A visit to Wood Island with Windows to the Wild

Posted on February 6, 2022 by Dianne Fallon

During August of 2021, I kayaked out to Kittery’s Wood Island Lifesaving Station with with Windows to the Wild host Willem Lange and producers Steve Giordani and Phil Vaughn, where we spent a lovely day with Sam Reid, president of the non-profit Wood Island Lifesaving Station (WILSA), which is restoring the once-dilapidated Life Saving Station to a living museum.

The resulting show, titled Wood Island Life Saving Station, had its debut broadcast on New Hampshire Public Television on February 2, 2022, and is now available online at the NH PBS Youtube channel (Episode 1, Season 17), (and also will broadcast many times on NH PBS, WGBH, and other public television stations).

Wood Island, located just off the coast of Kittery, Maine in the Piscataqua River, is a tiny scrap of an island with a fascinating history. I’m working on a post about bootlegging in the Piscataqua River, but with one thing or another, my writing time has been limited. I’ll be posing more frequently come spring.

See the full 2022 for Windows to the Wild schedule here.

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Hiking the Belknap Range in NH’s Lakes Region

Posted on June 8, 2021 by Dianne Fallon

“It’s a range, not a ridge,” I reminded my friend Hilary as we sat on a rock, resting for a few minutes on our marathon 12.2-mile traverse of the Belknap Range in Gilford/Gilmanton, NH.

Hilary had just used the word “ridge” to reference our hike on this humid day in early June —a definite misnomer, even though sections did follow ridges. When we decided to undertake this adventure, I too had been thinking of the Belknap Range as a “ridge hike,” a long but fairly easy traverse over eight low summits. We could leave the Seacoast at 6 a.m., and be back in Portsmouth for a 6 p.m. dinner at Moxy and the outdoor concert at the Music Hall. Easy-peasy, especially since the Lakes Region is just over an hour away.

I soon learned, however, that viewing the Belknap Range trek as a walk on ridge underestimates the challenge of climbing up and over eight mountains in 12.2 miles, even if Gunstock, the tallest of them, measures only 2,445 feet.

But the effort involved in tromping up, down, and over eight low mountains was definitely worth the sweat and sore feet. The Belknap Range trail crosses an incredible diversity of terrain, offering a day of wonders: mountain views, mossy woods, wildflowers, critters and more. For a detailed description of the hike, see the the Belknap Range Trail description at BelknapRangeTrails.com, an excellent guide to all trails in the range. Although the Belknap Range hike is much easier to follow these days, thanks to markers placed along the trail, we frequently consulted the trail description during our hike, as we did not want to add more mileage by taking a wrong turn and backtracking.

After meeting up at the Mount Major parking lot in Gilmanton, we headed over to Gunstock Ski Area in Gilford, where we parked, and picked up the trail to the right of the ski lodge.

We left the Gunstock parking lot at 8:30 a.m. and reached our first summit, Mt. Rowe, elevation 1,680 feet, after about 45 minutes of hoofing it uphill.
After Mount Rowe, the trail meandered through the forest on a ridge towards Gunstock Mountain. When we paused to look at some bird poop on the trail, my friend Annette looked up into the canopy and spotted a sawhet owl peering down at us.
We also saw the first of dozens of the rare and endangered Lady Slipper plant. They were abundant in the forest — early June must be their favored time to blossom.
Checking out the view from the (closed) Panorama Pub at the top of Gunstock Mountain. The pub and its deck were closed due to COVID precautions during the winter of 2021. I look forward to a future sunny February afternoon sitting at a picnic table here with beer or coffee. Next stop: Belknap Mountain, 2,322 feet high, and 3.3 miles into our 12.2 mile day.
Salamanders, salamanders, everywhere! As we hiked through the woods over to Mount Belknap, we had to be careful not to step on these little critters, and saw many throughout the day. Mount Belknap has a fire tower and I forgot to take a photo because I was hungry and tired. We ate an early lunch in the tower, and then continued on towards Round Pond.
We descended from Belknap Mountain on the aptly-named Boulder Trail, quite steep, and tricky to navigate, as the rocks were damp from rain the previous night.
Peaceful and isolated Round Pond, five miles in. Lots of beaver activity here. We hiked along the shore of the pond until we reached a junction for the Mount Klem-Mount Mack Loop, and we began to climb uphill again.
Heading towards the summit of Mount Klem, we could see where we’d come from: Belknap and Gunstock. At this juncture, we were almost half-way across the range. But I was beginning to think I might have to cancel my dinner reservation.

Mt. Klem summit, about 100 yards off the trail. Next, we headed down, and then up, and down and up, to the summit of Mack, about 7 miles in. I was feeling the distance by now, with some “hot spots” on my toes. But there was no turning back now, and we hiked on to Mount Anna, 8.5 miles in. By this time it was 3 o’clock, so I called Moxy to cancel my dinner reservation. But I was still feeling optimistic about making the concert!

After more ups and downs, we arrived at the Straitback. After mostly being in the forest all day, I enjoyed the wide open feel of the granite ledges.
Major Celebration: We reached the summit of Mount Major, overlooking Lake Winnipesaukee, around 5 p.m. Another 1.5 miles to hike to the parking lot, all downhill. Would I make it to Portsmouth in time for the concert?

We arrived at the parking lot around 5:45 pm, beat up but satisfied with our long day in the Belknap Range. I rested on the 15-minute drive to Gunstock, where I picked up my car, changed my shoes, and threw on a clean t-shirt and a shift dress. My husband was waiting in Portsmouth with a beer and a rice bowl. The concert, with Erin McKeon, had been moved indoors due to the threat of thunder showers. I nestled into my cushiony seat to enjoy my first live music experience since the start of the pandemic, and I didn’t fall asleep — success!

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A hike to Mount Parker yields clues to a smallpox outbreak

Posted on May 19, 2021 by Dianne Fallon

On a recent spring hike, I learned about the joys of hiking Bartlett’s Mount Parker, which offers great views of Mount Washington with far fewer people than many other White Mountain trails.

While not not an easy hike at about 8 miles round-trip, this trek offers a variety of terrain, as the trail follows an old logging road to a stretch of open forest and then climbs a series of switchbacks to the mountain’s 3,004-foot ope summit.

But what intrigued me most about the day’s adventure was the mystery at the Mount Langdon trailhead: the lonely grave of Dr. Leonard Eudy, who died far too young, at age 34, while caring for patients during a smallpox outbreak.

