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Lives lived, and lost, at the Kittery Town Forest

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Kittery purchased the land for the Town Forest, once known as the Poor Farm, in 1820. An 1852 Auditors report (the oldest I've uncovered) mentions the Almshouse. Since the original purchase included a house and a barn, the town was probably using it as an almshouse for many years prior to 1852.

Back in 1820, in Kittery, Maine, the town purchased the original 13-acre plot that became the Town Farm or Poor Farm.

Sometimes when I walk in Kittery’s 72-acre Town Forest, I wonder what became of Ella Hill and her girl Annie. From 1891 to about 1897, Ella and Annie lived here at the Town Farm, or Poor Farm. In 1891, the town spent $2 to move Ella and two children to the almshouse. She arrived with an infant son, Fred, in her arms. He died on May 22 that year and probably dwells in an unmarked grave nearby.

Ella had another son, John, born around 1878 when she was 20.  The 1880 census tells us that she and two-year-old John lived with Rachael Fernald and worked as a domestic servant. Ella’s father, John Hill, a farmer, died in 1880, so she perhaps went to live with and work at the Fernalds  to keep body and soul together for herself and her baby.  No husband is mentioned in the scant records I’ve found that document Ella’s life.  After the census, young John disappears, so perhaps Ella lost two children.

At the almshouse, Ella and little Annie probably ate supper each night with Adelaide and Charles Leach. By that time, Adelaide, about 60 years old, and Charles, her 49-year-old younger brother, had been residents, or “inmates,” of the almshouse for more than 2o years. Perhaps they provided comfort to Ella when her baby died. Perhaps she comforted them when William Leach, possibly their brother or another relative, died there on January 23, 1892, at age 64.

More inmate deaths followed during Ella’s stay. In 1892, Mary Taylor, age 45 died, followed by John Ricker, age 80, and Abigail Clements, age 79. Not long after, 88-year-old Joseph Parsons arrived. Perhaps Ella helped care for these elders to earn her keep.

Ella and Annie stayed on until around 1897, when they disappear from the Kittery town reports. Did Ella marry? Did she find employment in one of Kittery’s big hotels, or somewhere else?

Town records are silent on her eventual fate. They tell us a bit more about Adelaide and Charles, both of whom lived most of their lives at the Town Farm, and died there. On January 22, 1901, Adelaide died. Although the town report listed her name as a farm inmate for more than 30 years, nobody caught the mistake that named her “Annabelle Leach” in the vital statistics.  Charles died 15 years later, on September 20, 1916.

What the records don’t reveal is why the Leaches, an old Kittery family with roots dating to the 1600s, landed at the almshouse. They arrived, it seems, with other members of the Leach family, including their parents, Ebenezer and Iza, some time between 1861 and 1871; a town report from 1861-62 records expenses for “partial support” of 30-year-old Adelaide Leach at a private home. The 1860 census tells us that Ebenezer Leach was a fisherman, as was his son Charles. Various town reports  list the “Leach property” as under town ownership, valued at $500 in 1906 (but not part of the Town Farm, valued at $2,000). What fate befell the Leach family, so that they lost their land and perhaps their livelihoods, and ended up living out their days at the Town Farm? Why did two young adults — Adelaide and Charles – stay at the farm?

The blue-marked Quimby Trail offers a loop walk of about 3 miles through the forest.

The blue-marked Quimby Trail offers a loop walk of about 3 miles through the forest.

Today, the Town Forest is one of the Kittery’s under-the-radar resources, one in which I’ve enjoyed walking, running, and biking since the 1990s. Over the past 20 years, the forest surrounding the town land has shrunk, as housing developments have sprung up on all sides, but the Town Forest remains a great place to wander, and to wonder, about the people who once called this place home, including a good number who still remain, buried somewhere in unmarked graves.

In 19th century New England, the “poor farm” was a well-established institution where some residents worked at farm chores to pay their keep. However, evidence in Kittery’s town reports suggests that taxpayers generally supported the five to eight residents who lived there, with the town paying a salary to a “superintendent,” and bills for flour, wood, food, and other necessities, and even for hiring nearby farmers like William Haley and Samuel Norton to do the mowing and other heavy chores. Although it’s possible that “inmates” took care of a small garden, most were too old to do the hard physical labor of farm work.

The 19th century almshouse has a reputation as a misery-filled place where all manner of humanity was thrown together, elderly widows and young children mixed in with vagrants and drunkards. But some poor farms, especially in rural New England, were more convivial and communal – places of shelter and community where residents might play cards together or just enjoy the benefits of human companionship. They were more like small old-age homes, where elderly residents who had no family or whose family wouldn’t or couldn’t care for them lived out their last days.

The forest offers no dramatic vistas, but lots of old stone walls, a family cemetery, and other remains of the past that speak to lives lived and lost here.

The Town Forest offers no dramatic vistas, but lots of old stone walls, two family cemeteries, and other remains of the past that speak to lives lived and lost here. Here in the Haley Family Cemetery, walkers will find Captain Haley’s 1864 gravestone embedded in the ground, surrounded by other unmarked or illegible stones.

I suspect that the Kittery Town Farm almshouse had a community-like feel to it.  Adelaide and Charles Leach surely enjoyed the company of little Annie Hill, who lived at the farm until she was about seven. 

In 1820, Kittery purchased the original 13 acres for the farm, along with a house and a barn, for $325. Later, Captain John R. Haley left 59 surrounding acres to the town. It’s unclear when the town began using the house and land as its “poor farm,” but a town report from 1852 mentions the almshouse, so I suspect the land was purchased specifically to serve as a home for the poor. Some sources that discuss the Pepperrell family note that one of the Sparhawk brothers of Loyalist William Pepperrell ended up living at the almshouse (and the timing, around the 1820s, sounds about right, as a Sparhawk born in the 1750s or 60s would have been an elder by the 1820s).

Town records suggest that the town began to move away from using the almshouse as the shelter of last resort in the 1920s, when the number of residents declined to two and then to one, Mary Gunnison, an elderly woman who lived there with caretakers Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hall until around 1922.  

Later, the town rented the farm for a $175 a year.  In many years, maintenance expenses outweighed the rental income, which probably led to the decision to demolish the almshouse in 1961.  Many Kittery residents today still remember riding the school bus past the almshouse on Haley Road.

Evidence of porcupine activity in the forest; the porkies love the bark of the many hemlock trees.

Evidence of porcupine activity in the forest; the porkies love the bark of the many hemlock trees.

Somewhere in this forest is a lost and unmarked pauper’s burial plot that probably holds the Leaches and the other souls who died while living at the Town Farm. When the snow melts, I’ll continue to look for it, as I wander, and wonder, about these people, their stories, and why they landed at the poor farm.

Sources and resources

The Town Forest, at 77 Haley Road, runs between Haley and Lewis Roads, with parking areas on both ends. At the southern end, the former town pound, where stray livestock was once corralled, is an interesting feature.

I welcome any comments or additional information that might fill out this story about the Town Farm.

The Town Farm now features one main loop trail, about 3 miles long, known as the Quimby Trail, named for the late Conrad Quimby, a retired newspaper publisher who called Kittery home for many years, and as Chair of the Conservation Commission spearheaded the creation of walking trails in the Town Forest. Numerous herd trails also thread through the forest.  Hunters regularly tramp in these woods in the fall, and more adventurous walkers can plunge deep into the forest without fear of getting hopelessly lost (especially now that residential development surrounds the forest).

Walkers will find the Haley Family Cemetery, on the Quimby Trail, soon after it bears left (from the Haley Road entrance). The Lewis Family Cemetery is located at the Haley Road entrance, next to the Town Pound.

The Rice Library holds town reports dating to 1874. More reports (but not all) can be found in Maine’s Digital Commons. The earliest report I found was dated 1852.

Some general information about the 19th century poor farm comes from David Wagner’s excellent study of six New England town farms and almshouses: The Poorhouse: America’s Forgotten Institution,  New York; Rowman and Littlefield, 2005.

Information on the 1820 purchase is from the March 3, 2002 Portsmouth Herald article by Amy Wallace, “Kittery Hunts for Town Forest Solution,” by Amy Wallace.

Hunting is permitted in the Town Forest, so I recommend wearing hunter orange Monday to Saturday from November 1 to mid-December and avoiding the forest altogether at dusk and dawn, when hunters are most active. No hunting on Sundays.

