Category Archives: Hiking

Posts about hiking in New England and beyond.

Beautiful desolation at Lake Aloha

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“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.“~John Muir, Our National Parks (1901)

Many wildflowers bloomed on the trail, including the phlox familiar to most New England gardeners/

Many wildflowers bloomed on the trail, including the phlox familiar to most New England gardeners.

Could I still carry a fully loaded backpack and not be crushed by its weight and the forces of middle age?

Well, I knew I could do it. The real question was, could I carry a full backpack and enjoy myself?

The occasion was my friend Natasha’s 50th birthday. The destination, Lake Aloha in the California’s Desolation Wilderness, near Lake Tahoe.

I made my checklist – tent, pots, Bearikade container filled with three days worth of food  — and scrutinized each item for its weight. Over the past couple of years, I’ve replaced various pieces of old gear with ultralight equipment – like my 15 oz Z-Pack sleeping bag – but still couldn’t quite commit myself to the raw food/no stove ultra ultralight approach. For me, drinking cup of hot coffee or tea at a remote campsite is part of the wilderness experience. But could I do without a book, a journal? I couldn’t.  I threw both in and strapped on the pack for the trip to the airport.

When I arrived in San Francisco, heavy rain was falling –a totally unanticipated event in this drought-ridden state. On-and-off heavy downpours continued as we drove to Echo Lake, where we planned to take the water taxi to its upper end.  On our drive, we debated options: stay in a cabin or lodge for the night? Head out in the rain?

At the Echo Lake store, we learned that the cabins across the way were not yet open, but a water taxi was loading up.  We rapidly re-organized our stuff, pulled on rain gear, and jumped in boat.

When we set off from the trailhead at the upper end of Echo Lake, my pack didn’t feel terrible. By then, the rain had stopped, and the leftover dampness tamped down the dusty trail that I remember from previous hikes here. The air felt fresh and the usually dusty sage brush smelled sagey. Orange paintbrush and pink phlox bloomed beside the trail. As we walked among the ponderosa at Haypress Meadows, the grass glowed vibrant green.

We hiked in about three miles from Upper Echo Lake to arrive at Lake of the Woods just as the gray sky was starting to clear.

We hiked in about three miles from Upper Echo Lake to Lake of the Woods just as the gray sky was clearing.  There, we found the perfect campsite, tucked in the trees 100 feet back from the lake (per the permit requirements), but just steps away from a granite peninsula that made for a fine lakeside kitchen and lounging platform. Mid-week in June we were the only campers here for two nights, although we encountered many heading up the trail from Echo Lake on Friday.

I was glad I remembered to bring a couple of dimes so that we could open the Bearikade bear-proof food canister, especially after I realized I had locked the swiss army knife in with the food. The meal was a delicious dehydrated Thai curry from Good-to-Go, a little start-up food company at the end of my street in Kittery.  Real vegetables — green beans, hunks of cauliflower — sprung to after soaking in boiling hot water for 20 minutes. As we ate dinner, a mother duckling and her five ducklings paddled by.

I left Kittery at 3:30 a.m. by sunset was enjoying a late sunset dinner at Lake of the Woods. I'm glad I remember to bring a couple of dimes so that we could open the Bearikade food canister, especially after we realized we had locked the swiss army knife in with the food.

I left Kittery, Maine at 3:30 a.m. and by sunset was enjoying a late Pacific Time dinner at Lake of the Woods.

A bottle of champagne only weights a couple of pounds.

A bottle of champagne only weighs about 1.5 pounds, so we threw it into the pack. Happy Birthday, Natasha!

As the sun set, my friend and I toasted with the champagne we’d brought (along with our books) and continued our non-stop conversation about our families, jobs, mutual friends, politics, books, Morocco (where we both served as Peace Corps Volunteers), and a hundred other topics.

I was definitely enjoying the moment, but confessed that I wasn’t fully immersed in it, because in my head, I already was planning another backpack.  “I know what you mean,” Natasha said. “I’m feeling greedy for more of this.”

Our first view of Lake Aloha, which stretches out for 3.5 miles in the Desolation Wilderness. The lake is actually a low-tech reservoir formed by a series of five small dams constructed over the years to assure a consistent pool of water in the summer months. But these are small stone and earth dams.

Our first view of Lake Aloha, which stretches out for 3.5 miles in the Desolation Wilderness. The lake is actually a group of small lakes and puddles stitched together by five dams into a shallow reservoir. As visible in this photo, the water was quite low for this time of year when it is typically filled with Sierra snowpack runoff.  The Lake is a popular destination for backpackers, but also makes a fine destination for a day hike, about 10 miles RT from upper Echo Lake .

That first night, more rain fell, but we were warm and dry in my tent. The next morning, after our backcountry coffee , we set out on the trail for Lake Aloha.

The 64,000-acre Desolation Wilderness, one of the nation’s most popular, is well-travelled. Gold miners once prospected here, without much luck, and cattle grazed in Haypress Meadows, before receiving official wilderness status in 1969 (although the area had been less restrictively protected for many years as part of the El Dorado National Forest).

In general, the Forest Service struggles with the idea of wilderness. Can an area threaded with hiking trails truly be called a wilderness?  Purists want to abolish trails and all man-made structures (like dams or shelters) in federal wilderness areas. However, a wilderness with no trails or trail signs and which is travelled by thousands of hikers is one in which many people will get lost.  Thus, all major trail junctions have signposts with arrows, but the trails are not marked with blazes or cairns.

Without blazes and cairns, it is fairly easy to lose the trail in the Desolation, but not hard to navigate back to where you thought you were, as long as you have a good map. We learned this truth early, when we missed the junction for Lake Aloha, and found ourselves confronting a large granite wall at the far end of Lake of the Woods. A couple of rocky slides looked like they might be climbable without the risk of death, but, having children back at home, we opted not to scramble up steep rock cliffs.  A short backtrack, along with our map, led us to the trail that threads up and through a meadow before descending to Lake Aloha.

Lake Aloha features many granite outcroppings and small granite islands -- lots of nooks and crannies. We found a private spot and jumped in, briefly, to the icy cold but refreshing water. Swimmers flock here in the summer, when the lake is shallower and warmer.

Lake Aloha features many granite outcroppings and small granite islands — lots of nooks and crannies. We found a private spot and waded in to the icy water for about 2 minutes. Swimmers flock here in the summer, when the lake is shallower and warmer.

In sharp contrast to its landscape, Lake Aloha conjures up hibiscus and jasmine and other lush tropical flowers. By mid-summer, the straggly stands of paintbrush and other wildflowers will have wilted, and this will be a landscape of granite, dust and scraggly Sierra pines.  But in early June, the walking along and above the lake was easy.  We set aim for Heather Lake, just beyond, and had lunch there before turning back to our base camp.

