Chapter 3: Through New England and the Mid-Atlantic
From Bar Harbor, Maine to the Potomac River — autumn in New England, foliage, history, and urban edges.
I arrived in Bar Harbor, Maine, aboard the ferry from Nova Scotia and began the long roll south through New England. Autumn was beginning to take hold. The air had cooled, and the forests were tipping into gold. I moved through Acadia and along the coast, then turned inland through central Maine—familiar territory with new gravity beneath the wheels. I rode through towns, past places, and along roads where pieces of earlier chapters in my life had unfolded. The route here felt personal.
Before continuing south, I paused in Scarborough—base camp for Climate Zero, the home of a close friend, and the place I had staged the journey north from weeks earlier. Returning here wasn’t just logistical. I needed rest, gear rebalancing, and time to reflect on the scope of what lay ahead. The northern arc was behind me, but the true descent had barely begun. I would leave Scarborough knowing each mile ahead pointed toward an impossibly distant destination: Ushuaia, at the bottom of the world.
Southbound again, I rode to Salem, Massachusetts, just north of Boston—a city I had visited countless times as a child by commuter rail from the suburbs. But this time would be different. From Salem, I approached the city not by train, but by boat, boarding two commuter ferries that carried me first across the harbor into Boston from the sea, and then from the city to the south shore where I resumed my bicycle tour. For the suburban kid I once was, this journey within a journey reframed a familiar skyline and marked my final check-in with my parents in Massachusetts.
Over the next several days, I worked my way steadily west. Eventually, from the Connecticut River in Springfield, I began to ascend into the Berkshires, a gorgeous green belt of weathered and worn mountains, dotted with small towns, bakeries, and farm stands that seemed to belong to a slower, older rhythm, when priorities included tradition and proximity. From the Berkshires, I crossed the New York state border and into the neighboring, equally lovely Taconic Range before beginning my descent through enviable countryside towards the Hudson River.
Crossing the Mid-Hudson Bridge at Poughkeepsie under a sky of layered clouds, I watched the water move far below. There’s something about encountering a river like the Hudson—grand, historic, ancient—that always compels me to pause—an involuntary stillness, as if the river itself insists on being acknowledged. That moment of recognition seems to open something deeper. The river’s presence alters perception—slowing time, drawing the senses outward, asking nothing but attention. I give it willingly, letting its timeless migration move through me in stillness.
From the west bank of the Hudson, I turned south, downstream, toward New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I picked up the Wallkill Valley Rail Trail just as the skies began to darken again. Though Tropical Storm Lee was long gone, early autumn brought another round of heavy rain and wind—enough to turn packed gravel into slippery lines of soaked earth. I pushed through, pausing under bridges where I could, sweating under my rain gear but focused. Still, even in the worst weather, the Wallkill River and its autumn canopy offered moments of beauty and reflection.
Southward into New Jersey, the terrain began to shift. Hills appeared again, and towns grew closer together. I moved through a mosaic of rural patches and suburban sprawl, finding rail trails, shoulderless roads, and often, unexpected kindness. Between the Hudson and my campsite just short of the Potomac, I crossed over many rivers—each distinct in shape and sound. The Delaware came first, wide and familiar, followed by the Lehigh, and the Schuylkill, each offering a moment of pause. The Susquehanna came later, its scale unmistakable, flowing strong and broad beneath the Walnut Street Bridge in Harrisburg. These crossings were more than landmarks—they were meditative interludes, framed by fall color and shifting weather. Pennsylvania opened before me, and I made my way toward the Delaware and Lehigh Trail, hugging the canal, pushing west and south.
By the time I was approaching Allentown, I’d woken up several times on a deflated air mattress—despite carefully patching many leaks using my father’s bathtub during an earlier visit. I spotted Easton Outdoor Company from about 20 miles out, racing the clock to reach it before their 5 p.m. closing time. I made it just in time, bought a new mattress, and found a place to sleep that night above the Lehigh River, not far from its confluence with the Delaware.
The night before I reached the Potomac, I camped alone in a patch of forest above a small tributary. A hay field and a road were not far away. I crossed the hay field quickly and disappeared under trees that shaded the bottomlands above the river. I pitched my tent under the largest one, out of view and settled in, my latest campsite at the edge of rural America. That night, a procession of animals visited—raccoons, deer, and something heavier I never identified. I lay still, listening, reminded of the living world just beyond the fabric of nylon and mosquito mesh. By morning, the fog had lifted and the trail called again. I walked down to the riverbank, washed my face and hands in the cold water, and brewed a large cup of coffee. Breakfast was my usual: oats, nuts, and dried fruit—simple and sustaining. Then I packed up camp and rejoined the road.
