on the ball field. There was no park nearby. We either had to continue on and find a field or backyard to pitch our tent, or...well, there was no other option. With a shrug of our shoulders and a "what the heck, we've got nothing to loose" approach, we phoned the hostel one more time.
The bicycling Gods were smiling on us, because this time someone answered. "Hi, I'm Chris. Yes, this is the hostel...Where are you?...Nichols College?... heck, you're only a few miles from us. Let me give you directions." Matt listened carefully..."go three stop signs and you'll see Marsh Road. Turn there, and we're right up the hill." So off we went, flying down one of the steepest downhills of the trip, save and secure knowing that lodging was just down the road. One stop sign, two stop signs, and then...well, and then we biked another two or three miles and saw no sign of Marsh Road. In fact, when we stopped at an intersection to look at a map, we noticed that all the cars going by us had Conneticutt license plates, and the hostel was supposed to be in Massachuesetts. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and we had no idea where we were. People stopped and asked where we were going, and when we mentioned the hostel all we got back were blank stares. We called the hostel again, and got Chris back on the line. "What road are you on? Huh???????? Why are you in Conneticutt? Heck, you went the wrong way". Apparently Matt assumed that the directions Chris was giving him were for us to travel west, when in actuality, we had needed to backtrack 5 miles to the east, as we had passed the hostel two hours earlier and hadn't even known it. Exhausted and loosing daylight we weren't sure what our next move was, until Chris calmly said "Just stay put, I'll come get you."
2o minutes later, an old Chevy pickup came by with an elderly man waving at us. "Throw your bike and stuff into the back. My, my, it's a bicycle built for two. Her name is Olga you say? Nice to meet you." Olga was too long for the pick up bed, so we had to improvise. Mary Ellen rode up front with Chris, while Matt sat in the bed, hanging on to BOB and the panniers so they didn't fly out.
It turned out that Chris is a spry octogenarian who lives on a farm with his lovely wife Ann. It so happened that Ann was celebrating her 76th birthday on the day of our visit, and the next day was their wedding anniversary. Their farm sits on a hilltop with wide open views in every directions. They used to milk cows, but as Chris put it..."Now that I don't move around as well as I used to, I've given that up and just grow hay which we sell to the local horse folks." The hostel is in the old milk shed, and is something that they do on the side. They love meeting folks from all around the world, and sharing their special place on earth with them. They were kind, gracious, and unassuming. Because it was Ann's birthday, a number of visitors dropped by to wish her all the best. Chris had to take them to the barn to show them BOB and Olga and have us talk about our journey, but we felt that the real magic was in these two special people. Chris is well into his 80s, Ann is 76, yet they remain active, engaged, and obviously loved by those who come in contact with them.
Making that desperation phone call in Dudley paid off in ways we could not have imagined. Refreshed after a good nights rest, we headed out at the crack of dawn to tackle the hills of Conneticut. Right before leaving, John (Chris and Ann's son) was pulling into the driveway to do some chores around the farm. He asked us about our route, and when we showed him the map, he commented that we were going to see some big hills ahead, especially between North Woodstock and Stradford Springs. "Heck, you'll be going pass Bigelow Hollow" he said. Now, that's a hill. We had 30 miles of climbing and pedalling to figure out what he meant.
One climb begat another, and as the day wore on, we began to discuss our options. We called the hostel two more times but never got through. Finally, around 5:30 PM we found ourselves in Dudley Mass., on the campus of Nicholls College. We stopped and asked a number of people for directions to the hostel, but no one had ever heard of it, or knew of its existance. We had come to rely on the Adventure Cycling listings, but were beginning to think that this time, we were led astray. With daylight fleeting, and very tired legs, we need to revaluate our options, which by this time were poor and none. There were no hotels, B and Bs or campgrounds for miles. The campus police would not let us pitch a tent on the ball field. There was no park nearby. We either had to continue on and find a field or backyard to pitch our tent, or...well, there was no other option. With a shrug of our shoulders and a "what the heck, we've got nothing to loose" approach, we phoned the hostel one more time.
The bicycling Gods were smiling on us, because this time someone answered. "Hi, I'm Chris. Yes, this is the hostel...Where are you?...Nichols College?... heck, you're only a few miles from us. Let me give you directions." Matt listened carefully..."go three stop signs and you'll see Marsh Road. Turn there, and we're right up the hill." So off we went, flying down one of the steepest downhills of the trip, save and secure knowing that lodging was just down the road. One stop sign, two stop signs, and then...well, and then we biked another two or three miles and saw no sign of Marsh Road. In fact, when we stopped at an intersection to look at a map, we noticed that all the cars going by us had Conneticutt license plates, and the hostel was supposed to be in Massachuesetts. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and we had no idea where we were. People stopped and asked where we were going, and when we mentioned the hostel all we got back were blank stares. We called the hostel again, and got Chris back on the line. "What road are you on? Huh???????? Why are you in Conneticutt? Heck, you went the wrong way". Apparently Matt assumed that the directions Chris was giving him were for us to travel west, when in actuality, we had needed to backtrack 5 miles to the east, as we had passed the hostel two hours earlier and hadn't even known it. Exhausted and loosing daylight we weren't sure what our next move was, until Chris calmly said "Just stay put, I'll come get you."
2o minutes later, an old Chevy pickup came by with an elderly man waving at us. "Throw your bike and stuff into the back. My, my, it's a bicycle built for two. Her name is Olga you say? Nice to meet you." Olga was too long for the pick up bed, so we had to improvise. Mary Ellen rode up front with Chris, while Matt sat in the bed, hanging on to BOB and the panniers so they didn't fly out.
It turned out that Chris is a spry octogenarian who lives on a farm with his lovely wife Ann. It so happened that Ann was celebrating her 76th birthday on the day of our visit, and the next day was their wedding anniversary. Their farm sits on a hilltop with wide open views in every directions. They used to milk cows, but as Chris put it..."Now that I don't move around as well as I used to, I've given that up and just grow hay which we sell to the local horse folks." The hostel is in the old milk shed, and is something that they do on the side. They love meeting folks from all around the world, and sharing their special place on earth with them. They were kind, gracious, and unassuming. Because it was Ann's birthday, a number of visitors dropped by to wish her all the best. Chris had to take them to the barn to show them BOB and Olga and have us talk about our journey, but we felt that the real magic was in these two special people. Chris is well into his 80s, Ann is 76, yet they remain active, engaged, and obviously loved by those who come in contact with them.
Making that desperation phone call in Dudley paid off in ways we could not have imagined. Refreshed after a good nights rest, we headed out at the crack of dawn to tackle the hills of Conneticut. Right before leaving, John (Chris and Ann's son) was pulling into the driveway to do some chores around the farm. He asked us about our route, and when we showed him the map, he commented that we were going to see some big hills ahead, especially between North Woodstock and Stradford Springs. "Heck, you'll be going pass Bigelow Hollow" he said. Now, that's a hill. We had 30 miles of climbing and pedalling to figure out what he meant.
posted by Matt and Mary Ellen | 9:03 PM
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