Finding the fountain of youth (maybe) on Iceland’s Laugavegur trek

Posted on September 8, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

We began our trek in Landmannalaugar, where visitors can soak in natural hot springs.

As we begin our hike from Landmannalaugar, I feel like I am 25 again, discovering new worlds for the very first time: vast green alpine fields, steaming fumaroles, a wide open landscape that stretches for miles. A dark cloud chases us for a while, but after a morning of steady rain on the bus ride from Reykjavik, the rain has stopped. Every few steps demands a photograph: bubbling mudpots, heaps of shiny obsidian strewn across the ground, barren brown hills painted with grassy swathes.

A field of obsidian boulders.

This Monday afternoon is the first day of the Laugavegur trek, a four-day 55-kilometer hike from the hot springs area of Landmannalaugar to the valley of Þormork, where we plan to extend our trek another 20 kilometers by hiking up to the Finnmorduhals pass between two volcanic glaciers and then down to the village of Skogar on the southern coast of Iceland. This well-travelled trek is Iceland’s most famous, and I have been wanting to do it for several years.

At every turn, I needed to stop and take photos.

After a quick lunch at the huts in Landmannalaugar, we set off uphill as the sun breaks through the dark clouds lingering in the aftermath the morning’s heavy rain. I have never seen anything like this strange volcanic landscape, with its mixture of obsidian boulders, barren sands, green alpine fields, and not a single tree. Climbing higher, we cross a narrow ridge with wide-open views of endless rolling pasture backed by folds upon folds of mountain peaks. We walk across mushy snowfields that usually have melted by this time of year – the first part of July – but which remain intact because of the cooler weather Iceland has experienced this spring and summer.

Iceland in July, at least for a few moments. Typically these snowfields have melted by the time summer comes.

In the late afternoon, we hike through a cloud of mist that decreases visibility to about 50 feet. Although the scenery is winter-like, the temperature is comfortable. Finally, around 6 o’clock, we arrive at our first hut, Hrafntinnusker, where our guide Elin prepares a late dinner of mild fish – what she calls catfish — with a white sauce and rice.

Hiking in the mist. Although the path was pretty well-travelled, I’m glad we had a guide.

Hiking for miles across the snow through a damp mist and then sleeping in a crowded hut with at least one heavy snorer is not everyone’s cup of tea, but for me it is close to paradise.

On the second day of the hike, we awake to a cloudless sky, a rare picture-perfect Icelandic summer day, with nearly 24 hours of daylight and no rain. Our goal today is the hut at Lake Álftavatn – “Swan Lake”. Instead of a gradual uphill climb, we climb down to the gorge of Jökultungur. From different vantage points, we take in wide open views of four glaciers and a crazy array of pyramid-shaped mountains rising from the plain. “These are my people,” I say to my husband as I hold out my arms to the mountains.

The sun came out the next day and we hiked this peak behind the hut before beginning our journey to the next hut.

Mid-morning, we make our first river crossing and slosh through knee-deep water in neoprene socks and water shoes. Considering its proximity to the Arctic Circle, Iceland has a moderate climate, with average winter temperatures hovering around 32 degrees Farenheit in Reykjavik. But nothing is moderate about Iceland’s glacial rivers.

The icy cold water bites at my feet as I pick my way across the rocks across the river. In these mountain rivers, the water sometimes runs three feet high, but on this trek, the rivers never rise higher than our knees.

Jeeps and even buses outfitted with big tires plow through glacial rivers. Kids, don’t try this at home!

Day three brings more spectacular scenery, as we hike across the black sand deserts of Mælifellssandur. I’m afraid we might start taking this scenery for granted, that we might too quickly complain about being tired rather than stopping to look around at this amazing landscape.

Hiking through the black sands desert towards Emstrur.

For several miles, we hike on a dusty jeep road. In the afternoon, in the midst of a rest break by a river, a dust cloud swirls above the river bank. Soon, a herd of Icelandic horses emerges from the dust, some with riders and many without. A scene out of the Wild West here in southern Iceland. But no cowboys here – just tourists on an organized horse trip.

Iceland is home to 300,000 people and 100,000 horses, which people own in clusters of three, four or even ten, just because they like them. With hardy horses that spend most of winter outdoors and so much open land for grazing, it doesn’t cost much to keep horses, so horse lovers tend to collect small herds of them.

Horses, horses, everywhere.

Eventually the ground begins to turn green as we leave the sands behind for the pastures of the Emstrur region, where farmers used to let their sheep loose to graze in the summer months. Our hut is located on a ridge overlooking a steep canyon. After dinner, we hike over to look at the Markarfljöt canyon at a cliff that drops 200 meters down the rocks. Very much like the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, minus the railings — and the crowds.

By the fourth day of the trek, all of us in our international group of 13 are feeling tired. I am glad that we will have a rest day before climbing up to Fimmorduhals. On this last day of the Laugavegur trek, we hike up and down many small gullies and valleys. We eat lunch amidst the ruins of an old shepherd’s shelter, where we take a short detour to a stunning waterfall.

Just another waterfall….

Our guide laughs as we snap photos. “You will see so many waterfalls when we hike to Skogar, ” she says, as if this waterfall is no big deal. By the day’s end, we encounter our first shrubs in Iceland, as we hike amidst chest-high shrubbery that remind me of willows (perhaps they are), then through glades of spindly Arctic birch trees. The forest floor is littered with purple and yellow flowers. We climb up one last hill and then down into Þorsmork, the valley cut by the Krossá River, where our hut awaits. Taking off my boots and slipping into Tevas feels like heaven.

This glade of birches is the first we’ve encountered in four days.

By the time we arrive at Þorsmork, I no longer feel like I’m 25. I’m ready to put on clean socks and rest on the sofa in the hut. By the standards of a typical hiking day, eight to ten miles with daypacks is pretty easy. I know I can keep going – and we will continue to Fimmorduhals –but after that, I’m good with returning to Reykjavik for a late dinner. One truth I have learned on this trip is that maybe I won’t be up for hiking the entire Appalachian Trail with a full backpack when I am 65. That maybe such adventures are best suited to younger bodies. That’s okay, because there are plenty of other hikes in between, at home and around the world, including more here Iceland. In another year or so, I’ll wear out these ten-year-old hiking boots that have carried me across the Laugavegur trek, but they won’t be last pair I’ll buy. Already I’m wondering how much it rains in southern Greenland. Do polar bears roam the mountains there?

Lupines along the trail.

Part II, about our hike up to the volcano, coming soon!

Resources

After researching the possibilities, I decided to do the hike with Icelandic Mountain Guides, a long-standing company that offers many different kinds of adventures in Iceland at a reasonable cost (albeit far more than a do-it-yourself adventure). Although it is not difficult to make your own arrangements to stay in the huts (as long as you do it many months in advance), I liked the idea of being with a group for safety reasons, and I also liked having a guide who was knowledgeable about the area. Also, most of the huts are accessible by rough (and circuitous) jeep roads. A jeep delivered our gear from hut to hut so that we only had to carry daypacks (which was fabulous!). Plenty of people from all over the world, however, hike the trek with backpacks, some staying at the huts and others tenting.

