Moriah, my Moriah: Why did I wait so long to climb thee?

Posted on June 27, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

As I hike through a lacy hemlock forest, I wonder why I have waited so long to hike 4,049-foot Mount Moriah. The Carter-Moriah Trail climbs 3,400 feet from its base in Gorham, N.H., but the trail doesn’t feel as steep as that number suggests, maybe because the elevation gain is spread over 4.5 miles. The footing is sweet, at least in this first stretch, free of the usual tangle of roots and rocks.

First views of the day, of Mounts Adam and Madison from the ledges of Mount Surprise.

About two miles in, I am happily surprised by Presidential Range views from Mount Surprise. I can understand why this smaller peak was a popular destination for 19^th century visitors to the White Mountains. For the more hard-core, Gorham’s Alpine House rented ponies to guests who wanted to spend the night in a cabin on Moriah’s summit. From there, they could watch the sunset over Mount Washington and then wake up to see the sunrise over the smaller peaks of Evans Notch.

The Alpine House, Gorham, NH. In the 1850s, Alpine House guests could rent horses to climb Mount Moriah and spend the night at the summit in a log cabin. This stereopticon view makes me wonder what happened to my grandparents' viewer and collection, which was just every-day item in their house, like the TV or record player, even in the 1970s. The photos were taken by either Edward or Albert Bierstadt, of New Bedford, MA . Albert is the well-known landscape painter and his brother was an engraver/photographer. Robert N. Dennis Collection at the New York Public Library’s Digital Collections.

The Alpine House, Gorham, NH, circa 1859. This stereopticon view makes me wonder what happened to my grandparents’ viewer and collection, which was an every-day item in their house, like the TV or stereo, even in the 1970s. Th photos were taken by either Edward or Albert Bierstadt. Albert is the well-known landscape painter and often worked in conjunction with his brother, an engraver and photographer. Robert N. Dennis Collection at the New York Public Library’s Digital Collections.

This June Monday is a great day for hiking, with overhead clouds keeping the temperature pleasant. Birdsong fills the forest. All around me, I hear the calls of white-throated sparrows and maybe hermit thrushes. (I wish I knew my birds better).

It was fun to scramble up and across these ledges en route to Mount Moriah.

I encounter another hiker descending from Moriah. He spent the night camped on Mount Hight and by 5:30 a.m. was on the trail, where he almost collided with a moose and her two calves. Except for the birds, wildlife stays hidden on these mountain trails, but I have heard of similar encounters (including meet-ups with black bear) from other hikers out at dawn. I wonder what animals are watching from the forest.

The trail continues uphill over granite slabs with good views and lots of blueberry bushes before returning to a tunnel of spruce and fir. As always, the last mile is the toughest, with many ups and downs. My trial guide warns me to expect several false summits, so the small white sign directing me to Mount Moriah takes me by surprise.

I’m at the summit already? I hadn’t even begun to curse yet, as in “Where is that X*&% summit??”

A short path leads to a flat granite knob, a perfect spot for stretching out, with no major edges or bumps. I take advantage of this hard bed to rest up and enjoy the 360-degree views. Some of the mountains are obvious, like Mount Washington and its fellow Presidentials across the way, but I’m not sure about many others. I swear the Y-shaped slide to the south is the backside of Wildcat that I picked my way across a couple of years back. But three other hikers who have gathered on the summit think it is probably Carter Mountain. To the east, the flat top of Bridgton’s Pleasant Mountain stands out, but it’s hard to make out the individual peaks in the jumble of Evans Notch.

A couple of bent rusted spikes are nailed into the summit knob. Could they be the remnants of the cabin—perhaps part of an anchoring system? Probably not—the cabin’s 13X16 footprint was larger than this knob, so it must have been located on a flat spot now covered with spruce trees. Still, I’m sure those 19^th century visitors enjoyed stepping onto this rock to take in the sunset.

Great view of Mount Washington and its fellow Presidentials. I could see the summit buildings where I had such a great time blowing around in the wind back in January.

