One of my son’s favorite phrases other than “Can I have a snack?” is “Can we go for a bike ride?”. The other day I decided to offer him the opportunity before he asked. The weather looked promising for an early May Saturday, so we headed for Newport to explore the old railroad trail.

A few years ago the last of the ties and rails were pulled up. Ever since then I’ve had a desire to see just what the trail had to offer. It runs between Newport to the south and Dover-Foxcroft to the north.

In between it runs through Corinna and Dexter. A one way trip was estimated to be 17 miles. A leisurely day trip for a family or a good two-hour workout for the gonzo crowd.

A friend from work told me he had ridden the trail many times over the past couple of years. His mode of transportation, however, was an ATV or a four-wheeler as my son put it. Sure enough, it had become a multi-use trail and that day was to be no exception. Parked at the trailhead was a pickup and trailer.

In fact, we came across six ATVs on the trail before we saw a single bicycle. And judging from the mud-covered machines and drivers, all with toothy white grins shining from their brown-spattered faces, they were enjoying the trail as much as we were.

As is usual with abandoned rail beds, the slope is gentle. Uphill or down, the grade is almost imperceptible and required only a change of a gear or two. For the most part, the trail surface was well packed. There were no rocky or particularly sandy sections. The challenges that day came in theparticularly sandy sections. The challenges that day came in the form of mud.

Deep ruts appearing at one point demanded a quick decision as to which route was best. Around them or through them. My son chose the latter for no reason other than that was where the water and mud lurked. A woodcutting operation off to one side revealed the reason for the ruts’ existence. The trail was being used as an access road.

My heart sank. I had seen this scenario before. Trucks and skidders can obliterate a trail in no time, churning it into a quagmire impassable even on foot. Granted the adjoining property owners should have the right to work their land, but it seems a compromise can be struck to allow wood harvesting without ruining the trail for cyclists.

The southern terminus of the trail is along the shores of Sebasticook Lake. The view is short-lived as you veer slightly away from the water. The majority of the trail beween Newport and Corinna cuts through woods but does pop out along the tall grass at the lake’s northern end.

It was reassuring to see how peacefully the path coexists with the camps scattered along the lake. At times, the trail is only a few feet from their doorsteps, yet the inhabitants gave us a friendly wave and a smipassed. I would not be surprised to see additional camps spring up in the near future. There were several for sale signs on undeveloped property adjacent to the trail.

As we neared Corinna we paused to snap a photo of an old barn. Overhead a woodpecker dutifully rapped on a dead tree, breaking the silence of the woods around him. Just as my son was about to yield to his sore butt and head back, he caught a glimpse of civilization in the form of a convenience store and decided he would tough out the last leg.

No sooner had we started again when we were confronted by one of the most obnoxious odors ever known to man. It took a few seconds for my memory to make a positive I.D., and the storage building from which this aroma seemed to originate confirmed my suspicion. Rotting potatoes.

To add insult to injury, a couple hundred yards ddown the trail their lurked another storage building with the same perfume. Our hopes of making a quick pass were dashed when we encountered the grandaddy of all mudholes. It covered the entire trail from side to side for several feet. Greg went first. The water was deep and the hidden mud below grabbed at his wheels. He teetered as he came to a near standstill, but kept his balance and managed to ooze through. I chose a different rut to follow with better results.

Just as we came into town we hopped off our bikes to cross the second of the old railroad bridges. In spite of the snowmobile and ATV traffic, the bridges lacked side rails or planking for a smooth deck. We literally had to step from tie to tie, looking between them to water below.

Little did we know the reward for our perseverance lay at the end of the bridge. Henderson’s Take Out with a menu of ice cream longer than a freight train. We sat at a picnic table in the warm sun and ate our fill. The ride back was the furthest thing from our minds.