Category Archives: Mountains

Hiking the Belknap Range in NH’s Lakes Region

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“It’s a range, not a ridge,” I reminded my friend Hilary as we sat on a rock, resting for a few minutes on our marathon 12.2-mile traverse of the Belknap Range in Gilford/Gilmanton, NH.

Hilary had just used the word “ridge” to reference our hike on this humid day in early June —a definite misnomer, even though sections did follow ridges. When we decided to undertake this adventure, I too had been thinking of the Belknap Range as a “ridge hike,” a long but fairly easy traverse over eight low summits. We could leave the Seacoast at 6 a.m., and be back in Portsmouth for a 6 p.m. dinner at Moxy and the outdoor concert at the Music Hall. Easy-peasy, especially since the Lakes Region is just over an hour away.

I soon learned, however, that viewing the Belknap Range trek as a walk on ridge underestimates the challenge of climbing up and over eight mountains in 12.2 miles, even if Gunstock, the tallest of them, measures only 2,445 feet.

But the effort involved in tromping up, down, and over eight low mountains was definitely worth the sweat and sore feet. The Belknap Range trail crosses an incredible diversity of terrain, offering a day of wonders: mountain views, mossy woods, wildflowers, critters and more. For a detailed description of the hike, see the the Belknap Range Trail description at BelknapRangeTrails.com, an excellent guide to all trails in the range. Although the Belknap Range hike is much easier to follow these days, thanks to markers placed along the trail, we frequently consulted the trail description during our hike, as we did not want to add more mileage by taking a wrong turn and backtracking.

After meeting up at the Mount Major parking lot in Gilmanton, we headed over to Gunstock Ski Area in Gilford, where we parked, and picked up the trail to the right of the ski lodge.

We left the Gunstock parking lot at 8:30 a.m. and reached our first summit, Mt. Rowe, elevation 1,680 feet, after about 45 minutes of hoofing it uphill.
After Mount Rowe, the trail meandered through the forest on a ridge towards Gunstock Mountain. When we paused to look at some bird poop on the trail, my friend Annette looked up into the canopy and spotted a sawhet owl peering down at us.
We also saw the first of dozens of the rare and endangered Lady Slipper plant. They were abundant in the forest — early June must be their favored time to blossom.
Checking out the view from the (closed) Panorama Pub at the top of Gunstock Mountain. The pub and its deck were closed due to COVID precautions during the winter of 2021. I look forward to a future sunny February afternoon sitting at a picnic table here with beer or coffee. Next stop: Belknap Mountain, 2,322 feet high, and 3.3 miles into our 12.2 mile day.
Salamanders, salamanders, everywhere! As we hiked through the woods over to Mount Belknap, we had to be careful not to step on these little critters, and saw many throughout the day. Mount Belknap has a fire tower and I forgot to take a photo because I was hungry and tired. We ate an early lunch in the tower, and then continued on towards Round Pond.
We descended from Belknap Mountain on the aptly-named Boulder Trail, quite steep, and tricky to navigate, as the rocks were damp from rain the previous night.
Peaceful and isolated Round Pond, five miles in. Lots of beaver activity here. We hiked along the shore of the pond until we reached a junction for the Mount Klem-Mount Mack Loop, and we began to climb uphill again.
Heading towards the summit of Mount Klem, we could see where we’d come from: Belknap and Gunstock. At this juncture, we were almost half-way across the range. But I was beginning to think I might have to cancel my dinner reservation.

Mt. Klem summit, about 100 yards off the trail. Next, we headed down, and then up, and down and up, to the summit of Mack, about 7 miles in. I was feeling the distance by now, with some “hot spots” on my toes. But there was no turning back now, and we hiked on to Mount Anna, 8.5 miles in. By this time it was 3 o’clock, so I called Moxy to cancel my dinner reservation. But I was still feeling optimistic about making the concert!

After more ups and downs, we arrived at the Straitback. After mostly being in the forest all day, I enjoyed the wide open feel of the granite ledges.
Major Celebration: We reached the summit of Mount Major, overlooking Lake Winnipesaukee, around 5 p.m. Another 1.5 miles to hike to the parking lot, all downhill. Would I make it to Portsmouth in time for the concert?

We arrived at the parking lot around 5:45 pm, beat up but satisfied with our long day in the Belknap Range. I rested on the 15-minute drive to Gunstock, where I picked up my car, changed my shoes, and threw on a clean t-shirt and a shift dress. My husband was waiting in Portsmouth with a beer and a rice bowl. The concert, with Erin McKeon, had been moved indoors due to the threat of thunder showers. I nestled into my cushiony seat to enjoy my first live music experience since the start of the pandemic, and I didn’t fall asleep — success!

A hike to Mount Parker yields clues to a smallpox outbreak

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On a recent spring hike, I learned about the joys of hiking Bartlett’s Mount Parker, which offers great views of Mount Washington with far fewer people than many other White Mountain trails.

While not not an easy hike at about 8 miles round-trip, this trek offers a variety of terrain, as the trail follows an old logging road to a stretch of open forest and then climbs a series of switchbacks to the mountain’s 3,004-foot ope summit.

But what intrigued me most about the day’s adventure was the mystery at the Mount Langdon trailhead: the lonely grave of Dr. Leonard Eudy, who died far too young, at age 34, while caring for patients during a smallpox outbreak.

Dr. Eudy’s grave is located at the Mount Langdon Trailhead in Bartlett, just to the right (south) of the trail, and surrounded by protective fence. The hike to to Mount Parker begins here, with a 2.5 mile hike up the Mount Langdon trail to the junction of the Mount Parker trail.

With the Langdon Trail beckoning, I didn’t notice the gravesite when we first set out.

The Mount Langdon Trail begins as a long abandoned logging road. The gravesite is at the trailhead, to the right (or south). On this spring day, we encountered soft snow about 2 miles in.

Dr. Leonard had been caring for smallpox patients at a Bartlett logging camp when he became infected with this deadly disease, which had a mortality rate of about 30%. There were many logging camps in the White Mountains, and I couldn’t find any specific information about where the outbreak was, or why Dr. Leonard was buried here, across from the Saco River. The woods below the Mount Parker summit look young, like the area was heavily logged. Was this general area the site of the logging camp?

Late April, on the Mount Parker Trail, in the woods between the junction with the Langdon Trail, and the summit of Mount Parker. The forest was open here, free of brush, with mostly beech trees.