Great view abound. Is that mountain with the Y-shaped slide Wildcat or Carter? To the west, I can see the Mount Washington summit buildings where I had such a great time blowing around in the wind back in January.

As a mother, Jerusalem’s Mount Moriah always struck me as a terrifying place. According to the Bible’s Old Testament (Genesis), Mount Moriah is where Abraham prepared to burn his only son Isaac alive because God had demanded the sacrifice. At the last minute, a ram magically appeared as a substitute, Isaac was spared, and Abraham passed this horrific test of obedience.

A thousand years later, King Solomon built the first temple — a “house of God” — on Mount Moriah. The temple was destroyed and rebuilt a couple of times before Roman invaders sacked it. Today, the “Wailing Wall” (or “Western Wall”) is what remains of the “Temple Mount,” a holy site both revered and contested.

Back in the 1800s, people knew their Bible inside-out. Did the namers of Mount Moriah remember the story of Abraham? Or were they thinking more along the lines of “House of God?” The grandeur of the views certainly merits that name.

Now, when I think of Mount Moriah, instead of recalling Isaac, or the 3,400-foot elevation gain, I’ll remember the 360-degree views, birdsong, and a most comfortable summit for napping.

Moriah, my Moriah, I may yet climb thee again.

A 19th-century view of Mount Moriah from Gorham, NH (Andrews engraving from Wheelock drawing, citation below).

A view of Mount Moriah, circa 1859, from Gorham (Andrews engraving from Wheelock drawing, see note below).

In The White Hills, Thomas Starr King was especially effusive about the view of the moonlight over the cabin on Mount Moriah, but in his book states this moonlight image is Mount Carter. Close enough, I’d say. (Andrews engraving from Wheelock drawing). The cabin waned in popularity after the 1861 opening of the Mount Washington Carriage Road.

These bunchberry dogwood were blooming on the trail by the time I hiked down the mountain. I also saw lots of trillium at higher elevations.

Sources and resources:

The 4000-Footers of the White Mountains: A Guide and History, by Steven D. Smith and Mike Dickerman. Littleton, NH: Bondcliff Books, 2001. Their “view guides” for each peak are an especially great resource to have tucked into your pocket.

The White Hills: Their Legends, Landscape, and Poetry, by Thomas Starr King. With Sixty Illustrations engraved by Andrew, From Drawings by Wheelock. Boston: Crosby, Nichols, and Company, 1860.

If you enjoy this 4,000-footer trip report, check out some of my other posts:

The Agony and Ecstasy of Climbing Four Thousand Footers: Mounts Willey, Field, and Tom

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook: Mount Moosilauke

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

Goodbye, antibiotics, hello summer: travels with Lyme Disease

Posted on June 20, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

After the phone call, I realized that our pediatrician had an approach, a way of talking about a delicate subject that he had used many times before.

After ten years of near-perfect health, my daughter had become a high-maintenance patient, in and out of the office at least a dozen times in the past year, with many phone calls between visits.

A year earlier, I had found the tick in August. In September, the fever began, and then the horrible wracking cough. Six weeks later, the fever escalated over several days, then finally broke. The intensity of the cough began to diminish. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

But a few weeks after the fever ended, the weird stuff began. Soon, I could predict, on a six-week cycle, the onset of mysterious ailments: A staph infection on the toe, then on the index finger. An unrelenting headache. Weeping behind the ear. More finger infections. Blood work that suggested off-the-chart allergies, or a parasite, but no evidence of either.

By June, my daughter had missed a third of the school year. When she was feeling good, life went on as usual: Odyssey of the Mind, cross-country, hiking, travels. Every time an infection cleared, I thought we had turned the final corner.

Now, as another school year commenced, our concern centered on a throbbing pain in my daughter’s mouth that had begun with a cold sore, and then spread to her lower jaw. The gum was now recovered, pink and healthy. But the pain remained. We paid $500 for an x-ray to see if an abscess was in the jaw. Nothing.

