I woke up to sunlight, rain-darkened asphalt, and damp grass. After a leisurely breakfast in the rest area parking lot, I got a late start on the road. I-90 followed the shoreline of Lake Erie, but about five miles inland to the southeast. On a map, it looks like it would be a scenic drive along the lake. In reality, however, there’s no sign of the water from the highway.
Junctions with other major roads came and went with signs pointing towards Erie, Buffalo, Pittsburgh. An ad for Tim Horton’s served as a reminder that Canada was close by, with the international border running down the middle of Lake Erie. I-90 passed through the 50-mile wide notch of Pennsylvania that abuts the lake. Eastbound towards the city of Erie, PA a flatbed was hauling several commercial-grade snowplows and a stack of spreader attachments to convert standard dump trucks into sanding trucks. Summer preparations for a long northeast winter. In the westbound lane, a fire truck from the Kennebunk, Maine fire department was 600 miles away from home and still headed in the wrong direction.
From Erie, I took I-86, which cut across the western trunk of New York State just above the Pennsylvania border. A bridge across Chautauqua Lake revealed a shoreline packed with houses and pontoon boats. A nearby rest area offered a view of the lake from atop a hill. An informational sign explained that although Lake Erie is less than 10 miles away from Chautauqua Lake, the water of the former drains into the Atlantic Ocean while that of the latter travels a thousand miles south and west, eventually joining the Ohio River, then the Mississippi, and ultimately the Gulf of Mexico.
I merged back onto the highway behind a car pulling a boat that was badly in need of a paint job. Although the chipped and peeling paint made it a little hard to read, I could see the boat had been christened, perhaps fittingly, “Dumpster Fire”.
The highway passed through the Allegany Reservation. Several signs along the road included place names and river names in both English and the Seneca language. Green, forested hills accompanied the highway as it rolled through a valley of the Allegheny River. Besides the road itself, there was very little except for the hills, trees, and water. No towns, no billboards, no power lines, not even other cars, just nature. Small wildflowers had sprung up alongside the asphalt, purple, yellow, and white. The solitude reminded me of the West, but with a distinctly Northeastern flavor.
Further along, I stopped in the Village of Cuba. A mural with an anthropomorphic mouse advertised Prize-Winning Cuba Cheese. I stopped for lunch in The Perfect Blend, a cafe on Main Street. Naturally, I got a Cuban sandwich.
The highway continued along just above the New York-Pennsylvania line. At one point, it dipped south into Pennsylvania. This entrance was marked by a simple sign that said “State Border,” without even specifying which state. Less than two miles later, an identical sign marked the return to New York.
It drizzled through Binghamton but then let up to reveal a spectacular rainbow arcing over the road. I cut northeast towards Albany as New York stretched on and on. Eventually, Massachusetts arrived and brought with it the Berkshires. Fog was clinging to the tops of the trees in the mountains like a soft blanket of snow. It began to get dark. A road crew was removing a guardrail. Sparks flew off the saw as if from a Fourth of July sparkler. A few miles later, someone was setting off real fireworks.
I pushed through the darkness, I-90 to 290 to 495. Then, Andover. I pulled into my parents’ driveway. Masks on, they left me dinner on the ground just outside the car. After they backed away to keep their distance, I could eat. I would be staying outside the house and sleeping in the car in the driveway until I had a negative COVID test result. So close to home, but not yet there.
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