Dr. Leonard, born in Bethlehem, NH, had left the mountains in 1862 at age 19 to enlist in Company C 15th Regiment of New Hampshire Volunteers, joined by his two older brothers, Emphraim and William. In Carrolton, Louisiana, horseplay with another young man took a tragic turn when Eudy’s gun accidentally fired, shattering the leg of his friend, who died after the leg was amputated. This accident haunted Eudy for the rest of his life. I wonder if becoming a doctor in a small mountain community was Eudy’s way of trying to compensate for the accident, or at least to live with himself. Or maybe the illness and suffering he witnessed during the war led him to medicine. Of the 71 men in Company C, only 40 returned home. Disease killed all but four of these young men.

Eudy Leonard is pictured here with his brother, Ephraim, in their Civil War uniforms (BartlettNHHistory.com).

After the War, Eudy Leonard enrolled at Harvard Medical School, and then returned to the White Mountains, moving to Bartlett in 1871.

Smallpox vaccination had been invented by Edward Jenner in 1796. During the first part of the 19th century, smallpox outbreaks were greatly reduced with the combined tools of vaccination and isolation. Memories of smallpox faded. By the 1840s, vaccination efforts had waned. When the time the Civil War erupted, smallpox had again became prevalent in the United States.

Both the Union and Confederate Armies required all soldiers to be vaccinated, so it is possible that Eudy Leonard had a smallpox vaccine, though its effectiveness may have diminished by 1877 (during this period, smallpox vaccines were considered effective for about seven years). But it’s equally likely that Company C was never vaccinated, as often the vaccine requirement was ignored in the rush to get troops to the front lines.

By 1877, smallpox vaccine was a small industry, with vaccine “grown” on calves’ hides at “vaccine farms.” After harvesting, the vaccine was stored in a glycerine solution, or ground into a powder that was applied to the arm through a scraping process (i.e. making a wound and rubbing in the vaccine). There was no regulation of vaccine, and quality varied greatly, but the vaccine was transportable. However, it wasn’t free. I’m guessing that by 1877, most locals in the White Mountains were not vaccinated because in the absence of disease, they felt no need for a vaccine that was probably expensive by local standards.

Irregular vaccination and variable vaccine quality was fairly typical until 1902, when the last major smallpox epidemic killed 270 people in Boston. In Boston, vaccination efforts immediately ramped up, along with resistance to the vaccination and to the city’s mandate to vaccinate all people in a specific area impacted by smallpox (no one was forcibly vaccinated, but they faced a $5 fine or 15 days in jail if they refused).

The Boston epidemic changed the game for vaccination, with new federal laws passed to regulate vaccines and the first efforts to use mass vaccination campaigns as a public health tool to prevent disease. By 1932, smallpox was a rare disease in the United States. By the early 1950s, it was eradicated in the United States.

If Dr. Leonard had survived smallpox, he might have lived long enough to witness the first stage of this public health victory. Like many doctors today working with COVID-19 patients, Dr. Leonard understood the dangers of smallpox and likely tried to protect himself, but the risks didn’t stop him from doing his job of trying to save the sick from dying. I hope that in his six-year tenure in Bartlett, he took a walk or two to the summit of Mount Parker, and enjoyed the view of Mount Washington from its ledgy summit.

Sources and resources

“Cemeteries.” Bartlett, NH History. https://www.bartletthistory.org/bartletthistory/cemeteries.html

“History of Smallpox“, Centers for Disease Control.

Albert, Michael, R., M.D., Kristen G. Ostheimer, M.A., Joel G. Breman, M.D., D.T.P.H. “The Last Smallpox Epidemic in Boston and the Vaccination Controversy, 1901–1903“. The New England Journal of Medicine. February 4, 2001.

McGregor, Charles. History of the Fifteenth Regiment, New Hampshire Volunteers, pg 214  1862-1863 (cited in the Bartlett, NH History information).

Priest, Conn Granville. History of the New Hampshire Surgeons in the War of the Rebellion.(cited in the Bartlett, NH History information)

Reimer, Terry. “Smallpox and Vaccination in the Civil War.” National Museum of Civil War Medicine. November 9, 2004.

The challenge of the Brothers at Baxter State Park

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Back in April, as we weathered the COVID pandemic at home, I scored a Labor Day weekend  campsite at Baxter State Park in northern Maine.  I had visited Baxter several times before, always for the same reason: to climb Maine’s tallest mountain, 5,267-feet Mount Katahdin. Now I was ready for something different: the 11.2-mile “Brothers loop,” to 4,151-foot North Brother(4,151 feet), South Brother (3,970 feet), and Mount Coe (3,795 feet).

lean-to at Abol Campground

After a comfortable night in our lean-to at the Abol Campground, we were ready to hit the trail early on Saturday morning.  We needed to be at at the trailhead by 7:30 a.m. to make sure we snagged a parking spot at the Brothers trailhead. Parking reservations are required for Katahdin day hikers, and those arriving without a reservation often are directed to the Brothers hike as an alternative.

The hike–a loop with side trails to North and South Brother–looked like a full day’s work, but do-able. We set on the Marston Trail, a fairly easy trail that climbs steadily uphill alongside a brook. The ranger had advised us to hike the loop counter-clockwise, so we were not hiking down the steep rock faces of Mount Coe.

From the junction with the Marston Trail, Mount Coe climbs 1,600 feet over 2 miles, with most of the elevation gain in the last half-mile. Although no technical gear is required, we had to be careful where we placed our feet and and hands, as wet sections of the rock were very slippery. A fall here would be nasty. This would not be a good hike for small children or for outings with sweetheart who is new to hiking.

View down the rock face, near the summit of Mount Coe. I couldn’t take any photos while I was in the thick of climbing up the steep rock face: I had to focus all my attention on the hike.

From Mount Coe, we enjoyed a full view of the trail-less area in Baxter known as the Klondike, a true wilderness within this wilderness park, although I’m guessing that the area was logged heavily in the 19th century. As we descended back into the moss-green forest, we hike for a mile or so on a ridge, heading to South Brother.

The ridge trail (officially the Mount Coe trail) from Coe towards South Brother was an amazing green mossy wonderland.  The trail had some ups and downs, but also lots of flat areas like this.

We arrived at the junction with the South Brother trail head sooner than anticipated, and easily ascended the .3 mile side trail to the summit.

South Brother summit, just shy of 4,000 feet.

This hike is notable for its views of Katahdin’s many features, from the Knife Edge. South Basin, and Baxter Peak to the glacial sculpted Northwest Basin of Katahdin.