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

Posted on August 9, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

Fog obscured big views on the day we hiked Mount Tecumseh, but the forest was lush and green. Note the well-beaten highly visible path (photo by K. Keyser).

Impossible as it may seem, within a few minutes of our hike up Mount Tecumseh in Waterville Valley, my friend and I have lost the trail, and now find ourselves bushwhacking through a wet humid forest.

Technically we are not lost, because we know where we are – hiking along or at least within hearing range of Tecumseh Brook. But I know that the trail travels for a solid mile along the brook, an easy distance to travel on a trail, but one which could take a couple of hours if we cover it by picking our way up the brook, or by hiking on its steep bank, slipping over, under and around blowdowns, and pushing through beech saplings and hobblebush.

After an hour of mauling our way through the forest, we are soaked, even though it is not raining. I suggest that we angle upwards, on the south side of the brook, until we reach the open space of the ski trail cut on the ridge above us. If we never find the trail, we can always hike up the ski slope which is part of the Waterville Valley ski resort.

After a few additional minutes of hiking uphill, we stumble out of the woods onto the trail, a well-beaten, well-travelled trail which shortly leads us to a rock slab with a view of the Valley. Compared to bushwhacking in a humid forest, the rest of the hike is a breeze by White Mountain standards, as it flattens out on the ridge before climbing one last steep pitch to the summit cone.

Rock pile that officially establishes the summit at Mount Tecumseh. The camera didn’t pick up the buzzing black flies (photo by K. Keyser).

Mount Tecumseh is the shortest of the tallest mountains in New Hampshire, a 4,000-footer but just by three feet (4,003 feet). However, what the mountain lacks in height, it makes up for in views, at least theoretically. Although Tecumseh is mostly a wooded summit, from various vantage points on the summit and the ridge just below, hikers can see up to 36 other 4,000-footers. On this muggy day, however, our view is limited to a carpet of soft green trees vaguely visible through a dense cloud of fog. On this Sunday in late June, black flies still buzz. Slapping at flies between bites, we quickly eat our lunch.

Waterville Valley is one of a handful of mountain valleys in New England that could be in Switzerland, albeit with smaller less craggy peaks. The Valley is set apart from the rest of the world, with the mountains forming a lofty wall around a ten-mile wide swath of valley floor. Although the seasonal Tripoli Road climbs up from the Valley over the mountains to Lincoln, the 13-mile drive on Route x along the Mad River from I-93 is the only road up into the Valley and the road ends where the mountains begin.

Even though Waterville Valley is a well-known ski destination, for me, finding a mini-village of hotels, shops and restaurants here always feels like discovering a secret self-contained world. Town Square is more of a destination than a village, but the Valley does have a community of 247 year-round residents, including a K-8 elementary school with 40 or so kids.

This sense of being surrounded by mountains made Waterville Valley an early destination for mountain tourists. The Valley was the first place in the White Mountains where hikers built trails, beginning in the 1850s, when the mountain tourist boom was first heating up. Later, in the 1930s, some of the first ski trails in New England were cut in these woods, including the Tecumseh Ski Trail, which became the site of a now-discontinued annual race.

However, although the Valley was revered by a devoted group of cottage owners, hikers, and hard-core skiiers, it remained an off-the-beaten path destination until the 1960s, when former Olympian Tom Corcoran bought up much of the 600 or so acres of private land in the Valley and began the still-continuing process of developing Waterville Valley as a full-service ski resort and vacation destination. (Mount Tecumseh itself, along with all of the surrounding mountains, is part of White Mountain National Forest). After Corcoran sold the resort in 1994, Waterville Valley cycled through several corporate owners, until it was purchased in 2010 by local investors, including John Sununu.

Mount Tecumseh is named for a Shawnee chief who achieved fame far from New Hampshire in the Ohio River Valley. How the mountain retained Tecumseh’s name is a bit of a mystery. A map of the White Mountains published in 1860 labeled it as Tecumseh. Some sources attribute the name to E.J. Young, a Campton, N.H. photographer, who also may have named neighboring Mount Osceola (another 4,000-footer), for a Seminole chief who also never came within a thousand miles of New Hampshire.

From the summit of Tecumseh, hikers can continue on the Sosman Trail, which travels to White Peak at the top of the ski area, and then either descend down the grassy ski slopes, or backtrack. The Tecumseh Trail itself traverses the ridge and ends at the height of land on Tripoli Road (an option with two cars but not as a loop). Because of our earlier debacle in the woods – and given the lack of views — we elect to backtrack rather than crash down the unmarked but fairly obvious downhill ski trail.

Later, on the final leg of the hike, we can’t fathom how we lost the trail, given how well-marked it is, how obviously trail-ish. The experience is a good reminder as to how easy it is to make mistakes in the woods, to miss turns, or get turned around, even on well-travelled trails, and why hikers should always carry a map and compass or GPS.

Although I was without the family on this adventure, Mount Tecumseh is a good family hike, not too long or too hard, with the added bonus of giving kids the psychological boost of summiting a 4,000-footer. Of course, they might get the wrong idea about 4,000-footers, i.e. that such hikes are fairly easy and not too long. Hopefully they will forget about easy and short if the next hike is steep and long. Hopefully I will too.

Resources

The Waterville Valley Athletic and Improvement Society, established in 1888, offers a wealth of information on hiking trails in WV, along with information on a variety of other activities, including croquet.

Sources

About Waterville Valley. Town of Waterville Valley website. More on the history of Waterville Valley.

Goodrich, Nathaniel L. The Waterville Valley: A Story of a Resort in the White Mountains. Lunenburg, Vermont: The North Country Press, 1952. Short book about the history of the valley, including information about the first settlers, the early tourism industry, the logging industry, and how the Valley ended up becoming part of the White Mountain National Forest. I checked this book out of the Bowdoin College library (via our interload system) and I believe I am probably the first reader of this particular copy. It’s hard to fathom how much of the White Mountains was reduced to slash during the peak of the logging era in the early 20th century.

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

Waterville Valley Resort. Waterville Valley, New Hampshire. New England Ski History website.

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

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

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

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook, Mount Moosilauke

Posted on June 28, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

The ominous sign at the beginning of the Beaver Brook Trail.

Be careful, to avoid tragic results. Great.

A punishing hike is exactly what I hoped to avoid when I set out on this day in mid-June to climb a 4,000-footer and decided to make my first ascent of New Hampshire’s 4,802-foot Mount Moosilauke, on the western side of the White Mountains. But the road to the Benton Trail – a one-time bridle path that offers a gradual climb — remained closed due to damage wrought by Hurricane Irene. So here I am, reading the sign at Beaver Brook Trail.

