Trip 46 — Long Island Walk

Day 6: Wading River to Greenport
Monday, 10 November 2025

Today: 59539 steps/46.22 km/28.72 mi/7h 19m
Total: 270439 steps/210.46 km/130.77 mi/36h 37m

Yesterday morning was so lovely: sunshine and gently undulating trails far from motor vehicles.

This morning, the opposite: perhaps the most unpleasant in all of the Abecedarian Walks.

The forecast: an hour or two of rain, then a break until about noon, then showers in the afternoon.

I could wait for the rain to stop, but with such a long distance to cover, I'd better get moving. I hoped to wake up early and head out by 7:30, but I sleep in and don't step outside until 8:08. After proceeding through the back lots of the Inn and Spa at East Wind, I turn onto Sound Avenue. Except for the turnoffs to lunch and lodging, I'll be on this road for the whole day.

It's raining lightly, and it's not cold. I have my thick long-sleeve shirt on, but I keep my jacket in my bag; it's warm enough if I keep moving. And I do, starting with a sub-nine-minute kilometer and staying under ten for most of the day. I hope there aren't any rogue Slovak officers to cite me for speeding.

The walk starts innocently enough, with auburn leaves and the occasional farm stand. They range from tiny huts where you take eggs and pay by Zelle (or, presumably, leave cash) to giant markets with pumpkins, cider doughnuts, broccoli, squash, sweet corn, and apple varieties.

One hut has pumpkins and sunflowers. The picked flowers, arranged in bunches, look hopeful as usual, standing smartly at attention, ready to be admired. The ones still in the ground tell a different story, the color of mud, bowing in surrender to the dreary months ahead. As for the giant pumpkin patches, well, it must be hard to sell pumpkins in November.

The traffic picks up, and the road, with a 45-mile-an-hour speed limit, has one lane in each direction and only the narrowest shoulder for walking. It's not long before I'm cursing the rain and the cars. And the trucks. There is an unbelievable number of trucks, and they spray me as they pass. What could there possibly be to bring from Greenport on a Monday morning in November?

I usually remain stubborn and walk on the road, and most drivers are respectful enough and give me space. A few come too close, even when there's no opposing traffic and they could easily move to the center, and to those I turn around and raise more than an eyebrow. One driver honks. Is it a hello? Does he think I didn't see him? Or is he getting a rush out of asserting his belief that I'm out of place? Whatever the case, I don't acknowledge him.

I do put safety first, of course, and when traffic is thickest I give up and jump up onto the mushy, uneven grass. I hate doing it, because I deserve comfortable space, but I won't put myself in danger.

A sign tells me that I'm entering the North Fork Wine Trail, with libations on offer for the next 25 miles. Behind a vineyard, with the vines getting ready to hibernate, the sky is brightening. But the promised break in the rain lasts only 20 minutes, and then it starts up again.

A convoy of police cars approaches, and one stops at an intersection just ahead. "You might want to walk on the other side," the officer says. "There's a funeral procession coming through."

"I need to face them," I answer. I don't want fast traffic at my back with a narrow shoulder.

There's another 20-minute break in the rain, and occasional one-minute breaks in the traffic. When it's quiet, my stress goes away, and I can enjoy the little moments of beauty: an old windmill, the Hallock homestead (dating from 1765 and now a museum of farming), one last bright-red bush.

The aromas of wine, mulch, and cider doughnuts pervade the air. I see my first cattle, sheep, and goats. The produce markets pop up every half-hour or so; I'm surprised so many are still open. I consider browsing, but I'm on track to get to lunch by noon, and I don't want to stop.

Then bam, it's raining again, and the road is screaming with eighteen-wheelers. The noise of traffic hasn't bothered me this much before. It's too loud to think, I can't listen to the radio, and I can't hear Helga tell me the speed of each kilometer.

I'm three kilometers from my lunch stop in Mattituck, and it starts pouring: That extra half-hour of sleep cost me. Tucked inside my bag is the little poncho that came down New Jersey with me five years ago, but I don't want to take the time to dig it out. Instead, I start running. I don't hear it, but I complete kilometer 23 in under seven minutes.