 

Rediscovering the beautiful silence on Coppermine Trail

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Snowshoeing on the Coppermine Trail in Franconia, NH, on the western side of Cannon Mountain.

The car thermometer read two degrees as we pulled on gloves, strapped on snowshoes, and set out on the Coppermine Trail to Bridal Veil Falls.

The trail began flat and easy on a road transformed into tunnel of trees and snow, and then began to climb uphill at a gentle grade.

Although the cold was deep and unrelenting, the sun provided an illusion of warmth, unlike the day before, when bitter winds had sliced through the sky. I expected a crowd of cars and a well-packed trail and was surprised to see only one vehicle in the trailhead lot on this President’s Day Monday. Winter hiking has become so popular in the White Mountains that I assumed the Coppermine Trail would be busy with enthusiasts, but perhaps the relatively easy nature of the hike keeps the hard-core away, as they hike 4,000 footers and climb walls of ice. Or maybe it was just too cold.

But I know that “easy” in summer, when thousands walk on the Coppermine Trail,  can be deadly in winter. I hadn’t hiked in real winter conditions in many years. Although we were adequately supplied for this short hike, with plenty of layers, food, and drink, we weren’t equipped with full winter gear, including ideal footwear, sleeping bags, and hot drinks. Although I didn’t know it then, the previous night a woman had died not far away on Mount Adams, where the high winds had generated extreme cold and whiteout conditions.

For many years, parenthood had kept me off northern trails in the winter.  As a family, winter has meant skiing. Hiking in the backcountry seemed too risky, because I know that kids have trouble regulating their needs or even understanding them until the need has become a harsh scream – “I have to go to the bathroom NOW.” I couldn’t take a kid out in the backcountry who might become immediately hypothermic because he hadn’t understood that he was cold until he was freezing.

But now the kid was a teenager, and taller than I. So up the trail we went, walking in the footsteps of a snowshoer from a day or two earlier, and at times breaking trail. Someone also had skied in, and we tried to avoid the tracks.

Along the way, I looked for the plaque on a boulder that pays tribute, so the story goes, to Arthur Farnsworth, the Vermont guide who became the husband of movie star Bette Davis.  Back in 1939, legend has it, Davis strayed from a group hiking on Coppermine Brook because she knew that Farnsworth would set out to retrieve her.

This unlikely pair married in 1940, and lived together happily in Hollywood, with an occasional visit to the White Mountains. But three years later, in 1943, Farnsworth died from injuries sustained in a fall at their Sugar Hill home. Sometime around 1961, after Davis sold her New Hampshire home, the memorial plaque to Farnsworth, “the Keeper of the Stray Ladies,” appeared on a boulder near the brook.

As we climbed, I could see the outline of Coppermine Brook, silent as it passed through the forest under the deep blanket of ice and snow.  I spied one boulder on the side of the trail – the only recognizable boulder on the trail– but no plaque. That discovery will have to wait another day. (The boulder, I’ve since read, is on the bank of the brook about a quarter mile in from the junction of the trailhead with Coppermine Road).

The trail remained flat and easy. Now I remembered what I had forgotten: the pleasure of walking without having to consider rocks and roots. About a mile in, a young woman in trail shoes came running down: the driver of the other car. Maybe a little crazy, out here running, with no gear except the clothes on her back. A quick hello, and then we were again alone on the trial.

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I knew we were getting close to the shelter and the falls when we arrived at this bridge. Below us, holes of water gurgled.

My son pushed on, looking a little grim, probably wondering when it would all end. I enticed him by telling him we could rest at the Coppermine Shelter, although I knew it wouldn’t warm there, just a dry place to sit and eat some cookies.

I plunged ahead of the team, hoping to keep up spirits with an announcement that we had arrived. And then we came upon the shelter, a small sign of humanity in a white wilderness world.

After resting for a few moments in the bitter cold, we pushed on to the falls, 100 yards or so further up the trail. Here, the “trail”— probably slippery slabs of granite in summer — climbed steeply up to a level spot, probably a frozen pool of water

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At Bridal Veil Falls, granite and water merged into one snowy panorama.

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The falls were a dramatic wall of ice, more like a thick jagged curtain than a veil. A sublime site, in the sense presented by 18th century philosopher Edmund Burke as he attempted to describe those experiences, especially in nature, that inspire feelings of astonishment co-mingled with awe and terror.

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Now, very cold, we headed back to the shelter to warm up – not in the shelter, but in an expertly constructed ice cave we had discovered nearby. At about 32 degrees, the cave was not warm, but definitely much warmer than outside, and large enough to comfortably sleep four to six people.

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After snacking inside the cave, we crawled out, strapped on our snow shoes, and headed down the trail at a good clip since we didn’t need to worry about roots and rocks.  The silence was deep and beautiful.

About 45 minutes later, we arrived back at our car and set off on the trail towards hot chocolate.  Already, I was studying the map, looking for another opportunity to return to this silent winter world.

Sources and resources

The Coppermine Trail departs from Coppermine Road, off NH 116, in the Franconia area.  The hike to Bridal Veil Falls is about 2.5 miles one way, including a portion on a dirt road. For hard-core adventures, a couple of  unmarked backcountry trails off the main trail head towards Mittersill Mountain and (in the other direction) towards Kinsman Ridge.

For more details about the Coppermine Trail and its landmarks, see Robert Buchsbuam’s Nature Hikes in the White Mountains (AMC, 2000), a great source for many wonderful family hikes.

Although I don’t wish to sensationalize a young woman’s death by drawing attention to it, Nestor Ramos’s Boston Globe article about the search for Kate Matrovosa, “The Young Woman and the Mountain,” (February 22, 2015) offers important lessons about winter preparedness and the limits of technology.

Wandering in the wilderness of Mount Paugus

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In New Hampshire’s heavily visited White Mountains, solitude often seems like a lost dream on beautiful autumn weekends, when throngs of people climb popular peaks. But not far from the beaten path, in the Sandwich Range Wilderness, intriguing Mount Paugus awaits exploration far from the madding crowd.

A year ago, the ledges of 3198-foot Mount Paugus had beckoned to me from a rest stop on the west side of nearby Mount Chocorua. Now, I set off with two friends on the Cabin Trail to complete an 8-mile loop that would take us over the ledges of Mount Paugus, down to Whitin Brook and the Big Rock Cave, and then over Mount Mexico.

The mist lent an air of mystery to the hemlock forest on the Cabin Trail.

The mist lent an air of mystery to the hemlock forest on the Cabin Trail.

At the trailhead, on Route 113A in Wonalancet, our vehicle sat alone. Although the day had dawned wet, the forecast called for clearing—a good day that would draw swarms to the mountains. But on our hike to Mount Paugus, we met only one other party, two slightly lost hikers and their dog.

Mount Paugus is part of the Sandwich Range Wilderness, designated as such by the government in 1984. This “wilderness” has a long history of human use, for logging and for recreation. But on this walk, I definitely felt like I was wandering in wilderness, one replete with mysterious forests, vast cliffs and ledges, and dramatic glacial erratics.

As the last remnants of rain dripped off the beech trees, the Cabin Trail climbed upward on an old logging road. At one point the forest abruptly shifted from beech to hemlock, almost as if someone had planted a dividing line between the deciduous and the evergreen. About two miles in, the trail climbs alongside a rough sidehill with a steep forested slope.  After this patch, (and 2.7 miles in) the trail descends a bit to reach the junction of the Lawrence Trail, which climbs upward and then crosses over the ledges of Mount Paugus.

The summit of Mount Paugus is buried in trees and we didn’t attempt a bushwhack. Instead, we hiked on the Lawrence Trail until it crosses an open but tree-shrouded patch of ledge. There, with a small detour, we found west-facing views.

When we reached the flat ledges near the summit of Mount Paugus, we scrabbled a bit off to the southwest to eat a windy lunch on this dramatic west-facing ledge.

When we reached the flat ledges near the summit of Mount Paugus, we scrabbled a bit off to the southwest to eat a windy lunch on this dramatic west-facing ledge with cloudy views of Mount Tripyramid.

Although the other hikers we’d encountered had trouble navigating the network of trails around Mount Paugus, we had a map and it wasn’t hard to follow the Lawrence Trail as it descended past the Beeline Trail (which take hikers over to Mount Chocorua) to the Old Paugus Trail.  The descent is rough in spots and the wet rocks added more  challenge, but nothing that couldn’t be solved with a combination of careful steps and butt shimmies.  The Old Paugus Trail offers views of Mount Chocorua through the trees (see photo above the headline).

