In order to ride from England to Switzerland via motorbike, you have to take the M20 and Channel Tunnel (affectionately known as the “Chunnel”) from Dover to Calais, and then motor south across roughy 700 kilometers of France to reach Basel in the northwest corner of the Alpen-state.

But to ride from New England to America’s Switzerland, it’s considerably shorter. If, well, also considerably littler.

Behold the “Little Switzerland of America,” aka Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania.

At least that’s what this INSIDER travel review says…

And since I live, conveniently, in little ol’ New England, I took advantage of an unseasonably August-like October weekend to ride out to the “Little Switzerland of America”

This was the first leg-stretching ride on my relatively new Bonnie T120, and just after her 600 mile first service. Here she is, modestly laden for the trip.

And here is your two-wheeled Leaf Peeper in Chief, heading out of CT.

It was a super easy ride west along I-84 to reach the eastern tip of PA. I hopped off the interstate in Milford PA, passing this old Grand Dame of a hotel on their pretty little Main Street. According to some online reviews, she’s not quite as Grand or Dame-ish as her former self, but still looks sweet.

As part of my pre-trip Google route-planning, I scouted out the famed Route 6 around Carbondale, a well-loved motorcycling road for its curves and bucolic scenery. So I headed northwest to circle around Lake Wallenpaupack on my way up to Prompton in order to soak up as much of the sun—and the delicious asphalt ribbon of 6 West—as possible during my run south to Jim Thorpe.

The riding was heartbreakingly beautiful. It was one of those autumn gift days, a mellow summer hangover, warm in the sun but crisp in the flickering shade, light dappling through crimson and copper and ocher, leaves falling and swirling around the Bonnie as we carved our way through the forest. For half-hours at a time, not another car or bike in sight. Just the thrum of the Bonnie and the swooping curves and the falling leaves and the sidelong, gracious light. Moto heaven.

After Route 6, down Route 507 to Tobyhanna, then stretching the Bonnie’s legs—and her 1200 cc’s—on a brief stretch of interstate before peeling off on Route 903 and descending deep into the Lehigh Valley Gorge, wherein nestles Jim Thorpe.

The town, once bearing the considerably less prosaic name “Mauch Chunk,” was renamed after the the Olympian Jim Thorpe during the mid-fifties, in a legacy-boosting gambit to honor the athlete, make the town sound a bit less like an ample lump of anthracite, and produce some income for his impoverished widow. Thorpe apparently grew up and kicked off his athletic career at a school sort of in the vicinity (100 miles away), although he was actually an Oklahoma native. He’s buried here in a small roadside memorial on the way into town that commemorates his status as the first Native American Olympic gold medalist.

But… “America’s Little Switzerland”? Jim Thorpe is indeed flanked by several modest Pocono “peaks.” It is certainly picturesque, in a well-preserved nineteenth century kind of way. It’s a train enthusiast’s town, and the people of Switzerland do love their trains. And their watches. And their clocktowers…

But Swiss? A bit of a miss, in my humble opinion. Maybe reserve that appellation for Vail.

Anyway, this being the peak leaf-peeping weekend of the season (try saying that three times fast), and given the spectacular Indian summer weather, the town was absolutely bonkers, and my people-less revery down Route 6 ground to a screeching trying to cross the bridge from the east bank of the Lehigh River to the historical downtown on the west bank. Never thought I’d be in a traffic jam in Appalachia on a Friday afternoon, but here we were.

But once you cross the bridge and turn the corner by the Lehigh Gorge Scenic Railway Train Station and onto the town’s Broadway, the automotive crush abates and is replaced by more pleasant human traffic filling the idyllic sidewalks.

Given the late afternoon warmth, the cast-iron balconies at the Inn at Jim Thorpe and its adjacent pub were thronged with diners and drinkers. So I decided to join them for a French Dip and pint of Yuengling lager (just one—I still had some riding ahead of me).

Joy, meet rider.

My final destination for the day was rail town of Tamaqua, about fifteen miles west through the heart of coal country (this is, after all, Carbon County). So after wolfing down and saddling up, I set out on the steep and winding climb out of the Lehigh Valley Gorge on 209, but just outside of town saw a sign for the “100 Mile View” atop Flagstaff Mountain, and peeled off to check it out. The road up is mostly paved, with s short stretch of dirt, which rewards you with the advertised vista. It did not disappoint.

You can also camp up here, which would have been delightful, but I was lightly packed for more domestic accommodations.

On the way back down from Flagstaff Mountain, and heading west towards Tamaqua, I was treated to a chef’s kiss on a perfect riding day, this golden sunset.

And about a half hour later, I pulled in here at the Bischoff Inn in Tamaqua, PA.

Housed in a former carved-wood bed and (cough cough) coffin factory, the Inn is a hip, modern self-service hotel on a, um, transitioning street. Tamaqua is trying to turn itself around from its rough, poor, opioid-addled former coal town status into something brighter, and this certainly is a bright spot…

But just next door to the Hotel, a neighbor wearing a wife-beater and dirty basketball shorts was leaning into the engine bay of his car doing some curbside wrenching, while a few other locals on the block sat on their porches smoking, warily eyeballing the coming-and-going weekenders who were there pouring some fuel in Tamaqua’s tourist tank.

It wasn’t exactly sketchy, but it wasn’t exactly charming or appealing, either. But once inside the front doors of the Bischoff, it’s a pretty special place, renovated to hipster perfection. And it’s reasonable, too.

After lightening the Bonnie and stowing some of my kit, I set out for a bite at another historic Tamaqua reimagining. Their coal-and-steam-era Train Station has been converted into a funky bar and restaurant.

It’s actually pretty neat, pleasantly friendly, and has good eats.

My reminder that this would be a one-beer engagement.

Then back to the Bischoff and bed, deeply satisfied by an epic day of Pennsylvania riding, even if we never really got to Switzerland.

Saturday was a Carbon County copy of Friday—unseasonably and deliciously warm, clear blue skies, and with foliage maximus. No wonder this guy is smiling.

I set off a different way back towards Jim Thorpe, because I wanted to poke around Lehigh Gorge State Park. It was, well, gorgeous.

Take it to the bridge!

Bonnie paused here for an autumn selfie in what appeared to be a “coal-hole.”

I chose a slightly different route back, first heading south and east through Lehighton and Weissport, which had a pretty little town green with some neat historical markers. An Olympic swimmer, a revolutionary war fort, and Benjamin Franklin? The things you stumble upon on a motorbike.

The rest of the ride back—a long northeast diagonal through the Poconos, before intersecting I-84 and heading east to CT—was the coda to an October gift, capped off by a melted Reuben and Diet Hires Root Beer at the eponymous “Deli & Cafe” on Route 309 in Cresco. The decor inside was almost as good as the decor outside on the trees, full on pumpkin-spice-latte orange and gold.

As an advertising guy, I don’t think I could say it better than the the “official tourism website of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Community and Economic Development.”

Pursue your happiness. Fall was made for PA.