Views of the Klondike, and Katahdin, including Knife Edge, in distant background.

Before the hike, I had never heard of Katahdin’s dramatic Northwest Basin, with its dramatic cliff wall and circe just below Hamlin Peak.

Distant view of the Northwest Basin, from  South Brother. Note the steep rock face of the glacier-carved valley.

After backtracking to the main trail, we continued another .6 miles to the junction of the Marston Trail, and began the almost-mile long hike to the summit of North Brother.

Views of South Brother and Mount Coe from the Marston Trail as it climbs North Brother.

 

Ascending North Brother, the Marston Trail climbs up out of the woods and into the alpine scrub.

The trail became a rock pile, similar to that on Katahdin, as we got closer to the North Brother summit.

 

North Brother summit, with the Northwest Basin in the background.

 

The Northwest Basin below Katahdin. Adventuresome campers can hike into remote Davis Pond (pictured) here, and then hike up one of the park’s less-traveled trails to Katahdin’s Hamlin Peak.

At the summit, we bundled up in fleece and windbreakers, and lounged around, taking in the view of the distant mountains, North Traveler and The Traveler–another grueling loop that is on my bucket list for next summer.

From the summit of North Brother, hikers enjoy a view of Traveler Mountain up in the northeast corner of the park.

The final 5.6 miles were a slog: backtrack to the Marston Trail, then down the other side of the loop to the car.  Along the way, we took a break at beautiful Teardrop Pond. But yes, I was exhausted when I arrived at car, and happy that we had cold beer in the cooler in the car.

What I loved the most about this hike was the variety. It was a long day, but we did it all: rushing brooks, steep rock faces, soft pine-needle covered narrow paths through green mossy woods, boulder and rock scrambling, mountain ponds–a feast of natural wonder. And even though I came intent upon exploring hikes other than Mount Katahdin, I also discovered new dimensions of the great mountain.

The day after the hike, we took it easy, exploring some fishing spots and the Daicey Pond area, where visitors can pick up a paddle and take a canoe out into the pond, for a paddle around, or to link up to a trail to other ponds (the park usually charges a canoe rental fee — a $1 an hour!! — but this year, there is no charge because of COVID, i.e. limiting contact). We paddled around the pond, pulled up into the woods, and did a short hike to Grassy Pond.

Checking out Rocky Pond

On our last day, we checked out Kidney Pond, and hiked up to Rocky Pond and Little Rocky Pond. We could have canoed from pond to pond if we had planned ahead (the canoes at the upper ponds are locked, and you need to sign in to get the keys from the ranger before heading out).

On the ride home, I already was planning next year’s visit, to explore Baxter’s northeast corner, where the Traveler mountains are located, along with several other shorter hikes. My husband says he’s done with grueling 11-mile hikes, but he has a year to forget about those last five miles.

Sources and resources

Baxter State Park campsite reservations open up on a four-month rolling reservation system starting January 16 each year, with new weeks opening up every two weeks. For example, reservations for July 4 weekend open up on March 4.

4K peak-baggers often settled for an out-and-back to North Brother (9.2 miles).

A visit to Arches National Park as it all fell down

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On Friday, March 6, Logan Airport was packed with travelers heading out on winter escapes. People crowded together, waiting to board with ski bags and backpacks. But in the bathroom, everyone was washing their hands with a furor I’d never seen before.  The virus was around, but everyone was still traveling. Why not? We’d heard about a few cases, popping up here and there, but the virus was a distant annoyance, not a threat.

Still, I wondered: was the virus closer than we thought?  The news about the virus in Italy was especially ominous, but Italy was an ocean away. At the ski resort of Park City, Utah, in the lift lines and in the crowded mountain cafeteria-style restaurants, people jostled against one another, conversing in many languages: French, German, Spanish — and Italian.

Although I enjoyed our reunion with old friends in Park City, I was ready to get away from the crowds, and head south and east to Moab, Utah, to explore Arches National Park before heading home to Maine and my students.

The Courthouse Towers greet visitors shortly after entering Arches National Park. We visited in early March, in the first days of “prime season.”  The park was busy but not mobbed, reminding me “off-peak” is the best time to many National Parks. It closed shortly after our visit because of COVID-19.

Arches is a relatively small national park of about 120 square miles. You could tuck it into a corner of Rhode Island, which is about 10 times larger. But the park terrain is rugged and often dangerously hot, which deterred exploration of its many nooks and crannies. When established as a National Monument in 1929, its 90 arches were cited as national treasures, and until 1970, Arches National Park still had 90 arches. But thanks to an ambitious documenting effort carried out by a handful of people over a thirty-year period, we know now that  the park has more than 2,000 arches.

The arches are constantly changing, with new ones forming over decades and centuries,  and old ones eroding, crumbling and even collapsing. In 2008, Wall Arch collapsed in the middle of the night. No one witnessed the collapse but campers at the Devils Garden Campground reported hearing thunder that night. The next day, park rangers found that the arch was gone, its tons of sandstone rubble strewn over the Devil’s Garden Trail. In September, 1991, a huge chunk of Landscape Arch, the longest known arch on the planet, broke off.

photo of Landscape Arch

Landscape Arch, on the Devil’s Garden Trail.  Prior to 1991, hikers could walk up to the arch, but after a huge chunk fell to the ground, the park built fences to keep hikers at a distance.  Several park visitors witnessed this event, including a man who videotaped it (see link to video at the end of this post).

Although Arches has plenty of backcountry terrain that can be explored with all-terrain vehicles, most visitors experience the park via the 18-mile scenic drive, with many trailheads for day hikes located off this road.

We began our visit by setting out for the end of the road, to the Devil’s Garden Trailhead, which would take us to Landscape Arch, and then to the Double O Arches.

As we hiked past Landscape Arch, the hikers thinned out, but plenty of people remained on the trail. On one side of the trail loomed the  hoodoos of the Devil’s Garden. Although the Devil’s Garden isn’t a massive area, it is easy to get disoriented among the sandstone formations, so hiking is allowed there only by guided ranger tour.

On the trail to Double O Arch, hikers scramble up and onto a sandstone fin that may some day become an arch. Hiking along the narrow fin, we weren’t really thinking of social distance, but of courteously maneuvering so that all hikers could pass back and forth safely.

 

The lower half of Double O Arch, with a a much larger second arch directly above it.