Deep in this wilderness, with its many turns and unsigned junctions, we frequently consulted the map. People tend to forget that maps are useful not only for showing the trail, but for identifying features in the land that help orient the user, like brooks, or the topo lines that announced the approach of steep ledges on the Old Paugus Trail. I’ve yet to become a confident compass user, but have found that carefully studying a map is almost as good.

An amazing ledge on the Old Paugus Trail -- and quite obvious on the map, from the contour lines.

An immense ledge on the Old Paugus Trail. The topo lines of the map really don’t do it justice.

We dipped low to Whitin Brook, an inviting swimming hole in August, and then picked up the Big Rock Cave trail towards 2020-foot Mount Mexico.  After six or miles of meandering, I groaned a little at the thought of climbing another mountain, but the dramatic glacial erratics at Big Rock Cave soon provided a spirit-boosting reward.

This set of huge glacial erratics, including a pair that creates roomy cave, and several other intriguing nooks, crannies and crevices. I'm not sure I'd want to sleep there, given that bears probably live in this wild area, but it looks like people use it for campouts on a fairly regular basis.

This set of huge glacial erratics  creates a roomy cave, and several other intriguing nooks, crannies and crevices. I’m not sure I’d want to sleep here, given that bears must prowl in this wild area, but it looks like people use the cave for campouts on a regular basis. A hike into the cave, on the Big Rock Cave Trail, would be an exciting day’s work for the youngest hikers.

Just below Mount Mexico, the forest grows on top of a glacial erratic pushed here by the ice 11,000 years ago.

Just below Mount Mexico, the forest grows on top of a glacial erratic pushed here by the ice 11,000 years ago.

After the caves, we ascended to the flat top of Mount Mexico, home to a beautiful open hemlock forest. Then we were on the home stretch, about two miles downhill to the trailhead.

The hike took more time than we had planned, but we enjoyed the meandering, the conversation, and the solitude. If wilderness is a place in which we can lose ourselves in wonder, then the Sandwich Range qualifies, even given its extensive and sometimes destructive human history. Lucky us!

Sources and resources

To recap, our loop hike to Mount Paugus consisted of the Cabin Trail to the Lawrence Trail to the Old Paugus Trail to the Big Rock Cave Trail.  The Sandwich Range Wilderness and adjacent public and private lands feature a network of interconnecting trails with endless opportunities for exploration, including 4,019-foot Mount Whiteface (the latter well-travelled by 4,000-foot peak baggers). A bonus: this southern range of the White Mountains is only an hour and 20 minutes from the Seacoast region of New Hampshire and Maine.

To read more about hiking on nearby Mount Chocorua, see my post, Intersecting Slopes on Mount Chocorua.

Gray jays, great day: A fall hike on Mount Waumbek

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Hiking on the Starr King Trail to 4,006-foot Mount Waumbek, it’s hard to believe that this off-the-beaten-path peak once was part of a proposal for a mega-ski resort stretching across several mountains.

On the beautiful Columbus Day weekend when we hiked to Mount Waumbek, cars spilled from every parking lot in Franconia Notch, where thousands of hikers and visitors had converged for the holiday weekend. But just 20 minutes further north, in Jefferson, New Hampshire, Mount Waumbek was lightly travelled by a few parties of a hikers and several resourceful gray jays.

Setting off on the Starr King Trail to Mount Waumbek, for a hike totaling 7.2 miles and about 2,650 vertical feet.

Setting off on the Starr King Trail to Mount Waumbek, for a hike totaling 7.2 miles and about 2,650 vertical feet. I like it when I arrive at parking lot on a holiday weekend and find plenty of empty spaces.

Back in 1962, the Lancaster Development Corporation proposed a massive 5,000-acre  resort, capped by a hotel on Mount Starr King, famous today among hikers for its chimney, the remnants of a small shelter that once stood on its summit.  The plan called for six lifts, including a tram, with northwest-facing slopes in the Willard basin on the north side of the Kilkenny Ridge, all accessed via a 2.5 mile road near Lancaster, NH.

1964 rendering of the hotel and tramway proposed for the summit of New Hampshire's Mount Starr King.

1964 rendering of the hotel and tramway proposed for the summit of New Hampshire’s Mount Starr King, which hikers cross en route to Mount Waumbek. Compare this image to the photo below, which shows the remnants of “development” on Starr King. The summit includes a nice flat granite slab  for picnicking, but  would feel crowded if more than a dozen hikers gathered there (Image from New England Ski History)

Looking around the ledgy summit of Mount Starr King, it’s hard to envision where or how a hotel would fit here. It just doesn’t seem that big. Today, the summit of Starr King (2.6 miles from the trailhead) offers wonderful views of the northern side of the Presidentials, including dramatic King Ravine on the back sides of Mounts Madison and Adams.

On Mount Starr King today, everyone take a photo of the chimney, the remnants of a shelter built in the 1940s and dismantled in the 1980s.

On Mount Starr King today, everyone takes a photo of the chimney, the remnants of a shelter built in the 1940s and dismantled in the 1980s.

From Mount Starr King, we continued on the Kilkenny Ridge trail to Mount Waumbek, which is often described as having no views. This assertion is technically correct, but not really true. Minutes from the summit, hikers can take in great views of the Presidentials at an open area caused by blowdowns just off the Kilkenny Ridge Trail. We ate lunch at this spot with two other parties, including a family of four whose two young kids already had hiked all 48 4,000 footers. Just 10 of us, sharing experiences and breathing in the mountains. Ah, Mount Waumbek. An added bonus: the friendly gray jay who eyed us from the spruce trees.

I was also enjoying the relatively ease of hiking to Mount Waumbek, especially after hiking the strenuous Baldface Circle Trail a couple of weeks earlier.  Don’t get me wrong — the hike is not a walk, but offers a nice steady climb upwards without steeps or significant up-and-downs. Mount Waumbek also offers opportunities for backpacking on the Kilkenny Ridge trail.  We were doing the out-and-back hike, so after lunch we headed back to Mount Starr King.

There, we took a break for more photos and noticed the gray jays again. Soon, they were eating out of our hands and off the tops of our heads, swooping in for landings from a variety of angles.

Gray jays are quite at ease with stealing food from humans. As part of their winter survival strategy, they will use sticky saliva to stick food to tree branches that sit above the snowpack line.

Gray jays are quite at ease with stealing food from humans. As part of their winter survival strategy, they will use sticky saliva to stick food to tree branches that sit above the snowpack line.

Jay grays need about 50 calories a day to survive, and will eat just about anything. Our bird buddy must have been stealing and storing, because he definitely grabbed more than 50 calories of granola bar.

Jay grays need about 50 calories a day to survive, and will eat just about anything. Our bird buddy must have been stealing and storing, because he definitely grabbed more than 50 calories of granola bar.

Gray jays are hardy birds that hikers often see throughout the winter. Where would they be, I wonder, if the Willard Basin ski resort had come to pass?

The peaceful Starr King trail in mid-October. Because of the warm fall, the foliage remained vibrant; usually, I'd expect fewer leaves on the maples trees in northern New Hampshire in mid-October.

The peaceful Starr King trail in mid-October. Because of the warm fall, the foliage remained vibrant; usually, I’d expect fewer leaves  in northern New Hampshire by mid-October.

Sources and resources

Information about gray jays comes from the Cornell Lab of Orthnothology.

Thornton, T.D. “Big ideas that never quite peaked.” Boston Globe, December 23, 2010.  Includes information about Willard Basin and the Borderline Ski Resort, which I wrote about in my Baldface Circle Trail post.

“Willard Basin.” New England cancelled ski areas. New England Ski History. More details about Willard Basin and other “cancelled” ski areas. One of the lodge renderings at this site reminds me of the lodge that was built at the now-defunct Evergreen Valley Ski Resort, another big dream New England ski resort that was built in the 1970s and lasted only a few years. See my post, White Elephant in a Green Valley.

 

A Ride on the Wild Quiet Side: Exploring Acadia’s Schoodic Peninsula

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Schoodic Peninsula is one of those out-of-the way Maine destinations that provokes conflicting emotions: I want to share its beauty, but also hope it remains off the well-beaten path.