Then she woke up with another throbbing finger, leaking pus. As usual, I attacked with my full arsenal: hot water soaks, yarrow poultices, antibiotic ointment. But the infection remained. We started Augmentin, which we had used several times before. The jaw continued to throb. Overnight, the finger turned hot red to the knuckle. Cefdin was prescribed. After a couple of doses, the throbbing began to ebb in the finger — and in the jaw.

Then the phone rang.

“I’m very concerned about Jenny,” the pediatrician said.

Finally, at last, after all these months, the doctor was concerned enough to call. A feeling of relief washed over me. Maybe now the medical professionals would ask more questions, would probe more to figure out what was going on.

“I’m concerned too,” I replied.

“I’m very concerned,” he repeated, and paused. “I think your daughter needs psychological help.”

The mismatch between his words and what I expected to hear was so great that I had to pause and decode, almost as if the doctor was speaking a foreign language I could barely understand.

I took a breath. “What I’ve learned,” I said, “is that when something is mysterious, the fallback diagnosis is psychological.”

After I hung up, I was shaking and trying not to cry, because I didn’t want to scare my daughter. I felt powerless. The doctor who I thought was going to help make my child well was washing his hands of us. Although I wanted an answer, a diagnosis, what I most needed was a sense that the doctor was our partner in solving this puzzle.

Fast-forward through another year. Days and weeks of missed school. More finger infections. Five weeks of stabbing abdominal pain, a short break, then months of unrelenting nausea. Many visits to the acupuncturist, the allergists, the gastroenterologists, and the naturopaths. X-rays, an ultra-sounds, CT scan, and endoscopy. Every sort of rare condition ruled out.

“Is your daughter being bullied at school?” the family practice doctor asked.

All along, I had asked about Lyme Disease. When I pulled the tick off my daughter, it left an itchy red welt, but no bulls-eye rash. The Western Blot had come back negative. No joint pain, no Bell’s palsy. No, it couldn’t be Lyme Disease.

Finally, we met with a Lyme Disease specialist, a doctor who doesn’t operate in the box that constrains mainstream medicine in making this diagnosis. “I’ve seen these symptoms before,” he said after reviewing my daughter’s list of ailments. After more testing, he prescribed four to six months of antibiotics, and various supplements.

2400 grams a day of amoxicillin was daunting, but we took the leap. September began with another attack, pain in the ear, then the abdomen. But we weren’t frightened. We had a name for what was causing the pain. The antibiotics would kill off the bacteria that were digging in and causing problems.

In February, my daughter completed six months of antibiotics. She had some bumps along the way, but has been free of all symptoms since then. I am not 100% certain that she had Lyme Disease. But I’m certain that she had an infection caused by that tick bite.

I had long worried about Lyme Disease. But when the doctor diagnosed my child with chronic Lyme, I wasn’t scared. Now, we could focus on getting well. The scariest moment in our travels with Lyme disease was the day that the pediatrician called.

Additional resources on Lyme Disease

Every year, researchers are discovering new strains of bacteria or viruses that cause disease and are carried by ticks. Currently, the Centers for Disease Control lists 14 illnesses linked to tick-borne bacteria.

In 2013, the CDC modified its estimate of annual Lyme cases ten fold, from 30,000 to 300,000. Most Lyme specialists believe that the higher number is a low estimate.

ILADS, or the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, sponsors research, conferences, and the dissemination of information about Lyme Disease. Lyme Disease has caused a major split in the field of infectious disease medicine and ILADS is an outgrowth of that split.

On my own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

Posted on June 12, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

On the Osceola Trail, I’m on my own, but hiking in footsteps more than 250 years old — maybe. As I hike uphill on a moderate-grade-by-White-Mountain-standards, I wonder if this slope is the same one that Captain Samuel Willard and his company of Indian hunters bushwhacked through when they climbed up “a very steep mountain” in the fall of 1725.