Dr. Eudy’s grave is located at the Mount Langdon Trailhead in Bartlett, just to the right (south) of the trail, and surrounded by protective fence. The hike to to Mount Parker begins here, with a 2.5 mile hike up the Mount Langdon trail to the junction of the Mount Parker trail.

With the Langdon Trail beckoning, I didn’t notice the gravesite when we first set out.

The Mount Langdon Trail begins as a long abandoned logging road. The gravesite is at the trailhead, to the right (or south). On this spring day, we encountered soft snow about 2 miles in.

Dr. Leonard had been caring for smallpox patients at a Bartlett logging camp when he became infected with this deadly disease, which had a mortality rate of about 30%. There were many logging camps in the White Mountains, and I couldn’t find any specific information about where the outbreak was, or why Dr. Leonard was buried here, across from the Saco River. The woods below the Mount Parker summit look young, like the area was heavily logged. Was this general area the site of the logging camp?

Late April, on the Mount Parker Trail, in the woods between the junction with the Langdon Trail, and the summit of Mount Parker. The forest was open here, free of brush, with mostly beech trees.

Dr. Leonard, born in Bethlehem, NH, had left the mountains in 1862 at age 19 to enlist in Company C 15th Regiment of New Hampshire Volunteers, joined by his two older brothers, Emphraim and William. In Carrolton, Louisiana, horseplay with another young man took a tragic turn when Eudy’s gun accidentally fired, shattering the leg of his friend, who died after the leg was amputated. This accident haunted Eudy for the rest of his life. I wonder if becoming a doctor in a small mountain community was Eudy’s way of trying to compensate for the accident, or at least to live with himself. Or maybe the illness and suffering he witnessed during the war led him to medicine. Of the 71 men in Company C, only 40 returned home. Disease killed all but four of these young men.

Eudy Leonard is pictured here with his brother, Ephraim, in their Civil War uniforms (BartlettNHHistory.com).

After the War, Eudy Leonard enrolled at Harvard Medical School, and then returned to the White Mountains, moving to Bartlett in 1871.

Smallpox vaccination had been invented by Edward Jenner in 1796. During the first part of the 19th century, smallpox outbreaks were greatly reduced with the combined tools of vaccination and isolation. Memories of smallpox faded. By the 1840s, vaccination efforts had waned. When the time the Civil War erupted, smallpox had again became prevalent in the United States.

Both the Union and Confederate Armies required all soldiers to be vaccinated, so it is possible that Eudy Leonard had a smallpox vaccine, though its effectiveness may have diminished by 1877 (during this period, smallpox vaccines were considered effective for about seven years). But it’s equally likely that Company C was never vaccinated, as often the vaccine requirement was ignored in the rush to get troops to the front lines.

By 1877, smallpox vaccine was a small industry, with vaccine “grown” on calves’ hides at “vaccine farms.” After harvesting, the vaccine was stored in a glycerine solution, or ground into a powder that was applied to the arm through a scraping process (i.e. making a wound and rubbing in the vaccine). There was no regulation of vaccine, and quality varied greatly, but the vaccine was transportable. However, it wasn’t free. I’m guessing that by 1877, most locals in the White Mountains were not vaccinated because in the absence of disease, they felt no need for a vaccine that was probably expensive by local standards.

Irregular vaccination and variable vaccine quality was fairly typical until 1902, when the last major smallpox epidemic killed 270 people in Boston. In Boston, vaccination efforts immediately ramped up, along with resistance to the vaccination and to the city’s mandate to vaccinate all people in a specific area impacted by smallpox (no one was forcibly vaccinated, but they faced a $5 fine or 15 days in jail if they refused).

The Boston epidemic changed the game for vaccination, with new federal laws passed to regulate vaccines and the first efforts to use mass vaccination campaigns as a public health tool to prevent disease. By 1932, smallpox was a rare disease in the United States. By the early 1950s, it was eradicated in the United States.

If Dr. Leonard had survived smallpox, he might have lived long enough to witness the first stage of this public health victory. Like many doctors today working with COVID-19 patients, Dr. Leonard understood the dangers of smallpox and likely tried to protect himself, but the risks didn’t stop him from doing his job of trying to save the sick from dying. I hope that in his six-year tenure in Bartlett, he took a walk or two to the summit of Mount Parker, and enjoyed the view of Mount Washington from its ledgy summit.

Sources and resources

“Cemeteries.” Bartlett, NH History. https://www.bartletthistory.org/bartletthistory/cemeteries.html

“History of Smallpox“, Centers for Disease Control.

Albert, Michael, R., M.D., Kristen G. Ostheimer, M.A., Joel G. Breman, M.D., D.T.P.H. “The Last Smallpox Epidemic in Boston and the Vaccination Controversy, 1901–1903“. The New England Journal of Medicine. February 4, 2001.

McGregor, Charles. History of the Fifteenth Regiment, New Hampshire Volunteers, pg 214  1862-1863 (cited in the Bartlett, NH History information).

Priest, Conn Granville. History of the New Hampshire Surgeons in the War of the Rebellion.(cited in the Bartlett, NH History information)

Reimer, Terry. “Smallpox and Vaccination in the Civil War.” National Museum of Civil War Medicine. November 9, 2004.

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The challenge of the Brothers at Baxter State Park

Posted on October 12, 2020 by Dianne Fallon

Back in April, as we weathered the COVID pandemic at home, I scored a Labor Day weekend  campsite at Baxter State Park in northern Maine.  I had visited Baxter several times before, always for the same reason: to climb Maine’s tallest mountain, 5,267-feet Mount Katahdin. Now I was ready for something different: the 11.2-mile “Brothers loop,” to 4,151-foot North Brother(4,151 feet), South Brother (3,970 feet), and Mount Coe (3,795 feet).

lean-to at Abol Campground

After a comfortable night in our lean-to at the Abol Campground, we were ready to hit the trail early on Saturday morning.  We needed to be at at the trailhead by 7:30 a.m. to make sure we snagged a parking spot at the Brothers trailhead. Parking reservations are required for Katahdin day hikers, and those arriving without a reservation often are directed to the Brothers hike as an alternative.

The hike–a loop with side trails to North and South Brother–looked like a full day’s work, but do-able. We set on the Marston Trail, a fairly easy trail that climbs steadily uphill alongside a brook. The ranger had advised us to hike the loop counter-clockwise, so we were not hiking down the steep rock faces of Mount Coe.