On this weekday morning, several cars are parked in the lot, and I know that Beaver Brook, as part of the Appalachian Trail, has to be a well-traveled trail. How bad can it be? Answer: for experienced hikers accustomed to suffering in the White Mountains: not that bad (definitely easier than Kedron Flume Trail on Mount Willey). For afternoon strollers and people with heart conditions: heed the warning. The trail climbs straight up to the ridge for most of the first 1.4 mile stretch.

Cascades tumble down the rock face on Beaver Brook trail.

The climb is both beautiful and brutal. Today, a few days after heavy rains, Beaver Brook pours over rock ledges in a series of cascading waterfalls. On a rainy day, the rock slabs overlooking the brook could get slippery, and yes, the possibility of a “tragic result” exists, but probably only for small children or crazed tween boys running amok. If hikers watch their footing, the trail is fine. As I told another pair of hikers, I read the accident reports in Appalachia and don’t recall ever reading of a fatal hiking accident on Moosilauke.

The mountain has claimed lives, but not from hiking. On January 14, 1942, two airmen were killed after a B-18 bomber returning from an Atlantic patrol crashed in a snowstorm, not far from this trail, on the flank of neighboring Mount Waternomee. Five survivors were rescued by Lincoln and Woodstock locals who had heard the explosion and set off on snowshoes into the dark snowy woods to see what had happened. (Today, from a trail off Route 18, you can hike to the plane crash site and memorial).

From the shelter, hikers have their first views of Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge.

Up, up, up, I climb, placing one foot at a time on wooden slabs glued onto the rock (or so it seems). I take a drink, rest my calves, and continue. Glassy sheets of falling water splash down the rock face. Taking a breath, I remind myself to appreciate its magnificence. After an hour-and-a-half of climbing, I arrive at the Beaver Brook three-sided shelter. A great spot to rest, with views of Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge and many mountains rolling behind them. Those AT hikers who spend the night here catch the sunrise over the mountains.

The final leg of the Benton Trail climbs up over the mountain’s bald alpine summit.

Continuing to climb uphill, eventually I reach a ridge. Although the ridge has some ups and downs, the trail feels like a road walk after the brutal ascent up Beaver Brook. To the southeast, Gorge Brook Ravine drops below me. After 3.5 miles (and several hours) of hiking, I arrive at the junction of the Benton Trail, and step out of the mixed spruce and fir forest into an ancient druidic world of rock cairns and green alpine meadow. From my vantage point below the summit, the foundation remnants of a once-thriving mountain-top hotel suggest Stonehenge.

The Benton Trail follows the route of the old Carriage Road that once led visitors to the summit in buckboard carts.

A hotel was first established on the summit of Mount Moosilauke in 1860, reportedly opening on July 4, 1860 with a band that entertained a throng of 1000 visitors. A hundred years earlier, Mount Moosilauke and the surrounding area was a wilderness, partly because of the rugged terrain and partly because continuing warfare between the French and their Abenaki allies and the English had discouraged settlement, even on the rich floodplain of the upper Connecticut River Valley.

Several 19th century histories of the area relate that during the French and Indian War, one of Robert Rogers’ Rangers, Robert Pomeroy, perished on Mount Moosilauke, after the Rangers were retreating from their October attack on the Abenaki mission village at St. Francis, Quebec. However, whether or not Pomeroy actually died on Mount Moosilauke is hard to determine, as many variations of his demise exist.

According to Rogers’ journals, the Major did split his starving party of retreating Rangers into several groups after the raid on St. Francis, with the hope that the smaller groups would be more successful in finding game. The men were all supposed to meet up a couple of weeks later at the junction of the Wells and Wild Ammonoonsuc River. One group, however, led by Sargent Benjamin Bradley, decided to strike out across the wilderness for Concord. Of course they became hopelessly lost in the mountains. Travel was never easy in the mountains. Now, with cold weather coming on hard and no provisions, they struggled through woods and mountainous terrain loaded up with loot from St. Francis, including a 10-pound silver medallion of the Madonna.

One historical account (see Loescher) recounts that the group of four men wandered in the mountains for many days until all but a man named Private Hoit were too weak to continue. Bradley, Pomeroy, and a black private named Jacob “crawled under some rocks and perished in the delirium brought on by hunger and despair, blaspheming and hurling horrible imprecations at the silver image on which, in their insanity, they blamed all their sufferings.” Although weak with hunger and exhaustion, one of the men reportedly “seized the statue, tottered to the edge of a precipice and, exerting all his remaining strength, dashed it down into the gulf below.”

Another source (Smith and Dickerman) states that Pomeroy perished on Moosilauke’s summit, while a companion was rescued by an old trapper in Gorge Brook Ravine. However, a local history of Derryfield, N.H., Pomeroy’s hometown, says that Pomeroy perished in the vicinity of the headwaters of the Merrimack River, at a place where some artifacts belonging to him were found.

Was the silver Madonna from St. Francis hurled into Gorge Brook Ravine from the very ridge on which I walk? We can never know for certain, and I guess it doesn’t matter, except that knowing the history of the mountain contributes to how I know the mountain, and adds to the value of my experience. For modern treasure hunters seeking riches, the mystery continues to motivate them in searching for the silver Madonna, which has never been found.

A breezy day at the summit, but not the more typical heavy winds.

At the summit, I rest in the lee of a crumbling foundation wall, eat my hummus sandwich, and take in the 360-degree views of the White Mountains and the Connecticut River Valley. A bit of a cloudy day, but plenty of view. Today a mild breeze ruffles the mountaintop, but typically, the summit is very windy. As the most western high peak in the Whites, Moosilauke catches winds from the west head on. In the 19^th century, guests at the summit hotel must have spent many nights listening to the howling winds and wondering if their shelter would hold fast. In the end, the hotel and all of its variations withstood winds that can reach hurricane force, but fell victim to fire, in 1942.

About 100 acres of wide open alpine vegetation cover Moosilauke’s summit

On the way down the mountain, I suffer less and notice more. The trillium are just past their time, but the hobble-bushes still hold their flowers. I hear a chickadee singing and spot the bird on the crown of a spruce tree, like a star on a Christmas tree.

I make good time on the ridge and down the first pitch of the mountain and rest up at the Beaver Brook Shelter. Then I am ready to begin the steep walk downhill, one step at a time. Today’s hike will cure me of the desire to climb 4,000-footers for at least a couple of weeks. But I know I will relapse. The cure is never permanent — thank goodness.

Directions: The trailhead for Beaver Brook Trail is located a few miles west of North Woodstock, NH, at the height-of-land on Route 112/Kinsman Notch.

Resources and Links:

Hike to Mount Waternomee Plane Crash Site: Detailed description of the hike to the plane crash and how to find the trailhead.

The Gorge Brook Trail, the most popular trail up Moosilauke, begins at the end of Ravine Lodge Road, just above the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge, which is open to the public for food and lodging. The Lodge is owned by Dartmouth College, which also owns a variety of cabins in the area that can be rented by the public (see details at the link to the Lodge).

