Portland to Albany via New Hampshire and Vermont – 471 miles

It was just like the movies. The patrol car slid silently, in slow-motion, ominous as you like down the hill behind me before pulling into the parking lot at a diagonal angle to where I was sitting. The sheriff wound down his window and looked directly at me. For want of any guile, I smiled broadly, and said hello, as if nothing could possibly be wrong, while awkwardly angling my body so as to block his view of the can of beer I was drinking. In public. On state land. I’d just been messaging a friend about the art of stealth camping, as if this was an art of which I was now the master. Was I about to be busted? I’d come to the end of a side road in search of a campspot, way too far downhill to wish to return back up it this evening. And no harm would be caused surely by my camping in a great little spot I’d found, hidden behind the bushes? Except I wasn’t hidden yet. I was sitting in full view at a picnic table necking IPA, about 10 yards from a NO CAMPING sign. It didn’t take much imagination for the sheriff to figure out what I was planning, just before sunset, my bike now fully at ease against the table with a TENT strapped to its rack in a bright orange bag. Stealthy as a peacock. And who knew what New Hampshire laws might say about drinking in public places, let alone by someone behaving underage.

‘Where have you come from?’ the sheriff asked. Not unfriendly. At all, in fact. But still, it wasn’t the time for being smart, so I played it straight.

‘Near Conway,’ I replied.

‘Well that’s a good old way.’

‘I like cycling,’ I said, now not only looking but also sounding like a moron, as well as being underage, drinking in public and about to camp illegally. I’d guess being a moron carries the least charge, bearing in mind a politician or two who still seem to be in circulation.

‘So, you just stop along the way, then get up the next morning, and keep riding?’ If it hadn’t been a sheriff I was speaking to, I’d have thought he was interested.

‘Yeah, something like that, I guess,’ I replied, impressing myself with my refusal to commit. Maybe I should be a politician. The central platform of my campaign involving free camping for cyclists – it will cause quite the storm on the hustings.

The sheriff smiled. ‘Well I sure hope you have a good trip.’ And with that, against all expectation, he reversed, giving me a big friendly wave out his window, and as silently as he’d arrived he was gone. I raised my can of beer to him – what a lovely sheriff!

I am sure there are those who disapprove of me wild camping, or stealth camping as they call it across here. I just calculated that I’ve spent 17 nights camping outside an official campground since setting off – more than the 7 nights in a campground, 2 nights in an Airbnb for work purposes, 5 nights with warmshowers hosts, and two nights in a train coach combined. So what right do I have to ignore the no-camping signs, to pay nothing, to go vagabond? I guess it’s partly my background, both as Scottish, and as a former campaigner on access to the countryside for Ramblers Scotland. Contrary to popular belief, the right to wild camp in Scotland actually only applies to backpacking a certain distance away from roads. But pitching up where my legs will take me on my bike is certainly in the spirit of the Land Reform Scotland Act which I campaigned on for several years, if not the letter of the law, and commonly practiced. It also feels right to be off grid on an off-the-beaten adventure like this. Off regulation, which campsites are certainly not. In many ways it feels safer – when I cycled to Greece the fact of having to find a campsite or hostel or other cheap equivalent each night became increasingly stressful, and involved risks in its own right as the light began to fade.

Meanwhile, the cost of camping in North America as a solo traveller is simply prohibitive. Campers both in the US and Canada are charged per pitch not per person or tent size, so I’m paying the same as a family of four in an RV, or a group of 8 hikers, which seems very unfair. In private US sites you are looking at around $40 per night, which is over £30 with how the exchange rate is just now. In National and State Park sites it’s still $30 for the privilege of a spot of land, no showers, no wifi…if campsites had been cheaper then I’d have definitely used them more. It’s nice having a shower! And in fact in Glacier National Park where I’m now headed (and quite a few places in the West I understand) they set aside specific pitches for hikers or cycle tourists to share; in these circumstances I’m more than happy to fork out the $8 requested of me.

