Monthly Archives: June 2012

Rock scrambling on Welch-Dickey Loop Trail

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After a mile of hiking at a moderate grade, we burst into sky as we reach the open ledges on the side of Welch Mountain.  My three 11-year-old hiking companions skip across the flat patches of granite to the ledge that drops down the side of the mountain.  I can hear their voices as I pull up behind them.

“Totally awesome.”

“I’ve never climbed a mountain this high!”

“Let’s find some rocks, and see what happens if we throw them down.”

Standing on this granite platform, with its wide-open vista of the Sandwich Range and Mount Tripyramid, the boys feels as if they are on top on the world.  But we haven’t traveled all that far—this ledge sits at about 1,600 feet, (about 700 feet of climbing) and it only took 45 minutes of steady hiking to get here. Unrelenting views will continue, more or less, for the next two miles, when we continue the hike up to the summit of Welch Mountain and over to Dickey.   Attaining these views for relatively small effort is the magic of the Welch-Dickey Loop, a 4.4-mile trail in Campton, NH, just off the road (Route 175) to Waterville Valley.

As I catch up to the boys, I rein in their dance along the edge of the mountain.  “Don’t go any further on that ledge.  Stay here. NO FURTHER!”

Three boys hold up the sky on the ledges on Welch Mountain.

The ledge isn’t exactly a cliff, but slopes in a gentle curve downward about 150 feet, to the trees below.  The grade probably isn’t as steep as it seems in my head, but eleven-year-old boys lack experience in judging steepness and angles, and how quickly a foot could slip, a body tumble.   A fall might not mean death, because the trees would grab the tumbling boy, but at minimum, it would mean rescue, a broken limb, possibly worse.  The boys – my son and his two friends – are my responsibility today and I intend to return them home without injury.

We sit by the edge of the ledge and eat our sandwiches.  Tanner announces that he is going over to find some rocks.  I tell him to stay with us and finish his sandwich.  “I want to enjoy my lunch,” I say. “It’s hard to relax if I think you might fall over the edge.”

These are good kids, and they comply.  After refueling, the boys search for rocks and take turns hurtling small missiles down the ledge and watching them skitter into the trees.  Then we continue on, climbing up higher on the sloped rocks.    The hiking is not easy. My calves burn as I climb up the rocks using both hands and feet.  But the scrambling is fun, the perfect hike for 11-year-old boys who might get bored trudging through the woods.

Getting ready to head for the summit of Welch Mountain.

Hiking with kids is alternatively wonderful, nerve-wracking and annoying, sometimes all at the same time.   I love bringing my son and any other takers to this world of rocks and views, and witnessing their awe.  But the ledges, along with rock jumping and bursts of trail running, are nerve-wracking.  Foot-dragging is annoying, although this group is pretty game.  At one point, I have to deal with the fact that one of the boys has stepped, with his sock-clad foot, into his own poop.

Hiking with these boys, I also feel time sliding down these granite slopes. Today, just after completing fifth grade, going on a hike with someone’s mom remains a fun adventure. Will that still be the case next summer?  At one point, they will pull away, and organize (I hope) their own hiking trips.

Except for the small aggravation of some black flies, this Friday in mid-June is the perfect day for hiking Welch-Dickey:  sunny skies are moderated by a light breeze, not a cloud in the sky.  We stop frequently to drink water. On a hotter day, I would definitely bring more. I warn the boys never to drink directly from a stream, even it looks crystal clear, explaining that most water sources in these mountains are contaminated with giardia or other bacteria.  “But you can drink it if you treat it with iodine tablets, or filter it,” I explain.

“Like they do in The Hunger Games,” my son Jeremy observes.

In need of more adventure, the boys scrambled up this rock formation, which might be a glacial erratic dropped on the mountain, or part of the mountain itself.

At one point, climbing up a short steep patch, my foot slips, and I slide down the rock slab a couple of feet.   Startled, the boys turns around. For a milli-second, they look scared. No one asks me if I’m all right – I’m not sure it would occur to them to ask – but I tell them I’m fine anyway.

““But this is why I am not kidding about respecting these ledges,” I say. “You can easily slip.”

They definitely get the message.  At the summit of 2,605-foot Welch Mountain, we stand on tops of the rocks, but well clear of the edge, and take in the wide-angle view of the mountains surrounding Waterville Valley. I point out the ski area buildings on top of Mount Tecumseh. Way below we can see the patch of granite where we ate lunch.  Above, a group of five ravens soar in the sky.  Across the little V-shaped valley that clefts Welch and Dickey Mountains, we can see an impressive ledge that drops straight down into the cleft.