Again, we lost the trail. Instead of climbing to the meadow, we found ourselves looking out at the granite landscape of the Desolation Valley, with Pyramid Peak in the distance. We knew that Lake of the Woods was below this ridge and not far, but didn’t want to take our chances on bushwhacking to the head of a steep rock wall.  A short backtrack led us to the trail junction and we were on our way.

Another view of Lake Aloha as we turned back towards Lake of the Woods.

Another view of Lake Aloha as we turned back towards Lake of the Woods.

A very assertive Sierra marmot tried to steal our lunch at Heather Lake, just past the far end of Lake Aloha.

A very assertive Sierra marmot tried to steal our lunch at Heather Lake, just past the far end of Lake Aloha.

Back at the campsite, we finished off the champagne and stuffed ourselves with a chipotle three-bean chili before retiring to the tent.

Towards dawn, I woke up to the chorus of coyotes howling and yipping up on the ridge. Tucked in my sleeping bag, inside the thin walls of a nylon tent, I was exactly where I wanted to be. Although I had carried in more gear than I needed, I felt lighter than I had in years.

While exploring the Desolation Valley, we found this horse sculpture with a view of Pyramid Peak.

Before packing out, we explored the territory behind Lake of the Woods and found this sculpture looking to Pyramid Peak

Frata Lake, a sweet spot tucked behind Lake of the Woods in the aptly-named Desolation Valley. A helicopter buzzed above us in a zig-zag pattern and we wondered for whom or what it was searching. As we explored, we realized that the Desolation Valley gradually flows down to the far end of Lake of the Woods. Maps are great!

Frata Lake, a sweet spot tucked behind Lake of the Woods in the aptly-named Desolation Valley. A helicopter buzzed above us in a zig-zag pattern and we wondered for whom or what it was searching. As we explored, we realized that the Desolation Valley gradually flows down from Lake Aloha to the far end of Lake of the Woods. Maps are great!

Sources and resources

The Desolation Wilderness is laced with over 150 miles of trails, and offers many great options for both day hikes and backpacks.  On an earlier trip, we enjoyed a dusty and hot family hike to Tamarack Lake (from Upper Echo Lake).  Swimming at Susie Lake is a great reward after a three mile-ish hike in.

Visit the Desolation Wilderness website for information on trails  and permits.

Although the 19th century writing reads slow, anyone who hikes in the Sierra needs to spend a summer slowly savoring John Muir’s My First Summer in the Sierra.

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 Hills for Mother’s Day

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I have long wanted to hike to Third Hill, the far outpost of York, Maine’s rangy Mount Agamenticus. Third Hill has a reputation for being challenging to find.  I’ve known more than one person who has ended up in South Berwick or other places but not at Third Hill.

But over the past few years, new trail signage, improved trails, and the development of a better guide-type map to Aggie’s trail system have made it much easier to negotiate the region’s many trails.

The 10,000 acres of the Mount Agamenticus Conservation Region, once a mix of sheep pasture, woodlots and farmland, is now the largest tract of coastal forest between Acadia National Park and the Jersey Pine Barrens. I’ve never heard of anyone getting fatally lost in these woods, but for many years, it was (and still is, in places) fairly easy to get annoyingly lost, and end up on an unfamiliar road miles from your car (I’ve been there).

So now, Mother’s Day was here, and I wanted to hike. Husband and son both had extensive work/homework commitments that meant we had to stay local. Thanks to the long cold winter, the leaves hadn’t yet fluffed out. The forest would be light and airy, with plenty of views and open terrain.

A perfect day for hiking to Third Hill.

The Mount Agamenticus map shows a variety of trails leading to Third Hill. The Great Marsh Trail, for example, follows an old logging road from Lower County Road in South Berwick (or to the south, from Old Mountain Road in York), until reaching the junction where a trail climbs to the Hill. We opted to hike from the summit of Mount Agamenticus to Second Hill, and from there to Third, and then backtrack with a slight modification to avoid climbing to the summit of Second Hill twice.

I kept the map handy, because I knew we needed to pay close attention to the many turns and trail junctions (Witch Hazel to Ring to Chestnut Oak to Porcupine to Second Hill to Notch to Wheel to Great Marsh to Third Hill). We misread the sign at one junction and hiked for about a third of a mile in the wrong direction on the Porcupine Trail, but, thanks to the map, recognized the mistake when we saw the Rocky Road trail sign.

The climb up to Second Hill, after turning off the Porcupine Trail. The Butterfly Loop is another trail that climbs along the ridge of Second Hill and through forest, abandoned fields, and along a talus slope. A good option for a future Mother's Day.

The climb up to Second Hill. The Dragonfly Loop is another trail that climbs along the ridge of Second Hill and through forest, abandoned fields, and along a talus slope. A good option for a future Mother’s Day.

After retracing our steps, we followed the Porcupine Trail to the turn for Second Hill,  where we had lunch on the ledges and could see the green hump of Third Hill to the northeast.

We then walked along the Second Hill ridge to a short trail connecting to the Notch Trail, which we then followed to the well-marked Wheel Trail, which landed us on the Great Marsh Trail. It wasn’t immediately clear where the trail to Third Hill picked up, but I noticed two hemlocks, one on each side of the trail, marked with little wooden painted owls, almost as if the owls were welcoming us into the woods. Sure enough, a left (northerly) turn through the owls  lead to  a sign for Third Hill.

A few paces up the trail, a sign warned that trails were not marked further on, as the map also suggests. But to the right, another owl pointed to a path, along with white blazes.

Following the owls (and white blazes) uphill, we climbed on granite slabs that felt more White Mountain-ish than back yard.

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The final push up to Third Hill.

And we made it, collapsing on a carpet of pine needles on a rock slab below the white pine tree hosting the sign marking Third Hill.  We rested in the shade, enjoying complete solitude. Here in our own backyard, home to multitudes, we had the Third Hill summit to ourselves on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

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We didn’t have fabulous views at the summit – the 692-foot main summit of Mt. A definitely offers the best views, especially of the ocean – but we also didn’t do extensive explorations of the ledges and little side trails that might lead to views. (We hadn’t planned well, didn’t have enough water, and were conserving our energy).

As we hiked, the day grew increasingly warm, to almost 90 degrees. We finished up our water on top of Third Hill and had to hike back to the Mount A summit (about 2.5 miles) with just a few sips. Our warm-up spring hike became a summer slog, minus the air conditioning created by the oak and beech forest that dominates Mount Agamenticus.

Everyone, including me, wanted to complain, but no one did.  It was Mother’s Day, after all, and this was my Mother’s Day hike.

On the way back, I told my son that even though it felt like we might die of thirst, it actually took quite a while for that happen, and we’d definitely make it back to the car, where we had some water, before any of us passed out. (I wasn’t quite sure about the not passing out part, but we did make it back without incident).

All in all, a great Mother’s Day.  I reached Third Hill, didn’t pass out from heat exhaustion, and know that the next hike, by comparison, will feel like a breeze.  Dragonfly Loop, here we come!

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The open forest of white pines on top of Third Hill.