From the junction with the Marston Trail, Mount Coe climbs 1,600 feet over 2 miles, with most of the elevation gain in the last half-mile. Although no technical gear is required, we had to be careful where we placed our feet and and hands, as wet sections of the rock were very slippery. A fall here would be nasty. This would not be a good hike for small children or for outings with sweetheart who is new to hiking.

View down the rock face, near the summit of Mount Coe. I couldn’t take any photos while I was in the thick of climbing up the steep rock face: I had to focus all my attention on the hike.

From Mount Coe, we enjoyed a full view of the trail-less area in Baxter known as the Klondike, a true wilderness within this wilderness park, although I’m guessing that the area was logged heavily in the 19th century. As we descended back into the moss-green forest, we hike for a mile or so on a ridge, heading to South Brother.

The ridge trail (officially the Mount Coe trail) from Coe towards South Brother was an amazing green mossy wonderland.  The trail had some ups and downs, but also lots of flat areas like this.

We arrived at the junction with the South Brother trail head sooner than anticipated, and easily ascended the .3 mile side trail to the summit.

South Brother summit, just shy of 4,000 feet.

This hike is notable for its views of Katahdin’s many features, from the Knife Edge. South Basin, and Baxter Peak to the glacial sculpted Northwest Basin of Katahdin.

Views of the Klondike, and Katahdin, including Knife Edge, in distant background.

Before the hike, I had never heard of Katahdin’s dramatic Northwest Basin, with its dramatic cliff wall and circe just below Hamlin Peak.

Distant view of the Northwest Basin, from  South Brother. Note the steep rock face of the glacier-carved valley.

After backtracking to the main trail, we continued another .6 miles to the junction of the Marston Trail, and began the almost-mile long hike to the summit of North Brother.

Views of South Brother and Mount Coe from the Marston Trail as it climbs North Brother.

 

Ascending North Brother, the Marston Trail climbs up out of the woods and into the alpine scrub.

The trail became a rock pile, similar to that on Katahdin, as we got closer to the North Brother summit.

 

North Brother summit, with the Northwest Basin in the background.

 

The Northwest Basin below Katahdin. Adventuresome campers can hike into remote Davis Pond (pictured) here, and then hike up one of the park’s less-traveled trails to Katahdin’s Hamlin Peak.

At the summit, we bundled up in fleece and windbreakers, and lounged around, taking in the view of the distant mountains, North Traveler and The Traveler–another grueling loop that is on my bucket list for next summer.

From the summit of North Brother, hikers enjoy a view of Traveler Mountain up in the northeast corner of the park.

The final 5.6 miles were a slog: backtrack to the Marston Trail, then down the other side of the loop to the car.  Along the way, we took a break at beautiful Teardrop Pond. But yes, I was exhausted when I arrived at car, and happy that we had cold beer in the cooler in the car.

What I loved the most about this hike was the variety. It was a long day, but we did it all: rushing brooks, steep rock faces, soft pine-needle covered narrow paths through green mossy woods, boulder and rock scrambling, mountain ponds–a feast of natural wonder. And even though I came intent upon exploring hikes other than Mount Katahdin, I also discovered new dimensions of the great mountain.

The day after the hike, we took it easy, exploring some fishing spots and the Daicey Pond area, where visitors can pick up a paddle and take a canoe out into the pond, for a paddle around, or to link up to a trail to other ponds (the park usually charges a canoe rental fee — a $1 an hour!! — but this year, there is no charge because of COVID, i.e. limiting contact). We paddled around the pond, pulled up into the woods, and did a short hike to Grassy Pond.

Checking out Rocky Pond

On our last day, we checked out Kidney Pond, and hiked up to Rocky Pond and Little Rocky Pond. We could have canoed from pond to pond if we had planned ahead (the canoes at the upper ponds are locked, and you need to sign in to get the keys from the ranger before heading out).

On the ride home, I already was planning next year’s visit, to explore Baxter’s northeast corner, where the Traveler mountains are located, along with several other shorter hikes. My husband says he’s done with grueling 11-mile hikes, but he has a year to forget about those last five miles.

Sources and resources

Baxter State Park campsite reservations open up on a four-month rolling reservation system starting January 16 each year, with new weeks opening up every two weeks. For example, reservations for July 4 weekend open up on March 4.

4K peak-baggers often settled for an out-and-back to North Brother (9.2 miles).

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A visit to Arches National Park as it all fell down

Posted on June 7, 2020 by Dianne Fallon

On Friday, March 6, Logan Airport was packed with travelers heading out on winter escapes. People crowded together, waiting to board with ski bags and backpacks. But in the bathroom, everyone was washing their hands with a furor I’d never seen before.  The virus was around, but everyone was still traveling. Why not? We’d heard about a few cases, popping up here and there, but the virus was a distant annoyance, not a threat.

Still, I wondered: was the virus closer than we thought?  The news about the virus in Italy was especially ominous, but Italy was an ocean away. At the ski resort of Park City, Utah, in the lift lines and in the crowded mountain cafeteria-style restaurants, people jostled against one another, conversing in many languages: French, German, Spanish — and Italian.

Although I enjoyed our reunion with old friends in Park City, I was ready to get away from the crowds, and head south and east to Moab, Utah, to explore Arches National Park before heading home to Maine and my students.

The Courthouse Towers greet visitors shortly after entering Arches National Park. We visited in early March, in the first days of “prime season.”  The park was busy but not mobbed, reminding me “off-peak” is the best time to many National Parks. It closed shortly after our visit because of COVID-19.

Arches is a relatively small national park of about 120 square miles. You could tuck it into a corner of Rhode Island, which is about 10 times larger. But the park terrain is rugged and often dangerously hot, which deterred exploration of its many nooks and crannies. When established as a National Monument in 1929, its 90 arches were cited as national treasures, and until 1970, Arches National Park still had 90 arches. But thanks to an ambitious documenting effort carried out by a handful of people over a thirty-year period, we know now that  the park has more than 2,000 arches.