Taking in the views on Welch Mountain.

“I want to hike the Appalachian Trail some day,” Howie announces.

Everyone groans when they realize that we need to head downhill and then hike uphill to

Heading down into the col between Welch and Dickey Mountains.

get to Dickey Mountain.  But the summit (2,734 feet) isn’t as far as the perspective suggests.  We make it in about 20 minutes, and are treated to views of Cannon Mountain and the Cannon Balls in Franconia Notch, and Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge.   Black flies on the summit chase us into the woods.

We pound downhill through the woods, crossing several open patches of granite before stepping out onto the steep ledge that we could see from the Welch summit.  On the ledge, I can see the darker area where thousands of footsteps have carved a path. I know that this ledge is the steepest on the trail.  With sensible adults, perfectly safe.  But nerve-wracking, with bouncing and skipping 11-year-olds.

“Stay away from the edge,” I remind them. “Stay to the right. When you guys are teenagers, you can come up here and do whatever you want.  You only read about one teenager falling to his death every year in the White Mountains, so you’ll probably be fine.”

After hurtling some stones into the ravine, we continue our descent, stepping over rocks and roots on the trail as its angle gradually decreases and flattens.  At about 5 p.m., we exit the trail to my car.  Although we have only encountered a couple of other parties today, I can tell this hike is popular, because the parking lot is huge.  Empty trails are part of the joy of mid-week spring/early summer hiking.  By the Fourth of July, this parking lot will be a mob scene.

Although this hike took half as much energy as the 4,000-footer hike I completed earlier in the week, I feel equally as ruined. Ice cream beckons, then the long drive home. Before immersing themselves in Nintendo DS, the boys agree that they want to do another hike.

“But not for a while,” Jeremy says.

“Definitely not,” I say.  “We need to forget how hard this hike was before we do another.”

I suppose in that way, hiking is bit like childbirth.   You want to experience that bliss again – the views, the openness, the feeling of being on top of the world. But kids and adults like need time to forget (or nearly forget) the sweat and aching legs. Then, we’ll be ready to hit the trail again.

Post-hike note:

Travelling to Campton from the Seacoast makes for a long day trip. In retrospect, I would have left earlier, and planned on swimming and wading in the Mad River after the hike, then getting ice cream or an early dinner afterwards before heading home.  At least two low-fee National Forest campgrounds are located off Route 175, and the area is a great destination for a weekend camping trip.

A good resource for family hikes is the AMC publication, Nature Hikes in the White Mountains, by Robert N. Buchsbaum, who offers a detailed description of this hike and many others of varying lengths and difficulty.

Directions:

I-93 to Campton/Waterville exit (just past Plymouth).  Take Route 49 towards Waterville Valley.  When 49 intersects with Route 175, continue another 4.5 miles and turn left on Mad River Road (crossing the river). Follow for .7 miles, then turn right on Orris Road.  The parking area is about a half-mile up Orris and hard to miss.

The agony and ecstasy of climbing four-thousand footers: Mounts Willey, Field, and Tom

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Okay, so the tight contour lines on my map suggested that the route up to Mount Willey via the Kedron Flume Trail was horribly steep.  And the guidebook described this upper portion as a “very rough and steep climb,” as the trail climbs 2,350 feet in 1.4 miles.  But the hike to the summit only totaled a combined 2.4 miles.  How hard could that be?

Now, I am dying as I climb straight up the eastern flank of Mount Willey in New Hampshire’s Crawford Notch.  This climb has got to be one of the toughest miles in the White Mountains.  I groan, pause, look up at a cliff, where eight ladders are built into this rock slab side of the mountain.  I know I can get up the ladders, which are well-constructed and hint at people, tools, civilization.  But how much longer will I have to continue hiking straight uphill before reaching the summit of Mount Willey?

Looking up the ladders on the flank of Mt. Wilily

I am alone today on this weekday morning in June. Despite the sweat dripping down my forehead and the steepness searing my thighs, I know I can reach Willey’s summit.  I may not ever publish a novel, pilot an airplane, or catch a baseball, but I will reach the top of Mount Willey.  Although that moment seems very far off today, I know that eventually this one-foot-on-top-of-the-other torture will end. I will reach the ridgeline, the ground will flatten out, and I will take in views of mountains folded upon mountains.

My plan today, after reaching Willey’s 4,285-feet summit, is to continue along the ridge to Mount Field.  Then, if the will remains, to follow the A-Z Trail to the half-mile detour up Mount Tom, a hike of about 8.5 miles altogether. In doing so, I will cross three of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers off my list.  This year, to celebrate my 50th year, I have set a modest goal of climbing five 4,000-footers, fitting in the hikes between work and family responsibilities, Little League, school activities, piano lessons.