Sources:

Loescher, Burt Garfield. History of Rogers’ Rangers: The First Green Berets. San Mateo, California, 1969. Loescher’s history, available in online archives, provided the quote about the lost Rangers and the Madonna. Where he derived is information is unclear, although it might be from the journal of the French Captain Pouchot, who is listed as a reference in Loescher’s appendices.

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

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

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

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

Refuge in the sands

Posted on April 28, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

As all hell broke loose that Friday in Boston, the beach at Morris Island stretched for miles, empty and unpeopled, like the city in lockdown. Instead of fear, the beach inspired tranquility and an almost medically-induced sense of relief at being here, away from the events we had watched unfold on the morning news. The sand stretched for a couple of miles around the spit as a stiff breeze blew in from the Atlantic. Although he was speaking of a different outer beach, the scene called to mind Henry Thoreau’s observation about the Cape, “A man may stand there and put all America behind him.”

The sands of Morris Island in Chatham, Massachusetts, stretch for a couple of miles around a spit.

My mother, my son and I had come to Morris Island at the Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge in Chatham on this April morning to look for signs of the hundreds of seals that gather on Monomoy Island, but the seals remained out of sight, on the Atlantic-facing side of the Island.

But I was not disappointed by the lack of seals, even if seals are the #1 animal on my son’s “top ten” list of animals. The sky was vast and beach rolled out in an endless carpet of sand. We could see footprints in the sandy trail we followed, but didn’t see any people until we had circled around to where the mile-plus Morris Island trail reaches the steep set of stairs which visitors descend to reach the beach.

This is an uncredited photo I found on the Internet. The common eider we saw floating on the pond but too far away for a good photo.

In Salt Marsh Pond, a not-so-common common eider duck, visiting from the Arctic, rested on the surface. April’s lack of foliage, combined with the ocean and the sand, made the sky bigger.

These sands on Morris Island, at the sharpest edge of Cape Cod’s elbow, are my discovery on this spring visit. I’m sure the beach is much busier in the summer, but today this wildlife refuge feels a world apart, especially on this day of infamy.

On the bluffs above the beach, houses that could be mistaken for large hotels look out over the same view that we see. As we walk along the beach below the bluffs, we notice the fresh erosion from storms this past winter, especially the February’s Nor’easter that arrived almost exactly 35 years to the day of the Blizzard of 1978, a storm that divided Monomoy Island into the North and South Islands.

This February, the surging ocean breached Chatham’s South Beach, creating new currents that will impact this area over time. Monomoy Island once had been a peninsula, but a storm washed out the isthmus back in the 50s, and the island has been inaccessible (except by boat) since the 1950s. I tell my son that one day, when he comes back to Morris Island, those homes will be gone. Not next year, or the year after, but some day in his lifetime, the ocean is going to carve new landscapes in these shifting sands and bluffs.

In the summer months, visitors can take a small ferry 0ver to the now-unpopulated Monomoy Islands to hike the dunes and bask in the sand and try to spot the great white sharks that now appear every summer seeking their seal prey. Maybe we’ll come back on a summer day to make that trip and see those seals. I seldom visit Cape Cod during the crowds of summer, but for the seals, I might consider it.

Few visitors understand that the primary purpose of federal wildlife refuges is to protect wildlife and wildlife habitat. National parks exist for people to enjoy and to protect, but refuges exist for animals. Under the refuge law, at Morris Island, the needs of wildlife trump human recreation. Hiking trails here are a privilege granted rather than a right guaranteed. On this gray day packed with ugly news bulletins created by the actions of other humans, I am grateful for the privilege of sharing this refuge with the birds and the seals.

Resources and information

For more on the history of Monomoy Island, especially the lighthouse at Monomoy Point, see Monomoy Point Lighthouse. Apparently you can arrange to stay at the Lighthouse through the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History in Brewster, MA.

For more on Chatham, see MyChatham.Com, with links to information about Chatham, its beaches, its history and the Monomoy Island Wildlife Refuge.

White elephant in a green valley

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

The trail map at Evergreen Valley.

Here at Evergreen Valley, the outside temperature is 12 degrees, but a full 28 degrees warmer, at 40, inside our “villa.” We lost power yesterday (2/17), late in the afternoon after a day of wild snowless winds. Now, this morning, we sit wrapped in blankets in this electrically-heated 1970s condo. Somehow the outage seems fitting, what should be, one more challenge to overcome in Evergreen Valley’s long struggle to become a destination.

The ski lodge remains a functional building. A little TLC and it could be open for something….

I first discovered Evergreen Valley, in Stoneham, Maine, about 10 years ago, as my husband and I spent a summer afternoon exploring the area while staying at another spot on nearby Kezar Lake. Intrigued by a sign on Route 5, we turned off and followed the road for a winding 3.5 miles as it went far back into the woods and then opened up, improbably, onto a scruffy but still-functioning golf course. Further back, a lodge-style inn was tucked into the woods. The road climbed another couple of hundred yards up a steep hill and ended in a small parking lot bordered by a dozen lonely condos backed up against the edge of the White Mountain National Forest. Down the hill and around the corner from the Inn, a massive ski lodge loomed at the base of an abandoned ski area. A memory clicked into place for my husband as he recalled having attended a rock concert here back in the 1970s.

Evergreen Valley was once a place of big dreams and big schemes, and a tale of how easily local and state officials are wooed and won on the hopes of a little economic development in an unlikely spot. Developers wanted to build a mega-ski resort here, one of the largest in New England, with a golf course, bubble-topped tennis courts, a marina on Kezar Lake, and hundreds and hundreds of housing units. At first, the idea for the resort was a grass roots effort, but as the project expanded from a small ski mountain to a mega-resort, other locals –especially the well-off part-year residents who populate these parts during the summer months – organized against the project, citing the scale of the resort as incompatible with the surrounding area. But really, environmental activism was the least of the challenges faced by Evergreen Valley. The sad fact is that skiers don’t flock by the thousands to an off-the-beaten path mountain with a 1,000 vertical feet – a hill really – in an industry that already was beginning the process of consolidation that would see many of New England’s small ski areas close in the 1980s.

The Olympic-sized pool was intended for year-round operation.

For the dreamers who envisioned Evergreen Valley, no expense, it seemed, was spared. Timbers for the massive lodge were trucked in from Oregon. An Olympic-sized outdoor pool – intended for both summer and winter use – was dug next to the lodge. Tennis courts protected by a bubble dome were built, along with a riding stable with stalls for with 30 horses. Three chair lifts were installed on Adams Mountain. When the Evergreen Valley ski area finally opened for business in 1972 (after many delays), it was a state-of-the-art recreational facility, the most ambitious opening debut in New England ski history. At the time, some other resorts had more trails and lifts, but these ski areas had typically started small, with a rope tow and a T-bar, and gradually developed over time. At Evergreen Valley, skiers would not strain to balance on T-bars or flail around on a rope tow.

A half-finished condo unit greets visitors as they drive up the lonely road into Evergreen Valley. The inside was never finished. Today, several holes punctuate the roof.

