Bicycling with Butterflies by Sara Dykman

Bicycling with Butterflies by Sara Dykman

Author:Sara Dykman [Dykman, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00


Along

the Atlantic

Days 124–141 / July 13–30

Mile 4858–5518

Rain and mountains were among the last hurdles separating me from a swim in the ocean. Leaving Vermont and entering New Hampshire was the range called the White Mountains. At the time, they seemed fittingly named. They wore an unapologetic white mask of colorless clouds. Only small pockets of visibility allowed for glimpses of the mountain’s forest shell. The blue-tipped spruce and yellow-hued alder strained to retain their green under the diluted sun. Even the grey rock walls were not immune to the veil of fog. With only fleeting peeks of my surroundings, I was left to fill in the hidden views with my imagination.

Up and over the mountains, my freewheel sang on the descent and delivered me from the hazy cold to a warmer world. I stopped to photograph wild milkweed, pluck raspberries at a pick-your-own roadside farm, and visit with students at their school garden (it was an honor they showed up considering they were still on summer vacation). I crossed into Maine, reached the 5000-mile mark of my trip, and drew closer to the ocean.

If the rain and mountains had been hurdles, then the ocean was a fence, with waves guarding watery worlds. While I appreciated the power of its salty vastness, on past visits I had felt like I was pacing rather than walking its shores, like I was trying to find a gate or bridge that would allow escape.

Arriving in July to a sandy beach in Maine, 5022 miles from Mexico, I leaned my bike against a bench straddling runaway sand and encroaching pavement. Seeing my laden bike, beachcombers offered congratulatory smiles, assuming I was at the symbolic end of a coast-to-coast adventure. Boasting quick-dry underwear and ridiculous tan lines, I walked confidently to the water. I continued out, bobbing with the waves, until my bike shined small on the shore. For a moment, the ocean was not a fence. For a moment, I was given wings to fly through a sky of a different blue. It was similar to climbing a mountain in order to know the clouds or canoeing a river to know the current. Testing the edges, we find bridges to new worlds.

The ocean herded me and the monarchs south. For many coastal miles, a fortress of opulent estates sprouted like weeds. Still, I stole views of the mighty ocean and the monarchs using the sea as a backdrop. They were on the route of the Eastern Flyway, sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the Appalachian Mountains. Pushed east by prevailing winds, and taking advantage of the thermal lift created by coastal currents and mountain ridges, the monarchs were pressing south, as if in a funnel. Unlike the larger Central Flyway, which spans the Midwest, the monarchs of the Eastern Flyway don’t have a direct path to Mexico. This longer route disadvantages them, and they lag behind during the fall migration south (usually by about two weeks). The longer route, from the northeast rather than the



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