On the warm September day that we visited the Schoodic Peninsula, the ocean was calm.  But often Schoodic is a quiet wild place  — quiet, in that it receives far fewer visitors than the rest of Acadia National Park — but wild with surf that pounds and crashes on its rocky shores.

The one-way road that hugs the peninsula for about six miles, with its promise of continuous and dramatic ocean vistas, had been calling out to me for several years on my map of Acadia National Park.  The lightly-traveled road is known for great biking.

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Although Schoodic Peninsula is easily accessed by road, we took the ferry out of Bar Harbor to enjoy the beautiful ride across Frenchman’s Bay. Here, leaving Bar Harbor, with Champlain and Cadillac Mountains in the background

In a small way, the ferry offered an opportunity to time travel, to arrive at Schoodic the way people did for a large chunk of its human history — by canoe and then European-style shallop sloops, in the case of the Abenaki, or by schooners and other vessels, in the case of the small population of 18th and 19th century pioneers who  came to this remote peninsula to work the land and the sea.

Before heading out on the Loop Road, we rode into the village of Winter Harbor to fuel up on breakfast goodies and coffee at the Raven's Nest.

Before heading out on the Loop Road, we rode into the village of Winter Harbor to fuel up on breakfast goodies and coffee at the Raven’s Nest.

After the hour-long ferry ride, we bicycled the mile or so into Winter Harbor to get the lay of the land, then headed out on Route 186 to Moore Road,  where the ride to Schoodic Head begins. The road begins as a two-way route but changes to one-way about three miles in, at the Frazer Point picnic area.

Moore Road is named for John G. Moore, a Mainer from nearby Steuben who made a fortune on Wall Street financier and bought up much of Schoodic Point in the 1890s. In 1929, his heirs donated the land that eventually would become part of Acadia National Park.

A new campground, Schoodic Woods, recently opened here and the Park Service has just completed a network bicycle trails that begin on Moore Road and lace through the Schoodic Woods.  The trails piqued our interest, but today we were here for the vistas, and continued on towards the Point.

The ride did not disappoint.  Although Moore Road begins with a gentle uphill climb, the riding is mostly smooth sailing, especially once the road becomes one-way — easily do-able for recreational bikers, including kids.  About three miles in on the one-way stretch, we turned off onto the two-way road to Schoodic Point.

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At Schoodic Point, with Mount Desert Island’s Cadillac Mountain in the background. I was so busy absorbing the deep blues of the ocean and the striations of the rocks that I forgot to take lots of pictures. Suffice to say that this photo is one of many scenic vistas along the ride

Legend suggests that more than a few people have lost their lives at Schoodic Point to rogue waves.  However, I haven’t found any specifics about such fatalities, so they may be more myth than reality. (In 2007, a Michigan woman drowned while swimming off Schoodic Point — an activity I would not recommend – but she was not swept from the rocky headland by a rogue wave).

Interestingly, according to historian Allen K. Workman, the first known “English” inhabitant was a black man (identified as “mulatto” in the 1790 census) named Thomas Frazer, who came to Schoodic with his wife and seven children and built a homestead before the Revolutionary War at Frazer Point.  I wonder what pulled Frazer to this remote region — the opportunity of the sea, or the desire to get some distance from the racism and bigotry common in more populated regions?

Later settlers followed, and then a small population of wealthy summer rusticators, but for 60-plus years in the 20th century, the main inhabitants of Schoodic Point were a transient group — the officers and enlisted men and women of the U.S. Navy (and their families), who lived at a small but strategically important radio signal station base that was decommissioned in 2002. For 67 years (since 1935), up to 774 Navy personnel (at its WW II peak) were stationed here, doing specialized work in signals intelligence and cryptology.  Its closing dealt quite a blow to the fragile economy of Downeast Maine.

Today, the former signal station is home to the Schoodic Institute, a non-profit research, education, and arts center supported (at least initially) through various grant programs from the Navy, other government agencies, and Acadia National Park.

Rockefeller's architect built this hall which became quarters for Navy officers. Today, the main floor hosts exhibits and visiting researchers and artists stay in the upper floor apartments.

Grosvenor Atterbury, John D. Rockefeller Jr. ‘s architect who designed the carriage road buildings on Mount Desert Island, also designed this hall at  the Navy signal station.  The so-called Rockefeller Building became quarters for Navy officers. Today, the main floor hosts exhibits and visiting researchers and artists stay in the upper floor apartments.

 

We biked through the grounds of the Institute — about 180 acres, including a new auditorium, a dining hall, dorms, town houses, and recreational facilities.  The grounds were very quiet.  And probably expensive to maintain.  One wonders what will become of this facility.

Continuing on past numerous breath-taking vistas, we eventually landed in Birch Harbor, where we took a lunch break at the Pickled Wrinkle, drawn by its quirky name and a hand-posted recommendation inside the ferry cabin.  The view here is of the parking lot and a gas station across the street, but after our miles of ocean views, we were okay with that, especially because the food, much of it locally-sourced, was great.

After lunch, we finished up our 12-mile loop with a turn back on to Route 186 into Winter Harbor, where we explored the small collection of shops and galleries, and picked up iced coffee at the Raven’s Nest.  The restaurant is named for a dramatic crevice on the peninsula that we didn’t see on our ride, but will find another day.

As we motored back to Bar Harbor on the ferry, we enjoyed close-up views of the islands surrounding Winter Harbor and the peaks of Champlain and Cadillac Mountains. I tried to live in that moment.  But I had discovered the Schoodic Peninsula and already was planning my next visit.

Sources and resources

Acadia National Park’s official page offers a good starting point for additional information on Schoodic Point, including a map. Note that as of fall 2015, the map has not yet been updated to show the new campground and network of bicycle trails.

The Bar Harbor-Winter Harbor ferry —  a converted larger-sized lobster boat — makes the crossing several times a day from mid-June until mid-September. The free Island Explorer shuttle bus meets the boat and takes visitors around the peninsula, stopping at Schoodic Point and other spots. (The bus includes bike storage racks if cyclists want to take the bus for part of the trip).

Allen K. Workman’s Schoodic Point: History on the Edge of Acadia National Park (History Press, 2014) offers a short well-written account of Schoodic’s history.

Remnants of the Gilded Age at Brave Boat Harbor

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Kittery Point, Maine — I dip my paddle in the water, push the kayak into the channel, and glide away from the causeway.  I’m paddling into the marsh, heading out to Brave Boat Harbor for high tide.

At least once each summer, I paddle these quiet waters, squeezing my trip in between the tides and the rest of life.  Even though I’ve paddled the marsh many times, I always feel on the brink of a discovery that might be significant,  even if only to me.

Back in the 1600s, Brave Boat Harbor was a significant discovery for the explorers and early settlers who first came here. The shallow harbor provided safe anchorage from the angry Atlantic.  But the entrance is narrow, and the surf makes passage tricky. Hence, only brave boats dared to enter.

Today, I am floating level with the marsh grass on an incoming moon tide.  The astronomical high tide gives me longer window to explore the marsh, but typically I count on three hours around the published high tide (e.g. if high tide is at noon, I can set out at 10:30 a.m. and plan on returning to the causeway by 1:30).  I’ve learned the hard way that if I linger too long in Brave Boat Harbor, I will end up scraping mud, or stranded.

The marsh is close to home, but feels remote and wild. I spot a kingfisher, skimming across the grass and up into the trees.  A family of snowy egrets wades on the flooded plain. In the distance, the surf thuds at the harbor’s entrance.

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A great blue heron lifts off along with a snowy egret. The egrets, once a source of plumage for ladies’ hats, were  on the verge of extinction but now are  common site on the marsh.  They are here  not by accident, but because thoughtful people took action to conserve the marshes on Maine’s southern coast.

This marsh isn’t wilderness. As I navigate the series of S-turns towards the harbor, I can see the occasional house on its perimeter. But this marsh, officially designated as the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge, offers refuge both for me and the birds and animals who dwell or pass through these waters and grasses.

Fewer than a hundred years ago, the marsh was a domestic landscape. For three centuries, horses and oxen dragged people and tools across these spongy fields so that farmers could harvest the grass for animal fodder. In the channel, human-made rocky paths once allowed animals to safely cross the mucky bottom.