But the mountain struggled to attract skiers. By the mid-seventies, it was bankrupt and closed, although it did open again later for a few more seasons. At one point, the state of Maine purchased the resort at public auction for $500,000, and later sold it to another hopeful developer (for full details, see the link to the article below at the New England Ski History website). Today, the lodge sits empty, and the swimming pool is an empty hole. But the valley offers great snowmobiling, with access to miles and miles of trails, and has become a destination for snowmobilers from around the Northeast, many of whom stay at the Evergreen Valley Inn. Maybe the snowmobilers stay at the condos too, but we don’t know, because on most nights, our car is the only one in the parking lot. The resort would be a great setting for a Stephen King novel. I’m surprised it hasn’t showed up in one yet, given that King spends a lot of time in the area, at his home on Kezar Lake.

So why are we here at Evergreen Valley? (Not only are we here, but this is our second week-long stay). We’ve come partly because I like places that feel remote and apart from the hustle-bustle. Also, Evergreen Valley is located in convenient proximity to Bethel and the mega-resort of Sunday River (a slope with a few trails when Evergreen Valley opened), and to Shawnee Peak, a family ski area in Bridgton. When I saw that this particular condo at Evergreen Valley came equipped with its own hot tub, I was sold. Also, I guess I like giving a little business to the underdog, keeping hope alive. Back-door access to snowshoeing, along the old ski trails of Mount Adams or to the ledges of Speckled Mountain, is another bonus.

Hikers can follow the abandoned ski trails to the summit of Adams Mountain.

On my first attempt to snowshoe up Adams Mountain, I took long steps through the woods as high winds with 60 mph gusts howled. Birch trees bent and flailed and snow swirled up from the ground. I knew that the supple birches were not likely to snap in the wind, but older oak trees stood deeper in the woods. Every time I heard a crack, I looked about to see if a tree had snapped, although I knew logically that plotting an escape from a tree falling in my direction would be a fruitless exercise. I felt a bit like Thoreau on his final ascent of Mount Katahdin, feeling awestruck and terrified at the same time. Although I could clearly see the trail, I wasn’t sure what I would see if I reached the summit, so I decided to turn back to the condo.

The following day, remnants of the wind storm still ruffled the trees, but the howling had ended. With the sun softening the snow and cloudless blue skies that promised great views, I was determined to make it to the 1,650-foot summit of Mount Adams, about an 800-foot elevation gain from the condos. I snowshoed across the brook behind the condos, and bushwhacked through the trees, following yesterday’s tracks to one of the ski trails. This time I pushed further through the woods and began to hike uphill on a wider ski trail, now filled by a glade of birches.

Views of Kezar Lake. I took this photo on a third hike, as the day was drawing to a close. Skies weren’t as clear, but the view was still great.

Stomping uphill through the snow, I came upon a snowmobile trail, which provided a path up a steeper section. (Snowmobiles aren’t allowed on Adams Mountain, and I’m not sure if this trail was legal, but it provided a good reference for bushwhacking). After a final bushwhack through the trees, I arrived at a southwest-facing ledge with views of Kezar Lake. Further south, I could see the ski trails of Shawnee Peak, and to the west, mountains folding upon mountains, although the wind had kicked up just enough moisture to conceal Mount Washington’s summit.

The summit is topped by a flat open area. It’s a great snowshoe hike, and a good family hike in warmer months. In the distance, the trails at Shawnee Peak are faintly visible.

I hiked up along the ledge until arriving at a flat area, forested with a grove of white pines. The snow mobile trail ended here, and then circled around and back down the mountain. I could see footsteps where the renegade snowmobilers had stepped out to admire the view, but on this day, I was absolutely alone on the summit. And even though I love downhill skiing, I was happy that I had this beautiful snow-capped rocky ledge to myself on a February afternoon.

Evergreen Valley, yeah, it’s definitely grown on me. The entire valley is for sale, for a reported $2.9 million dollars. Maybe someday another visionary with deep pockets and more realistic expectations will buy the resort and do more to bring in the snowmobilers, add a destination restaurant to the Inn, or at least a cozy bar. Maybe a millionaire yoga lover will transform the Inn into a yoga and meditation retreat that offers exquisite healthy meals and a New Age summer camp. Maybe, like the developers and their consultants, I’m a dreamer too, because I believe that potential exists to do more here in Evergreen Valley.

I wouldn’t want to see much more than what’s here now, just enough to add some economic development to the region, to keep the country stores open in Stoneham and Center Lovell, to add some kids to the school systems, to sustain the sense of community in this beautiful but hard-to-make-a-living corner of Maine.

I’m not interested in buying the condo next door (on the market at a 1980-ish price of $50,000), but I’ll return again to Evergreen Valley. Maybe on the next visit, I’ll hike up to the ledges on Speckled Mountain. I’ll definitely sit in the hot tub and gaze up at the stars in the inky sky.

P.S. The power was restored mid-morning, but we hardly suffered. The Inn provided us with hot coffee and an invitation to hang out in front of the fire in their great room. After breakfasting at not-too-far-away Melby’s, we returned to the warmth of a sunlight-filled living room. Not too long afterwards, the lights blazed and the hot tub began its steady hum.

References and further reading

Evergreen Valley History – New England Ski History

Evergreen Valley, Stoneham, Maine – New England Lost Ski Areas Project

View from Adams Mountain, Stoneham, c,. 1960

Winter dreams of summer days on Mount Washburn

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

The official summit, 10,243 feet.

On this cold winter afternoon in Maine, I am dreaming about summer days on Mount Washburn. The temperature is even colder today at Mount Washburn, but this past August, we slathered on sun screen and wore shorts and t-shirts when we hiked the 10,243-foot mountain. Our daypacks were stuffed with fleece and windbreakers, because we knew that no matter what time of year, it’s always much colder at the summit of Mount Washburn because of the wind that blows across the Washburn Range. Even with the wind, or maybe because of it, the mountain is still the most popular hike in Yellowstone National Park.

But popular doesn’t mean crowded, at least not by eastern standards. In the summer, hikers will always encounter other hikers on the trails or at the summit, but not hundreds of them — not the crowds at Mount Washington or even at the summit Maine’s Mount Katahdhin.

This past August (2012), I travelled to Wyoming with my family for a reunion with my old haunts at Yellowstone, where I had worked one summer almost 30 years ago, at an ice cream stand with a view of Old Faithful.

Although not the longest, most remote or most adventuresome, my hike up Mount Washburn in June 1984 was my favorite of that season. The blue sky that morning was crystal clear and the green slopes of the mountain blossomed with mountain lupine and other wildflowers. I don’t remember if we saw any of the bighorn sheep rumored to hang out on the mountain’s slopes, but I do remember the feeling of freedom I felt on my first hike through wide open mountain meadows, with lots of sky and big views, so different from the hiking I had known in the mountains of New England.