I don't remember where I'm supposed to turn for lunch, but the name of the restaurant is Love Lane Kitchen. Fortunately the name of the street is the same, and I pass the tiny Mattituck train station before finding shelter in the restaurant's vestibule, where I pause a moment before going inside.

"Wow, you're wet!" the manager says by way of a greeting, and I can't fault her for stating the obvious.

"I almost made it!" I answer.

I'm angry at the rain, and I'm angry about all of the traffic. This was probably my most treacherous wet walking day. Usedom had more rain overall, but Germany had wide bicycle and pedestrian lanes (except for the day I was hoofing it through the mud of a horse pasture). The downpour on Jeju was, similarly, mitigated by a safe sidewalk and ample places to stop for shelter and food. The United States simply does not care about pedestrians.

I've just missed the chance to use the bathroom, and I'm angry about that, too. She takes her time with the stupid air dryer, even though everybody knows none of them work anyway and all of them are too loud. She keeps it running for what seems like 30 seconds. And I'm angry at the machine when I finally go in, because its presence means they don't have paper towels like a normal bathroom and I have no means of drying off.

It feels good to sit down. The manager points out the self-service coffee, which is useless to me. I try to curb my sugar intake, so I replace my usual Coke with hot chocolate. I have chicken noodle soup and fish and chips and manage to feel reasonably dry. My fuzzy, thin, warm jacket hasn't gotten too damp in my bag, and I put it on during the meal — I wasn't cold on the road, but I've cooled off now that I've sat down.

The rain has stopped and it's time to continue: I've gone 25 kilometers and have about 21 remaining. It's just before 1:30 and if I keep up my pace, I can make it to Greenport before dark.

Beyond Mattituck, the road — now called Middle Road — widens to two lanes in each direction, and the speed limit gets cranked up to 55. But there's a full shoulder for walking, so the afternoon is more pleasant than the morning. I'm a little slower, sometimes breaching the ten-minute kilometer. In Southold, I finally get to see the sea, as Middle Road proceeds through the narrow strip of land between the Long Island Sound and Hashamomuck Pond. There's even a sidewalk for a hundred meters or so.

I'm in the final stretch, and, as in the morning, the rain comes when I'm about 25 minutes out. It's not nearly as heavy, but it's still a surprise and an annoyance. As dusk approaches, I catch the sweet whiff of the occasional fire in a house.

I leave Middle Road one block early and cut through a residential area to reach the Townsend Manor Inn. My room is directly up a staircase, overlooking Main Road. The room has a fake fireplace, including reflective logs that make it appear the fire is always on. My clothes got wetter than I'd realized, so I turn the real heater on and hang them nearby.

I put on the news. Early this morning in Stony Brook, almost directly across the street from the Three Village Inn, a man was murdered. I left there just yesterday morning, and it seems so long ago.

Greenport has lots of restaurants, but those that are open on Mondays in November number just a few. I'm tired of seeing $22 sandwiches and $34 mains everywhere, so I'm relieved to learn that there's a dive bar called the Whiskey Wind Tavern whose kitchen is open until midnight. I linger in my room until after eight, and I shower and put on dry clothes, or at least as dry as I've got.

The bar's kitchen, it turns out, is closed until early December for renovations. The bartender suggests I head next door to Andy's, where I arrive with 15 kitchen minutes to spare. There's a lively couple at the bar, talking to Andy himself. Midway back, a table is having a poker game, and enthusiastic cheers ring out when a big pot is won.

I have tomato soup (which comes with a small, skewered grilled-cheese sandwich on top), and then I let the couple and Andy talk me into the Peconic Bay scallops. They're in short supply this year, and they live up to the hype, fairly sweet, small, and tender. These broiled scallops and the ones Todd cooked me on PEI must be the best I've ever had.

The two bartenders are very interested in my walk, and they ask about the daily distances and routes. "So tomorrow you're going around Orient Point, and then you're done?"

"No, then I have to go back in to Riverhead, and out to Montauk, and then back to the city along the south coast."

"You're doing both forks?"

"Bunch of slackers at the bar tonight," Andy jokes.

The undisclosed credit-card fee justifies my not reminding them that I also had a nonalcoholic Heineken. It's gotten chilly and windy, but at least it's dry. By the time I leave tomorrow, I hope my thick long-sleeve shirt will be, too.

Go on to day 7