As I write, it’s 11pm in the UK on general election night. 5pm on the Empire Builder (what a dreadful name) train on which I’m travelling west, having finished leg 1 of my tour, and making my way towards the start of Leg 2 in Glacier National Park, Montana. Every two or three minutes I keep refreshing my browser as the exciting, landmark results begin to trickle in. The forecast of a Labour landslide, and the associated demolition of the Conservative party, is truly happening. With each seat that the Tories lose, the more relieved I feel. Viscerally. Things have become so grim, and it’s beyond time for change. And since I’m now six hours behind UK time, I can follow the results without needing to stay up until some ungodly hour.

Perhaps appropriately, the last 10 days or so since I last wrote have had a bit of a political theme. Several nights ago Biden and Trump went head-to-head in TV debate for the first time of this election campaign. Ever since, nearly all of the media attention seems to have been focussed on how badly Biden performed, and so little comparatively on Trump’s recent convictions (sanity?) I read that 72% of the US population believe that Biden isn’t mentally fit to be President, which isn’t encouraging. It  beggars belief – is this the best the most powerful, and one of the most populous, countries in the world can do? I found myself wishing that mountains could really be Presidents, not just stand in for them like the Presidential Range in New Hampshire, the biggest mountains in the Appalachians, do. Mount Washington. Mount Adams. Mount Eisenhower. Mount Jefferson. Mountains sound steadfast. There. Grounded. And I loved taking a large detour to seem them closer up this trip.

I’ve actually been surprised though how little political propaganda I’ve seen en route so far. A few Biden posters. Some Trump ones.

‘Get America back!’ exclaimed a flag flying outside a house in rural Vermont.

Where on earth do they think it’s been? There’s such an echo of Brexit rhetoric. I locked eyes with a youngish guy who was busy refilling the oil in his truck. Country music blaring. Big beard. Cap. I found myself disliking him instinctively, and we hadn’t spoken. Didn’t speak. Vermont is generally renowned for being liberal though, I was told by one warmshowers host, compared to New Hampshire’s greater conservatism, and Maine’s independence.

The last 8 days of riding is the longest spell I’ve ridden so far on this trip without taking a rest day. And on the morning of my departure from Portland I felt like I’d done a day’s work before even setting off! I was at the US postal service desk just after opening to post back some bits of luggage that have proven surplus, but it soon became clear that I wasn’t going to be leaving any time soon. I understood needing to itemise everything in my package for customs, but apparently writing ‘joggers’ wasn’t good enough. Ladies? Mens? Unisex in fact; I was tempted to say gender queer, but having already spent 50 minutes trying to get the customs forms right, this wasn’t the time to push the envelope. My warmshowers host was then kind enough to drive me out to the REI outdoors co-op, where I finally purchased a bear proof food canister. Back into town. Back out again. It was hot. 28 degrees. Mainly steadily uphill, but with yet another night in a bed ahead of me near Bethel, Maine.

I stopped off to eat my sandwich on the lawn of the local fire service, and briefly imagined how a porn film equivalent of this moment might look (I said before – your mind goes weird places). Me, the cycle tourist simpering up to the muscular fireman and asking him to put my fire out? Cycle touring porn. Now that’s niche. Back in reality, I hunkered down on the grass. Pushed food into my mouth. Wiped the dirty sweat from my forehead with my dirty forearm. That was the only kind of ‘dirty’ going on here. Checked my riding stats. Two warmshowers hosts have already told me that they haven’t had any bad guests, simply boring middle aged men who are only interested in relaying their mileage, elevation, segments. Luckily I’m not a man, because middle-aged is probably now beyond doubt, and boring never impossible.

I arrived early at my warmshowers house that night in good time considering I’d set off late, and my host Peter saved me just in time from being eaten alive by insects. Cooked me dinner. Said nothing about how long I showered. Made great conversation. When his wife Sarah returned home from work we got to discussing their own upcoming trip to cycle the Kirkpatrick Coast to Coast route in Scotland.

‘The what…?’ I asked. I’d never heard of it. Probably invented.

Only the new route which goes right across Dumfries and Galloway (where I grew up), across the Borders to Eyemouth. What what? It was the least I could do to share some local knowledge…Turned out as well that the B&B where they planned to stay in Dumfries was about 100m from my Dad’s house, so a couple of texts later I’d managed to sort them a glass of wine or two (maybe even three knowing Dad), and a meal while they pass through! It’s such a small world, and always so good to repay the kindnesses one is offered on trips like my own. Or to volunteer others to do so on your behalf. Oops!