Then, during the Gilded Age, when droves of tourists  began flocking to Kittery Point and York Harbor, workmen sunk pilings deep into the mud of Brave Boat Harbor to build a trolley trestle. For fifty years, the Portsmouth, Kittery and York (PK & Y) Electric Railway delivered vacationers from the ferry landing on Badgers Island in Kittery to York Harbor, with the clattering trolley cars traversing the marsh eight times a day during the summer months.

The PK & Y electric trolley doing a run on the trestle built through Brave Boat Harbor.

The PK & Y electric trolley doing a run from Kittery to York Harbor on the trestle built across Brave Boat Harbor (New England Electric Railway Historical Society).

This hand-drawn map shows the Routes of the different trolley lines in Kittyer and York, including the Portmouth, Kittery and York Electric Railway (PK & Y) line that hugged the coast and then crossed over Brave Boat Harbor. The trolleys ran until 1923, when the new Memorial Bridge facilitated the rise of the automobile (Seashore Trolley Museum Collection).

This hand-drawn map shows the routes of the different trolley lines in Kittery and York, including the PK & Y line that hugged the coast and then crossed over Brave Boat Harbor. The trolleys ran until 1923, when the new Memorial Bridge facilitated the rise of the automobile (Seashore Trolley Museum Collection).

As my paddle pushes the kayak forward, the vegetation changes, with less saltwater grass and more of the sedge-like salt meadow grass that was harvested for hay. The current stills as I approach the harbor. I push the boat around another bend and into the flooded pool, the still water tinted pink from the clouds above. Even though I’ve been out here many times, this moment of gliding into blue emptiness of Brave Boat Harbor always feels exhilarating.

Black cormorants roost on the line of rotting pilings. The birds stand with their breasts thrust forwards, their necks held high, as if standing at attention. At the harbor entrance, between Rayne’s Neck and Sea Point, small waves crash.

Relatively few kayakers venture out here. On this day, I spot a three or four others, but on the rocky beach,  I eat my lunch in solitude.

The trolley trestle falling into the marsh. The trolley stopped running in 1923, almost 100 years ago. I wonder how long these historical remnants will linger.

The remnants of the trolley trestle falling into the marsh.

Almost 100 years have passed since the trolleys stopped running. The pilings won’t last forever. Many have withered to anonymous stumps. People who aren’t familiar with the marsh’s history don’t know where they came from, or why they are there.  A few older folks in the region still recall riding the trolley as small children, but in a few years, all human memories of a bustling Brave Boat Harbor will disappear.

Here, these shorter pilings sit on a bed that would

Here, these shorter pilings sit on a solid bed built up to support them. The bed usually forms a low barrier but was flooded during the full moon tide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Exploring these remnants of history of the marsh enriches my time here.  Still, I’m glad the marsh is a quiet place today, one that offers a mental escape from a mind intent on relentless planning and doing.

Kayaking here is a meditation in letting go. The ebb and flow of the tide dictates my itinerary. If I ignore the tide, I will end up stuck in the muck. If I note it, I glide on an authentic source of flow.

Sources and resources

The Rachel Carson Wildlife Refuge was established in 1966 in honor of its namesake, although Rachel Carson did her work further up the coast, near Boothbay Harbor.  The Refuge protects 50 miles of marsh and coast in southern Maine.

For more on the Memorial Bridge and its relationship to the rapid decline of the Gilded Age “big hotel” era in Kittery, Maine, see my post, On Bridges and the Jet Set.

Experienced kayakers might enjoy the loop paddle through the marsh and around Gerrish Island to Pepperrell Cove and up Chauncey Creek to the causeway.  However, you need an ocean-worthy kayak to do, as ledges off Sea Point create waves and  swell.  It’s not a paddle for novices, and I wouldn’t recommend doing it alone.

 

 

Island living, Adirondack style

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Heading through wild rice towards the locks connecting Middle Saranac Lake to the Saranac River.

Heading through wild rice towards the locks connecting Middle Saranac Lake to the Saranac River. The rice was planted years ago to create better duck habitat for hunters but now has become a nuisance invasive species.

In July, an opportunity arose to camp with a friend for several nights on a quarter-acre island on Middle Saranac Lake in New York’s Adirondack Park.

My friend warned me that she didn’t do a lot on the island. We could kayak, cook, swim, read, nap, and stay up late by the campfire. If the wind whipped up, as it often does on Middle Saranac, kayaking was probably off the list, along with the campfire. If it rained, reading would be confined to various contorted positions in my tent.

Island living might be cozy and relaxing – or claustrophobic and boring. Was a quarter acre island big enough for a maniacal traveler?

After a day spent driving and packing up my kayak, I paddled across the lake, reaching the island at dusk. That first night, swimming in the dark beneath the Milky Way, the island hardly seemed claustrophobic. Here was an entire universe!

Island 72 and its neighbor

Island 72 and its neighbor, both part of the Saranac Lake Islands Campground.

It took me a day or so to adjust to the idea that I had no place to go and nothing to do. The weather helped reinforce this nothing-ness, as the wind had picked up during the night. Tall white pines thrashed above the clearing where we had set up camp. Throughout the day, gray clouds threatened rain. On the western end of the lake, we could see gray sheets of rain falling, but in the end, only a few sprinkles blew over the island.

I covered the list of activities: cook, read, swim, nap. In the early evening, when the wind died down, I kayaked over to Hungry Bay, passing a few remote campsites and waving at a couple of people on shore.  The exercise and the solitude felt good.

We built a fire and stayed up until midnight, on this island with nothing to do.

The next day, the lake was glassy, the wind almost non-existent.   After breakfast, we pushed off in our kayaks and paddled west and then north towards Weller Pond, which is connected to Middle Saranac Lake by a narrow passage.  En route, we passed a couple of  occupied campsites, but mostly had the lake to ourselves, especially once we entered Weller Pond.

Back in 1931, writer Martha Eben came to Weller Pond to camp and stayed from late spring through the fall. Martha was an invalid, suffering from tuberculosis, when her Adirondack guide Fred Rice transported her to the campsite in a bed he’d fashioned inside his canoe. When they arrived at Fred’s camp, he installed her in a comfy bed set up beneath the pines.

Then in her early 20s, Martha had been suffering from tuberculosis since she was a child. Her family had sent her to Saranac Lake Village for rest and treatment at Edward Trudeau’s Adirondack Cottage Sanitarium. In this era before antibiotics, tuberculosis was progressive and deadly, but in the 19th century, physicians in Europe had learned that rest, isolation, and good nutrition could slow the progress of the disease and sometimes even cure it.

Fred Rice and Martha Rice, from an undated photo in the Adironack Register (Historic Saranac Lake).

Fred Rice and Martha Rice, from an undated photo in the Adirondack Register (Historic Saranac Lake).

Martha had endured several surgeries (probably procedures aimed at collapsing a lung so that lesions and cavities could heal) as well as stays in other facilities. She finally decided that she’d had enough, and hired Fred Rice to take her to Weller Pond and take care of her in the wilderness. Her adventure was an extreme take on the idea of the sanitarium: that rest, fresh air, and wholesome food would bolster the body’s immune system to fight the infection.

At her campsite, Martha rested, read, and sat with Fred by the campfire. They weathered rainstorms, chilly nights and Fred’s generally bad cooking. Fred took her out in his canoe on fishing and animal-spotting expeditions. Martha learned to peel potatoes and gradually was able to take on some of the cooking.

By the time late fall arrived, Martha’s health was restored. Enamored with her simple existence at Weller Pond, Martha returned to the woods with Fred for six seasons (and eventually ended up spending winters in Saranac Lake Village with Fred and his wife). Ten years into her adventures, Martha learned that she was free of tuberculosis (although she died what we now consider the young age of 58 from congestive heart failure, a condition likely exacerbated by her damaged lungs).

In the 1952, Martha published The Healing Woods, the first of three books about her Adirondack experiences. What strikes me in reading Martha’s book is that she focuses on her adventures and not on her condition, which hangs in the background, sometimes limiting her activity but never her enthusiasm.

Lily pads in what Fred Rice called the "slough", a swampy area in the passage to Weller Pond. We took a lovely detour up into Little Weller Pond as well and encountered many lily pads and sunning turtles, just as Martha had.

Lily pads in what Fred Rice called the “slough”, a swampy area in the passage to Weller Pond. We took a lovely detour up into Little Weller Pond as well and encountered many lily pads and sunning turtles, just as Martha had.