The arches are constantly changing, with new ones forming over decades and centuries,  and old ones eroding, crumbling and even collapsing. In 2008, Wall Arch collapsed in the middle of the night. No one witnessed the collapse but campers at the Devils Garden Campground reported hearing thunder that night. The next day, park rangers found that the arch was gone, its tons of sandstone rubble strewn over the Devil’s Garden Trail. In September, 1991, a huge chunk of Landscape Arch, the longest known arch on the planet, broke off.

photo of Landscape Arch

Landscape Arch, on the Devil’s Garden Trail.  Prior to 1991, hikers could walk up to the arch, but after a huge chunk fell to the ground, the park built fences to keep hikers at a distance.  Several park visitors witnessed this event, including a man who videotaped it (see link to video at the end of this post).

Although Arches has plenty of backcountry terrain that can be explored with all-terrain vehicles, most visitors experience the park via the 18-mile scenic drive, with many trailheads for day hikes located off this road.

We began our visit by setting out for the end of the road, to the Devil’s Garden Trailhead, which would take us to Landscape Arch, and then to the Double O Arches.

As we hiked past Landscape Arch, the hikers thinned out, but plenty of people remained on the trail. On one side of the trail loomed the  hoodoos of the Devil’s Garden. Although the Devil’s Garden isn’t a massive area, it is easy to get disoriented among the sandstone formations, so hiking is allowed there only by guided ranger tour.

On the trail to Double O Arch, hikers scramble up and onto a sandstone fin that may some day become an arch. Hiking along the narrow fin, we weren’t really thinking of social distance, but of courteously maneuvering so that all hikers could pass back and forth safely.

 

The lower half of Double O Arch, with a a much larger second arch directly above it.

Back in Moab, news of the virus was circling, even if the virus not yet circulating. At dinner at the bustling Vietnamese-inspired 98 Central Restaurant, the owners provided  wipes to sanitize phones. At the Park Service Visitor Center, staff had tape had placed tape over the water bubblers, but we could still draw water for our bottles  from the hand-cranked pump outside. Posted signs reminded visitors to wash their hands.

image of north window arch

Exploring North Window Arch (and then its twin, South Window), located off a short side road from the main Park road.

Among the Arches, the idea of the virus seemed unreal. But then, everything started tumbling down. My daughter received an email from her college, telling her not to return. Who had ever heard of colleges closing down? In Boston and New York, the virus was exploding at exponential rates. For better or worse, it was easy to get phone service in the park, and I had to restrain myself from constantly checking on virus-related news.

On our second day, we decided to hike out to Delicate Arch, probably the most famous arch in the park, and well-visited, even though visiting requires a moderately strenuous 3-mile round-trip hike. The hike sets out from Wolfe Ranch, where 69-year-old Civil War veteran John Wesley Wolfe settled with his son Fred in 1898.  Wolfe, who hailed from Ohio, had suffered since the War from a nagging leg injury, and hoped that the drier climate might help his leg. Here, they grazed 1,000 head of cattle on 100 acres for about 10 years.

For several years, John Wesley Wolfe lived in this one-room cabin along with his son Fred, daughter Flora, her husband and their two children. This cabin, built in 1906 when Flora arrived, replaced a previous structure where John and Fred had lived for about 8 years, and which Flora deemed inhabitable (National Park Service photo).

The hike to Delicate Arch took us up along open sandstone slabs, easy on legs used to the steep trails of eastern mountains (but probably hot as hell on a summer day). In the distance, thunder rumbled, and we kept a close eye on a dark cloud to see where it was heading.

The arch and the surrounding landscape were dramatic, especially as dark clouds swept across the sky. But oddly, the experience was underwhelming. Partly because lots of people were there, and partly because my mind was cluttered up with news about the virus. Would I be returning to my classroom when I got home? Should I be concerned about my mom flying on an airplane on her return trip from Florida?

photo of delicate arch

Delicate Arch, one of the iconic sites at Arches National Park.

On Friday, we drove back to Salt Lake City to catch a midnight red-eye back to Boston.  At the airport, the crowds had thinned. I had purchased window seats for the three of us, so that we could doze against the cabin wall. Now, the middle seats were empty.

In the aisle seat of my row, an older gentleman from Wyoming, dressed in full cowboy regalia, was heading to Ireland for a long-planned trip of a lifetime. He seemed unaware of the virus, or that it might impact his plans. I wondered what would happen to him and continued to wonder, when, a few days later, flights from Europe were suspended (although I know Ireland andGreat Britain, were the last European countries for which flights were shut down).

After the Arches came the virus days. Many hours of sitting at the computer, working with students and administering at a distance. Lots of checking on the news. Later, I learned that Park City — along with Sun Valley, Idaho — had infection rates (but not case numbers) equivalent to New York City, mostly because travelers from hard-hit urban and international locations had unknowingly delivered the virus to the further reaches of the country. Now, I feel grateful — and lucky –that I did not pick up the virus, or spread it to someone else.

Someday, I’ll get back to Moab. I want see the sunset at Dead Horse State Park, and explore bike trails suitable for a mild mountain biker. But for now, armchair travel will take the place of planes and trains. My armchair sits next to the window, which offers a view to other dramas: bluebirds building nests, a flock of congregating turkeys, a small gang of foraging deer. I’ll take it, with gratitude.

Sources and resources

On September 1, 1991, park visitor Michael Muller captured the crumbling of Landscape Arch on video, exhibited at this National Park Service site.

For more information, visit the website for Arches National Park.

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The dark-eyed little girl in the picture: Old photos tell the story of an immigrant family from Greece

Posted on May 26, 2020 by Dianne Fallon

school photo of Mary Gekas

Mary Gekas, circa 1919-1921 (Digital Maine).

Browsing through the archives of Digital Maine, this photo of young Mary Gekas invites questions.  Born in 1915, she would have been 5 or 6 when this photo was taken at the Mark Dennett School in Kittery, Maine, and saved by a teacher in  scrapbook. Mary seems very serious for such a young girl. She lived on a farm on Dennett Road with her parents, Sophie and George Gekas, Greek immigrants from Turkey who were probably illiterate, at least in English.

When Mary’s mother Sophie registered as an “alien” at the Kittery Town Office in 1940, she signed her registration form with an X, and her husband George scrawled a rough approximation of a signature.  All of the four Gekas children went to school in Kittery. Like  many immigrant families, the Gekases probably highly valued education.  Mary eventually became a buyer for Kimball’s Department Store in Portsmouth, as well as a mother and grandmother. She was a passionate gardener and loved animals — perhaps the legacy of farm life.

Tony Gekas, circa 1919-1921 (DigitalMaine).