The next morning I was up at 4.45am to attend the university exam boards online, and mighty relieved by the cameras-off protocol when I hadn’t yet had coffee. If Strava segments are dull, then try anonymised exam boards, where you don’t even know whose grades are being celebrated. By the time I was done I was so ready for my bacon and eggs (I now eat eggs apparently) and coffee, once again generously cooked up by Peter. Over a second coffee Peter and Sarah shared some really helpful route advice about a cycle path which would get me off the roads for a good bit of the day. But I soon tore that suggestion up when a cookie sugar rush a couple of hours later instead sent me headlong into the heart of the White Mountains. An incomparable amount more climbing. Two extra days of riding…I blame the place marked ‘deli’ on the way into Gorham, which enticed me with their superbly ‘rare’ looking cookies, only to then tell me that they didn’t serve coffee. Like, what? I ate the cookie anyway, and set off up the road to a place reliably named ‘café’ where I had a second cookie with my coffee. I’m not great at processing sugar. By now I was flying!

The wind behind me, up up up I flew towards Mount Washington, glowering down at me through the mist. Conway. Next day Lincoln and Littleton. It was a fabulous addition to my route, and certainly prepared me a bit more for the really big mountains that are to come. From Lincoln up to the Franconia notch pass there is a great cycle path, which at least provided variety to the grind of climbing (now into the headwind, back north). At the summit of the path an older woman cyclist asked me whether this was the way to Lincoln. I nodded. She asked me about my trip, and I divulged.

‘Yeah, you look like you’re riding around the world,’ she said. Whether this meant I looked muscular and fit, or already worse for wear, I will never know.

The first day of my riding had been hot and muggy. Day 2 cloudy, windy, but dry, and warm enough. Day 3 windy on the nose, but sunny. Only for day 4 to destroy me. I’ve heard several people comment on how bad the rain was that day, and they weren’t riding! Uphill I felt miserable. Downhill I had to close my eyes to prevent the rain from blinding me at 30mph. Needs must and all. I’m having to mind my money a bit in the US, since the exchange rate really is so poor, but there was no way I wasn’t going out (in) for lunch that day. Pizza? Bring her on. Irish coffee? They know how to make one? Well, they didn’t, but I drank their awful attempt anyway. I found myself desperarely messaging local warmshowers hosts, but I couldn’t wait around forever to see whether they would reply, so the only other option I could see was getting in some more miles. I changed clothes in the restaurant toilets and was soaked through again within minutes. By the time I pulled into the supermarket just north of Stowe, my intended destination, I felt near-on broken, and the supermarket air-conditioning was the final straw. I now needed to camp. Like, right now. Across the road from the supermarket was an immaculately cultivated pumpkin patch, and some mowed grass and trees to hide amongst behind. Perfect, I thought; at that moment I’d have found the local sewage works perfect. And it was Sunday tomorrow – the local farmer would surely be enjoying a day off. And I’d be up at sunrise anyway.

Of course, neither turned out to be true. I was just finishing packing up my tent when the farmer, who had been prowling menacingly, drove my way on his lawnmower with intent. Stopped. Looked at me through his dark shades, obviously expecting me to begin the conversation. I embarked on the most long and winding tale about how desperate I’d been for somewhere to stay when he interrupted me.

‘So, you’re heading on? You aren’t staying again tonight? Well, if it was to get out of the rain, that’s ok. But if you were homeless…’

I begin to wonder if I actually did look worse for wear if homelessness was a possibility that had run through his mind.

We shared tales about world travel, which mainly involved him telling me about his world travels. I told him he had the best pumpkin patch I’d ever seen. If all else fails, admire a fella’s pumpkin patch, to coin a phrase. I made a mental note that I’d become blasé about my choice of campspot, and needed to become more  careful again.