I’m sure Martha had her days when she felt tired and was tired of camping –- sitting out days of rain in which everything gets wet is tedious no matter how much you love the outdoors. But she omitted complaints and frustrations from her narrative, instead choosing to write about her discoveries and her wonder as she learns about life in the woods. She deliberately chooses to focus on the positive even if she sometimes felt negative.

The experience of the woods that Martha conveys is much the same as ours today. Weller Pond still feels remote and wild, removed from the hum of cars along Route 3 as it passes by Middle Saranac Lake. We see one other paddler, an ambitious guy intent on exploring every nook and cranny of the shore. Paddling through the lilies in the slough, we spy turtles lazing on rotting logs and hear redwing blackbirds singing.

On my third morning on the island, I woke up to a glassy lake. I had to go home, but could have stayed longer. Instead of doing nothing, I’d enjoyed three days of being more fully present in my experience.  That’s island living, Adirondack style.

My friend Michelle kayaking back to the island after a visit to the locks connecting the lake to the Saranac River. Ambersand Mountain rises in the background.

My friend Michelle kayaking back to the island after a visit to the locks connecting the lake to the Saranac River. Ampersand Mountain rises in the background.

 

Sources and resources

The Healing Woods, by Martha Reben. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1952.

Saranac Lake Islands Campground, operated by the New York State Department of Environmental Protection, offers 72 boat-access campsites scattered on the islands and show of the Saranac Lakes.

For more on Martha Reben, see “Martha Reben” on Historic Saranac Lake.

Presidential aspirations: You can’t always get what you want

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I have long held Presidential aspirations — that is, to complete the Presidential traverse hike across the highest peaks of New England including Mount Washington, Jefferson,  Adams, and Madison.

Moon over Mount Adams, with Madison Hut in the foreground.

Moon over Mount Adams, with Madison Spring Hut in the foreground.

I love the high open alpine terrain of these summits, and the sense of being on top of the world.

But the weather is predictably unpredictable in the mountains, especially on 6,288-foot Mount Washington, which is known for creating its own weather. In any given June, only 10 days of the month are sunny or partly sunny.

But even a hike through the clouds would be awesome. Stretching my Presidential hike over three days, with two nights in alpine huts operated by the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) increased the odds of hiking at least one day under sunny clear skies.

My son, aka the Seal, was up for the challenge — his first big overnight hike – even if he didn’t know exactly what he was getting into. His friend, wearing thin sneakers and carrying an oversized school backpack, was also game.

Spoiler: we didn’t get to complete our Presidential hike. But our three days in the mountains reminded me of these truths about hiking.

Your kids will eventually hike faster than you can, but only if you don’t torture them when they are young.

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Tama Fall, on the Fallsway parallel to the lower part of the Valley Way trail, was running full thanks to recent rainfall.

We began our hike under partly cloudy skies, with rain in the forecast, so I decided to start out on the Valley Way trail, the most protected route to Madison Spring Hut. The boys quickly raced ahead on the trail, waiting for me to catch up at each junction.

If the weather held off, I planned to cross over, via the Scar Trail, to the Air Line Trail so we could take in the drama of King Ravine.  My pack felt heavier than a couple of weeks earlier, when I had carried a full load into the Desolation Wilderness. The terrain was steeper, but I think I mostly felt slow, creaky, and weighted down in contrast to the 14-year-olds.

My son is definitely not a hard-core outdoorsy kid, but I have spent years choosing shorter easier hikes with interesting features to make hiking palatable and (hopefully) interesting and fun. Now comes the payoff for not torturing him when he was young:  torture for me!

It had rained hard enough for us to put on our rain gear, but the rain let up by the time we got to the sign. People die in these mountains every year, including a woman hiker who perished not far from Madison Hut during the past winter while trying to climb Mount Adams.

It had rained hard enough for us to put on our rain gear, but the rain let up by the time we got to the sign. People die in these mountains every year, including a young woman who perished this past February not far from Madison Hut.

When it rains, you get wet.

Having good rain gear and stay-dry clothing helps in weathering the storm, but the rain eventually leaks into the jacket, the boots get waterlogged from sloshing through too many puddles, and invariably some item gets waterlogged because you forgot to wrap it in plastic.

At first, clouds filled the depths of King Ravine.

Then the clouds lifted, revealing the depths of the Ravine.

A warm and dry bunk in an alpine hut is better than a suite at a luxury hotel, especially when said bunk (multiplied by three or four people) costs as much or more.

Ah, Madison Spring Hut! This historic hut, on the site of mountain hospitality since 1889, was rebuilt in 2011.  I love the new layout and little luxuries: a dining room that doesn’t feel as crowded, individual bunk lights that energy-efficient lights, and best of all, the third-level bunk private-ish suites. The boys quickly climbed up the ladder to these bunks, designed to be impossible to fall from, with a wall on one side of each bunk, and a heavy wooden platform screen connecting two bunks (with four bunks total stretching across the rafters).  They promptly took possession of their suite, laid themselves out to dry, and passed out like two-year-olds taking a long-delayed afternoon nap.

Being on a mountain at sunset is awesome.

One of the greatest benefits of staying in an alpine huts experiencing the last rays of the day from a mountain top. The 5,367-foot summit of Mount Madison rises a half-mile above the hut, making for an easy (albeit strenuous) climb.

 

Reaching the summit of Mount Madison after dinner, with plenty of time to get back to the hut before dark.

Hanging out on  the summit of Mount Madison after dinner, with plenty of time, in June,  to get back to the hut before dark.

The sky glowed above Mount Washington as we climbed back down to the hut.

At twilight, the clouds cleared and the sky glowed above Mount Washington.

New England weather is fickle, especially in the mountains.

Yes, yes, everyone knows this, but why does this truism always have to be true?? For days, I had been checking the long-range forecast, thinking that I might reorganize the trip by a day if the weather looked bad. (Although not well publicized, AMC, known for their ironclad no-refund policies, will let you make a one-time switch to your itinerary on a space-available basis). On Saturday, the weather looked great! But by the time we hit the trail, the forecast had evolved from great to gray to grim: high winds, severe thunderstorms, heavy rain, and flash floods.

I held out hope that the weather front might pass through early, or hold off until later, but on Tuesday morning, after providing the weather forecast, the hut “croo” at Madison strongly discouraged anyone from walking across the six-mile exposed Gulfside Trail towards Mount Washington and the hut at Lake of the Clouds, our destination for Tuesday night.

More than 140 people have died in these mountains over the past 150 or so years, in all four seasons. I knew that we had to abandon our plans. I switched our reservation to Highland Center down in Crawford Notch and debated options for the next day, when the weather would clear.

The thought of putting on wet socks and then lacing on waterlogged boots is worse than the reality of doing so.

We hiked out the Valley Way trail in the pouring rain. My pricey Marmot jacket quickly became a wet skin. At one point, I had to take off my glasses so that I could sort of see the trail. The rain eventually let up, and we reached the Appalachia parking lot, where a kiosk provided shelter from the rain when it started up again. I was so grateful when The AMC shuttle arrived ahead of schedule.

After a hard hike, the cheapest glass of wine tastes great.

Mondavi Chardonnay, with dinner at the Highland Center, preceded by afternoon coffee at The Met in North Conway while the boys filled up on “penny” candy at Zeb’s General Store.  We even managed a visit to White Birch Books.

The view of Crawford Notch from the Highland Center patio. Down in the Notch, the rain had stopped, but I knew that it could be storming wildly up on the higher summits.

The view of Crawford Notch from the Highland Center. Down in the Notch, the rain had stopped, but I knew that it could be storming wildly up on the higher summits.

Sometimes driving a car up a mountain is better than walking.

I briefly contemplated a day hike up Mount Washington for our third day. Strong winds were slamming the summit, but hikers coming up the southeastern side of the mountain wouldn’t feel the full force of the northwest winds until reaching the summit cone. But then I looked at my wet boots, and remembered my rule about not torturing children.

It’s not much fun to hike for any length of time when the wind is blowing hard.  But strong winds make a great day for driving the Mount Washington Auto Road.

The wind was blowing hard and steady, and we leaned into it.

The wind was blowing hard and steady. We leaned into it, and loved it.

When we arrived at the summit, the wind was blowing a steady 40-45 mph, with gusts in the 60 mph range. That doesn’t sound so bad – and it isn’t, if you aren’t try to move forward on your feet. In fact, it’s great fun to lean in to the wind, and then let it chase you around.