 

Notes and resources

Update: I’m happy to report that trail signage at Mt. A has improved even more. On a hike in fall 2017, I found the trail to Third Hill much easier to navigate.  The gray owls remain a friendly trail marker.  I’ve also updated the link to the map (above) and here.

The hike to Third Hill is not a killer hike, but it’s not an easy stroll either, with lots of ups and downs. I estimate that the hike we did is about five miles RT (but maybe it’s a little shorter and it seemed longer because of the heat). It’s a good family hike for elementary age kids and older, but not the youngest set unless they are already hard-core.

The five-mile-ish (one way) Sea to Summit hike, which I’ve written about before, is another great hike in the Agamenticus region.

The staff and volunteers of the Mount Agamenticus Conservation Region have been doing a fabulous job of improving trails, facilities and the other aspects of Mount A and the surrounding conservation land. 

Intersecting slopes on Mount Chocorua, New Hampshire

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Climbing the ledges to the summit of Chocorua in Albany, N.H.

As we hauled ourselves up the granite cone of New Hampshire’s 3,478-foot Mount Chocorua, a middle-aged woman picking her way down the granite ledges groaned as she stretched out her legs to ease herself down an especially large slab.

My son paused to let her pass.

“I bet this hike is a piece of cake for you, isn’t it?” she asked him.

“Yup,” he said, as he pulled himself up the rock.

I wasn’t sure that I had heard correctly. “Did my son just tell you this hike was a piece of cake?” I asked the woman as she passed me.

“Well, I asked him,” she said,  “and he agreed.”

Was this the same kid who had to be enticed up mountains with M & Ms, Pringles, and chocolate chip cookies?

In planning the climb up Chocorua,the most southerly of the “big mountains” in the White Mountains, I’d wondered if the hike would be one of those mental drag events for all concerned (“Come on, just enough another half-mile to the summit, eat some cookies, you can do it!”)  I knew that physically, The Seal was more than capable of completing a 7.5 mile hike. But today’s hike would be the longest he’d ever attempted.

We ate our Pringles and sandwiches at the Jim Liberty Cabin. I knew the cabin was on the side of the mountain, but imagined something a bit more ramshackle. The cabin was cleaner and cozier than I'd envisioned and I'm making plans to return for an overnight (first-come, first-serve).

We ate our Pringles and sandwiches at the Jim Liberty Cabin. I’d read that about the cabin and had imagined something a bit more dilapidated. The cabin was clean and cozy with sleeping space for about 8 people.  I’m making plans to return for an overnight (first-come, first-serve). Pringles, by the way, are my chip of choice on the trail because of the crush-proof can.

On this hike, everyone enjoyed the junk food—but as a treat and not a psychological necessity.  On the slope of Mount Chocorua, I  learned that that our personal slopes have intersected. My son’s has been steadily rising by micro-degrees.  Mine (and that of my husband) is slowly declining. We’re not plunging towards zero, but our lines aren’t moving upward.

The kid is beating the pants off of us.

He’s been hiking for years – sometimes with more enthusiasm than others, but the enthusiasm usually petered out after a few miles. So up until this perfect Columbus Day Sunday, I’d always selected hikes of  four, five or six miles tops.  Adding in a small pack of kids, if possible, helped to push the hiking drive.

View of the Sandwich Range from the ledges of the Liberty Trail.

View of the Sandwich Range from the ledges of the Liberty Trail.

I knew this day was coming. This summer, The Seal surpassed me in height.  This fall, he beat me in a 5K.  Next year, he’ll beat my husband.

From a ledge near the summit, looking out over Lake Chocorua and several others.

From a ledge near the summit, looking out over Lake Chocorua and several others.

The worst part of hiking, aside from the climb up, is the day after. I love hiking, but it kills me. I wake up stiff and creaky, wishing that a hot tub would magically appear in my backyard.

On the day after the Chocorua hike, the Seal bounced out of bed at 6 a.m. without a whimper. I asked him how he was feeling.

“Fine,” he said as he headed down the hall for a Minecraft session on the computer.

I crept to the kitchen to make coffee, feeling decrepit but thrilled about the intersecting slopes (besides, mine isn’t going downhill all that much). During years of Lyme Disease, it was frightening to watch my child head downhill with no explanation or diagnosis. Also, I’m happy to see The Seal, who never was interested in kicking soccer balls or shooting baskets, build confidence by climbing mountains.

Next year, Mount Katahdin. And after that, a hot tub?

Resources

We hiked a loop, up the Liberty Trail and down the Brook Trail (about 7.5 miles RT).  The Liberty Trail, a one-time carriage road, has fairly easy footing (by White Mountains standards) until you arrive at the ledges, while the Brook Trail has rougher footing and more rocks. This U.S. Forest Service  document provides basic trail descriptions and driving directions to each trailhead.

I’ve also hiked the Piper Trail, directly off Route 16, and probably the most popular route to the summit.  This is a busy mountain on fall weekends, so don’t expect solitude.

A good map is a must when hiking on Chocorua, due to the variety of trails and their many intersections.

A trip to Bennett Lake, British Columbia, then, and now

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Now, the Chilkoot River was running high. Although the trail is hard-packed and obvious, I wonder if today's hikers are confused by the arrows pointing in opposite directions.

Now, the Taiya River is running high. Although the trail is hard-packed and obvious here, I wonder if today’s hikers are confusedby the arrows pointing in opposite directions.

In 1986, when I arrived at Bennett Lake, my body was beat up, but my spirit was soaring.  After four days of backpacking on “the meanest 33 miles of history,” I’d conquered the  Chilkoot Trail to reach this legendary destination in British Columbia.  That afternoon, my companion and I set up camp amidst rusting tin cans on the shore of a wilderness lake that 30,000 Klondike gold stampeders called home during the winter of 1897.

I had planned my journey on the ferry north from Seattle, after reading about the trail in a guidebook. Back in 1897, thousands of eager fortune hunters had set out from Dyea, Alaska (a dozen miles from Skagway), and hauled themselves and  the required one ton of supplies up and over Chilkoot Pass to Bennett, where they overwintered, building boats and waiting for the ice to break up so they could float down the Yukon to Dawson City, and from there to the Klondike gold fields.

This National Park Service drawing gives a sense of that final tortuous push to Chilkoot Pass.

This National Park Service elevation drawing gives a sense of what the Klondikers were dealing with as they hauled 2,000 pounds of supplies across Chilkoot Pass..

I don’t remember all the logistics of my 1986 trip: how many pounds I carried, or how I’d made it from town to the trailhead, or the campsites where I slept. But I definitely remember the hard push up the “Golden Stairs” to Chilkoot Pass.

The pack weighed me down.  The trail was rocky and relentlessly steep.  Twisting lines of cable — the remnants of a tramway cargo transport service — spilled beside the trail, along with rotting leather boots and rusted tin cans. My companion, a German exchange student named Thomas, laughed at the idea that these items were historical relics — at that point, they weren’t even 100 years old, younger than my still-living great-grandmother.