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Osceola is a popular peak, but on this Monday in June, I have the summit to myself for a blessed few minutes. I take in the sweeping views of Mount Tripyramid, granite-covered Chocorua, and countless others. Waterville Valley’s dense green tree cover is broken in places by condo developments and patches of road, but the view is much the same as Willard described in his journal: “Being on top of ye hill cou’d Discover no where nigh us, anything but steep mountains.”

I eat my usual hummus sandwich and would love to stretch out on the summit ledge and hang out with the black flies. But if I do, I may lose motivation to climb East Osceola. All around me, hikers who have completed the three-mile hike to the summit are throwing in the towel on the one-mile trek to the east peak, which lacks views.

Willard and his company had no choice in the matter. Having pushed through the forest to reach these ledges, they had to continue. They had traveled many miles since leaving Dunstable, Massachusetts in early September. The men were Indian hunting, both to secure the frontier but also to collect bounties of 100 pounds for every Indian scalp they brought back.

Did Captain Willard and his command of 20 men look over the edge of this granite cliff back in 1725?

Did Captain Willard and his command of about 20 men look over the edge of this granite cliff back in 1725?

An 1724 Indian raid upon Dunstable, Massachusetts (which then covered a huge swath of territory, including much of southern New Hampshire, up to Nashua) served as the motivating event for this journey (albeit somewhat indirectly). The bigger picture, however, was the ongoing power struggles between Britain and France and the fallout for New England’s Native Americans.

In the aftermath of Queen Anne’s War, concluded by treaty in 1713, many questions continued to simmer about the official boundary between New France and British America. The French-allied Abenaki (and other Wabanaki groups) disputed certain aspects of the treaty, as they had been excluded (predictably) from negotiations. The Abenaki contended that they had never ceded their claims to lands in northern New England.

Discovering a few blooms of trillium on the rocky trail is one bonus of having to watch my footing.

As English colonists began to push forward onto their lands, the Abenaki pushed back. The result was a series of raids and Abenaki-colonial skirmishes: Lovewell’s War, also known as Father Rale’s War or the Three Years War.

In 1724, the Dunstable attack, along with a raid in Berwick, Maine, provoked a call to arms in Massachusetts. From Dunstable, Captain John Lovewell set out for the wilderness on the first of three Indian-hunting trips. This first expedition netted three scalps and 200 pounds. On the second, they killed 10 Indians, picked up 1000 pounds in bounties, and earned accolades for preventing Abenaki attacks on settlements.

But the third trip, in the spring of 1725, was not a charm. In Fryeburg, Maine, Pequawket Indians led by Chief Paugus ambushed Lovewell and his command. Lovewell and eight of his men were killed, as was Chief Paugus, at this so-called “Battle of Pequawket.”

Thus, a few months later, Captain Willard, of Lancaster, Massachusetts, set out for the wilderness, intent on killing Indians. Traveling up towards Cusumpy Pond (Squam Lake), the Willard and his company followed the Merrimack River watershed. Along the rivers and streams, they found evidence of Indian camps and activity — a wigman, canoes, hoops for drying beaver furs –but no people.

Although they probably had to push through some spruce and fir to see Mount Hancock, the Pemi and Mount Washington, Willard and company would have seen pretty much the same view, minus the snaking course of the Kancamangus Highway.

Although they probably had to push through a wall of spruce and fir to find this northern view from the ridge of Mount Osceola, Willard and his men would have seen same landscape, minus the snaking course of the Kancamangus Highway.

Fast-forward 150 years, to 1881, when Charles Fay publishes an Appalachia article which explains how an Appalachian Mountain Club committee analyzed Willard’s journal and concluded that Willard and his men traveled to the southern range of the White Mountains, then marched up the Pemigewasset River and along the Hancock Branch before climbing over Osceola to the Swift River and thence to the Saco, which they followed to the coast to return home (see map below).

As I descend from the main peak towards East Osceola, I take in views of the Pemigewasset Wilderness, Mount Hancock, Franconia Ridge, and, in the distance, Mount Washington and the Presidentials. Did Willard and his company from more settled Massachusetts marvel at the unbroken wilderness spread before them? Were they afraid, that they might end up forever lost in these mountains, or that they might meet the same fate as Lovewell?