Inside the State Park building, we milled around with senior citizens and tourists who had come up on the Cog Railway and visited the new “Extreme Mount Washington” exhibit that features a compelling account of the April 1934 record-setting wind, when observers clocked the wind speed at 231 mph.

But we couldn’t experience Mount Washington without a hike, so after lunch,  we began the steep descent towards Tuckerman’s Ravine to do a two-mile loop hike down to and through the Alpine Garden trail, an alpine plateau that blooms with rare wildflowers in June.

View of Tuckerman's Ravine as we turned onto the Lion's Head Trail and then onto the Alpine Garden trail.

View of Tuckerman’s Ravine as we turned on to the Lion’s Head Trail and then the Alpine Garden trail, which cuts across a plateau towards Huntington Ravine.

Heading downhill, we soon left the wind behind as we encountered a steady stream of hikers on their final leg up the mountain. The walk down was slow going for me, but the boys continued their mountain goat act. The trail through the Gardens was easy and open, although I expected to see more flowers for this time of year. Either I just missed them, or they hadn’t yet come out in full bloom, or “garden” is a relative term in Mount Washington’s harsh environment.

As we climbed uphill again, towards Ball Crag and the summit, we again felt the wind’s full force. By the time we reached the car, I was feeling pretty beat up, but strong enough to move the car in the empty parking lot to take advantage of perfect westerly views towards Franconia Ridge.

An imperfect trip to the mountains is always better always better than going to the office (or doing housework, running errands, going to doctor appointments).

I had hoped to climb Mount Jefferson on this trip, and touch upon Mount Monroe, two 5,000 footers on my to-climb list. But as a glass half-full type, I see this year’s loss as next year’s opportunity.  I’ll be back—along with at least one other hiker who already is strategizing on how to get some additional teenagers on the trail.

We'll try again next year -- or maybe in the fall.

We’ll try again next year — or maybe in the fall.

Sources and resources

For information on hut stays, visit the Appalachian Mountain Club website.  The AMC also offers a shuttle service at key trailheads and lodges so that hikers can do point-to-point hikes across the mountains.  Hikers can also use a shuttle service to or from Mount Washington — see the Auto Road website for details.

The Mount Washington Weather Observatory Higher Summits forecast provides detailed information on weather for both the region and the higher summits in the Presidential Range.

For more reading about Mount Washington, see some of my posts from my week-long stay on the summit in January, 2014:

The world’s worst weather: Bring it on!

Cat vs camel: An epic battle on Mount Washington provides an opportunity to write about Marty

Crisis on Mount Washington: The empty sugar barrel

The wind howls and we stir the pot

 

 

 

 

 

 

One hike, many discoveries: A plane crash, a fire tower and stone-age couches

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The last stretch over and up to Piper Mountain featured beautiful open terrain.

The Belknap Range in New Hampshire’s Lake Region offers interesting and varied hiking terrain, like this stretch of trail over and up to Piper Mountain.

Would we find the plane crash? That was the motivating question as I hit the road early one morning in late June with three middle-school boys.

More than 40 years ago, on June 18, 1972, a small plane bound for Boston vanished in New Hampshire’s Lakes Region after taking off from Laconia Airport.  A search was launched, but the plane had evaporated.  A year later — or maybe two years later — in June 0f 1973 or 1974, the wreckage was found, just a few hundred yards below the summit of well-travelled Mount Belknap.

At least that’s the story, according to a few internet sites. More complete information — such as the pilot’s name and age, the type of plane, the source of the internet information — remains elusive.  A search of Boston Globe archives turns up several other small plane crashes in New England in the early 1970s, but not a word about the plane that slammed into Mount Belknap.

Setting out, all we knew for sure was that we might find the wreckage on the side of Mount Belknap.  Or we might not. In seeking out the crash site, I didn’t wish to make sport of a tragedy.  The wreckage, like the mountain range that holds it, is a mystery that pulls us onto the trail  — especially three teens who might otherwise be satisfied by the glow of a screen.

Also, the prospect of climbing the Mount Belknap fire tower and then lounging in stone chairs on Piper Mountain add up to a day of hiking that even the most hardened video gamer finds hard to resist.

So, armed with plenty of bug spray against black flies, we set off for the Belknap Range in Gilford, New Hampshire to climb Belknap and Piper Mountains,  with plans to also hit the  Gunstock Mountain summit, just to say we did it.

We started our hike at the parking lot at the end of the Belknap Mountain Carriage Road (see directions and details at bottom of post).  Various approaches exist to all three mountains; the Carriage Road parking lot offers access to a variety of easy loop hikes on the west side of the range.

We began with a short hike up the Blue Trail (which leads to the summit of Belknap Mountain) to the Belknap-Gunstock col, where we turned left on the Saddle Trail to get a summer view from Gunstock’s 2250-foot summit, where we have often enjoyed ski-lift vistas of Lake Winnipesaukee in the winter.

The whizz of the Gunstock’s zip line sliced through the air.  Not an offensive sound, just noteworthy.  Passing the zipline platform, we backtracked to the Blue Trail and hiked through the forest towards the summit of Belknap Mountain.

The plane wreckage is not visible from the trail, but I’d read that the turn-off to the site was marked with a small bit of surveying tape, just below the Belknap summit.  As we hiked along, we kept an eye out for that bit of tape.  Just as we were about to give up, I spied the orange tape, hanging on a branch, about 2/10ths of a mile below the summit, and could see the faint outline of a “herd path” on the left (down the steep slope).

Hiking down to the crash site required careful footing over a rough rock fall.  Although it seems impossible that a plane could vanish in this well-travelled region, once in the sun-dappled forest, I could see how easily that might happen, especially after the leaves have burst forth on the trees.

About a one-tenth of a steep pitch off the trail, we found the wreckage. The boys were excited to find the plane crash, and I reminded them to be respectful — that this was not a playground, but a place where someone had died.  I won’t deny that there’s a certain voyeuristic element to looking for a plane crash. But searching for such sites is also a way of honoring the memory of those who died.  The hunt for the wreckage, I think, cultivates the same spirit that led the pilot to take up flying. Bad things happen, but that doesn’t mean we should give up on adventure, or on exploring and pushing boundaries.

Who doesn't love a fire tower, especially when it offers a breezy refuge from June blackflies? We ate our lunch here on top of Belknap Mountain.

Who doesn’t love a fire tower, especially when it offers a breezy refuge from June blackflies? We ate our lunch here on top of Belknap Mountain.

After we had looked over the crash site, we clambered back up to the main trail, and quickly reached the summit of 2382-foot Belknap Mountain, where a well-maintained fire tower offers 360 degree views of the Lakes Region.

After the tower,  we set off for the grand finale — the last leg on the ridge, on the White Trail to the junction of the Old Piper Trail (Orange Trail), for the ascent to Piper Mountain (2,044 feet), and its odd collection of stone sculptures and thrones.

Piper Mountain lived up to its billing as one of the most intriguing mountain destinations in New Hampshire — an open, barren summit, with plenty of room to run around and jump from rock to rock — or to stretch out on a throne of granite.

Relaxing in one of the many stone thrones atop Piper Mountain.

Relaxing in one of the many stone thrones atop Piper Mountain.

We finished our loop by taking the Piper Mountain Trail (Red) down the mountain, exiting onto Carriage Road just below the parking lot.  All told, we had hiked about five miles and were ready for ice cream.

Another hiker was waiting at the parking lot family members to arrive so they could get in a quick hike before the Carriage Road gate closed at 6 p.m.  We struck up a conversation, and he told me that he had found the crash and the remains of the pilot (a skeleton) back in 1974.

“I was hiking and I just happened to look down, saw something yellow, and there it was,” he said.

The wreckage, he said, remained undiscovered for two years, not one (as is often reported), and that one person — the pilot — was in the plane, not two (again, often reported).

I didn’t grill him for further details, but was struck by how internet has created its own facts about the crash (not for the first time, to be sure).  I did ask him for ice cream recommendations. We set off for Sawyer’s Dairy Bar in Gilford, and our friend proved to be a highly trustworthy source on ice cream.

Although the plane crash cut one man’s life way too short, I’m glad we found it, because the search led me to the mysteries of the Belknap Range.  Now, the map invites me to hike to Round Pond, the ledges of Whiteface Mountain, and many other off-the-beaten path destinations just over an hour from home. I’ll be back to do more exploring.