In 1897, would-be miners either took the Chilkoot Trail from the mud flats of Dyea, or travelled from Skagway over White Pass, a longer route, but not as steep. The fact that the White Pass route seemed easier invited less preparation, more people, and more trouble.

Now, instead of the hike, The Seal and I opted to take the White Pass & Yukon Railroad to Bennett Lake. I considered doing the hike again, but realized it would be too much for an inexperienced backpacker to take on.

Now, instead of the hike, The Seal and I opted to take the White Pass & Yukon Railroad to Bennett Lake.

Miners attempted to pack gear by horses, and the animals died by the hundreds,  piling up in a stinking mess at Dead Horse Gulch.

Back in 1986, no one in Skagway mentioned the White Pass & Yukon Railroad, which opened in August 1900 and ceased operations in 1982.  By the time the railroad was completed, the gold rush had ended.  But the railroad filled a transportation need in this remote area (where no highway existed until 1978) and hauled freight and passengers from Skagway to Whitehorse, Yukon Territory until the late 1970s, when low mineral prices resulted in the collapse of the mining industry.  The Railroad began operating again in 1989 as a seasonal excursion train.

Then, in 1986, I remember being very anxious about brown bears, as the banks of the Taiya River were piled with bloated dead salmon. I didn’t encounter a bear, but woke up many times each night wondering if a bear lurked outside the tent.

Now, a brown bear browsing along the Skagway River (and viewed at a safe distance).

Now, a brown bear browsing along the Skagway River (viewed at a safe distance). The bear looks a bit like a horse, doesn’t it?

Then, I remember the glory of reaching the pass, and trudging through snow fields in high exposed alpine territory.  A friendly Canadian Mounty welcomed us near the border, but didn’t ask for my passport, which I wasn’t carrying, because who bothered with a passport when traveling to Canada? (My German friend, however, had to pull out his).

Now, the unmanned border near White Pass. Customs did check our passports at Fraser, a border hamlet in British Columbia, Canada.

Now, the unmanned border near White Pass. Customs did check our passports at Fraser, a border hamlet in British Columbia, Canada.

Then, I remember feeling so happy to reach “Happy Camp,” several miles beyond the pass.  Immediately I understood why this high alpine camp had been so named by the men and women who had struggled over the pass.

Now, the alpine terrain covered by the White Pass and Yukon Railroad felt wide open. Maybe not quite as remote, given the train tracks, but just as beautiful. Flatter, I think, so I can see why the miners thought the route over White Pass was easier.

Now, the alpine terrain covered by the White Pass and Yukon Railroad feels high and wide open, although snow fields don’t linger here, as they do at Chilkoot Pass. White Pass isn’t quite as remote, given the train tracks, but just as beautiful.  Definitely not as steep, and flatter at the pass, so I can see why the miners preferred this route.

Then, I remember Bennett Lake, stretching pale blue through the valley.

Lake Bennett, B.C., now, looking the same as it did back in 1987. But not the same as 1897, when 30,000 would-be gold-seekers spent the winter here building boats to float down the Yukon to the Klondike gold fields, near Dawson.

Lake Bennett, B.C., now, looking the same as it did back in 1986. But not the same as 1897, when 30,000 would-be gold-seekers spent the winter here building boats to float down the Yukon to the Klondike gold fields, near Dawson.  Piles of snow fell and temperatures dropped way, way below zero.  People were definitely tougher back then.

This late 19th century stove looks like it could be resurrected if need arose.

This late 19th century stove looks like it could be resurrected if need arose.

Now, Bennett Lake remains isolated, remote, beautiful, and littered with Klondike trash. At the Depot, I said hello to some hikers coming off the trail.  They warned me that it wasn’t an easy trip and required months of training and preparation.  They looked wet, exhausted, and beat up.  I smiled, now, and remembered, then.

Resources

The Chilkoot Trail is managed jointly by the U.S. National Park Service and Parks Canada.  Permits are required during peak season.

The White Pass & Yukon Railroad offers daily excursions during the summer, but only offers the trip to Bennett Lake (traveling onward to Carcross, Yukon Territory) a couple of times a week.  The railroad provides shuttle service to hikers.

This Presbyterian Church at Bennett Lake is the only building that remains from the winter of 1897. The depot building where we ate lunch was built later, for the railroad.

This Presbyterian Church at Bennett Lake is the only building that remains from the winter of 1897. The depot building where we ate lunch as part of our excursion was built later, for the railroad.

 

 

Spooky solitude: The lonely trail to Owl’s Head

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The rock slide isn't as daunting as it sounds, plus the actual slide is only about .2 miles.

The rock slide, about .2 miles long, isn’t as daunting as the words “rock slide” suggest.

When I finally arrive at the rock slide, after six miles of hiking, I hear a tiny voice in my head: “Maybe doing this hike alone wasn’t a great idea.”

It’s not that the steep slide up the face of Owl’s Head is all that intimidating. I see that I will be able to pick my way up the scree and then find my footing on the rocks above. But here, at the bottom of the slide, I realize I am truly alone in the Pemigewasset Wilderness.

Although I often solo hike in the White Mountains, I am seldom alone; I am always crossing paths with other hikers. But today, after descending from Galehead Hut to Franconia Brook, I haven’t seen a single person since I met a small group filling their water bottles near 13 Falls.

I didn’t expect this valley to be so empty, especially during the first week in July. But maybe people don’t climb Owl’s Head on their vacation -– it’s not exactly the most glamorous of the 4000-footers.  A flat-topped mountain tucked between and below the Franconia Ridge and the Twin Way and Bondcliff ridges, Owl’s Head is often the last 4,000-footer that hikers take on, because any way you slice it, reaching the summit is a long hike.

As a day hike, Owl’s Head is an 18-mile slog from Lincoln Woods. Hikers can break it up by camping at 13 Falls, or shave off some miles (but gain more total elevation) by hiking from Galehead Hut to Lincoln Woods, as I am doing today, but that’s still almost 16 miles (not counting the miles traveled in getting to Galehead, where I had spent a couple of nights).

But the forecast calling for severe thunderstorms and flash floods may also be responsible for the dearth of hikers. The storms arrived yesterday around 4:30 p.m., but I stayed dry, having arrived back at the hut just before the skies broke open, after a long day of hiking in which I climbed some peaks missed on earlier visits in this area (North Twin and West Bond). Today, water is flowing everywhere, as the mountains drain off the rain that soaked into the forest last night.

The Franconia Brook crossing at 13 Falls. I said hello to a party of hikers here, then didn't see another soul for about X miles.

 My boots got wet here at the 13 Falls crossing of Franconia Brook, but it was an easy crossing, despite the high-than-usual water.

So far today, the sky is blue, with no threatening clouds. Having come this far, I am definitely climbing up the slide. The rocks have dried out, and I make it up the slide pretty quickly, then up more steep terrain before the grade levels out.