The next few days I cycled the length of Vermont along Scenic Highway Route 100, which was…well, scenic! Rural. Lots of smallholdings, often organic. More and less neat barns and barn conversions. Green. Lush. More open than Maine or New Hampshire due to more farming, which I was ashamed to admit to myself that I enjoyed. Trees can start to bear in on you. Rolling, aka way more hilly than you’d imagine. I found some great campspots at the far side of roadside fields. I jumped in two rivers. The weather turned for the good. I passed the Ben and Jerry factory, and many craft shops, and local grocery stores in every community along the way. Lively interesting little towns and communities like Stowe, Rochester, Jamaica. Friendly to a fault…Yet despite all of the above, if I hadn’t passed out the far end of Vermont into North Adams (Massachusetts) I’d have said it was less quaint than I’d expected! Nothing like being very suddenly in a gritty, post industrial town to make you realise that Vermont had been quainter than Uncle Quentin in breeches. And it was almost dark and where on earth was I going to camp? I continued on, camped up in an off-the-beaten spot in a local park only to be woken at 4.50am by the first morning dogwalkers passing by. I’ve got stealth nailed, you see.

Yet North Adams also reminded me that I need not only to take a slightly more exploratory pace, but also to do more research about places as I go. I had no idea that I was about to pass by Mass MOCA, the largest contemporary art gallery in the USA, which I’d have loved to visit, but was now out of time if I stood any chance of making my train that evening in Albany, upstate New York. In fairness to myself, I had left the UK in such a hurry what with moving house etc that there had been no time for research; the upside of this has been the surprise of finding things as I go.

That morning, however, all I needed to find was a shower so that I stood a chance of not stinking train out too badly over the subsequent 48 hours of travel.

‘Swimming pools or trucker stops?’ suggested Todd, an old Canadian friend who I’ll be visiting fairly soon. ‘They both have showers.’ The pool I chose added 6 miles to my route, and was newly renovated and re-opened and looking incredibly David Hockney like in the pictures I found online. So who photoshopped out the children? Online I also hadn’t realised to what extent it was a community pool. Free entrance. Cold showers. Me one of the very few white people there, and the only adult to swim. I was tolerated, politely, but I also felt that people nonverbally communicated to me that I didn’t ‘fit’, as a far less strong version of being ‘unwelcome’. I didn’t stay long, but was already starving hungry by the time I set off for the last 9 miles along the Hoosick river cycle path into Albany. I’d barely eaten all day in my excitement for finishing leg 1 of my trip, and wobbled my way slowly into town, trying to maintain a balance of ‘getting there’ with ‘spine not turning into bendy rubber’. When I got to the train station café I’d have eaten anything, even a dodgy hot dog which returned on me in the middle of that night on the train. But I’d made it! I’d done it! 1737 miles averaging 65.5 miles per day, through five US states and a Canadian province. Surely anyone might have excused me my boring stats in that moment. And I was bloody loving it, rough with smooth.

I’ve never really done train travel, so I was super excited about my upcoming Amtrak ride, albeit a bit overawed by the prospect of mainly sitting still for 51 hrs, with a break in Chicago. Yet I was also more apprehensive than I had been about anything to do with cycling so far. Where did I put the bike? How? Where did I go? When? It’s all a little bit chaotic truth be told, but somehow it seems to all work. At least so far. In it’s own way. Not sure what the mechanic with a golf club was doing hitting bits of the train during a train comfort break. And I’m sure that the fierce woman train conductor didn’t really need to wake up everyone on the train who was sleeping across two seats (95% of passengers) at 4am in the morning. But they’re in charge here, and I wasn’t going to argue. By the time I woke up again it was to watch the sunrise in Ohio, and everybody apart from obedient-Brit me was once more lying across two seats. Sadly, the woman who got on the next train from Chicago to Seattle wasn’t going to get away without having a ticket though, although it’s incredible that she had made it that far. It was a sad episode to witness. The woman obviously wasn’t mentally well, and although the local police, and then the metropolitan police were both very understanding and gentle with her (admirably so), they were left with no choice an hour later of the train standing stationary but to remove her in handcuffs.

I pause from writing to look outside, where a Wisconsin into Minnesota sunset is turning the sky from blue to red just like is happening in real time with the political map back in the UK. Change. Change. I’m fascinated to see what is different and what’s the same when I land in Montana for the ‘Rockies’ leg of my trip. I am fascinated to see whether Keir Starmer can enact the change he promises, and how. The sky keeps getting redder. The map of the UK more Labour. I’ve not yet been voted in as President with my radical camping laws., but there is time. And now to sleep. The mountains are calling, and I’m on my way.