After 30 years of hiking in the White Mountains, I’m about two-thirds of the way through the list. I’m not in any hurry to complete it, but since I’ve come this far, I want to climb all 48 of the 4,000-footers.  More than just a goal for a driven personality, the list provides a focus for exploring the endless cracks and folds of these ancient mountains.  And although I don’t always hike solo, I prefer hiking alone to hiking with partners not vested in the same goal, who might give up when confronted with this uphill climb above Kedron Flume.  I’ve come too far to quit now.

Finally, I arrive at the summit of Mt. Willey, unmarked by any sign. Trees mostly obscure the view, but a patch of granite ledge provides a view of Webster Cliffs on the other side of Crawford Notch as well Mount Jackson, and the cloud-cloaked summit of Mount Washington.  Mt. Willey is named for the Willey family, all of whom perished on August 28, 1826 in a rock slide, an event that created headlines across New England.

Willey House (After the Slide). Steel Engraving by W. H. Bartlett (1809-1854), 1839. Originally published in American Scenery, with text by N.P. Willis and engravings by Bartlett (1840). Although the Willey House lasted for a long time and became a macabre tourist destination, the illustration is probably at least partly imaginative, as it was completed more than 10 years after the slide.

Samuel Willey, his wife and five children, plus a couple of hired hands, had operated the Notch House traveler’s way station for several years on the floor of the Notch, in the shadow on Willey’s steep flank.  On the night of August 28, 1826, torrential rains fell, causing floods and destruction of bridges and roads throughout the White Mountains. Perhaps terrified by the rising river or by the rumble of boulders tumbling down the mountain, the family left their home that night to seek refuge elsewhere, possibly at a cave-like shelter that Sam Willey had built in June after witnessing the awesome power of a slide on the mountain across the river.

But at the split-second when Willeys left their house, a river of rock and mud slid down the mountain and buried all of them.   The Notch House they had abandoned was left untouched by the slide, which was split into two rivers of mud-rock debris by a rock ledge outcropping just above the house.  When friends arrived at the Notch two days later, they found no one at home. The family Bible lay open upon the table, suggesting that the Willeys had gathered to pray for their deliverance as rain fell in sheets and rocks hurtled down the mountainside.  Eventually six bodies were pulled from the rubble, but three of the children were never found.

The family’s fateful demise captured the attention of New England and the nation. Artists rendered landscapes of the Willey House and the Notch. Poets wrote ballads. Today, the Willeys live on as the nameless family in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s tale, “The Ambitious Guest”, a short story about a young man who stops for the night at a rustic tavern in the shade of a hulking mountain.  Below this steep cliff, my car is parked at the Willey House Historic Site, built in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps.  A small foundation is all that remains of the Notch House.

I push on, taking in views to the west of the Pemigewasset Wilderness and Ethan Pond, and aiming for Mount Field, 1.4 miles further on.  I enjoy walking through this green world of moss and balsam fir atop the ridge, just me, the forest and an invisible white-throated sparrow whistling in the trees.  Thus far today, I have seen only two other hikers, which is the beauty of weekday hiking in June, even if it comes at the cost of multiple black fly bites.

I’m feeling strong. One benefit of climbing straight uphill for two hours is that the hike afterwards seems easy. I will hit the summit of Mount Tom today.   I’ve got plenty of daylight and my husband has taken charge of the home front, so there’s no reason to hurry back home.   A thin layer of clouds has covered the sky all morning, providing relief from the sun and moderating the temperature.  A slight breeze riffles the trees.

In the Whites, not every four-thousand foot knob or spur counts as a 4,000-footer for the list.  Each peak must rise at least 200 feet above the low point of a ridge connecting it with a higher neighbor.   Mt. Field, at 4340 feet, is only 55 feet higher than Mount Willey.  So while I enjoy the ridge walk, I know I will be heading down into a col and then uphill again.   Day dreaming about beer, (will I be able to find a can of Pamola Xtra Pale Ale in Bartlett or Conway?), I accomplish that little patch of up and down with a couple of slugs of water and minimal sighs.  I’m in the flow now, and soon achieve the summit of Mt. Field, marked by a pile of boulders surrounded by balsam fir.