Back in Moab, news of the virus was circling, even if the virus not yet circulating. At dinner at the bustling Vietnamese-inspired 98 Central Restaurant, the owners provided  wipes to sanitize phones. At the Park Service Visitor Center, staff had tape had placed tape over the water bubblers, but we could still draw water for our bottles  from the hand-cranked pump outside. Posted signs reminded visitors to wash their hands.

image of north window arch

Exploring North Window Arch (and then its twin, South Window), located off a short side road from the main Park road.

Among the Arches, the idea of the virus seemed unreal. But then, everything started tumbling down. My daughter received an email from her college, telling her not to return. Who had ever heard of colleges closing down? In Boston and New York, the virus was exploding at exponential rates. For better or worse, it was easy to get phone service in the park, and I had to restrain myself from constantly checking on virus-related news.

On our second day, we decided to hike out to Delicate Arch, probably the most famous arch in the park, and well-visited, even though visiting requires a moderately strenuous 3-mile round-trip hike. The hike sets out from Wolfe Ranch, where 69-year-old Civil War veteran John Wesley Wolfe settled with his son Fred in 1898.  Wolfe, who hailed from Ohio, had suffered since the War from a nagging leg injury, and hoped that the drier climate might help his leg. Here, they grazed 1,000 head of cattle on 100 acres for about 10 years.

For several years, John Wesley Wolfe lived in this one-room cabin along with his son Fred, daughter Flora, her husband and their two children. This cabin, built in 1906 when Flora arrived, replaced a previous structure where John and Fred had lived for about 8 years, and which Flora deemed inhabitable (National Park Service photo).

The hike to Delicate Arch took us up along open sandstone slabs, easy on legs used to the steep trails of eastern mountains (but probably hot as hell on a summer day). In the distance, thunder rumbled, and we kept a close eye on a dark cloud to see where it was heading.

The arch and the surrounding landscape were dramatic, especially as dark clouds swept across the sky. But oddly, the experience was underwhelming. Partly because lots of people were there, and partly because my mind was cluttered up with news about the virus. Would I be returning to my classroom when I got home? Should I be concerned about my mom flying on an airplane on her return trip from Florida?

photo of delicate arch

Delicate Arch, one of the iconic sites at Arches National Park.

On Friday, we drove back to Salt Lake City to catch a midnight red-eye back to Boston.  At the airport, the crowds had thinned. I had purchased window seats for the three of us, so that we could doze against the cabin wall. Now, the middle seats were empty.

In the aisle seat of my row, an older gentleman from Wyoming, dressed in full cowboy regalia, was heading to Ireland for a long-planned trip of a lifetime. He seemed unaware of the virus, or that it might impact his plans. I wondered what would happen to him and continued to wonder, when, a few days later, flights from Europe were suspended (although I know Ireland andGreat Britain, were the last European countries for which flights were shut down).

After the Arches came the virus days. Many hours of sitting at the computer, working with students and administering at a distance. Lots of checking on the news. Later, I learned that Park City — along with Sun Valley, Idaho — had infection rates (but not case numbers) equivalent to New York City, mostly because travelers from hard-hit urban and international locations had unknowingly delivered the virus to the further reaches of the country. Now, I feel grateful — and lucky –that I did not pick up the virus, or spread it to someone else.

Someday, I’ll get back to Moab. I want see the sunset at Dead Horse State Park, and explore bike trails suitable for a mild mountain biker. But for now, armchair travel will take the place of planes and trains. My armchair sits next to the window, which offers a view to other dramas: bluebirds building nests, a flock of congregating turkeys, a small gang of foraging deer. I’ll take it, with gratitude.

Sources and resources

On September 1, 1991, park visitor Michael Muller captured the crumbling of Landscape Arch on video, exhibited at this National Park Service site.

For more information, visit the website for Arches National Park.

Mountain spring: hike to North Doublehead

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Mountains in spring, breath
clean oxygen. Listen:  in
the spruce, loving birds.

I’ve been working with my students on form poems, including haiku. Thus, I attempt to describe a recent hike with a combination of haiku, photos and text. Indulge me.

Taking a break on the trail up North Doublehead. The wide trail was built by the Saco Conservation Corps in 1934 as a backcountry ski trail, and makes for a great short hike in spring, summer and fall, about two miles to the summit.

Beckoning trails lead
to destinations but feel
like mystery paths.

The Ski Trail never gets very steep, and I’ve almost convinced myself that I could ski it next winter, in perfect conditions. But I’m sure it gets bumped up with ditches and mogul from avid backcountry skiers.

Long ago, young men
dripped sweat, hauling rocks and logs
to build a cabin.

The cabin on North Doublehead, popular with winter skiers and youth groups, is locked but can be reserved through the Forest Service. We discovered some lunch rocks with a great view of snow-covered Mount Washington.

The cabin was built by the CCC during the Depression and has been renovated several times, but still maintains many old features, like the stone foundation and chimney covered with a slab of rock. The cabin includes two small bunk rooms and a small community area with a wood stove.

On the ridge, young trees
erase old scars, wilding land
buzzing saws stripped bare.

Doublehead offers several looping options. At this junction, we had to decide whether to continue on for a longer hike to South Doublehead, and then double-back (or descend from South D. on another trail that exited about a half-mile from the car).  We opted to wait on South Doublehead for another day. This turned out to a good decision as the route down the Old Path was steep and icy, and required care and our full attention, even with micro spikes.

Mountains in spring: two
worlds, the barren forest plus
forgotten winter.

After stepping down the sometimes treacherous “Old Path” trail, we stepped into spring on the lower half of the mountain. The Old Path is fine for experienced hikers but I do not recommend taking children on this piece of the journey in spring. Out and back on the Ski Trail is the easiest route.

From the back porch, spring
sunsets on distant mountains
until trees unfurl.

At the day’s end, a view through the trees to the mountains and the sunset.

Note:

As of Friday, April 24, the White Mountain National Forest closed down many popular trailheads to try to spread out hikers prevent the spread of coronavirus, but many lesser-known trails remain open. I feel grateful that I’ve been able to do some hiking this spring.  The adventure described here met the guidelines for New Hampshire’s stay-at-home order.

Sources and resources
“Doublehead Mountain, CCC Ski Trails, New Hampshire.” NewEnglandSkiHistory.com

Giving up on Isolation

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When we set out from Kittery at 6 a.m., I knew we had a grueling day ahead of us: two+ hours to the trailhead, 11.5+ miles of hiking, 5,000+ feet of elevation gain. Mount Isolation is one of the “shortest” mountains on the list of the 48 New Hampshire “4,000 footers,” but, as its name suggestions, reaching its summit is not easy, as Isolation is located on a ridge south of Mount Washington, six to nine miles from the nearest road.