Owl’s Head was one reason I had never set my sights on completing the New Hampshire 4000-footer list until a few years ago. The length of the hike, the tree-covered summit, the lack of an official trail – it sounded like a lot of work for no rewards.

But here in the Pemi, I am discovering the joys of the Owl’s Head hike.  Being alone in the forest is a little spooky but also thrilling. How often are we truly alone in the wilderness? The forest is lush and green. At the swampy height of land between Owl’s Head and Mount Lafayette, I encounter milkweed-like plants almost as tall as I am.

The squishy terrain is ideal moose country, but I haven’t seen any, or other wildlife, although I suspect black bears are lurking. But the dependable wood thrush has been keeping me company all day. Later, I see a grouse rush across the trail.

As I climb up the rock slide, Owl’s Head feels like its own little country, tucked between its taller neighbors. When I arrive at the ridgecrest, I enjoy wandering on the flat trail through the airy and open balsam fir forest.

My guidebook tells me that the true summit may or may not be marked with a cairn and a sign. For about a quarter mile, I follow the path as it meanders across the ridge. But a warren of trails wander off from the main path.  I am cautious about losing my way, so after a few minutes, I give up on the true summit (I have seen one rock and then another, but no cairn and definitely no signs). I am also hyper-aware of the forecast and the need to keep moving.

The downward view from the rock slide. It's not as bad as it looks.
The downward view from the rock slide. It’s not as bad as it looks.

My biggest concern is lightning. Once I am down the slide and in the woods, I might get soaked, but will be pretty safe, considering all the higher spots around me.

But then there are the brook crossings. When I hike alone, I am always learning more about being in the woods. Today I am learning that I did not adequately consider what I would do if high water prevents me from crossing Lincoln and Franconia Brooks.

The brooks could become roaring torrents if the skies dump a couple of inches of rain in an half-hour. Doing this hike today was probably not the smartest move, because I am betting on luck – that the storms will hold off – and I have no way of assessing my odds.

In my head, I formulate a plan. If I can’t make one of the three major crossings, I will hike back to Galehead Hut.  Unfortunately, I have no way of relaying this information to my husband, since cell phone reception is completely dead here (not a surprise). Maybe it’s time to invest in one of those devices that sends text messages via satellite. My biggest concern is that my husband will worry and call mountain rescue while I am making the very long trek back to the hut.

What is most ironic about this isolation is that this patch of “wilderness” was once the center of a massive logging operation that left it for dead.  If I’d been hiking here on a July day in, say, 1900, I might have encountered an excursion train full of tourists en route to one of the logging camps, where the visitors would eat pies and donuts and see the operation up close.

Summer was the “off-season” for logging, but men would be working in the vicinity, making repairs to train bed or tracks, or taking down structures in one camp for shipment to and reassembly in another, so that a new camp in an uncut swath of forest would be ready to host loggers that winter.

Bill Gove's map of the East Branch & Lincoln Railroad lines in the Pemi Wilderness. The entire area was systematically stripped of its forest circa 1892-1907.

Bill Gove’s map of the East Branch & Lincoln Railroad lines in the Pemi Wilderness. James Henry’s logging operations systematically stripped the area of its forest between 1894 and 1907.  Logging continued in these valleys, albeit on a smaller scale, up through the 1940s (Bill Gove, Whitemountainhistory.org).

The remnants of the old railroad along the Lincoln Brook Trail, deep in the heart of the Pemi Wilderness.

The remnants of the old railroad along the Lincoln Brook Trail, deep in the heart of the Pemi Wilderness. This photo was taken in the afternoon, on a beautiful sunny day.

On some stretches of trail, I walk on the cross ties of the railroad that used to run along Lincoln Brook.  The Pemi railroad beds were, structurally speaking, the best of the White Mountains’ logging railroads. Today they continue to serve as a solid foundation for trails.  It’s hard to reconcile all this logging industry with the total solitude of today’s hike.

Hiking alone for 16 miles gives me plenty of time to think. Why is climbing Owl’s Head so important to me, that I would take on the risk of hiking alone?

Part of my willingness is that I don’t believe that hiking alone here is risky, even if it might seem so to other people. I’m not frightened or out of my comfort zone.  The biggest risk is injuring myself and having no one to help me. But the most dangerous part of the trip, hands-down, will be the drive home.

During thunderstorms on a summer day in August 1907, lightning struck Owl's Head, and ignited a forest fire that burned for almost three weeks. Heaps of slash leftover from lumbering contributed to the quick and easy spread of the fire, which burned through the entire area surrounding Owl's Head.

During thunderstorms on a summer day in August 1907, lightning struck Owl’s Head, and ignited a forest fire that burned for almost three weeks. Heaps of slash creating by intensive clear-cutting contributed to the quick and easy spread of the fire, which burned through the entire area surrounding Owl’s Head. This view is from Camp 13 at Franconia Brook (Forest History Society).

Back on the trail after creeping down the slide, I have eight miles to go, with two more crossings on Lincoln Brook and one on Franconia.

The water is high at the first crossing, but after scouting the brook, I am able to pick my way to a pile of rock rubble and then pick my way across the second half of the brook. So far, no rumbles of thunder.

The water is high at the first Lincoln Brook crossing, but after scouting the brook, I am able to pick my way to a pile of rock rubble and then across the rest of the brook. So far, no rumbles of thunder.

At the second Lincoln Brook crossing, it’s hard to determine the safest route. I know the rocks beneath the water could be slippery. If I slip and get pulled down by the rushing water, I could be in trouble.

After evaluating the situation, I decide to make my way across at the widest part of the brook, where the water isn’t being pushed hard into narrow channels. If I slip, I might land on my butt, but I’ll be able to pull myself out of the water. Planting my pole to serve as a third leg, I step into the water.  Not bad. I wade through the last section. It’s fine.

Should I wring out my socks? I decide to wait until the Franconia crossing, so I don’t have to do it twice in short order.  These brooks are getting more full, not less.

When I arrive at the Franconia crossing, I see that I made the right call in keeping the boots on. I am definitely going in the water. If I was with other hikers, we might make a chain and help brace each other. But here I will rely on my pole.  I plant it, and step into the water at the widest place, behind a row of water-covered rocks.

With each step, I understand that the brook is deeper than I anticipated, knee-high, not ankle-high; oops, thigh-high, not knee-high. But then I’m out of the water and on the other side, bushwhacking along the bank back to the trail. I’ve done it!

I still have a few miles to go, but I’m home free. If storms come, I may get soaked, but I don’t have to worry about flash floods on a crossing.  After wringing out my boots and socks, I start pounding on the trail.

Thrilled to arrive at the footbridge, even if I still have three miles to my car, and finally, after about 8 hours of hiking alone, I see three young men walking towards me, all wearing backpacks.