Mount Washburn is named for Henry Washburn, one of the leaders of the Washburn-Langford-Doane Expedition of 1870, organized to find out once and for all if fantastical tales told by trappers and mountain men about the Yellowstone region were true. Rivers that poured boiling water? Spouts of water erupting 200 feet in the air? Deep blue pools in which a man could cook a fish or lose his life if he decided to take a bath? Such phenomena could not possibly exist, but perhaps gold or other valuable resources might be found in the rivers and mountains of Yellowstone.

The expedition soon learned that “The Wonders of Yellowstone” (the Nathaniel Langford article published afterwards in Scribners magazine) did exist and that mountain man Jim Bridger (and others) had not exaggerated in telling his tales. In this land of boiling mud cauldrons, smoke and sulphur, climbing a mountain might have seemed an arduous but necessary task, but when Lieutenant Gustavus Doane completed the climb on August 29, 1870, the beauty of what he saw was almost impossible to capture with language (although he did manage to bang out 500 or so words when he wrote about the trip in official report):

William Henry Jackson photo of Mount Washburn, probably taken during the Hayden Expedition of 1872, which included photographer Jackson and painter Charles Moran. The visual images created by Jackson and Moran were instrumental in persuading Congress to create Yellowstone National Park. (Library of Congress photo in the public domain).

“The view from the summit, “ Doane noted, “is beyond all adequate description. Looking northward from the base of the mountain the great plateau stretches away to the front and left with its innumerable groves and sparkling waters, a variegated landscape of surpassing beauty, bounded on its extreme verge by the cañons of the Yellowstone. The pure atmosphere of this lofty region causes every outline of tree, rock or lakelet to be visible with wonderful distinctness.….The mind struggles and then falls back upon itself despairing in the effort to grasp by a single thought the idea of its immensity.”

The experience of hiking up Mount Washburn, I learned this summer, hasn’t changed all that much in spirit, either my from 1984 trek or from Doane’s 1870 adventure. Hikers can ascend, as we did, from the 2.8 mile trail that ascends from the Chittenden Road, or from the three-mile trail that begins at the Dunraven Pass picnic area.

The trail follows an old road. In this view, you can just barely see the fire lookout building at the summit.

From the Chittenden Road parking area, the hike climbs gradually uphill, with an altitude gain of about 1,500 feet from the parking lot. The trail follows the path of an old road cuts up the mountain in a series of long switchbacks. The road now services the fire lookout, but originally was used by stagecoaches and wagons to take tourists to the summit, and then by automobiles until it was closed to regular traffic in the 1960s. At the summit, hikers are rewarded with 360-degree views and can warm up in the shelter of the fire lookout. On the August day when we climbed Mount Washburn, a small collection of hikers were eating their lunch inside the stone structure. Outside the wind blew hard, and we were glad to have our fleece pullovers and windbreakers.

Gray patches of dead lodgepole pines left in the wake of the 1988 fires. The sky was hazy until mid-afternoon, when it cleared up a bit.

From my 1984 visit, I remember the clarity of the alpine air and a scene much like that described by Doane. On this August hike, the view was hazy, obscured by the persistent smoke of several small forest fires. Throughout the day, a faint scent of smoke pervaded the air. On the trail, large swaths of gray lodgepole pines swept up the mountain’s flank, gray ghosts left from the forest fires that consumed much of Yellowstone in 1988. The hazy views are partly the result of new fire management policies implemented after the devastating 1988 fires, which were exacerbated by the then-existing policy of extinguishing fires as quickly as possible. Although well-intentioned – who wants to see a forest consumed by fire? – the “no-burn” policy caused dead trees to gather on the forest floor, creating ideal “ladders” for fired to climb into the treetop crowns, and then quickly spread throughout the park.

Close up of the pines. On Mount Washburn, I didn’t see much evidence that the forest was regenerating.

Today, small fires are left to burn, which both kills off dead branches that might build up into fire ladders and also promotes a healthy forest ecosystem. The pinecones of the lodgepole pine need fire to burst open and release their seeds so that new trees can propagate. The “no-fire” policy, therefore, had the effect of twice killing off the forest it was trying to save. But we didn’t know, or maybe we did know — by the 1980s, scientists understood that fire suppression wasn’t the answer – but maybe those scientists couldn’t convince the policy makers that trees needed fire, just as congressmen and senators couldn’t believe that a caldera of steaming land existed in the northwest corner of Wyoming.

The persistence of the smoky air might be a change from the time of the Washburn expedition. Over the past couple of decades, a hotter, drier climate out west has created ideal conditions for fires to burn quicker, bigger and longer. Is the increase in fires an indirect but predictable consequence of climate change? Or part of a fire cycle that was interrupted during the many decade of the fire suppression policy? Or a combination of both?

We don’t have all the answers, or definite solutions, to the challenges facing the forests or to the problem of climate change. As someone who was born wanting to travel, I feel pulled by conflicting impulses –– wanting to be part of the climate change solution, but also wanting to travel to the ends of the earth even if that means contributing to the spread of carbon poisons. I’ve done more than my fair share of travel by human power – on foot, by bicycle and kayak – but inevitably, I rely on fuel-powered transport to get me places. I know that jet fuel leaves an especially large carbon footprint. Can I offset that footprint with at-home recycling and reduced consumption? Does it really matter if I do so, given that millions of people in China, India and other countries can hardly wait to buy their first cars?

Looking out to the south. Hazy skies, so we missed the view of the Tetons.

Although I’d like my actions contribute to solving the problem, I don’t feel guilty about the carbon footprint generated by my travels, nor does this knowledge diminish my pleasure in climbing Mount Washburn. (But maybe I feel a little guilty about not feeling guilty). One paradox of hiking and enjoying the great outdoors is that visits to places such as Mount Washburn cultivate an appreciation for the environment while also encouraging an exploring lifestyle that contributes to environmental problems (albeit on a much-reduced scale compared to industrial pollution).

I could choose to hike only in mountains closer to my home, but then I wouldn’t have climbed Mount Washburn on this beautiful August afternoon. Perhaps I am like most other Americans, preferring to ignore the problem, or refuse to believe all the evidence of its existence, rather than truly step up to the plate of my responsibility.

But not today, not when I am dreaming about Mount Washburn. When I am remembering the satisfaction of putting one foot in front of another as the stone base of the fire tower gradually comes into view. When I recall the greenish-brown alpine landscape spreading below me. The joy of holding onto my hat as the wind threatens to blow me away…..

For a current view from the summit of Mount Washburn, check out the Park Service web cam.

Notes and sources:

Doane, Gustavus C. “The report of Lieutenant Gustavus C. Doane upon the so-called Yellowstone Expedition of 1870 (Report).” U.S. Secretary of War. March 3, 1871.
Langford, Nathaniel P. “The Wonders of Yellowstone”. Scribner’s Magazine. May 1871.

Nijhuis, Michelle. “Forest fires: Burn out.” Nature. 19 September 2012
http://www.nature.com/news/forest-fires-burn-out-1.11424

Exploring Caves and Climbing Ladders in the New Hampshire Lakes Region

Posted on November 30, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

The boys take a break from the chill in the relative warmth of the cave’s interior.