After more than 30 years of White Mountains hiking,  this climb to Isolation would be my final 4,000-footer.  I had planned for this day, opting to hike on July 1, when we are still enjoying the longest days of the year, so we didn’t have to worry about walking out in the dark. We brought plenty of food, as I knew we might be hiking well past the dinner hour. For days, the forecast showed clear skies and no storms.  I knew the hike was going to be challenging, with all of that elevation gain, mostly from going uphill, then downhill, then uphill again. But hiking is all about putting one foot in front of the other.  I could do that, with stops for rest, for hours and hours.

It took us longer than expected to get to Pinkham Notch, where we met my friend Louisa, used the bathrooms, and then left one car there before backtracking .7 miles south to the Glen Boulder trailhead. Optimistically, I thought that if we had the energy, we might complete the hike as a loop down Boott Spur, which would land us at Pinkham Notch.

I had read that the Glen Boulder trail was steep and tough, but I didn’t find it any worse than most White Mountain trails. However, as our teenaged companions Jen and Kiara hiked on ahead of us,  I noted that the trail seemed too flat for the steep uphill I was prepared for. Was this the Avalanche Brook Ski Trail mentioned in the guidebook?  After about a half-mile of walking on this flat stretch, I took out the pages photocopied from Steven Smith and Mike Dickerman’s book, The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains, and confirmed that we had definitely taken a wrong turn onto the ski trail. As we backtracked to Glen Boulder, we ran into two young women who had made the same mistake, and, like us, had missed the glaringly obvious signs on the trail.  We were able to confirm by phone that our teenaged companions were on the right trail, and agreed to meet up at Glen Boulder.

Photo near Glen Boulder

My friend Louisa and I face the blustery winds just above the treeline. A downhill hiker warned us that the wind — forecast to blow at 20-40 mph with 60 mph gusts — could reduce us to crawling on our hands and knees, but the heaviest winds had diminished as we climbed towards Glen Boulder. All in all, a good reminder of how rapidly conditions change above treeline in the White Mountains.

High above us, we could see Jen and Kiara picking their way towards Glen Boulder, and we soon caught up, where we rested rested in the lee of the boulder and enjoy a  snack out of the wind.

Glen Boulder, dumped on the edge of a mountain by a glacier 10,000 or so years ago. Up close, the boulder seems like an ordinary huge boulder, but later, as we hiked down Boott Spur, the far-away boulder looked like it could topple at any moment off the mountain and into Pinkham Notch.

After our rest stop, we continued upward as an ominous gray cloud rolled in over Mount Washington.  By now, the wind had subsided — probably a front had blown through and brought the cloud — and the air had chilled, but the temperature remained comfortable. Still, we weren’t sure whether the cloud would just sit there hanging out or evolve into a thunderstorm. We reached the junction with the Davis Path around 2 p.m. and contemplated our options.  

Looking over the Gulf of Slides, where snow still lingered in July.  We could still feel the wind, and, more significantly, what the wind had delivered: a massive gray cloud.

The trail descending towards Isolation looked open and beautiful — but I knew we would also have to hike back up.

At the junction of Glen Boulder and the Davis Path, we take a selfie while weighing options. Note that everyone has pulled on their fleece on what began as a beautiful summer day down in the valley below.

I could tell that Jen and Kiara were tired. I WAS tired. It might thunder. I knew that we could do the hike and get out before darkness fell, but then we had the two+hour drive back to Kittery. Yes, it was too much.  Isolation would have to wait for another day.  But the Boott Spur cut-off trail was only another .4 mile up the Davis Path and the cloud wasn’t making any noise.  We headed uphill towards Mount Washington.

The Davis Path, heading towards Boott Spur and Mt. Washington. This historic path, which extends 9 miles south on the Montalban Ridge, was first built in 1844-1845  as a bridle path for tourists visiting Mt. Washington. It felt into disuse in the 1850s, and was rebuilt as a hiking trail in the early 20th century. Someday, I want to hike the entire path (much of it at a lower elevation, and in the woods).

We enjoyed a beautiful rugged hike above treeline, and then down the Boott Spur and into the woods.

Hiking along the Boott Spurr, we had terrific views of Turckerman’s Ravine, and could still see the tracks in the snow left by the skiers who flocked here in May and early June.

The downhill hike was relentlessly tough and included a steep ladder, but we reached Pinkham about 5:15 p.m., as predicted, where we cooled off with sweet drinks and recovered on a bench. Louisa dropped us off at my car and we headed into North Conway for pizza at Flatbread, where I fueled up for the ride home with Diet Coke.  Two hours later, filthy, sweaty, and smelly, we landed back in Kittery.

I didn’t complete the 4K list but we lived for another day of hiking in the White Mountains, the best and worst training grounds for other hikes. 

In hindsight, I think my brain and body understood that the climb to Isolation, plus the five hours of driving, was too much for me to do in one day.  I had felt anxious about the hike rather than excited about reaching my goal. I didn’t sleep well the night before, and began the day feeling tired.

But I have a plan for next time: instead of making the hike a one-day event, I will stay for a night or two at Lake of the Clouds hut below Mount Washington and hike to Isolation from there. The hike down and then back up to the hut will still be long and grueling. But the day will be all about the hike, rather than the travel. And if I stay at the hut, I just might have a small bottle of champagne — or a can of beer — waiting for me to crack open and celebrate my 4K quest.

Notes and resources

The two most-often used routes to Isolation include the long 7-mile (14 mile RT) trek on the Rocky Branch Trail, which follows an old railroad bed, then a couple of other trails to the summit, or the Glen Boulder route that we followed.  The Rocky Branch route is longer often muddy, and requires several river crossings (usually fine, except after a storm), and the other is shorter, steeper and more scenic. My sense is that I would find both equally challenging for different reasons. However, other hikers complete these routes in one day all the time.

August days in Death Valley

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During the summer months at Death Valley, birds sometimes drop out of the sky, killed by the extreme heat. Would our car die as well? As the car slid down Highway 190 into Death Valley, the temperature indicator continued to climb: 105, 110, 112, 115, eventually topping out at 123 degrees F. Would the tires hold up? Can cars even drive in such heat?

We’d hardly seen another vehicle on this road on this hot August afternoon. But when we pulled into the parking lot at Father Crowley Vista Point, we felt better, as plenty of other visitors joined us there for views of Rainbow Canyon.