I’m thrilled to arrive at the last, last crossing — the Franconia Bridge footbridge (where the brook empties into the Pemigewasset River)  — even though I know I still have three miles of hiking to my car.  A mile after the footbridge, I encounter three young men with backpacks  — the first hikers I’ve met since early this morning.

Around 6:15 p.m., three backpackers I meet on the trail tell me I have two miles of trail to Lincoln Woods.  No problem — that’s an early morning walk before work.  I skip over the decaying railroad ties and reach my car in 40 minutes.  First task: text my husband to let him know I’ve safely arrived.  Then off with the soggy boots.

It’s been 30 years since I’ve hiked 16 miles in one day.  Feels good to know that I can still cover that distance. But I probably don’t need to hike Owl’s Head twice.

Instead, when I have a couple of days to myself, maybe I’ll go to a spa. But then I remember: Going to a spa is boring. Oh, it might be okay for an hour or two, to relax and recharge, but to hang out at such a place for an entire day – not my thing.

Of course, hiking 16 miles through the wilderness is not most other people’s thing–thank goodness!

View of Franconia Ridge from the Owl's Head rock slide. It's hard to fathom that this area was completely burned over by a slash-fueled fire 100 years ago. The public awareness raised by this fire (along with several others in the White Mountains) helped to pave the way for the 1911 passage of the Weeks Act, which established National Forests in the Northeast.

View of Franconia Ridge from the Owl’s Head rock slide.  This area was completely burned over by a slash-fueled fire 100+ years ago. The public awareness raised by the fire (along with several others in the White Mountains) helped to pave the way for the 1911 passage of the Weeks Act, which provided funding to conserve land and t0 establish the White Mountain National Forest, as well as other national forests in the eastern half of the United States.

P.S. It turns out that the most dangerous part of my hike was the drive home. The radio was buzzing with warnings of strong wind gusts, heavy rains, and flash floods. I had to pull off the highway near Plymouth and sit out part of the storm beneath an underpass with other cars.

Sources and resources

Gove, Bill.  The East Branch and Lincoln Railroad.  WhiteMountainHistory.org  Great photos and maps of the railroad here.

Belcher, Francis C.  Logging Railroads of the White Mountains.  Boston, MA: Appalachian Mountain Club,  1980.

Additional 4,000-footer reports 

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

Moriah, my Moriah: Why Did I Wait So Long to Climb Thee?

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

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

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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.

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 19th 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.

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??"

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 19th 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 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.

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

 

On my own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If you enjoyed this 4,000-footer 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

Moriah, my Moriah: Why Did I Wait So Long to Climb Thee?

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

 

Inventing Nature at Acadia National Park

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I love the barren open summits of Acadia National Park on Mount Desert Island, Maine.  On Memorial Day, we set out from the Jordan Pond House and completed the 6-mile-ish out-and-back hike to Penobscot and Sargent Mountains.

We started hiking beneath gray skies, just after a shower, but by the time we climbed out of the trees onto the ridge of Penobscot Mountain, the clouds were clearing and the view expanding with each upward step. When we reached the 1,373-foot summit of Sargent Mountain, we breathed in 360-views of a vast panorama:  Frenchman’s Bay, the Cranberry Islands, Cadillac Mountain, Eagle Lake, Somes Sound.  Black files buzzed around our heads, but couldn’t detract from the awesome experience of these natural vistas. (Below, the view of Jordan Pond on our ascent down Penobscot).

Samuel de Champlain made this map of the northeastern coast of American on his 1604 voyage.

Mount Desert Island, in this cropped version of Samuel de Champlain’s 1604 map of the northeastern coast of America. (See link at bottom of post to access view of entire map).

However, when explorer Samuel de Champlain “discovered” Mount Desert Island in 1604, he both saw and didn’t see what we see today.

The mountains he described still dominate the view from the bay, but de Champlain was exploring a dark wilderness, full of hidden rock ledges, unknown beasts, and potentially dangerous people.  His ship ran aground on a rock that ripped a hole in the keel.  Where we see beautiful open summits, de Champlain saw lots of rock, a barren inhospitable desert.

In his description of the island, he wrote, “It is very high, and notched in places, so that there is the appearance to one at sea, as of seven or eight mountains extending along near each other. The summit of the most of them is destitute of trees, as there are only rocks on them. The woods consist of pines, firs, and birches only. I named it Isle des Monts Déserts.”

For the first 18th century European settlers, Mount Desert Island was a desert, an isolated place where hardy families eked out a living from fishing and small farms.  But at some point, perspectives changed.  The rocky desert became an Arcadia, a version of the ancient Greek district whose name contains layers of meaning, including “idyllic place” and “refuge.”

Mount Desert Island did not change.  But our ideas about nature did, largely due to the work of artists who transformed the island from a rocky outpost to a place of inspiration and wonder in which mind, body, and soul could be rejuvenated.

The first to arrive was artist Thomas Cole, the founder of the Hudson River School of landscape painting, who came to Mount Desert Island in 1844, and created several paintings that were widely exhibited in the years to follow.  Cole’s pupil Frederic Church followed in his footsteps, making his first trip to the island in 1850, where he sketched and made notes for future paintings.  Other artists followed.

Thomas Cole's "View Across Frenchman's Bay after a Squall" (1845). Cincinnati Art Museum.

Thomas Cole’s “View Across Frenchman’s Bay after a Squall” (1845). Cincinnati Art Museum.

Collectively, at Mount Desert and in other places in the northeastern United States, the Hudson River School of artists invented a new and more romantic concept of nature as a place of beauty, a source of mental sustenance and renewal in the industrial age.

The skies might darken with clouds or twilight, but no longer was the dark a source of uncertainty and fear  Instead, the interplay of darkness and light offered another way to view the world’s grandeur.  Dangerous surf and forbidding rocks became a source of “the sublime” — that combination of beauty and terror generated by the sight, sound, and feel of a massive wall of water crashing against a cliff.

"Sunset, Bar Harbor," by Frederic Church (1854)

“Sunset, Bar Harbor,” by Frederic Church (1854). Possibly influenced by writer Henry Thoreau’s essays about travels in the Maine woods, Church returned to Maine to visit the North Woods. He eventually bought property in the Millinocket area, where he painted Mount Katahdin and other landscapes. But that’s a blog post for another day.

Although marketing was not their intention, in reinventing “Nature,” the Hudson River painters who visited Mount Desert created a place that many wanted to visit. In the mid-19th century, newly middle-class “rusticators” began to come to the island. They boarded in locals’ homes, took long walks and hikes, and breathed in the smell of the Atlantic.

Then, during the Gilded Age, the super-wealthy discovered the island, built massive summer homes, and transformed the rocky desert to a high society destination.  Eventually, some of those people, led by George Dorr and John D. Rockefeller, Jr., donated large chunks of land so that this natural wonderland could be enjoyed by all Americans and not just a wealthy few.  The Park was established in 1919, thanks in large part to Dorr, Rockefeller, and others. But the idea of nature as being worthy of preservation was the creation of 19th century artistic visionaries–the painters, but also writers like Henry Thoreau and John Muir, and photographers like Yellowstone’s William Henry Jackson—who transformed the way we think about nature.