Mary’s brother Tony, a year younger, looks equally serious in this photo taken at the same school. Later, at Traip Academy, Tony played on the football team, graduating in 1934. He began his career as a welder at Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, and served his country during World War II in the 361st Infantry Regiment, 91st Division in the Italian campaign. After the war, he married, became a father to three children, and eventually landed in the Tilton, NH area, where he worked in insurance and, with his wife, operated a well-known pizza shop, and, according to his obituary, “was known for the many kindnesses shown to the area youth.”

In the school photo below, Mary and Tony’s younger sister Esther appears a bit mischievous — perhaps the family rabble rouser.  By age 19, at the time of the 1940 census, Esther was managing a dress shop in Portsmouth, so she was a go-getter. She married, but never had children, and was probably well-known at St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in Portsmouth.

Growing up on a farm in the Great Depression, these three children understood hard work. At the time of the 1940 census, when Maine and then the federal government required their parents to register as aliens, all three of these by-now young adults had jobs off the farm.

When these photos were taken, these siblings had no inkling that eventually they would welcome a baby sister, Garifelia, born in 1938. She’s still around,  living in the Midwest.

Undated class photo, Wentworth Dennett School, possibly around 1930, when Esther would have been 9 years old. She is in the second row, 1st child on the right. Note her stylish bob cut, and big smile — a contrast to her somber siblings.  Esther appears to be wearing jeans or leggings — very rare for a girl circa 1930. Was she a rebel? (DigitalMaine)

Their father, the farmer George Gekas, came to America around 1908, from Turkey. Their mother Sophie followed a couple of years later. Eventually, after spending time in Connecticut and New Hampshire, the Gekases bought a farm on Dennett Road. Two years later, they were joined by another Greek family, who bought a neighboring farm: the Vourvases, from Smyrna, Turkey. Smyrna was a tense spot in the Mediterranean, a Greek city in Turkish territory. Eventually, in 1922, the Turks burned the city in their drive to claim it as Turkish. Were these families fleeing the tensions that eventually flared into the Greco-Turkish War and the burning of Smyrna? Or were they economic migrants, heading to America for a better life?

Traip Academy football team, 1931 season. Tony Gekas is in the 2nd row, 2nd from right.

I suspect that the Gekas and Vourvas families, stood out in Kittery, with their dark eyes, hair and skin. At the time, anti-immigration nativist politicians and their supporters were stirring up a frenzy against the “yellow menace” — the flood of immigrants arriving from Italy, Greece and other countries in southern Europe.  The country, they said, was being overrun by these “dirty undesirables.” To stop them from turning America into a mongrel nation, in 1924, Congress passed the National Origins Act, which outlawed immigration from Asia and imposed quotas that discriminated against immigrants from southern Europe.  As a result, in the 1920s,  immigration from countries like Greece and Italy was sharply curtailed for almost 30 years, until modifications in 1952 eased the quotas somewhat by basing them on the 1920 census (instead of the 1890 census, the original basis for determined quotas). But the Act was not abolished until passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965.

By then, America had mostly forgotten that Greeks, Italians and others from southern Europe had once been “undesirables”. I wonder if the George and Sophie Gekas remembered.

P.S. I hope commenters can shed more light on these photos and share family stories. I hope to locate obituaries for George and Sophie once libraries are open and I have access to other archival sources.

 

 

 

 

Related posts:

The summer when Kittery aliens landed at the Town Office

Fragments of history: When the the KKK marched in Kittery, Maine

Sources and resources

Historic photos from the Mark Dennett School are from the DigitalMaine archive, and are part of a print collection held by the Rice Public Library, in a scrapbook titled ‘Reminiscences’, gathered by Mrs. J. Evelyn Woods when she was a teacher at the School. The original source for the Wentworth Dennett School photo and the Traip Academy  football team is unknown, but both photos are in the collections of Rice Public Library and Digital Maine.  See all names associated with the photo below and let me know if you can fill in any of the question marks!

Mary Gekas Kyrios obituary, Legacy.com, 2011.

Anthony Gekas obituary, Seacoastonline.com, 2002.

Esther Gekas Karayianis obituary, Legacy.com, 2014.

Wentworth Dennett School photo:

First row left to right: Bud Symonds, Sterling Cook, ?, Phil Gerry, ?, Robert Grogan. Second row: Vanetta Cutten, ?, Phyllis Blaney, ?. Barbara Wilson,, ?, ?, Esther Gekas. Third row: Henry Bowden, ?, ?, …Seaward, ?, ?, George Nickerson, …Curren, Clayton Edwards, Charles Plaisted, Stephen Robbins.

Traip Academy football team, 1931 season:

First row left to right: A. Ricker, Capt. Locke, R. Williams, Wilson, Blethrode, Bilbrusk, Boston, E. Obrian. Second row: Coach Slayton, Charles Neal, R. Hatch, Vinton Prince, Wm. Robins, Warren Wurm, Arthur Goodwin, Lersy Shea, Fr., Tony Gekas, Mg. Ford. Third row: Edw. McCloud, Bob Weaver, Jeff Cook, Leland Riley, Don Chick, Edw. McCloud, Bob Weaver, Jeff Cook, Leland Riley, Don Chick, Robert Stewart, Harold Hayes, Kenneth Newson, Gerald Obrian. Fourth row: F. Hatch, Fernald, Perry.

Posted in Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , | 13 Comments

Mountain spring: hike to North Doublehead

Posted on April 27, 2020 by Dianne Fallon

Mountains in spring, breath
clean oxygen. Listen:  in
the spruce, loving birds.

I’ve been working with my students on form poems, including haiku. Thus, I attempt to describe a recent hike with a combination of haiku, photos and text. Indulge me.

Taking a break on the trail up North Doublehead. The wide trail was built by the Saco Conservation Corps in 1934 as a backcountry ski trail, and makes for a great short hike in spring, summer and fall, about two miles to the summit.

Beckoning trails lead
to destinations but feel
like mystery paths.

The Ski Trail never gets very steep, and I’ve almost convinced myself that I could ski it next winter, in perfect conditions. But I’m sure it gets bumped up with ditches and mogul from avid backcountry skiers.

Long ago, young men
dripped sweat, hauling rocks and logs
to build a cabin.

The cabin on North Doublehead, popular with winter skiers and youth groups, is locked but can be reserved through the Forest Service. We discovered some lunch rocks with a great view of snow-covered Mount Washington.

The cabin was built by the CCC during the Depression and has been renovated several times, but still maintains many old features, like the stone foundation and chimney covered with a slab of rock. The cabin includes two small bunk rooms and a small community area with a wood stove.