Our only regret is that we have arrived at the cave too late. This roomy cavern, formed by boulders and slabs of rock that fell from the mountain long ago, offers both space to spread out and shelter from the wind on this chilly afternoon in early November. The cave would have made the perfect lunch spot, but we’ve already eaten.

The day is not exceptionally cold – just early November chilly. Here on this ridge above Squam Lake, my son has refused to abandon his shorts, although he willingly dons his hat as the wind blows. His friend Tucker borrows my gloves. From the 2220-foot summit of Mount Morgan, we watch snow falling on Franconia Ridge, to the north. But on the southern side of this ridge, a dull November sun lights up Squam Lake. The ridge, which forms the backbone of the Squam Range, creates a barrier between the harsher weather of the White Mountains and the milder conditions in the New Hampshire Lakes region – a perfect destination for a late fall hike.

Intrigued by reports of ladders on Mount Morgan and the cave on Mount Percival, I’ve been waiting a long time to hike this 4.7-mile loop. These extras offer a great hook for enticing my son to the mountains. Rocks! Ladders! Caves! Hiking doesn’t get any better for 11-year-olds, even for today’s computer-addicted boys.

We decide to hike the loop in a counter-clockwise direction, heading up the Percival trail for a short distance and then cutting over to the trail to Mount Morgan (the cut-off trail has a different name which escapes me, but it is the only cut-off and well-marked). The trail up Mount Morgan climbs gradually – not steep at all — until eventually it reaches what seems like a sheer rock wall. Correction: it is a sheer rock wall, hence, the ladders. (However, a few steps in the other direction takes hikers who don’t do ladders up an alternate route that offers more psychologically stable footing).

Climbing ladders on Mount Morgan

We behold the ladders – three of them, one stacked atop another, straight up the rock. The final ladder requires some Spiderman-type footwork, in which a hiker has to reach a leg over the rock and then pull up with the hands to get onto the ladder (probably not suited to very young children, but the perfect challenge for two 11-year-old boys).

We climb the ladders. No one slips and dies. After five more minutes of climbing on the rocks, we reach the summit of Mount Morgan, where we can feel the chill blowing down from the snowy north. Hats and gloves come out and, after briefly admiring the view, we continue on the Crawford-Ridgepole Trail, aiming to descend by the Percival Trail. The boys are starving by now, so we stop in the woods to eat our lunch out of the wind, and then continue on, arriving at the summit of Percival (2212 feet) within a few minutes.

Not too cold to pose for a summit shot on Mount Morgan.

After some photos and another quick view of the wintery scene to the north, we follow the arrows pointing straight down the rock face. Up close, I see that we are not scrambling straight down a rock face, as the arrows suggest. We pick our way down amidst boulders and rocks, all very safe and protected.

Finally, we arrive at the tight entrance to the cave. One by one, the boys push their feet into the opening and drop themselves inside. When my turn arrives, I pull off my daypack – I can’t fit through the opening while wearing it – and slither feet first into the cave.

Jeremy peers through the opening after squeezing his way into the cave.

I love this cave! Slabs of granite have crashed at crazy angles. Light filters through the cracks. The ‘floor’ is layered with boulders and granite slabs. Rain and snow probably do trickle inside, and sleeping on the uneven, angled floor wouldn’t be that comfortable, but still – what a perfect shelter.

“We should have had our lunch here,” Tucker says as Jeremy investigates campsite possibilities.

Next time, maybe we will start the loop in the opposite direction, so as to time our arrival at the cave with lunch. On the other hand, if we take the trail directly to the cave, we will miss the ladders on Mount Morgan, because the ladders are designed for going up rather than going down (at least for most hikers). My husband points out that we can always detour down from the ridge to the ladders and climb up again. It’s only a short downhill/uphill detour. But then again, we could bring more snacks, climb the ladders first, and hold off on lunch.

Mount Percival also offers many interesting cracks and rock formations to play in.

These decisions can wait until another day, because we will be return. This hike is a winner, a gem, like many other “smaller” hikes I have discovered in northern New England these past ten years. In my younger days, hiking meant climbing the biggest mountains. The day usually started with a 6 a.m. departure to the mountains and a nine-, ten- or 12- mile slog up and down steep trails, followed by pizza and total exhaustion.

I didn’t want to give up hiking when I became a parent. But I knew that I couldn’t take my son up big mountains and still enjoy the experience. (Some children might enjoy the challenging of trudging up and down steep mountains for many miles, but mine is not one of them). Discovering these shorter hikes, many full of intriguing features like the rock cave, has been a fringe benefit of parenthood. I’ve also learned that a great hike doesn’t have to be a 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. ordeal.

I might have forgotten to mention that the hike offers great views of Squam Lake.

We finish this hike by three p.m., leaving plenty of time to browse in the emporium that is The Old Country Store and Museum in Moultonborough, where locals and visitors have browsed the uneven wooden floors since the 1780s. I love that we are ogling the penny candy in what may be the oldest store in the United States. Alas, the store does not sell hot drinks for our cold hands.

I still like hiking big mountains. As I’ve written before, I’m pecking away at my 4000-footer list. Now that my son is getting older and has greater mental stamina and physical endurance, we’ll be trying some more challenging hikes. But the old equation of “big mountain” = “hike” has been permanently revised. Now, I’ll hike any mountain — or even a hill with a view — and call it wonderful.

Details and resources

The Morgan-Percival Loop trailhead is located on Route 113 between Holderness and Center Sandwich, NH.

Hiking Trails in the Lakes Region offers information on a variety of hikes in the Lakes region, where almost all of the hiking is family-friendly for both young kids and teenagers and everything in between. The New Hampshire Lakes Region Tourism Association website also offers information on hikes in the area.

In the Wild River Valley, a November blizzard, deep snow, and a man who perseveres to save his cat

Posted on November 16, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

Glowing beech trees along the Basin Trail.

We are hiking along Blue Brook and up the Basin Trail through a golden forest of beech trees, the color made more vibrant by the gray background of an overcast sky. Halfway up Blue Brook, a granite cliff towers over the brook as its waters tumble over granite ledges. Although today is Sunday of Columbus Day weekend, we have the trail to ourselves for most of the afternoon here in the Wild River Valley, an officially designated federal wilderness area in the White Mountain National Forest.

Every fall I try to make a trip to Evans Notch and the Wild River Valley, on the Maine-New Hampshire border. The area is only a couple of hours away from my Seacoast

A glowing tunnel of green and gold surrounded us as we hiked along the Basin Trail in early October.

home but feels remote and isolated, and sees few visitors compared to Pinkham, Crawford or Franconia Notches. Today the region is more thinly populated than it was 100 years ago when 300 people lived in the logging village of Hastings, the remnants of which were carted away and/or faded into the earth by the late 1930s (after serving as the site of a Civilian Conservation Corps camp). The site of the abandoned village now hosts a rudimentary Forest Service campground, but even campers with sharp eyes are unlikely to spot any clues of the mill, school, homes, and other buildings that once stood here.

