Milford is a river town so small you could miss it if you blinked, and I mean that as a compliment. A few streets of brick and clapboard houses sit on a bend of the Delaware, with a bridge across to Pennsylvania and the wooded bluffs of the Musconetcong valley behind. The population is barely over a thousand, and Frenchtown is a few kilometres downstream, with its own bridge and a slightly more polished main street. After a day of riding along the river from Trenton, this is a fitting place to stop: quiet, a little old-fashioned, and honest about what it is.
The river is the reason for everything. For two centuries, it carried timber, grain and coal, and a canal ran down the New Jersey side to feed the cities. The ferry and the bridge replaced one another over the years, and mills lined the creek. Today, the economy is mostly canoeing, fishing and weekend visitors, and the river is wide, gentle and shallow enough in places that people wade across in summer. The ridges on both sides are part of the Highlands, old rolling Appalachian country, and in October the whole valley turns gold.
On the bike, the riding up here is better than the early part of the route, because the road leaves the suburbs behind and slips between the river and the hillside. It is not high-speed or technical, just steady, with long straights, easy bends, and the occasional farm stand. Deer are the major hazard, especially at dawn and dusk, and the road can be damp in the shade under the trees. In winter, salt and gravel make it unpleasant, and spring floods occasionally close sections of the river road, so check before you go.
Services are modest. For fuel, the nearest sizeable town is Phillipsburg, about sixteen kilometres away, though Frenchtown has some small stops closer by, and it is worth topping up earlier rather than later.
The bridge to Pennsylvania is a fine place to cross if you want a different bank for the ride home. Pull up by the river, take your helmet off, and listen. It is quiet enough to hear the water.