We had read that birds sometimes sometimes drop out of the sky, and then, on a short morning hike, we found this little bird, still warm.

Visiting Death Valley at the peak of summer is a unique experience. It’s probably  not for everyone,  but I went there in August, 2018, and had a lovely time exploring the park, the largest outside of Alaska.

Although we had a car full of camping gear, camping was not an option. As we drove by, one lonely tent sat in the campground at Emigrant, and not a single tree.  The temperature here was about 119 degrees, and probably  15 or 20 degrees higher in the  heat-absorbing tent.  But summer is “low season” at Death Valley, and we scored a last-minute air-conditioned room at the Furnace Creek Ranch, motel-style accommodations with a mediocre family-style restaurant and a fantastic pool. Across the road, the fancy Furnace Creek Inn beckoned with all of its 1920s glamour and low summer rates, but alas, the inn was full.

In the winter, I could spend a lot of time exploring the nooks and crannies of Death Valley, which features mountains and canyons galore, as well as the lowest point in the United States, Badwater Basin. There is also the weird Scotty’s Castle, one-time vacation home to Chicago businessman Albert Johnson and his wife Bessie, along with their sidekick, the con artist/cowboy Walter Scott. Unfortunately, the Castle is closed until 2020, as it sustained severe damage in a 2015 flash flood.

In the summer, signs posted everywhere remind visitors that hiking after 10 a.m. is dangerous and not recommended. Thus, we set our alarms for 4:45 a.m., intent on greeting the day at Badwater Basin. By dawn, the temperature had cooled to a reasonable 100 degrees or so — a dry heat.  By 5:30 a.m.,  we were wandering around the Basin in blissful solitude.

Soaking up 282 feet below sea level as the sun rises as Badwater Basin, the lowest point in the United States.

By the time we left the Basin around 7 a.m., three or four other people had gathered. I love national parks, but they are often very crowded. Lack of crowds is a huge benefit in visiting Death Valley  and other parks off-season.

After the sunrise, when the temperature had climbed to a reasonable 105 or so, we headed up a nearby gravel road to the trailhead for the short hike into Natural Bridge Canyon.

The hike up Natural Bridge Canyon is do-able in extreme heat, especially before 10 a.m.

The hike — about one-mile round trip, depending on how far you hike in — offers some fun rock scrambles and interesting geological features.

Scrambling up the rocks in Natural Bridge Canyon.

Then, after a drive along Artist’s Palette loop road, (which shows off its best colors closer to sunrise or sunset) we returned to the air-conditioned visitor’s center to check out the exhibits, and then to our room at the Ranch for siesta.

The pool at the Furnace Creek Ranch feels very decadent in this land of little rain, but I still enjoyed lounging around in it during the hottest part of the afternoon as well as later in the evening, when the temperatures cooled to a balmy 105 degrees or so.  An abundant natural spring supplies water to the pool through a gravity-fed system, and the water is then re-used to irrigate the landscaping, gardens and the resort’s golf-course. Learning all of this — and that the resort is a California Green Lodging Certified property — eased any remaining guilt I felt about cooling off.

That evening, after a visit to the glamorous Furnace Creek Inn for a late afternoon snack, we headed to Zabriskie Point to catch the sunrise and watch the colors of the sunrise play out across the folds of the Death Valley.

Zabriskie Point at sunset. Don’t be fooled by my solitary pose — sunset at Zabriskie always attracts a crowd, even on the hottest days of summer.

Death Valley attracts many European visitors in August, and we found ourselves surrounded by a mix of French, German, Italian, Spanish and other voices.

After sunset, the temperature cooled down.

Evidence suggests that like many places on earth, Death Valley is heating up even further. Summers have always been hot at Death Valley. But in 2018, Death Valley had it warmest ever July, breaking the record set during 2017, with an average daily temperature of 108.2, six degrees higher than usual.  At the Furnace Creek weather station, the high temperature hit at least 120 degrees on 21 days. On four days, the temperature soared to 127 degrees.  (The highest temperature ever of 131 degrees Farenheit was “reliably recorded” at Furnace Creek on June 30, 2013).

An outdoor museum at the Furnace Creek Ranch showcases wagons, tools, and other artifacts leftover from the 1883-1889 borax mining era at Harmony Borax Works, near Furnace Creek. Various mining operations continued to operate in the park for most of its history, with the last mine closing in 2005.

A  “wet bulb” temperature of 100 degrees F (35 Celsius) and 85% humidity that equals 167 degrees is the maximum heat limit for human survivability, because the body’s cooling system can’t keep pace with the heat (see Leahy source, below).  The NOAA National Weather Service Heat Index shows the combinations of heat and humidity that produce specific “wet bulb” temperatures.

But wet bulb temperatures below 167 degrees also kill people. In 2015, a heat wave that generated wet-bulb temperatures of 122 degree F killed over 3,500 people in India and Pakistan. Chicago experienced a similar heat wave in 1995, and hundreds of people died. Thanks to climate change, we can expect more Death Valley-like days everywhere in years to come.

The Timbisha Shoshone people, who still call Death Valley home, knew how to  survive in this harsh environment. But Death Valley earned its name for a reason. At Furnace Creek, the spring-fed pools and air-conditioned rooms changed our experience of the heat from a threat to a novelty that we could experience, and then retreat from to a cooler environment.  But around the world, millions of people in hot zones — along with plants and wildlife — have no access to a cooler artificial environment. I wonder how we will adapt as major cities around the world routinely experience stretches of Death Valley days.

Being an optimist, or perhaps willfully blind, I’ll end by saying that I look forward to returning to Death Valley, but probably in another season, when birds don’t drop from the sky, and I can spend the entire day outdoors exploring this amazing national resource.

Good-bye, Death Valley, until I return in my camper van (a few years down the road).

Sources and resources

This cool map of Death Valley, from the National Park Service, displays in a couple of different ways.

“Death Valley posts hottest month ever recorded on Earth, for the second July in a row,” by Ian Livingston and Jason Samenow.  The Washington Post, August 1, 2018.

“Parts of Asia May Be Too Hot for People by 2100,” by Stephen Leahy.  National Geographic News, August 2, 2017.

 

Exploring the streets of the mountains in the Onion Valley

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On the map, Onion Valley looks remote and inaccessible, an impression confirmed by the drive on a twisting mountain road from Independence, California.

