“See, the Gap wasn’t so bad.”
The only reply I deigned to give was my most withering glare. Raven laughed.
We’d taken Smuggler’s Notch in Vermont with little thought of what to expect. As the signs warning of a sinuous mountain road changed to warnings of no center line, we were both enthralled. The road that lead us west over a low point in the mountain range resembled a well maintained parkway from another era more than a modern road. The clean asphalt snaked up the mountain, hugging boulders more than skirting them.
The traffic up was bumper to bumper, but we had enough room and steady speed to crawl up the serpentine roadway whose name evoked surreptitious moonlit journeys. Switchbacks around boulders were enjoyable on the motorcycle, especially on a road that could not handle two SUVs abreast. To prove that point, the only time we had to stop was near the top where one car with kayaks a’roof had to back up to renegotiate a turn bordered by two boulders. The SUV three cars in front of us could not make it until the traffic coming down gave him room. We sat on our bikes and laughed. It was too pretty, too easy on bikes, and just way too much fun. Raven and I were hooked.
The next day after a rather boring road along Lake Champlain, we changed our route so that we could head back east again, passing over Hazen’s Notch on the way to Cabot Creamery. Hazen’s was no- so-picture-perfect as Smuggler’s and was all dirt to boot. Though our bikes can take it, I found myself going slow. Somewhere on this trip I’d lost that fun excitement of challenges. Gravel laden mountain roads were now an obstacle to get over more than an adventure. We did stop at the crest to look at the Long Trail and we discovered the first lesson in notches and gaps in Vermont: the west side is not as steep as the east. We had the steepest part on the way down the notch.
This experience at Hazen’s Notch made me somewhat of an expert at reading notches on maps. When Raven showed me his plan to take Lincoln’s Gap the next day simply because it was there, a quick glance told me it was half pavement and half dirt, closed in winter, and a 2400’ pass. Yup, this was a doozy. I didn’t put my foot down so much as admit I wasn’t really in the mood. When I woke up the morning of, I had a problem convincing myself I wanted to get on the bike. It was just ‘one of those days.’
There were two ways to get to the other side of the mountain range and I wasn’t sure which one Raven was heading for until he took a route that lead inexorably toward Lincoln Gap. I quietly weighed my love for him and how much I knew he really wanted to do this Gap with how much I really didn’t want to go through it. Really, how bad could it be?
The road took us over a pavement and a gravel ‘hill’ every bit as challenging as Hazen’s Notch. It confused Raven a bit. He thought it was the gap. But no, a sign said it was still ahead of us, confirming my worries. Finally, we came upon the road marked by an ominous sign: Dangerous Winding Mountain Road. Route closed in winter. Snow Tires required. I was left wondering why snow tires were required and when, since the road was closed in winter, as Raven gleefully went ahead.
“Don’t forget to let engine compression slow you on the way down. You don’t want to ride your brakes.” Words of comfort from my darling husband.
The road started off with a gentle enough slope, paved on the east side the whole way to the top. There was little time wasted before the pitch steepened and the road began to push upward at an angle that was a ludicrous vision of drivable. The forest dropped away steeply on my right. I blanked out the view and the drop with a firm will that it didn’t exist. Ahead, around every snaking turn the road angled ever upwards: all hairpin turns and a grade out of a nightmare.
The mantra that had seen me safe up the dirt road to Meat Cove when I had been far more of a novice (Keep it slow. Keep it steady) got a new addition: “Keep it upright. Keep it going. Keep it slow. Keep it steady.” Meaning don’t drop the bike and for the love of all that is good, don’t stall it. I was riding at the upper edge of my abilities and I knew it. My escape plan in the event of something going wrong – and what hadn’t on this trip? – was to lay the bike on its side as gently and quickly as possible. There was no other Plan B. There was no plan on what to do with the bike when it was over on its side. My entire goal was to simply not have to put this plan into action.
Twenty-four hundred feet is a long way to snake upwards steeply. Second gear the whole way, I found out later that Raven did the whole thing in first. Thankfully, we met no cars coming down towards us and saw none coming up behind as we ambled upward. It was one less obstacle and worry we didn’t have to deal with. Somehow by sheer persistent steadiness, we made it to the top. Ahead, the dirt and gravel road snaked downwards at a far more reasonable angle than the eastern approach. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of going down the way we had c0me up. I’d rather a view of tree tops and sky ahead of me than a road pitched downward at an unbelievable angle with each short visible section ending with a hairpin turn, trees falling viciously away beyond the road’s edge.
I took my time putting down. The road, especially near the top, was steep enough that even with engine compression in reliable second gear, I picked up too much speed to safely negotiate the dirt corners. Stubborn to my core, I let Raven outpace me, knowing I may follow him over just about anything but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t end up waiting for me on the other side. Nothing short of a lava flow on my rear was going to make me pick up speed.
We met at the bottom and pulled into a day use rest stop a few miles up a nice flat valley bottom section of highway. After a bit, Raven admitted that the road had even given him butterflies. I knew at that point it must have been something truly awful. It took a few minutes, but I did finally see a plus side. The road to Meat Cove, heck even the road to Labrador, would never look quite as scary to me again. I’m afraid of any road that will top Lincoln’s Gap though I know they exist. A road in Mexico and one in South America come to mind.
“At least tell me you have Gaps out of your system,” I finally asked after I’d spent ten minutes or so pelting Raven with grass and dandelion leaves during our break.
He gave me a devilish smile. “Actually, I have an idea . . . .”
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