FLCC> Ellis Hollow Creek-Boiceville-Burns-White Church-Coddington-King-Longview-Ferris Place: ride notes (tedious!)

[John Dennis]

Dan Barbasch and I departed his house in Cayuga Heights about 2pm, just as a
fine-grained snow fall was playing about on the breeze.  Dan said he was
tired from working out earlier in the week and so “didn’t want any fast
stuff.”  We took Hanshaw to Freeze and crossed 366 up to Turkey Hill and
then down to Ellis Hollow. Unlike our previous ride to Moravia when temps
were in the low 30s, I noticed that today the “burst of heat” that usually
happens to me between the fourth and fifth mile didn’t happen.  I was not
over-dressed for a change.   

 

I noticed the two sensible horses in that first field on the left of Ellis
Hollow Creek had grown themselves shaggy coats.  The misting snow was just
enough to turn the road surfaces wet and so we took our turns cautiously,
telling ourselves that there are certain advantages to living within 10
miles of a huge underground vein of salt. The temperature had been 29.8F a
few inches from my kitchen window.  While on Boiceville, we considered doing
Honeypot, but there was no time as Dan needed to stop at Longview before
5pm.   So we went right on Burns, circling back to Brooktondale and then
headed out to the village of White Church where we turned right onto
Ridgeway Road, getting a great downhill rush before crossing Wilseyville
Creek and heading west on Coddington.  

 

We then took a left onto King Road where I soon found myself deep in
conversation with two men who were felling all the trees on the west side of
the streambed that runs on along the west side of the road.  Although I
omitted declaring them certified rednecks, I did  suggest a forester who
might counsel a more a enlightened approach to stream bank management.
Whereupon the older man declared he would sue the forester if he set foot on
his property.  Where I grew up in Virginia, the shotgun was more likely to
be declared the arbiter in local disputes.  As they say, never give advice
to guys with chainsaws while wearing spandex!  

 

Pressing on—much to Dan’s relief I suspect--, we reached Longview elder care
facility on schedule and I warmed my feet while watching a community of
Tiger Finches that reside in an aviary in the lobby.  Native to India,
China, and SE Asia, the Tiger Finch is a colorful little restless rascal
with a bright orange bill.  The males have red cheeks and brighter orange
bills. The young are reared in covered nests as was demonstrated by three
chicks in the rightmost nest.  I was told that when the population reaches
100, birds are given away.  

 

Coming back out into the cold, it felt 10 degrees cooler and so I whipped
out my reserve cold weather gear, a pair of stretch polyester gloves to go
inside my mittens and a head band that I used to cover my mouth and cheeks
as I already had a thin knit hat under my helmet.  I made a mental note that
wicking socks and winter-grade booties might be a good idea. At the
radio/cell tower half-way down 96 to Ithaca, we took a right coming out on
Hudson. Descending further, we took a right at the light onto Columbia, at
the bottom of which we reached the Columbia Street bridge which is now a
foot-bridge that crosses over to Ferris Place.  From Ferris Place we crossed
79 and headed north on Stewart Avenue.  According to Dan’s Garmin device,
our jaunt was 33 miles and we had each burned about 1200 calories.  But as
his device down not track altitudinal climb, the calorie figure is probably
close to meaningless. My heart rate had been in the low 150s much of the
ride, but it dropped below 100 during the break at Longview and during the
descent down 96. 

 

On arriving home, I discovered that a fowl tragedy had taken place.
Rosalinda, one of my favorite bantam pullets, lay dead on our back deck, a
mere 12 feet from where I often sit near our wood stove.  There was a large
circle of reddish brown feathers near her fastidiously picked-over corpse.
I suspected a Cooper’s hawk had had a leisurely meal in my absence.  This
past summer Rosalinda, Amelia, and Annapurna had taken to roosting every
night in a horse chestnut tree about 10 feet from our hen house.  And every
night at dusk or thereafter I would climb a stepladder and lift the gently
protesting pullets from their perches and place them back in the safety of
the hen house.  She had just started laying eggs in the past week, small
brown ones a little more than an inch long.  A productive life nipped in the
bud!  C’est la vie. 

 

Ciao,   john 

 


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