Somebody (I think it was the late Colin Fletcher) once lamented that one of the few downsides to backcountry travel was the scarcity of upholstered seats. And if a former Royal Marine like Fletcher, inured to wartime hardships and privation, thought this lack of home comforts worthy of note, what about the rest of us, who are accustomed to a much softer life? Well, speaking for myself, I spend too much time sitting as it is. But when I have to sit — and it’s hard to paddle a canoe or ride a bike while standing — I miss having a comfortable seat. Of course, one person’s idea of comfort is likely to differ from another’s. When my uncle saw the impossibly narrow (and implacably adamantine) saddle on Farwell’s “amphibious” bike, he prodded it gingerly, then observed that if he were ever forced to sit on “that thing” he’d have to have it surgically removed. So it’s obvious that notions of comfort vary wildly.

Still, there’s no denying that wood‑framed cane seats and granite rocks aren’t conducive to comfort. Not over the long haul, at any rate. And as I’ve just said, I spend a lot of time sitting down, both at work and at play. Moreover, I don’t share Farwell’s taste for the hard life, at least not in fundamental matters. I like my seats to be well upholstered. In short, I find myself keeping company with the spirits of Nessmuk and Colin Fletcher. I go to the woods to smooth it, not to rough it.

This mindset is reflected in my choice of bedding, among other things. And for quite some time I’d followed Fletcher’s lead in using my sleeping pad, suitably folded and trussed, as a lounge chair while in camp. But this was hard on the pad, and it didn’t lend itself to short lunch stops, let alone brief breathers along the portage trail. I needed something handier. And after a little looking around, I found it… Read more…

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I can hear the guns as I write this. No, I’m not filing dispatches from Tripoli. I’m sitting in my office in northern New York. And deer season is well under way. So the distant woods are now echoing to the muted crack of centerfire rifles. Early and late. On clear days and cloudy.

Mind you, I don’t wish to bad-mouth hunters. I was a hunter once myself, and even though I’ve hung up my guns, I can well remember how I used to look forward to this time of year, with all its rites and rituals, many of them rooted in traditions going back hundreds, if not thousands, of years. And I’m happy to say that most of the hunters I’ve known were good people, conscientious men and women who understood that once pin drops on primer and a round leaves the chamber it can’t be called back. To reiterate: That description fits most of the hunters I know. But not all, sadly. And this small minority—the proverbial “bad apples”—are wild cards in fortune’s deck. They let fly whenever leaves rustle in the woods, or when a flash of white catches their eye, or when something large and fast moves across their field of vision. And they sometimes connect, bringing down a fellow hunter, a family member, or even a housewife in her backyard.

Such “bad apples” are a problem for cyclists and others whose travels take them to—and through—rural areas in fall. Which is why I’m careful what I wear in autumn. International (“hunter”) orange replaces fluorescent green as the signature color in my riding wardrobe, for one thing. (“Bad apples” haunt the margins of rural roads. I’ve even seen them clustered around Deer Crossing signs!) And I’m especially wary at dawn and dusk, when visibility is always poor and the pressure for hunters to perform is at its peak. Not even nighttime can guarantee safety. Jack-lighting—one of hunting’s less salubrious traditions—is alive and well throughout the North Country. The guns of autumn slacken as night falls, but sporadic firing continues round the clock.

The upshot? In recent years I’ve trained myself to think less like a hunter and more like one of the hunted—and then do everything in my power to look as little like a deer as possible. I’m still relying on the kindness of strangers to grant me safe passage when I venture out and about at this season, of course, but I try to give them every bit of help I can. After all, I can remember all too well the few occasions when, gun in hand, I came close to being a “bad apple” myself. It’s a sobering thought.

A quick quiz: Can you spot a problem in this picture? Look closely at my bike. See the water bottles? They’re not white, but they look white in subdued light. Which is why they now wear orange jackets. It’s a little thing, to be sure, but so is a .308 round. Little things can kill you.

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Anyone who’s read Animal Farm, George Orwell’s famous fairy tale for adults, will probably remember the Animalist slogan “Four legs good, two legs bad!” It’s hard to know just where two wheels fits into this scheme, but these horses seem prepared to give my LHT the benefit of the doubt and allow it provisional four-leg status. Come to think of it, though, their apparent collegiality might have had something to do with the handfuls of succulent grass I handed over the fence to them. Isn’t there something about the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence? Or maybe it’s just relief at seeing a jumped-up monkey getting around on her own steam for a change. What do you think!

We love our bikes, right? And we never tire of looking at them. At least I don’t, and if I’m to judge from what others tell me, I’m not alone. So each Monday I’ll publish a bike-related picture. Most of the time it will be a photo, but don’t be surprised if a few drawings and paintings get added to the mix from time to time. I might even include a sculpture or two. (OK. A photo of a sculpture.) Anything, in short, that evokes the world on two wheels. And don’t be shy. If you have a picture you’d like to share, just email it to me. I’ll do the rest.

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