Cold, dewy, but sunny morning. At breakfast in Groton, I impress the propietor Carol with my appetite. Everyone else there knows each other. When they learn I’m from Wyoming, they seem sure that I must be dazzled by the beauty, history, and civiliztion of New England. They’re friendly in a condescending way.

Gorgeous sunny spring day, riding small roads twisting through the wooded hills. More urban Northborough provides an unfriendly sandwich, Westborough a more welcoming muffin and iced coffee. Another quiet stretch to Upton, where I ask the police about a place to sleep. They can hardly believe I’m for real. They joke with me, and finally direct me back a few miles. Instead I continue. In Northbridge I spot a trailhead. Some scouting provides an idyllic campsite atop a small cliff. I read the rest of the day away happily.

Ah – I’ve forgotten my long stop at the library in Ayer. I use Rowland’s detailed instructions to map out my course from Poughkeepsie all the way to his house in New Jersey.

I have some kind of foreboding feeling about the family today. In my rushed email newsletter I got Aunt Hadie’s husband’s name wrong (Earl, not Wolf). I got no responses after accidentally sending it twice, except from Anne Powell in Laramie. No word from Aunt Julie, I hope she’s not hurt by my brief accound of my stay there in the previous report. Mom is gone on an outing, longer than I expected. An undefined discomfort arises when I think of it.