On the boulder pile, I rest briefly as black flies feast.  Mount Field is named for Darby Field, the Englishman who led the first recorded ascent of Mount Washington in 1642.  Although Field’s 1642 ascent is well-document as the first European to climb the mountain, I’m skeptical of many claims to these ‘firsts.’  Moose hunter Timothy Nash is credited, in 1771, as the ‘first’ to discover Crawford Notch, which surely had long been used as a route through the mountains by Native Americans as well as European trappers and woodsmen (Laura and Guy Waterman’s Forest and Crag confirms, through a variety of sources, that the Nash story is more legend than truth, and that settlers had known of the Notch as a travel route by European settlers as early as 1764).

I push onward into the forest, gloomier now as the sun falls lower.  I check my watch: 4:30.  If I continue on down the A-Z trail, climb Mount Tom, and then head down the Avalon Trail to Crawford Depot, where I have parked my bicycle, I should be out of the woods by 6 p.m.

Although also wooded summit, 4051-foot Mount Tom (named for Tom Crawford) offers views of the red-roofed Mount Washington Hotel from an open patch on the east, and, also, via a short trail to the west, more views of the Pemi.  I am happy to have climbed these three mountains today, but wouldn’t recommend them to a casual hiker.  Too much effort for limited views.

Down, down, down, the last 2.3 miles.  At Crawford Brook, I pick my way across piles of rock rubble, perhaps deposited last summer by the deluges of Hurricane Irene.  Up the bank, then down again, tromp, tromp, tromp: the last mile is always the longest.

Lady’s slipper on the trail.

A white lady’s slipper blooms on the trail just a half-mile up from Crawford Depot, where the Crawford family established the early White Mountain tourism industry in early 1800s. (The family had first established a traveler’s way station for through-travelers in the 1790s, and by the 1830s, the Notch itself had become a destination). This section of trail is a well-traveled path, to Beecher and Pearl Cascades and to the views of Mount Avalon, so I am amazed that this lady slipper has survived, that it hasn’t been picked or trampled on.  Bravo, humans!

Finally, I reach Crawford Depot, where my bike waits.  I strap on my helmet, cinch my backpack, and pedal off down the Notch to the Willey House, two miles below, where my car is parked.  Down, down, down the Notch, my feet scarcely pumping the pedals, and the wind causing my eyes to tear.  Mountains rise above me, as I soar down the Notch.  Am I 21 again, setting out into the unknown?

Interesting images and links:

This 19th century stereoview of Mount Willey (undated), from a collection owned by Canterbury Shaker Village, provides a sense of Mount Willey’s scale in relation to the Notch House. (Scroll down slightly to see the image)

Artist Thomas Cole painted this landscape of Crawford Notch two years after the slide that killed the Willey family.  Also at this site is an abridged version of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story, “The Ambitious Guest,” from his collection, Twice Told Tales (1841).  Cole is considered the ‘founder’ of the Hudson School. His work, along with other artists such as Frederic Church and Albert Bierstadt, helped to create the idea of “Nature” as a place of escape and renewal, and drove the development of the wilderness tourism industry that took off after the Civil War in the White Mountains and other destinations.

Additional sources:

Mudge, John T. B. The White Mountains: Names, Places & Legends. Etna, NH: Durand Press, 1995.

Smith, Steven D. and Mike Dickerman.  The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains: A Guide and History. Littleton, NH: Bondcliff Books, 2001.

“The Story of the Willey Family.”  State of New Hampshire Parks and Recreation.  Accessed 6/15/2012.

http://www.nhstateparks.org/uploads/pdf/WileyHouseInfoSheet_Web_2010.pdf.

Waterman, Laura and Guy.  Forest and Crag: A History of Hiking, Trail Blazing, and Adventure in the Northeast Mountains.  Boston: Appalachian Mountain Club, 1989.

On Bridges and the Jet Set

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At our Rice Public Library, I recently attended a fascinating slide show featuring photographs of “old Kittery” that was put together by Frank Totman of Kittery Point.

Of special interest to me were the photos of the Portsmouth, Kittery and York Street Railway (PK & Y), the trolley line that ran from Badger’s Island, Kittery, through Kittery Point, across Spruce Creek, Chauncey Creek,  and Brave Boat Harbor to York and York Beach.  Passengers travelled by train to Portsmouth, then hopped on a ferry to cross the Piscataqua River to Badger’s Island, where they picked up the trolley for the last leg of their journey. Vestiges of these trolley lines linger in the pilings visible at lower tides in Chauncey Creek and Brave Boat Harbor, and in secret trails concealed in the woods of Kittery Point.

The PK & Y line operated year round, but was especially busy in the summer months when thousands of tourists took the trolleys to stay at five seaside hotels in Kittery, and many more in York.  Summer visitors typically stayed at hotels such as the Champernowne or the Parkfield for a month or the entire summer.