On the ridge, young trees
erase old scars, wilding land
buzzing saws stripped bare.

Doublehead offers several looping options. At this junction, we had to decide whether to continue on for a longer hike to South Doublehead, and then double-back (or descend from South D. on another trail that exited about a half-mile from the car).  We opted to wait on South Doublehead for another day. This turned out to a good decision as the route down the Old Path was steep and icy, and required care and our full attention, even with micro spikes.

Mountains in spring: two
worlds, the barren forest plus
forgotten winter.

After stepping down the sometimes treacherous “Old Path” trail, we stepped into spring on the lower half of the mountain. The Old Path is fine for experienced hikers but I do not recommend taking children on this piece of the journey in spring. Out and back on the Ski Trail is the easiest route.

From the back porch, spring
sunsets on distant mountains
until trees unfurl.

At the day’s end, a view through the trees to the mountains and the sunset.

Note:

As of Friday, April 24, the White Mountain National Forest closed down many popular trailheads to try to spread out hikers prevent the spread of coronavirus, but many lesser-known trails remain open. I feel grateful that I’ve been able to do some hiking this spring.  The adventure described here met the guidelines for New Hampshire’s stay-at-home order.

Sources and resources
“Doublehead Mountain, CCC Ski Trails, New Hampshire.” NewEnglandSkiHistory.com

Posted in Family and Kids, Hiking, Mountains | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

When a silent enemy traveled undetected: the Seacoast “throat distemper” epidemic of the 1730s

Posted on March 23, 2020 by Dianne Fallon

“It was this readiness to adopt a theological explanation for the epidemic which was chiefly responsible for the hasty abandonment of a scientific one.” –Ernest Caulfield

Image of Fitch's printed sermonBy July 26, 1736, when Portsmouth’s Reverend Jabez Fitch speculated that the “throat distemper” epidemic ravaging the Seacoast was “the Fruit of strange Sins,” 129 children had died in nearby Kingston, NH–nearly a third of the town’s children.

This new and mysterious disease, with its horrific mortality rate, took hold suddenly, with the  appearance of gray or black spots at the back of the throat. Within a day or two, or sometimes hours, a child victim would be gasping and struggling for breath. If the disease was merciful, it claimed its victim quickly, but sometimes helpless parents had to keep vigil over slowly suffocating children for several days before the end came.

Kingston’s residents were baffled by this disease and stunned by how rapidly it claimed its victims. Unlike smallpox, the throat distemper seemed to erupt with no warning or contact from an obvious source of infection. With smallpox, colonial Americans understood that the disease spread rapidly from one infected person to another. Quarantine was one tool they used to battle smallpox, with towns often establishing quarantine stations during an outbreak.

The throat distemper, however, seemed to come on out of nowhere, as if God had suddenly decided he needed to provide a sign or warning to a certain cluster of people.

The first cases in Kingston occurred in homes located four miles apart, and then continued to appear in widely separated sections of town. Since its circulation seemed arbitrary, people abandoned (to their peril) the usual precautions they might attempt to prevent the spread of smallpox.  Although people had a general understanding of contagion (minus the specific knowledge of germs, viruses and bacteria), they did not know about “silent” or “healthy” disease carriers who were asymptomatic. Thus, Kingston residents who seemed unaffected by the disease probably were transmitting the bacteria in their town and in other nearby New Hampshire villages as they went about their business.

The epidemic next erupted in Hampton Falls, where one family reportedly lost all of their 13 children, then it travelled to Exeter, Durham, Dover, Chester, and finally to Portsmouth. At the Isles of Shoals, eight miles out to sea, the isolated fishing community lost 36 children. Ministers presided over fasts and prayers, but the fasting did not stop the spread of the disease, which jumped the Piscataqua River to Kittery, where 125 deaths were attributed to throat distemper, and then spread to other coastal towns in Maine. All told, over a span of about five years, the epidemic killed about 5,000 people in New England, most of them children.

Medical historians believe that the “throat distemper” was diphtheria, a bacterial infection in which a gray to black membrane develops in the throat, causing the victim to die from a choked airway, or from a blood infection caused by toxins produced by the bacteria. In 1890-91, German physician Emil von Behring developed the anti-serum that could, if administered in a timely fashion, cure diphtheria, (a discovery for which he was awarded the first Noble Prize), but the disease remained common in the United States until the 1920s, when a vaccination was developed. Although rare in the U.S. today, with only a handful of cases each year, diphtheria is still a public health threat in some parts of the world.

In suggesting divine causes for the epidemic, Reverend Fitch’s 1736 sermon may have inadvertently contributed to the spread of throat distemper. However, it also provided a wealth of specific information about the epidemic along with town vital records. Bare statistics reveal heartbreaking stories.

Ward Clark had been on the job as minister in Kingston for ten years. Hired in 1725 at age 22 to be the first minister of the new church, Clark had become a beloved and respected figure in Kingston. In the midst of the epidemic, along with two town doctors, Reverend Clark travelled from one home to another, offering spiritual comfort and medical advice, and probably spreading bacteria as he moved about.

Then, Clark’s own family took ill. On July 27, his wife Mary and their infant daughter died. A month later, on August 29, he lost his daughter Elizabeth, and then the disease also claimed his two little boys. Finally, the minister couldn’t take the suffering any longer. Bereft of his young family, Reverend Clark returned to his hometown of Exeter to regain his health, but died in May 1737 of a “wasting consumption” that may have been related to the disease, or to the trauma of loss.

The epidemic eventually eased, but returned time and again to Kingston and other Seacoast towns in the 18th century. In Kensington, NH, with about 600 residents, 120 children perished in the epidemic between 1735 and1737, “so many there were few children left to die,” writes town historian Reverend Roland Sawyer, who documents additional epidemics in 1745, 1747, 1760, and 1764.

I’ve looked for traces of the epidemic at the Plains Cemetery in Kingston,  but very few graves exist from before 1750. I’ve found two small gravestones from 1743, those of Seccomb French, who died on September 21, and his brother William, who went on to his fate two days later. Were these two little boys the victims of another diphtheria wave?

Somehow, their parents carried on. Father Nathaniel lived to age 69, long enough to see the outbreak of the Revolution in 1775.  Their mother, Abigail, lived to age 90. I would need to do further research to find out if they had more childre, but I suspect that their descendants walk among us today.