The chimney. I climbed up this side because the rocks offered plenty of foot and hand-holds, but I was glad for another option on the climb down.

I continue hiking down to the col, as maybe they did. When I approach the “chimney,” I follow my guide’s advice and scramble down the left side. Climbing up towards the peak, I try to imagine what it was like to bushwhack through the forest before a trail existed. Willard had a Mohawk guide who wasn’t familiar with these mountains, but likely knew how to find the best route for traveling along the ridges, streams, and rivers.

The mile between the two peaks flies by. Soon I arrive at the large rock pile marking East Osceola, in the midst of an airy grove of spruce and fir. Glad that I pushed myself to get here.

From this point, Captain Willard continued to march east. The men would have picked their way down the steep eastern side of Osceola, and then found their way to the Swift River.

The East Osceola summit. No views, but the tree grove is a peaceful place.

My car demands that I turn back towards the main summit. On the return trek, I again take in the views. Beyond Franconia, I can see the Cannonballs and what I’m pretty sure is Cannon Mountain because of the man-made structure on the top. And in the distance: is that Camel’s Hump in Vermont? Also, that shadowy flat-topped mountain — could it be Mount Mansfield? For these few miles of travel, a great rate of return.

Willard and his men never encountered or killed any Indians. Although beset with illness and injuries (an ax to a leg, fevers, and the “bloody flux”), it appears that all made it home safely.

Boulders and rocks, rocks and boulders on the Osceola Trail down to the parking lot on Tripoli Road. Willard probably didn’t have to pick his way through the rocks, as the forest floor was covered with many centuries of moss and composted forest.

Lovewell’s War concluded with a treaty signed in December of 1725. Maybe everyone had tired of the killing. Maybe the General Court ran out of money for the scalp bounties. Many of the Abenaki moved to Quebec as the colonial settlers pushed north into the lands of the Saco River floodplain.

On the mountain, I want to linger on the main summit, but need to keep moving to get home to family responsibilities. I stomp down the trail, stepping over endless rocks and boulders. The last mile is always the longest. I’m guessing Willard’s men would agree.

If I am reading the Day analysis and Willard journal correctly, Willard and company struck at Osceola from the northwest and then climbed over and down towards the Mad River.

The pink line is the Osceola Trail. If I am reading the Day analysis and Willard journal correctly, Willard and company approached Osceola from the west, climbed over it and struck the Hancock Branch, then marched over the Kancamangus Pass to the Swift River. It seems like the route was harder than it needed to be if they had followed the rivers. But they were marching through a forbidding wilderness, so it’s amazing that they made it at all (map image from 4000footerclub.com).

Sources and resources

RT mileage on the Osceola Trail, from Tripoli Road, is about 6.2 miles to the main summit, and 8.2 miles to hit both peaks. I would call it a moderate grade, by local (i.e. White Mountain) standards. I probably wouldn’t include it on my recommended family hikes, but kids who are enthusiastic hikers could definitely make the climb.

Fay, Charles E. “The March of Captain Samuel Willard.” Appalachia Vol 2.4 December 1881: 336-344. Fay’s articles includes both an analysis of which mountains the expedition might have crossed in their journey over the mountains to the Saco River and also includes a reprint of the journal itself. Bottom line: nobody really knows exactly where the party traveled, but Fay offers good conjecture on why Osceola might have been the mountain which the men traversed.

Tuckerman, Frederick. “Early Visits to the White Mountains.” Appalachia. Vol 15.2 August, 1921, pp. 111-127. More commentary on the Willard journal that draws largely upon Fay’s article.

Wikipedia provides a solid account of Lovewell’s War (see “Father Rale’s War”) based upon a variety of good sources. For an interesting summary of the Battle of Pequawet, see Robert C. Williams’s Lovewell’s Town: Lovell, Maine, From Howling Wilderness to Vacationland in Trust. Topsham, Maine: Just Write Books, 2007.