After a 15-mile drive from Independence, the road ends at the Forest Service campground, at an elevation of 9,600 feet.

In town, we pass the home of  writer Mary Austin, best known for her 1903 essay collection, The Land of Little Rain, a short collection of quiet prose describing the natural and human world of the southern Sierra and Owens Valley.  I had packed the Dover Thrift edition (weight 3 oz) and was looking forward to becoming re-acquainted with Austin.

As a literary type, I was thrilled to suddenly come upon Mary Austin’s house after we turned off Route 395 to head up to Onion Valley.

My three friends and I were logistically prepared for a five-night backpacking trip in the southern Sierra, where, wrote Austin, “all streets of the mountains lead to citadels.”  However, an unlucky accident involving a slashed toe (not mine) meant we had to consider a plan B. We had a day or so to decide.

The Onion Valley Campground, tucked into a small glacial valley and surrounded by mountains, was definitely remote. But not inaccessible. On this summer weekend, the campground was full to bursting with campers and hikers, including many coming off or starting out on the John Muir Trail.  But the campground, populated by tired hikers, was quiet. That evening, as a sliver of moon rose in the sky, we shut the place down as we read Mary Austin around the picnic table.

In the morning, the toe looked gruesome, but its owner was up for a short hike to test it. We headed up a rough trail towards Robinson Lake.  The map showed a 1.5 mile hike, but we missed the actual trail and ended up following a series of herd paths that took us up a steeper and longer route.

Robinson Lake, a 1.5 mile hike from Onion Valley that was more challenging than I expected. The water was FREEZING! (And I’m from Maine, so I know cold).

We spent the afternoon relaxing and exploring around the lake.

Another view of Robinson Lake.

The grove of Jeffrey pines on the shore of Robinson Lake would make a great campsite. With a permit, camping is allowed, although the lake mostly attracts day hikers.

That evening, as we enjoyed our rehydrated Good-to-Go pad Thai meal, we decided to call off the backpack. Instead, three of us would set off on the 9-mile round-trip hike to Kearsarge Pass, elevation 11,700 feet.  Our injured friend would pack up the campsite (as we had to move to another site) and try to meet up with us later in the day, when she felt ready.

The trail to Kearsarge Pass travels a well-packed series of switchbacks. Right from the beginning, the hiking was easier than the day before. Maybe because it was a better trail, or maybe because we were hiking ON the trail, and not bushwhacking.  Or maybe our lungs had adjusted to the altitude. Regardless, the 4.7 hike up to the pass, with about 2,000 feet of elevation gain, did not feel difficult.

On the dusty trail towards Kearsarge Pass. The horses are from the Sequoia Kings Pack Outfit pack station, which resupplies hikers on the John Muir Trail.

View of Heart Lake, one of five mountain lakes that hikers pass en route to Kearsarge Pass.

As hikers approach the pass, steep slopes of Sierra scree rise above the trail. The trail itself is hard-packed dirt, and easy walking, at least if you are coming from the roots and rocks of New England.

At the pass, we enjoyed a cocktail-party like atmosphere with as  hikers stopped to rest and chat.   Below us stretched a basin with Kearsarge and Charlotte Lakes, where we had originally planned to camp.  The John Muir trail beckoned.  

We didn’t get to complete our five-day backpack, but I wasn’t really disappointed. I was in the company of three fabulous friends with whom I rarely get to spend time.  And we had learned so much about what we could do, many years after our first days of hiking together.  Like all hiking, the hike to Kearsarge pass was a process of putting one foot in front of the other, many times.  The 211-mile John Muir Trail — and any trail — remains within our reach.

Okay, we weren’t carrying heavy packs, and we’ll need to do some training if we want to enjoy rather than just endure a 200-mile hike. But we can do it.

As Mary Austin wrote, “There is always another year, and another.” Now, as summer turns to fall, it’s time to start planning.

All smiles at Kearsarge Pass.

The view from Kearsarge Pass, including Kearsarge and Bullfrog Lakes. Our original plan called for us to drop down into this basin and set up a lakeside campsite.

Sources and resources

The Inyo National Forest Onion Valley Campground site provides information about campground reservations and wilderness permits. The Forest Service accepts permit applications six months in advance, and limits the number of permits. We applied for ours back in February.

The excellent John Muir Trail planning site of the Pacific Crest Trail Association is a great place to begin planning for an extended JMT hike.

Rangeley Days Redux: Moose, mountains, and memories

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Rangeley, Maine – Our first day at the lake was windy and mostly gray, a good one for moose hunting.  We don’t always get our moose, but with the right timing and luck, we’d bagged moose last year and the year before. Could we score the hat trick?

Moose hunting in Rangeley requires strategy and preparation. First, timing. Dawn and dusk work best. Second, location: Route 16, heading towards Stratton, locally known as Moose Alley. Third, preparedness: cameras out, at the ready, not packed away in a backpack or purse.

The Coplin Dinner House offers farm-to-table dining and pub grub, in a renovated farmhouse just south of Stratton, Maine.

To carry out our plan, we drove up Route 16 and turned south in Stratton, on to Route 27, for a 6 p.m. dinner reservation at the Coplin Dinner House, a recent addition to local dining scene. The food was excellent, especially the roasted Brussel sprouts. A good meal prepared by someone else is one of my favorite gifts. Also, it makes me happy to see a young couple making it in rural Maine by establishing a successful destination restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

On the way home, as dusk settled in, we stopped in at the Town of Stratton public works garage, checking the muddy wetlands on both sides of the road. Legend has it that moose flock to these wetlands for the runoff from the town’s salt piles. However, over 15 years of looking, I have never seen a moose here. And, once again, no moose.

We continued down Route 16, as one set of passengers scanned right and the other  scanned left into the grassy meadows and dark stands of spruce, while also keeping an eye out for pulled-over vehicles, a sure sign of moose. We drove and drove, losing hope. But then, a few miles outside of Rangeley, we hit the jackpot: a car pulled over on the  right!

Mother moose and her calf, on Route 16, aka “Moose Alley,” between Rangeley and Stratton, Maine.

Spotting one moose makes me happy.  A lengthy roadside visit with a mother moose and her calf overfilled my cup of gratitude. Our second day in Rangeley, and already the week was pretty much made. Who cares if the forecast calls for a week of wind and rain? I have books.

Just outside of Oquossoc village, the fire tower atop Bald Mountain offers views of Rangeley and Mooselookmeguntic Lakes, and endless mountains. Most hikers climb 1.3 mile trail off Bald Mountain Road, but an alternate trail from Route 4 offers a slightly longer hike (connecting with the main trail).