Today, as we hike along the Basin Trail, the forest seems primeval, golden and deep. But I know it is not untouched. This trail, with its relatively gentle grade (climbing 800 feet in 2 miles), probably follows an old logging road and the surrounding forest was cut to the bone, like most of the forest in the Wild River Valley. Below the trail, on the main road into the Wild River Campground, a train line once chugged in and out of the woods, hauling felled trees to Hastings for processing.

Granite cliffs tower above Blue Brook. In warmer weather, the Brook offers many ledges and pools for cooling off.

The era of clear-cut logging in the Wild River Valley came to an abrupt end in the early 1900s, after floods and fires (caused, in part, by logging practices that left piles of slash along with barren slopes susceptible to slides) wiped out what remained of the forest along with much of the logging infrastructure. In 1912, the Hastings Lumber Company threw in the towel on its huge lumber operation, sold most of its land to the White Mountain National Forest, and abandoned this valley to the trees.

The trees came back, but the people didn’t. Logging continued on Forest Service land (as it does today, although not in the Wild River Valley Wilderness), but on a much smaller scale.

As we hike up the ridge, heading for the rim overlooking the Basin, the bowl-shaped ravine carved by a glacier, I wonder if Wilfred Caron cut the trees along this trail when he took to the woods in the fall of 1943 with his pet cat Tip. Caron, of Norway, Maine, spent that fall in a cabin somewhere in these woods as he cut birch for his boss, C.B. Cummings.

One source offers that the cabin was located in the woods seven miles up the Wild River from Gilead, NH. The cabin was probably small and dark, but cozy enough with its wood stove and cat. In the early hours of the morning, as the fire in the wood stove dwindled to embers, Tip probably snuggled close to Wilfred, keeping both of them warm.

On November 28 of that fall, an early blizzard howled up the Wild River Valley. Blizzards and temperatures that fall many degrees below zero were (and are) common in these woods, so Caron probably wasn’t worried by the storm. He and Tip hunkered down in the cabin to wait out it out. Caron turned into his bunk around 9 p.m.

At around 11, a loud snap must have startled Tip, for the cat leapt out of the bunk seconds before a yellow birch tree crashed through the roof and onto the top bunk, pinning the Caron in the bunk below. The force of the crash pushed open the cabin door and snow began to pile inside. By dawn, Caron was covered in two feet of snow and so cold that he didn’t realize he had badly injured his leg. Outdoors, more than 50 inches of snow blanketed the ground.

Hours passed. Eventually, Caron was able to reach a bucksaw, cut the tree and free himself from the bunk. He couldn’t stand on his leg, but managed to drag himself to the stove and get the fire going. He had a broken leg, but knew he had to get himself and Tip out of the cabin and to a ranger cabin several miles away. He made a pair of crutches from spruce boards.

Caron was determined. But what he didn’t know was that every conceivable obstacle would complicate his efforts to get him and his cat out of the woods. While trying to shovel a path through more than four feet of snow to the shack where his horse Jerry was stabled, Caron fell repeatedly. Three hours passed before he reached his horse. He then spent the day building a sled with boards taken from the shack. Finally, when his sled was ready, with his meat box serving as a seat, Caron placed Tip inside an egg box for the trip out. After spending an hour-and-half hobbling around trying to harness his horse, the man, his cat and his horse set out for a ranger camp three miles distant.

A mile-and-a-half from camp, the sled struck a fallen tree and tipped into a snow bank. For more than an hour, Caron struggled to get himself out of the snow and to push the sled upright. Finally, he reached the ranger camp, which was 500 feet from the road. He must have been discouraged, because no footprints marked the deep snow around the cabin.

Fortunately for Caron and for Tip, Ranger Steve MacLain was in the cabin and heard Caron shouting for help. After bundling up the injured man, MacLain led the horse and sled four miles over the unbroken road of snow and into the small village Gilead of N.H. Along the way, the ranger used his axe to cut away 40 downed trees. Finally, Caron and Tip arrived at the Gilead post office.

The cat had been saved, and Caron was a local hero, cited for bravery by the governors of both Maine and New Hampshire and lauded by humane societies around New England for his heroic effort to save Tip.

Considering the year—1943— I am guessing that Caron was an older man, at least middle-aged and possibly older. World War II was in full force and any young man strong enough to work as a logger had likely enlisted or been drafted into the military. Each day brought fresh news of the war. Kiev was liberated by the Russian Army, and the Italians were turning on the Germans, but in the Battle of Tarawa in the South Pacific, hundreds of Americans were killed. Each piece of good news was offset by some new horrible event. Every day, families received telegrams telling them of a son, brother or husband who had been killed.

But in the Wild River Valley, a man had pushed his way through deep snow on a pair of wooden boards, to save himself and to save his cat. Who wouldn’t want to cheer?

View of the Basin, in Evans Notch, from the Basin Rim Trail. You can view the Basin from another angle from the parking lot near the Basin Campground.

P.S. The Basin Trail is a great family hike. The trail arrives at a dramatic overlook above the Basin. You can do an out-and-back hike, or, if you spot cars, can continue hiking down on the Basin Trail down to the Basin itself, although the climb down will be much steeper than the climb up from the Wild River Valley. Spotting cars is a necessity, as many miles separate the two ends of the Basin Trail.

Sources:

Quimby, Beth. “Out like a lamb: A record high temperature Thursday closes out what should go down as Maine’s warmest November. But a reality check is on the way. Portland Press Herald. December 1, 2006: A1.

Wight, D.B. The Wild River Wilderness: A Saga of Northern New England. Courier Printing: Littleton, NH, 1971.

I found the story of Wilfred Caron in D.B. Wight’s history. Wight cites the date of the blizzard as November 28, but a more recent Portland Press Herald article talks about a monster blizzard that occurred in northern New Hampshire on November 23, 1943. In nearby Berlin, N.H., 55 inches of snow were recorded. Either source could be wrong on the specific date, but I’m guessing that the Wight source might be mixing up the date of Caron’s deliverance with the date of the storm.

I suspect photos and clippings of Caron’s story sit in manila folders of historical societies in Gilead, NH and/or Bethel, Maine. I hope one day to visit those societies to learn more about Caron and his story and welcome any comments from readers that know more about this event.

Rock scrambling on Welch-Dickey Loop Trail

Posted on June 26, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

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

“Totally awesome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting ready to head for the summit of Welch Mountain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking in the views on Welch Mountain.

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

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

Heading down into the col between Welch and Dickey Mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

“But not for a while,” Jeremy says.

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

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

Post-hike note:

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

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

Directions:

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

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

Posted on June 20, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

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

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

Looking up the ladders on the flank of Mt. Wilily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady’s slipper on the trail.

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

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

Interesting images and links:

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

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

Additional sources:

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

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

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

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

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

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