PS Reverend Fitch was a man of his times, when it was not uncommon to attribute many calamities to divine intervention. However, colonial ministers, who were the most educated, also were “early adopters” of scientific inquiry. In 1721, Onesimus, an African slave owned byCotton Mather, introduced the minister to the practice of smallpox inoculation — the pre-cursor of vaccination.  Inoculation usually resulted in a milder case of smallpox, and produced immunity (although some people also died from the practice). Mather used his pen and pulpit to advocate for widespread inoculation, gathered data and information on this “experiment,” and cited Onesimus as his original source.

Sources and resources:

This post is  modified version of material in my book, Pioneer on a Mountain Bike: Eight Days through Early American History, available from Amazon, at the Kittery Historical & Naval Museum, and from Rice Public Library.

Barry, John M. The Great Influenza; The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History. New York: Penguin Books, c2004, 2005, p. 70. (info on diptheria).

Caulfield, Ernest. “A History of the Terrible Epidemic, Vulgarly Called the Throat Distemper, as it occurred in His Majesty’s New England Colonies Between1735 and 1740.” Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine, 1939 January 11(3), p. 223, and pp. 243-245. U.S. National Library of Medicine.

Fitch, Jabez, An account of the numbers that have died of the distemper in the throat, within the province of New-Hampshire : with some reflections thereon ; July 26. 1736. U.S. National Library of Medicine.

Sawyer, Roland D. The history of Kensington, New Hampshire, 1663 to 1945 (232 years) with a family and homestead register of the pioneer families, early settlers and permanent citizens of the town. Farmington, ME: Knowlton & McLeary Co., 1946, pp. 264–265.

Posted in Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , | 6 Comments

The summer when Kittery aliens landed at the Town Office

Posted on January 8, 2020 by Dianne Fallon

Image of Governor's ProclamationIn late June of 1940, 39 aliens officially called Kittery home. Some had dwelled among the town’s residents for more than 50 years, others for just a few weeks. When Governor Lewis E. Barrows signed an executive order requiring all non-citizen immigrants to register at their town office, these foreign nationals followed the rules and completed the forms, which were collected, compiled and then analyzed for statistical data by the the Adjutant General’s office.

At the time, the idea of an illegal or undocumented alien did not exist. In 1924, Congress had passed legislation imposing the country’s first-ever immigration quotas. These quotas favored immigrants from northern Europe, since one goal of the legislation was to curb the number of “undesirable” immigrants flooding the country from Italy, Greece and other southern European countries. But immigrants didn’t need papers or a green card; they pretty much just showed up. And the quotas did not apply to the thousands of migrants coming from Canada each year.

Many of Kittery’s 39 aliens had been here for decades, but had eschewed citizenship, perhaps wishfully thinking that some day, they would return/retire to the old country, as some do today.

For example, Walter MacDonald, age 57, born in Digby, Nova Scotia, had  lived in Maine since he was 2. The father of five American children, he worked as a loftsman at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, but had never become a U.S. citizen. But his registration form indicates that he had just submitted citizenship application paperwork. Citizenship offered protection from deportation and separation from his family.

But Annie G. Simmons, age 75, retired and the mother of four, didn’t bother applying for her citizenship, at least not in 1940. A widow, Annie hailed from the Azores Islands and spoke Portuguese. She had lived in Maine for 58 years, perhaps long enough to feel that she had nothing to fear from the registration order.

Kittery’s aliens hailed from about 10 different countries, including the usual suspects — Canada (Quebec, and the Maritime Provinces), England, and Ireland, along with some outliers, such as Turkey, Greece and Finland.

Registration form Eero Akerston

Eero Akersten, age 53, a widower from Finland, had only been in Kittery for a few weeks. He worked as a butler on Gerrish Island for Mrs. Edward Crocker, so I suspect he was only in town for the summer, along with Margaret Auchterlonie, from Scotland, who worked as a nurse for Mrs. Fergus Reid.  Another summer resident, Elisabeth Menzel, originally from Chateau de Prangins in Switzerland, worked as  governess for the William W. Howells family.

How did these immigrants feel about being compelled to register their status at the Town Office? Were they frightened that news about the war in Europe would subject them to extra scrutiny? Or did they willingly comply with registration, feeling that they had nothing to hide or fear from this documentation, or even viewing the act of registration as a patriotic duty?

The evidence suggest that registration made Kittery’s aliens nervous about their future: 25 of Kittery’s 39 registrants immediately applied for citizenship (according to their forms). In 1940, the United States was determined to stay out of the war in Europe, but rumors abounded of foreign intrigue.  The Governor’s executive order also encouraged Maine’s residents to report suspicious activity, and some did (although not in Kittery). Becoming a citizen was the best route to a secure future.

Compared to other towns in Maine, like Biddeford or Sanford, Kittery had only a few aliens. Kittery’s population had remained stable — or some would say stagnant — since the early 1800s, with little in-migration.  That would soon change, as the Shipyard ramped up its workforce during World War II, but in 1940, most of Kittery’s residents had lived here for generations.

Some of these aliens likely stood out more than others. Walter MacDonald’s neighbors might have been surprised to learn he wasn’t American. When Annie Simmons first arrived in town as a young woman from a far-flung island, she must have been an exotic presence, but after 58 years, she was an older woman with a touch of a foreign accent. And Albert Maillett, operating a restaurant on Route 1, probably still had a strong French-Canadian accent, but serving up food and drink for 13 years likely had transformed him into a local.

All of these immigrants probably thought of themselves as ordinary people who lived unremarkable lives. We get only glimpses of their stories from the Maine Alien Registration forms, and other documents, like lines from the US census of 1940. I wonder what stories these aliens would tell today about going to the Town Hall to fill out the registration forms.

(P.S. I’m hoping some local commenters might have heard parents or grandparents talk about the registration process and what it meant to their relatives).

Related posts:

The dark-eyed little girl in the photo

Fragments of history: When the the KKK marched in Kittery, Maine

Sources and resources

At Digital Maine’s Alien Registration Order Archive, of the Maine State Library, visitors can browse through 20,000 non-citizen immigrants registration forms; this extensive collection of documents is searchable by town and name. To learn more about the Order, see this article by Maine State Archivist Samuel Howes: Maine’s Alien Registration of 1940.

The 1940 Census can be searched online via a National Archives database. However, it appears that census data is only available from larger cities in York County.