Not long after departing camp, I reached the Potomac and the C&O Canal—a ribbon of dirt and abandoned canal infrastructure that felt both still and ancient, offering a hushed threshold into what came next.
Before continuing south, I paused in Scarborough—base camp for Climate Zero, the home of a close friend, and the place I had staged the journey north from weeks earlier. Returning here wasn’t just logistical. I needed rest, gear rebalancing, and time to reflect on the scope of what lay ahead. The northern arc was behind me, but the true descent had barely begun. I would leave Scarborough knowing each mile ahead pointed toward an impossibly distant destination: Ushuaia, at the bottom of the world.
Southbound again, I rode to Salem, Massachusetts, just north of Boston—a city I had visited countless times as a child by commuter rail from the suburbs. But this time would be different. From Salem, I approached the city not by train, but by boat, boarding two commuter ferries that carried me first across the harbor into Boston from the sea, and then from the city to the south shore where I resumed my bicycle tour. For the suburban kid I once was, this journey within a journey reframed a familiar skyline and marked my final check-in with my parents in Massachusetts.
Over the next several days, I worked my way steadily west. Eventually, from the Connecticut River in Springfield, I began to ascend into the Berkshires, a gorgeous green belt of weathered and worn mountains, dotted with small towns, bakeries, and farm stands that seemed to belong to a slower, older rhythm, when priorities included tradition and proximity. From the Berkshires, I crossed the New York state border and into the neighboring, equally lovely Taconic Range before beginning my descent through enviable countryside towards the Hudson River.
Crossing the Mid-Hudson Bridge at Poughkeepsie under a sky of layered clouds, I watched the water move far below. There’s something about encountering a river like the Hudson—grand, historic, ancient—that always compels me to pause—an involuntary stillness, as if the river itself insists on being acknowledged. That moment of recognition seems to open something deeper. The river’s presence alters perception—slowing time, drawing the senses outward, asking nothing but attention. I give it willingly, letting its timeless migration move through me in stillness.
From the west bank of the Hudson, I turned south, downstream, toward New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I picked up the Wallkill Valley Rail Trail just as the skies began to darken again. Though Tropical Storm Lee was long gone, early autumn brought another round of heavy rain and wind—enough to turn packed gravel into slippery lines of soaked earth. I pushed through, pausing under bridges where I could, sweating under my rain gear but focused. Still, even in the worst weather, the Wallkill River and its autumn canopy offered moments of beauty and reflection.
Southward into New Jersey, the terrain began to shift. Hills appeared again, and towns grew closer together. I moved through a mosaic of rural patches and suburban sprawl, finding rail trails, shoulderless roads, and often, unexpected kindness. Between the Hudson and my campsite just short of the Potomac, I crossed over many rivers—each distinct in shape and sound. The Delaware came first, wide and familiar, followed by the Lehigh, and the Schuylkill, each offering a moment of pause. The Susquehanna came later, its scale unmistakable, flowing strong and broad beneath the Walnut Street Bridge in Harrisburg. These crossings were more than landmarks—they were meditative interludes, framed by fall color and shifting weather. Pennsylvania opened before me, and I made my way toward the Delaware and Lehigh Trail, hugging the canal, pushing west and south.
By the time I was approaching Allentown, I’d woken up several times on a deflated air mattress—despite carefully patching many leaks using my father’s bathtub during an earlier visit. I spotted Easton Outdoor Company from about 20 miles out, racing the clock to reach it before their 5 p.m. closing time. I made it just in time, bought a new mattress, and found a place to sleep that night above the Lehigh River, not far from its confluence with the Delaware.
The night before I reached the Potomac, I camped alone in a patch of forest above a small tributary. A hay field and a road were not far away. I crossed the hay field quickly and disappeared under trees that shaded the bottomlands above the river. I pitched my tent under the largest one, out of view and settled in, my latest campsite at the edge of rural America. That night, a procession of animals visited—raccoons, deer, and something heavier I never identified. I lay still, listening, reminded of the living world just beyond the fabric of nylon and mosquito mesh. By morning, the fog had lifted and the trail called again. I walked down to the riverbank, washed my face and hands in the cold water, and brewed a large cup of coffee. Breakfast was my usual: oats, nuts, and dried fruit—simple and sustaining. Then I packed up camp and rejoined the road.
Not long after departing camp, I reached the Potomac and the C&O Canal—a ribbon of dirt and abandoned canal infrastructure that felt both still and ancient, offering a hushed threshold into what came next.