The rain isn’t constant, and we find a window to squeeze in a hike to Bald Mountain, just across the lake.  A dozen years ago, when we were coaxing five-year-olds up the trail, Bald Mountain seemed like a major hike.  But now, climbing Bald is a warm-up for more ambitious adventures.  Other nearby favorites include Tumbledown Mountain and Aziscohos Mountain (see link at the bottom of the post), but I am always on the lookout for a new destination.

Blueberry Mountain (2,962 feet), just outside of Weld, seemed like the right fit for our group’s mix of hiking experience: a 4.4 mile round-trip to an open summit.  On Wednesday, we enjoyed an excellent hike under gray skies, including a walk on open granite as we neared the summit. I love the feeling of freedom I experience on a mountaintop.

Atop the summit of Blueberry Mountain in Weld, and watching the clouds roll in over Jackson and Tumbledown Mountains. Blueberry Mountain is located off Route 142, about a half-hour from downtown Rangeley.

Blueberry Mountain had its fair share of blueberries, but nothing like the bonanza of blueberries at the Wilhelm Reich Museum property, where the public is welcome to pick. The blueberry crop varies from year to year; this harvest was exceptional.  My freezer is full of blueberry anti-oxidants and I am ready for Thanksgiving, and my annual contribution of Rangeley wild blueberry pie. Baking that pie the day before Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holiday rituals.

My mother, now age 83, always joins us for the blueberry picking, but she can’t climb mountains. That’s why I love Quill Hill, in Dallas Plantation, a few miles outside of Rangeley (and off Route 16). A local contractor has built an elegant four-mile dirt road to the Quill Hill summit so that everyone can enjoy the spectacular 360 degree views. Visiting Quill Hill requires a $10 admission fee, but this hill is a labor of love, not profit.  Taking my mom to this sunset view makes me happy.

Sunset at 2,848-foot Quill Hill, where visitors enjoy views of the Rangeley Lakes, Western Maine mountains, and Flagstaff Lake.

We visited Quill Hill on our last night in Rangeley, so the evening there was bittersweet.  A beautiful evening, magnificent colors — but also a reminder that our time in Rangeley –and everywhere — is fleeting.

I need to remember it all.  The baby loon with its mother in Hunter Cove.  Sunny (and windy) afternoons on the dock.  Reading on the porch. Gathering around the campfire, as kids roasted marshmallows and loon calls echoed across the lake. On Saturday morning, I packed up these memories along with dirty laundry and leftover food.  After packing the car, I took one last set of photos,  and we hit the road, filled up until next summer.

From the dock, we can see the sun sets over Bald Mountain.

Sources and resources:

For a detailed description of the trail to Blueberry Mountain, see the excellent greatly expanded 2018 edition of the Maine Mountain Guide edited by Cary Kish. (Also, note that there is another Blueberry Mountain in Maine, in Evans Notch.

For more reading on Rangeley, see my post, “Rangeley days, now far away.”

For more info on Tumbledown, Aziscohos, and other great family hikes, see my post, “Round-up: Five great family hikes in Maine” (in which I also happen to discuss the Evans Notch Blueberry Mountain).

Back on the trail to Mount Belknap with Windows to the Wild

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Click on the image to view the episode.

On a hot spring day in early May, I met up again with the crew from New Hampshire Public Television’s Windows to the Wild: host Willem Lange and producers Steve Giordani and Phil Vaughn. The resulting show, titled “Hiking with the Maniacal Traveler” was broadcast on NHPTV in May and now is available for online viewing here.

We had decided to do an episode focused on a hike to Guilford’s Mount Belknap, where a plane crashed in June of 1972 after vanishing shortly after take-off from Laconia Airport, in New Hampshire’s Lakes Region. My 2015 post, One hike, many discoveries: A plane crash, fire tower and stone-age couches,” describes this hike, which I did with my son several years ago.

Initially, we planned the hike for mid-April, which I thought might be too ambitious, given the huge snow dumps we’d had three weeks earlier. The crash site is located on a steep rocky incline, where I knew deep pockets of snow and patches of ice would linger.   So it was good news when producers Steve Giordani told me they had to reschedule for May.

What I didn’t know then was that long-time host Willem Lange lost his wife Ida in mid-April. I never met Ida, but she sounds like she was an amazing person  — another maniacal traveler — as explained in a recent Boston Globe story, “Ida Lange, at 78; from a fraught childhood she became a community leader and her husband’s muse,”and by Willem himself, “We were inextricably engaged, truly for better or for worse.”

I learned of Ida’s death when we met up on Carriage Mountain Road in Gilford on the morning of the hike. Willem expressed to me that he felt like he hadn’t fully processed his loss, and was going about his usual routines of taking Kiki for walks, and preparing for the upcoming show, which had already been scheduled for airing on May 23.

We set off on our hike on Carriage Mountain Road. The winter gate remained closed, and we had to walk a mile up the road to the trailhead.  The extra mile was our first travail; others followed.  I won’t reveal more except to say that the day reinforced all the key fundamentals of hiking: know your limits; use your map wisely; and carry more food and water than you think you will need. Also, spring days before the forest has burst into its canopy are sometimes the hottest of the season, even if the temperature is seasonable.

But travails make for good stories. And as my 19th century friend Henry Thoreau tells us, “I have climbed several higher mountains without guide or path, and have found, as might be expected, that it takes only more time and patience commonly than to travel the smoothest highway.”

Our short hike to Mount Belknap took more time and patience than expected, but at the fire tower, I remembered, as Thoreau tells us, that  “On tops of mountains, as everywhere to hopeful souls, it is always morning.”

A trail’s end selfie with Phil Vaughn (in back) and Steve Giordani, all of us still smiling at the end of our long day of hiking and filming on Mount Belknap. Steve and Phil are the producers for Windows to the Wild.

Sources and resources

“We were inextricably engaged, truly for better or for worse,” by Willem Lange. April 18, 2018, The Valley News. (West Lebanon, Vermont).

“Ida Lange, at 78; from a fraught childhood she became a community leader and her husband’s muse,” by Bryan Marquard. The Boston Globe, May 28, 2018.

In January 2017, I visited Orris Falls in South Berwick with Windows to the Wild, available here.  My blog post, Travels on the White Rose Road to Orris Falls, and featuring 19th century guest Sarah Orne Jewett (and others) inspired this episode.