On the journey to Mount Washington’s peak, a father and his son forge a greater bond
Nothing beats the open road, on four tires or two. It could be a drive in the country and back home for supper, or a weekend away in Ontario, Michigan, New York or Quebec. And the journey is the destination — as we discover in this story.
My son couldn’t wait for his first road trip alone with his dad. It would be a rite of passage, like the trip to Washington, DC, his older brother had made the previous year. And already, at 10 years old, Tristan knew all the road trip rules.
They were learned from long family drives to Florida and short drives up to Georgian Bay. He knew that restaurants are involved, and often there are interesting people, though not always that interesting to him.
There are movies on the back headrest that are allowed only on the boring freeway, and music on the radio that can be chosen only by the front-seat passenger.
And that if he should ask how much farther there is to travel, the driver — his father, me — will begin the usual lecture:
“The journey is the destination, son,” he would hear, and that would make him roll his eyes yet again.
This summer trip might be different, though. We’d be travelling by motorcycle — a Harley-davidson at that — and there would be no movies, no music, no falling asleep.
Tristan was finally considered mature enough for a true adventure, and he couldn’t wait.
Now that the weather’s warming, it’s time to start thinking again about the lure of the open asphalt.
On that long week’s journey two summers ago, Tristan and I rediscovered the appeal of the classic North American road trip.
We didn’t travel far each day, but we headed slowly east toward the green mountains of New England. In Kingston on the second morning, we pulled over to check directions in the parking lot of the penitentiary and were promptly surrounded by police; they told us we’d entered restricted federal ground and insisted on searching the bike. Mostly, they did this to impress the young boy on the motorcycle — to give him even more of an adventure. They even let him sit in a cruiser, where I took a photo to send his mother over the phone.
“We can put him in cuffs for the picture, if you like,” said one cop. “Please, dad!” begged Tristan. But his mother was worried enough that he was with me on the bike, so my son stayed free. Something unexpected, and something fun — this was turning into a good road trip and just a day from home.
We didn’t have music, but we did have an intercom system that connected speakers and microphones in our helmets so there could be conversation as we rode down the distance. It can be boring on the back of a bike, especially for a young boy forced to sit still and study his father’s neck, but we chatted and sang and did fist pumps and smacked each other on the thigh as if we were old mates in the pub. The captive nature of side-by-side travel can do that to you.
We crossed at Cornwall into New York State, and then by ferry over Lake Champlain into Vermont. Ferries are important to a good road trip. They’re a reminder of the old days before there was so much hurry in the world, and they’re an opportunity to stop for an hour or so while still feeling the comforting surge of an engine under your feet. Tristan slept on the warm deck in the sun and I watched the yachts and gulls and chatted with some other tourists. A plane flew high overhead, missing it all.
In New Hampshire, we stayed with some newfound friends, Dan and Judy Kennedy, owners of the motorcycle specialty Whitehorse Press that we had come to visit. Their home in North Conway made an ideal base for exploring the mountains, though really there was only one mountain on our list to experience: Mount Washington, highest peak in the north-east at 1,917 metres (6,288 ft) and host to the Mount Washington Auto Road. Tristan had wanted to drive on this road since his brother rode with me to the peak of Whiteface Mountain, which looks out over Lace Placid. Always in competition with his older sibling, he knew that Mount Washington was higher, so we set off on our last day in the state to reach the top. It was hot and still at the base of the mountain, but the temperature dropped considerably as we climbed. Mount Washington has a reputation for some of the worst — and least predictable — weather in North America, and as the road rose, the wind picked up. Higher and higher and the road grew narrower and less protected, reverting to gravel in places where the gusts always seemed strongest. When we finally made it to the top, after riding carefully and steadily to battle the blasts and eddies, the wind was powerful enough to let us lean into it, supported by its slipstream of invisible air. We went inside for hot chocolate. Tristan sat across the table, cupping his hands against his mug. “Dad — are all road trips like this?” he asked. “Do they have adventures and exploring and pancakes and hot chocolate?” Yes, I told him. They’re whatever you want them to be. And when there’s rain, there’s also sun; and when there’s calamity, there’s usually a solution. You just have to slow down, pause for a while, to see it. And when you get to the end, if you’ve done it right, you’ve probably just got home again, but you’ll always have a tale to tell.