Noted maritime artist Fitz Henry Lane, of Gloucester, Massachusetts, travelled to Mount Desert and to paint this scene, titled "Off Mount Desert," in 1856. (Brooklyn Museum).

Noted maritime artist Fitz Henry Lane, of Gloucester, Massachusetts, travelled to Mount Desert and to paint this scene, titled “Off Mount Desert,” in 1856. (Brooklyn Museum).

Today students who study the arts (in all of its forms) often have to endure questions about the value of what they are doing.  How they will support themselves?  When will they stop dreaming and get a real job?  After all, the arts are “decoration,” nice if you have the time to dabble, but not essential.

These questions about the value of art are not a new phenomenon.  And of course, it is difficult to make a living an artist.  But artists and writers, as much or more so than scientists and engineers, are inventing the future as they shape and create ideas.

What ideas are artists, writers, and musicians transforming today?

Note: Take a peek below for examples of how artists continue to follow in the footsteps of Cole, Church, Lane and others today. For more information on another great hike in Acadia, see my paragraph about Mount Dorr via the Homans Path in Five Great Family Hikes in Maine.

Mount Desert III, 1996, by Richard Estes. The Portland Museum of Art is exhibiting a major retrospective collection of Estes' work this summer (2014).

Mount Desert III, 1996, by photorealist painter Richard Estes. The Portland Museum of Art, in partnership with the Smithsonian Museum of American Art, is exhibiting a major retrospective collection of Estes’ work this summer (2014).

For more on the Estes exhibit, see the Portland Museum of Art website.

Contemporary artist Philip Koch pays tribute to Thomas Cole and other 19th century landscape painters in his painting, "Frenchman's Bay." (See resources below for links to Koch's website).

Artist Philip Koch pays tribute to Thomas Cole and other 19th century landscape painters in his painting, “Frenchman’s Bay.”

To learn more about Philip Koch, see his blog.

Head of Somes Sound, by Ernest McMullen.

Head of Somes Sound, by Ernest McMullen.

For more on artist Ernest McMullen, see The Gallery at Somes Sound.

Additional sources and resources:

Entire de Champlain map of northeastern coast of America, from his 1604 voyage. Champlain quote from Memoir of Samuel de Champlain, Volume II, 1604-1610, Chapter 5.

For more on Frederic Turner’s paintings in Maine (including many in the Millinocket region), see John Wilmerding’s Maine Sublime: Frederic Edwin Church’s Landscapes of Mount Desert and Mount Katahdin. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012.

“Mount Desert Island and Isle au Haut (Modern Acadia National Park, ME)”.  National Park Service Archeology Programs.

Mount Desert Island: Shaped by Nature.  Maine Memory Network.

 

Round up: Five great family hikes in Maine

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The temperature has risen to a magical 60 degrees, the daffodils are blooming, and the forsythia are primed for an explosion of yellow.  The tulips won’t be far behind, and I’m ready to think about hiking adventures to come this spring, summer, and fall.

Hence, this round-up post on five of my favorite family hikes in Maine.  (I’ll do a separate one on New Hampshire, since there are so many great hikes to cover in both states).

We’ve been hiking as a family since my son was born, with him propelling himself on his own legs from about age three onward.  Unless you have a kid who is obsessed with hiking (not mine), I find it best to limit family hikes to five miles or less.  I also look for hikes with a good hook — boulders to conquer, fire towers to ascend, mysterious caves, and, of course, great views.

Please note that I call these “five of my favorite hikes”, and not “my five favorite hikes.”  This small distinction in syntax is necessary because there are countless wonderful hikes out there, and I can’t possibly narrow it down to just five “favorites.” You can access links to directions (and sometimes maps) by clicking the title of the hike.

1. Tumbledown Mountain in Weld, Maine

A view of Tumbledown Pond, and the mountain's summit, from the Parker Ridge Trail.

A view of Tumbledown Pond, and the mountain’s summit, from the Parker Ridge Trail, which departs from the Brook Trail not far from the road, and offers a slightly longer route to the pond, including some great rock scrambles.  Parker Ridge gets fewer hikers than other trails, but in the summer, expect lots of company at the pond, no matter what day of the week.

I’ve been hiking Tumbledown Mountain since my college days. I love this mountain and the beautiful pond nestled below the summit cone. Bring your bathing suit, or not, but this IS New England, so everyone else will be wearing suits.

The 1.9-mile Brook Trail (and 1,600 feet of elevation gain) is the most direct to the pond, from which hikers can scramble over granite and boulders on a well-marked route to the 3,090-foot summit.  The Brook Trail follows an old logging road along a brook before evolving into a fairly steep climb over rocks and roots.  We followed this trail as an out-and-back hike with a group of seven-year-olds a few years ago.

A couple of years later, we returned with a large pack of kids for the more challenging Loop Trail.  At the trailhead, someone had posted a tiny scrap of paper with a penciled note reading, “This trail is not for children.”  The note was about two square inches big, torn from a notebook, and not an official warning. I decided that the note must be aimed at parents of very young children.  Our group of 10 or so started climbing up a typical New England trail of roots and rocks, but nothing too hard.

Then, about one mile in, we arrived at The Mountain:  a nearly vertical climb up a  rocky mountain face.  (The climb wasn’t technical, just very very steep and rocky).  At one point, we lost the trail (which is easy to do) and ended up climbing around some rocks hanging over a steep slope. For this reason, the hike is recalled as  “The Death Hike.”

After finding the main trail again, we had to squeeze through a cave-like rock formation known as “Fat Man’s Misery,” a feat that involved shoving day packs through a hole and then squeezing through the narrow opening.  Then more steep climbing.  I could feel steam rising from the adults and floating towards me.

We eventually emerged onto a plateau, where an official warning sign greeted us with a warning about the Loop Trail for anyone considering hiking down.  The kids exulted in their achievement. The clouds of steam dissipated. We finished with a scamper up to the summit, a swim in the pond, and a much easier hike down the Brook Trail to the cars.

Every kid needs a legendary death-defying hike in their repertoire. They still talk about it.

2. Mount Agamenticus in York, Maine

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

View of the cliff and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

With its 692-feet of altitude, Mount Agamenticus is a little mountain with a big personality, with trails and slopes that sprawl out across thousands of acres of conserved forest.

During World War II, a radar tower–the first of its kind in the United States–was installed on the summit. The forest was cut to make room for barracks to house 25 soldiers of the 551st Signal Battalion. For ten years in the 1960s and 1970s, a ski area drew locals to the mountain each winter.

Today, the former ski slopes shrink a bit more each season as trees and brush take over. On weekends, hikers and casual visitors wander the summit’s open meadow, bikers careen down the rocky trails, and the mountain can feel like a busy place. But even with the people there, the blue ocean shimmers to the east. To the west, the spine of Mount Washington rises above the Ossipee Hills, a spectacular sight any day but especially on a clear spring afternoon, when the sloping ridge of Washington remains covered in snow.

