Now, in the southern portion of the trail, the towns are closer together and somehow the lakes have more boats on them. The Laurentians feel like the Catskills (except without the bad comedians and good bagels). Brunch at Mont-Tremblant gives me a chance to sit outside and admire the sunny day. I get to people-watch the people watching me. Today's hills feel just as steep, and this time they're in gravel; I get to appreciate the very low end of the gearing on my bike. A view up the trail to a horizon at a much higher elevation fills me with dread.


It drizzles. It rains. My MP3 player goes into the waterproof pocket of my rain jacket, and then (when the rain stops and the sun comes out again) gets strapped back on to my handlebars. The rain stops. I keep pedalling. Eventually, I see a hopeful sign.


Ahem... I said, "I see a hopeful sign."

Thank you, Douglas.

Again, I realize that I won't be able to make the distance I had hoped. Initially I had planned on going all the way to the end of the trail at St. Jerome; then I had planned on stopping at an inn in St. Agathe -- or was it St. Adele? I get mixed up with my saints, and converting between kilometers and miles in my head just made things worse. Eventually, I give up in a town called Val-David. Last-minute phone calls find a lovely inn for the night, the Auberge du Vieux Foyer. When I saw the stained-glass window in the main door, I knew I had found the right place for the night.



Leafing thru the newspapers in the common room after dinner, I see mention of "l'ouragan Irene" for the first time. Still, as I soak in the hot tub, I'm not too worried. 40 miles.