My son warned me that this photo is not the most flattering, but I loved my throne on Piper Mountain, so I'm posting it anyway.

My son warned me that this photo is not the most flattering, but I loved my throne on Piper Mountain, so I’m posting it anyway.

Additional resources and information

Directions to Belknap Carriage Road parking lot (access point for various trails):
At Gilford Village, leave Route 11A and follow Belknap Mountain Road south, bearing left at .8 miles and right at 1.4 miles. At 2.4 miles, the Belknap Carriage Road forks left.  Follow it 1.5 miles to the parking lot.  The road is gated, near the lot, and the gate closes at 6 p.m.  Signs point to various trails next to or near the parking lot, and you may have to look around, but it’s not hard to find whatever particular trail you are looking for.

Belknap Range Trails provides detailed descriptions of hikes in the region, and includes a link to a printable map (definitely recommended). AMC’s Southern New Hampshire Trail Guide also provides detailed information on the various trail options, although it is hard to follow the descriptions without a map.

We found the geocache box at the plane crash site with no specific instructions, just by looking around.  I am more a low-tech letterbox-type myself, and have since learned that several letterboxes (see list here) are tucked beneath stumps and rocks on Belknap, Piper and other mountains in the area.

Mount Major is the most popular family hike in the Lakes Region, but further to the north and east, I also recommend the Morgan-Percival loop for its fun caves and ladders.

Further afield, the 5-mile-ish Welch-Dickey Loop, near Waterville Valley, is another great family hike.

Three generations, ten springs of exploring Cape Cod

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For ten years now, I’ve made a spring pilgrimage to Cape Cod with my son and mother, for a few nights over the April spring vacation week or on a weekend in May. We take advantage of off-season rates at the Ocean Edge Resort in Brewster, and participate in certain must-repeat rituals, like shopping at the Brewster Bookstore, eating ice cream outdoors at JT’s Seafood Restaurant, and playing Marco Polo in Ocean Edge indoor pool, where my mother is probably the oldest guest to ever play that game.

But each time we visit, I try to find something new and different that fulfills this simple criteria: the activity or destination must be something that all three of can do and enjoy together. Not a kid thing, like jumping on trampolines (although we do that too). Not an adult thing, like visiting an art museum. Over these ten years, my son has grown from a toddler to a teenager while my mother has become a bit less spry, but each spring, we still find some new way to enjoy being together.  Here’s my list.

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Stony Brook herring run, Brewester –  Every spring in late April/early May, thousands of herring return from the ocean to Stony Brook, where they push hard against the current to jump up a series of “steps” towards the Mill Pond, where they spawn, and begin the cycle anew.  Native Americans once harvested herring at this site as did the Mayflower descendants who settled in Brewster in the 1660s. During the “Brewster in Bloom” festival during the first weekend in May, the grist mill at the site is open for tours. (The mill is open on a regular basis in the summer, but by then, the herring are gone). Technically, the visit to the herring run is one of our must-repeat rituals, but it is a highlight of  every trip, and thus gets top billing on this list.

At this point, we have outgrown the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History , also in Brewster, but have enjoyed many visits there, looking at the exhibits, participating in activities and watching birds through the museum’s binoculars and spotting scopes.  The museum trails through woodland and across the sand dunes on a boardwalk are manageable for everyone from toddlers to slow but steady walkers.

We loved our rollicking ride in a Chevy Suburban over the steep dunes of the Province Lands with Art’s Dune Tours, out of Provincetown.

On the dune tour, my then 9-year-old son experienced the Province Land dunes as I once did: they were massive mountains of sand. As an adult returning forty years later, the dunes loom as large, either because they've shrunk, or I've grown. But still great fun to ride up and over these soft mountains.

On the dune tour, my then 9-year-old son experienced the Province Land dunes as I once did: they were massive mountains of sand. As an adult returning forty years after my childhood visit, the dunes didn’t loom as large, either because they’ve shrunk, or I’ve grown. But it was still great fun to ride up and over these soft mountains.

Spring is usually too cold to sunbathe and swim, but many opportunities exist to explore the Cape Cod National Seashore, which offers ranger talks and other activities year-round, with extra events added during the April school vacation week.  We have walked on trails at the Nauset Visitor Center in Eastham, listened to stories of shipwrecks and the collapse of a massive parking lot at Coast Guard Beach during the Blizzard of 78, and wondered if Pilgrim Spring was truly where the Mayflower passengers first found fresh water after their Atlantic voyage.

Also part of the National Seashore, the Cedar Swamp Trail (trailhead at the Marconi Station parking area in Wellfleet) gets its own shout-out because it is mysterious and beautiful, especially after a heavy rain, when walkers feel as though they are walking on water as they traverse the boardwalk through the dark swamp. The Seashore also offers talks about Marconi Station, where, in 1903, Guglielmo Marconi transmitted the first official wireless message across the ocean.

In Yarmouth, the Edward Gorey House, where the writer, artist, and designer lived for many years, is intriguing and delightful.

The Edward Gorey House in Yarmouth is full of whimsical sculptures, art work and odd things, and includes a scavenger hunt for kids.

The Edward Gorey House is full of whimsical sculptures, art work and odd things, and includes a scavenger hunt for kids.

Whale watching, Provincetown (aka Ptown)– Starting in early to mid-April, many species of whales, but especially humpback and the endangered right whales, hang out just off the tip of Cape Cod as they migrate into the Stellwagen Bank National Marine Sanctuary. Whale watch season begins then, with boats going out when the weather is at all reasonable (chilly, but not stormy).  On our April excursion with Dolphin Fleet Whale Watch, the temperatures climbed to the low 80s as we watched humpback whales  and right whales frolic just offshore of Race Point Beach.

Whale watch cruises run out of Provincetown starting in April, when Great Blues and Right Whales congregate off the tip of Cape Cod. You can also see their spouts, albeit just barely, from outer Cape beaches like Race Point. On our whale watch, we saw a live Right Whale lounging amidst the fishing boats in Ptown Harbor. It almost looked like a submarine surfacing.

Celebrating the start of whale watching season in Ptown. Watchers can also see whale spouts, albeit just barely, from outer Cape beaches like Race Point, where the Park Service often has rangers stationed with spotting scopes to share with visitors. On our whale watch, we saw a live Right Whale lounging amidst the fishing boats in P-town Harbor (to the left of this wharf). The whale almost looked like a submarine surfacing.

Pilgrim Monument and Museum is also a fun place to visit while in P-town, although it’s not an official member of this list, since my mother can no longer climb the many stairs to the windy top.

We explored the town cemetery during the ghost-hunting tour, hoping and fearing that a ghost might talk to us.

We explored the town cemetery during the ghost-hunting tour, hoping and fearing that a ghost might talk to us.

In Barnstable Village, the Ghost Hunters Tour, offered by the Cape and Islands Paranormal Research Society, gave the three of us plenty to talk about, especially when tour leader turned off the lights in the 1690-era old Barnstable jail (where visitors can spend the night on a CIPRS overnight adventure).  This tour included lots of interesting history and light walking, although my mom sat out the part where we walked around the dark cemetery with electro-magnetic detection devices and tried to commune with ghosts.

Seals, seals everywhere! The ever-changing sandy beaches of Monomoy Island, off Chatham, have become a seal mecca, with hundreds congregating there year round. Seal cruises are more of a summer activity, but Monomoy Island Excursions, out of Harwichport, run cruises on weekends after May 1 if they get a half-dozen or so passengers.

After May 1, X and other captains offer seal tours out of Harwich and Chatham to see the pack at Monomoy Island. But don't expect to see the Great White sharks that now frequent the area during the summer months -- our captain goes out twice daily in July and august and has never seen a Great White.

After May 1, seal cruises are offered from Harwichport and Chatham.. But don’t expect to see the Great White sharks that now frequent the area during the summer months — our captain told us that he goes out twice daily in July and August and has yet to seen a Great White.

Finally, the Cape offers numerous places for walks and short hikes on countless beaches and woodland trails; one of my favorites is the walk in the sands of Morris Island within the Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge in Chatham.

I’m not sure how much longer these trips to Cape Cod will continue as my son moves on to high school. What’s certain is that this ritual of spring has carved memories and created bonds. Maybe one day I’ll be a senior citizen with a grandson or daughter and, like the herring, will return to Stony Brook once again.