A variety of trails (as well as a road) lead to the summit, and more trails lace the conservation land surrounding the mountain.  Mount A is ideal for younger children (but fun for hikers of all ages), because parents can tailor the length of a hike to the interest and abilities of their kids.

From the parking area at the base of the mountain, hikers can begin on the Ring Trail, and then hike in a loop up one of four side trails to the top, and down another to the bottom.  I like to climb up the rock slabs of the Sweet Fern Trail, where the old ski lift rusts in the woods, and then hike down the Blueberry Ridge Trail to the Ring Trail.

Variations include the Sea-to-Summit hike that I’ve written about before, and hikes out to Second Hill or Third Hill.  If attempting Third Hill with kids, I recommend driving to summit and starting there, as the hike could become a long slog through the woods.  Hikers need a map to get to Third Hill (see link above), as the route is convoluted. It is easy to get lost if not familiar with the area.

3. Dorr Mountain, via the Homans Path, in Acadia National Park

The Homans Path (about a third of a mile) offers granite steps, passages between giant boulders and other interesting features. Hikers wishing to continue up to Dorr Mountain can pick up the Schiff Trail, featuring ladeders that climb a cliff. Many choices for longer and shorter loop hikes in this area.

The Homans Path (about three-quarters of a mile) offers granite steps, passages between giant boulders and other interesting features. Hikers wishing to continue up to 1,270-foot Dorr Mountain can pick up the Schiff Path, which features ladders climb up a short cliff.  Estimated RT on our hike: about 4 miles.  However, hikes can choose from many longer and shorter loop hikes in this area. Be sure to hike with a map, as there are multiple trails and trail junctions.

Okay, so selecting one family hike at Acadia National Park is just about impossible. Acadia is packed with countless great hikes ranging from under a mile to four-to-six miles loops (and longer, of course, but probably too long for most kids).  Boulders, ladders, caves, and views abound.  I’ve hiked all over this park, my favorite in the National Park System because of its combination of wildness, human history, and long-standing traditions such as popovers at Jordan Pond House.

Here I’ll focus on the Homans Path route towards quiet Dorr Mountain, the second highest peak in the park (People climb Cadillac, the highest peak, while Dorr is happily neglected).

The stone steps of the Homans Path were meticulously crafted around 1916, but the trail stopped appearing on maps in the 1940s. Its granite steps disappeared beneath thick layers of moss beds.  Local trail enthusiasts rediscovered the trail in the 1990s, and the Park Service began restoring the path, which officially opened again in 2003.

The Homans Path can be picked up near the Wild Gardens of Acadia, at the Sieur de Monts parking area. (I couldn’t find a good link to an online map).

It’s hard to get truly lost in Acadia, but you can certainly end up a very long distance from your car, a situation that is not fun when hiking with kids.  I recommend obtaining a recent edition of  Tom St. Germain’s Acadia trail guide, A Walk in the Park, which will lead you to many other fabulous family hikes. Gorham Mountain, The Beehive, and Beech Mountain with its fire tower also are among my favorite Acadia hikes.

4. Mount Aziscohos, Lincoln Plantation, Maine

The view from Mount Azisochos.

The view from  3,192-foot Mount Azisc0hos.

Mount Aziscohos, which I’ve mentioned in a post about summer days in Rangeley, is an undiscovered gem.  A 1.75-mile hike brings hikers to an open granite summit with views of more than 25 lakes and countless mountains.  I first took my son here when he was about six and have returned several times.  I’ve never encountered another hiker on the summit with its 360-degree views.

In August, expect a feast of blueberries.  Many years ago, a large forest fire burned on the mountaintop, creating ideal conditions for the berries to flourish.

Down the road in Oquossoc, crowds flock up the muddy trail to Bald Mountain, but few venture north on Route 16 to discover Aziscohos.  I probably shouldn’t even be writing about the mountain, but I guess the 17.7 mile drive from Oquossoc Village discourages the hordes from finding it.

Aziscohos once was a popular hike for 19th and early 20th century summer visitors staying at the Aziscoos House in Wilson Mills, although “popular” is a relative term.  An information sign near at the summit tells hikers that in one summer, a total of 116 hikers signed the log book.  (The Azicoos House ceased operation many years ago, but I believe that the 1830 inn-like structure still stands, as a private residence, in the Magolloway River Valley).

A fire tower on the summit was manned until the late 1960s.  Eventually it toppled over in a hurricane and was removed from the mountain via helicopter by the Maine Forest Service in 2004.

5.  Blueberry Mountain via Stone House Trail, Evans Notch, Maine

I can't find my Blueberry Mountain photos, so I'll end with a photo of a happy hiker pasted on a rock on Mount Aziscohos.

I can’t find my Blueberry Mountain photos, so I’ll end with a photo of a happy hiker vertically pasted on the granite of Mount Aziscohos.

As with Acadia, Evans Notch, which straddles the border of Maine and New Hampshire, is packed with terrific family hikes as well as the  “challenge” hike of the Baldface Circle Trail. Here, I’ll focus on 1,781-foot Blueberry Mountain, as it offers great views, good ridge hiking over barren rocks, the possibility of a dip in Rattlesnake Pool, and an exciting descent down (or climb up) ledges (caution needed).  The hike is about 4.5 miles long.

After parking at Fire Road 16, we took the Stone House Trail to the summit and followed the Blueberry Ridge Trail to the Overlook Loop, and then followed the White Cairn Trail down steep ledges and back to FR 16.

We hiked on a cool fall day, so we didn’t stop at Rattlesnake Pool, but when I do this hike again, I plan to hike up the White Cairn Trail and finish up at the pool for a cooling dip.

The Stone House (a private residence) sits up against the mountain just past the trailhead. It’s an interesting structure, more than 200 years old, and looks out over a flat grassy meadow that once was farmed, but more recently was used as a landing area for small planes, during World War II.

The house (privately owned) dates to the first half of the 19th century, when Abel Andrews built it for his bride, Lucinda Brickett, the daughter of John Brickett, who was one of the earliest permanent settlers in the area. Around 1812, John built the brick farmhouse known as the  “Brickett House,” located a couple of miles up Route 113.

I’ve also written about the nearby Basin Trail, which is undiscovered and beautiful, like Evans Notch in general.

Happy hiking!

Additional resources:

Nature Hikes in the White Mountains, by Robert N. Buchsbaum, is an excellent guide to family hikes throughout the White Mountains of Maine and New Hampshire.

Hikes in and around Maine’s Lake Region, by Marita Wiser, is good resource for hikes in southwestern Maine (Bridgton/Fryeburg/Lovell area).

As mentioned above, Tom St. Germain’s Acadia trail guide, A Walk in the Park, is a great resource for all kinds of hikes in the park.