Posted in Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , | 8 Comments

Giving up on Isolation

Posted on July 8, 2019 by Dianne Fallon

When we set out from Kittery at 6 a.m., I knew we had a grueling day ahead of us: two+ hours to the trailhead, 11.5+ miles of hiking, 5,000+ feet of elevation gain. Mount Isolation is one of the “shortest” mountains on the list of the 48 New Hampshire “4,000 footers,” but, as its name suggestions, reaching its summit is not easy, as Isolation is located on a ridge south of Mount Washington, six to nine miles from the nearest road.

After more than 30 years of White Mountains hiking,  this climb to Isolation would be my final 4,000-footer.  I had planned for this day, opting to hike on July 1, when we are still enjoying the longest days of the year, so we didn’t have to worry about walking out in the dark. We brought plenty of food, as I knew we might be hiking well past the dinner hour. For days, the forecast showed clear skies and no storms.  I knew the hike was going to be challenging, with all of that elevation gain, mostly from going uphill, then downhill, then uphill again. But hiking is all about putting one foot in front of the other.  I could do that, with stops for rest, for hours and hours.

It took us longer than expected to get to Pinkham Notch, where we met my friend Louisa, used the bathrooms, and then left one car there before backtracking .7 miles south to the Glen Boulder trailhead. Optimistically, I thought that if we had the energy, we might complete the hike as a loop down Boott Spur, which would land us at Pinkham Notch.

I had read that the Glen Boulder trail was steep and tough, but I didn’t find it any worse than most White Mountain trails. However, as our teenaged companions Jen and Kiara hiked on ahead of us,  I noted that the trail seemed too flat for the steep uphill I was prepared for. Was this the Avalanche Brook Ski Trail mentioned in the guidebook?  After about a half-mile of walking on this flat stretch, I took out the pages photocopied from Steven Smith and Mike Dickerman’s book, The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains, and confirmed that we had definitely taken a wrong turn onto the ski trail. As we backtracked to Glen Boulder, we ran into two young women who had made the same mistake, and, like us, had missed the glaringly obvious signs on the trail.  We were able to confirm by phone that our teenaged companions were on the right trail, and agreed to meet up at Glen Boulder.

Photo near Glen Boulder

My friend Louisa and I face the blustery winds just above the treeline. A downhill hiker warned us that the wind — forecast to blow at 20-40 mph with 60 mph gusts — could reduce us to crawling on our hands and knees, but the heaviest winds had diminished as we climbed towards Glen Boulder. All in all, a good reminder of how rapidly conditions change above treeline in the White Mountains.

High above us, we could see Jen and Kiara picking their way towards Glen Boulder, and we soon caught up, where we rested rested in the lee of the boulder and enjoy a  snack out of the wind.

Glen Boulder, dumped on the edge of a mountain by a glacier 10,000 or so years ago. Up close, the boulder seems like an ordinary huge boulder, but later, as we hiked down Boott Spur, the far-away boulder looked like it could topple at any moment off the mountain and into Pinkham Notch.

After our rest stop, we continued upward as an ominous gray cloud rolled in over Mount Washington.  By now, the wind had subsided — probably a front had blown through and brought the cloud — and the air had chilled, but the temperature remained comfortable. Still, we weren’t sure whether the cloud would just sit there hanging out or evolve into a thunderstorm. We reached the junction with the Davis Path around 2 p.m. and contemplated our options.  

Looking over the Gulf of Slides, where snow still lingered in July.  We could still feel the wind, and, more significantly, what the wind had delivered: a massive gray cloud.

The trail descending towards Isolation looked open and beautiful — but I knew we would also have to hike back up.

At the junction of Glen Boulder and the Davis Path, we take a selfie while weighing options. Note that everyone has pulled on their fleece on what began as a beautiful summer day down in the valley below.

I could tell that Jen and Kiara were tired. I WAS tired. It might thunder. I knew that we could do the hike and get out before darkness fell, but then we had the two+hour drive back to Kittery. Yes, it was too much.  Isolation would have to wait for another day.  But the Boott Spur cut-off trail was only another .4 mile up the Davis Path and the cloud wasn’t making any noise.  We headed uphill towards Mount Washington.

The Davis Path, heading towards Boott Spur and Mt. Washington. This historic path, which extends 9 miles south on the Montalban Ridge, was first built in 1844-1845  as a bridle path for tourists visiting Mt. Washington. It felt into disuse in the 1850s, and was rebuilt as a hiking trail in the early 20th century. Someday, I want to hike the entire path (much of it at a lower elevation, and in the woods).

We enjoyed a beautiful rugged hike above treeline, and then down the Boott Spur and into the woods.

Hiking along the Boott Spurr, we had terrific views of Turckerman’s Ravine, and could still see the tracks in the snow left by the skiers who flocked here in May and early June.

The downhill hike was relentlessly tough and included a steep ladder, but we reached Pinkham about 5:15 p.m., as predicted, where we cooled off with sweet drinks and recovered on a bench. Louisa dropped us off at my car and we headed into North Conway for pizza at Flatbread, where I fueled up for the ride home with Diet Coke.  Two hours later, filthy, sweaty, and smelly, we landed back in Kittery.

I didn’t complete the 4K list but we lived for another day of hiking in the White Mountains, the best and worst training grounds for other hikes. 

In hindsight, I think my brain and body understood that the climb to Isolation, plus the five hours of driving, was too much for me to do in one day.  I had felt anxious about the hike rather than excited about reaching my goal. I didn’t sleep well the night before, and began the day feeling tired.

But I have a plan for next time: instead of making the hike a one-day event, I will stay for a night or two at Lake of the Clouds hut below Mount Washington and hike to Isolation from there. The hike down and then back up to the hut will still be long and grueling. But the day will be all about the hike, rather than the travel. And if I stay at the hut, I just might have a small bottle of champagne — or a can of beer — waiting for me to crack open and celebrate my 4K quest.

Notes and resources

The two most-often used routes to Isolation include the long 7-mile (14 mile RT) trek on the Rocky Branch Trail, which follows an old railroad bed, then a couple of other trails to the summit, or the Glen Boulder route that we followed.  The Rocky Branch route is longer often muddy, and requires several river crossings (usually fine, except after a storm), and the other is shorter, steeper and more scenic. My sense is that I would find both equally challenging for different reasons. However, other hikers complete these routes in one day all the time.

Posted in Hiking, Mountains | Tagged , , | 4 Comments