Although I knew that the now-dismantled Memorial Bridge was opened in 1923, I hadn’t fully understood the impact of the Bridge upon the Seacoast.  It’s almost impossible to conceive that before 1923, travelers crossed between downtown Portsmouth and Kittery via ferries that ran through the day and into the night.  Upriver, a wooden toll bridge was built across the Piscataqua on pilings in 1822 and then expanded for railway use in 1844, just north of the current Sarah Long Bridge, but this old and creaky bridge (100 years old in 1922) was a one-lane affair originally designed for horses and wagons, and not to support thousands of cars.  Using the bridge required a toll, so the fact the new Memorial Bridge provided a free crossing was especially significant at the time, perhaps even more so than the fact that the bridge was designed for automobiles.

When the Memorial Bridge opened on August 17, 1923, a line of cars waiting to cross clogged the streets of downtown Portsmouth.  The traffic jams became worse each year, especially on summer weekends.  By 1927, the trolley line was out of business, and all of the hotels in Kittery Point had closed.   A synergistic combination of bridges, roads and cars had swiftly altered the way Americans lived and travelled.  People were on the move. Instead of vacationing for a month or the entire summer, seaside visitors became tourists who stayed for a week or two and who spread out among motels, cottages or other New England destinations now easily reached by automobile.

Although the Seacoast had always been ‘metropolitan’ with its ready connections to Boston and other cities by ocean and rail, the Memorial Bridge ushered in a new era and mindset for locals as well.  Prior to the 1920s, most residents lived locally.  Trips from Kittery to Portsmouth might be a weekly event for some major errand, but residents did most of their living close by their homes, especially in the winter, when living locally might mean weeks and weeks spent close by the home fires.  Yes, you could travel for miles and miles on sleighs or skis, but why would you want to spend a day half-frozen beneath a pile of blankets, unless you really had to?

These days, the Seacoast empties out during the February and April school break weeks, making for plenty of available parking at the local market and movie theater.  Families jet off to Florida for long weekends, while singles hop on planes for California weekends with old pals.  The term “jet set,” popularly used in the 1960s and 70s to describe the rich and famous, has disappeared from the tabloids because the middle class have all become members of that club.

Last summer, when the Memorial Bridge was open only for pedestrian and bike traffic, I began a habit of parking on Badger’s Island and walking to Portsmouth across the bridge. That small change shifted my perspective of knowing these two communities.  I noticed the boats docked in the marinas, the sounds emanating from Prescott Park, the ships that had pulled into port to unload cargo.  On a couple of occasions, I ate dinner at one of the terrific eating spots in Kittery Foreside and then enjoyed an after-dark walk into Portsmouth to see a movie. Now, with the bridge gone, I miss it often and mourn the changes that its closing has brought to my weekly routines.  Instead of walking downtown, more often I find myself in a car, shopping on Woodbury Avenue and at the malls in Newington.

Another era will begin in summer or fall of 2013, when the new bridge is scheduled to open. I will miss the sound and sensation of walking on wood-plank sidewalks, but can accept that non-slip treading will be a safety improvement, especially in wet weather.  Overall, the bridge will be more pedestrian and biker-friendly, as bikes will travel both ways in bike lanes instead of on the sidewalk.  The original Memorial Bridge helped the automobile hit the big time.  Perhaps its replacement will help us to better value what we lost in that transition.

Links:

Newsreel footage of the Memorial Bridge dedication ceremony on August 17, 1923. The little girl who cuts the ribbon is five-year-old Eileen Dondero, who, as Eileen Foley, went on to serve as Portsmouth’s Mayor for 16 years.

http://www.portsmouthbridges.com/Memorial_History.cfm

“Old Kittery photos.” Collection made available by David Kaselauskas. This collection includes photos of the Champernowne and Parkfield Hotels, various trolley photos and many other interesting photos, with comments, from early 20th century Kittery.

http://www.traip66.com/000/3/5/4/16453/userfiles/file/Kittery_Photos/KitteryPhotos2.pdf

Other sources and credits:

The Sarah Mildred Long Bridge:  A History of the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Kittery Maine, by Woodard D. Openo.  Portsmouth, NH:  Peter E. Randall Publisher, for the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge Authority, 1988.

“Slideshow of Old Kittery Photos,” by Frank Totman.  Presented the Friends of the Rice Public Library Annual Meeting, May 24, 2012.

York County Trolleys, by O.R. Cummings.  Charleston, S.C.: Aradia Publishing, 1999.