September 25

Had to stop after 45 miles to set up a stealth camp. Excuses, excuses. I am simply not racking up the miles that I should. The weather remains perfect, except for headwinds,
and only one killer hill today.

A couple of miles into the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area, which is a gem of a place and a major credit to the National Park Service, a crazy guy in an '83 Dodge van drove up beside me. "What you gonna do if it rains?" he shouted.
He is driving my speed, about 12 mph, on the wrong side of the road and just a little behind me so I have to look backwards to see him We are on the Old Mine Road, just south of Montague, NJ. His is the second vehicle to overtake me in ten minutes. The forest on either side of the road is mostly hardwood, oaks and maples thirty to forty years old, about eight inches in diameter at chest height, but very tall, twenty to twenty-five feet. And stands of pine that are ten feet taller. A walk in those woods would be effortless: there is no entangling undergrowth. This road roughly parallels the
Appalachian Trail. "I've got rain gear," I tell him.

"Where you going?"

"Mexico"

"Mexico? All the Mexicans are comin' up here. Why'd you want to go to Mexico?"

"Pull up here beside me," I said. "So we can talk."

He pulls up. "Where you coming from?" he asks.

"Halifax." I often say that, and then correct it if the person has any grasp of geography. A few don't.

"Where's at?" He is about thirty-five, missing some teeth, has a manic look and well muscled arms.

"It's in Nova Scotia."

"Oh yeah. I know about that. I wanted to go up there to hunt. I hunt all around here. Season opens in a few days."

"Bow season?" I ask. Glancing behind I see a white vehicle approaching.

"Yeah, yeah, bow season."

"There's something coming," I said.

He looked back. "Well, good luck. And have a good trip," he said, and drove away.

I continued through the DWGNRA, stopping at Layton for supper supplies (but neglecting breakfast: I carry oatmeal, and I had an extra orange, which would get me to the next store). I passed a commercial campground that had taken down its signs, so I continued, looking for a campsite that wouldn't be noticed from the road. I found such a place, or at least so I thought. I didn't want to make a fire, so I ate my supper cold, crawled into the sleeping bag and was attempting to meditate. I heard a vehicle on the highway slow down and stop. A car door slammed and a male voice said, "Hello the camp. National Park Service ranger."

I pulled on my jeans and came out of the tent. The ranger was standing with a tree partially covering him from my sight, his hand resting on his pistol butt. "There is no camping allowed on this site," he said as he approached. I told him that I had been riding all day and hadn't seen any campgrounds. He questioned me further, and further, until I was explaining why I wanted to ride a bike to Mexico and talking about my wife and kids. Having heard my story, he asked for ID, and said that if I wasn't wanted for anything I could stay, but he was adamant that I would make no fire or flame of any sort, and would leave no trash behind. He called my name into his headquarters for them to check me out, and we talked some more while we waited for their response. He came from Alabama, and had been working in New Jersey for fifteen years. After ten minutes he called headquarters again (with a radio clipped to his collar) and asked if they had any results from their query. "Still waiting," they said.

He didn't think the results would be waiting for. He again emphasized that I keep a cold camp, and when he left he shook my hand and said, "George, you have a good trip."