Tag Archives: 4.000 footers

A September walk in the woods: Mount Cabot to Unknown Pond

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Mount Cabot or the Carters? As I drove up Pinkham Notch early on a lovely September Saturday, the many cars spilling from every parking lot cinched my decision: on to Mount Cabot.  I would escape the crowds on this gorgeous day, but also have some company on the lightly traveled Kilkenny Ridge–a good thing, as I was hiking solo.

As it turns out, while Mount Cabot is off the beaten path, it isn’t all that remote. Just outside of Berlin, New Hampshire, the York Pond-Bunnell Notch and Unknown Pond trails begin at the state fish hatchery on York Pond Road. When I arrived, I found about ten cars at the trailhead—enough hikers, but not too many.

Having come this far, I was aiming to complete the 11.5 mile loop up through Bunnell Notch to Mount Cabot and then over Kilkenny Ridge to Unknown Pond. However, feet problems have limited my hiking, so the 9.2 out-and-back to the Cabot peak was also an option.

My recommendation:  if you get yourself up to Mount Cabot, do the entire loop. The hiking is fairly easy, by White Mountains standards, beginning with the first mile of overgrown logging road and including lots of easy pine-needle walking on Kilkenny Ridge. The trek includes 3,00o feet of elevation gain, so it’s not a walk, but covering the miles with breaks at the Mount Cabot cabin, the Horn, and Unknown Pond makes for a great day in the woods.

First views come at Bunnell Rock, just off the Kilkenny Ridge trail. Skies were hazy, but I thought I could see Franconia Ridge in front of Mount Washington — an intriguing perspective that I hadn’t seen before (and later confirmed was correct).

The Mount Cabot cabin, about four miles in, was my first rest stop, where I enjoyed lunch on the porch. I had contemplated making this hike an overnight family trip, with a late start and sunset at the cabin, and had heard many opinions about the cabin, some declaring it a horrible, filthy hovel, and others finding it tolerable.

The old fire warden's cabin has sleeping platforms with 8 spots. It's definitely not fancy. The fire tower was dismantled in the mid-1960s, and it's a small miracle that the cabin still exists. Winter hikers take note: The Forest Service has removed the wood stove.

The old fire warden’s cabin has sleeping platforms with 8 spots. It’s definitely not fancy. The fire tower was dismantled in the mid-1960s, and it’s a small miracle that the cabin still exists. Winter hikers take note: The Forest Service has removed the wood stove.

My verdict: I would sleep in the cabin (although I wish the Boy Scout maintainers would rip up the padding on the sleeping platforms, as those pads tend to collect the mouse droppings for which the cabin is noted). However, I’m not sure that sleeping there would be noteworthy or interesting, unless doing so was part of a longer backpacking trip. The view is limited, through the trees, and  I’m glad I wasn’t hauling a full pack for 11.5 miles. I’ve read that a spring flows near the cabin, but didn’t look around for it; the cabin also has a rain barrel that contained a small puddle of water. (Bunnell Brook is also a potential water source if you can stock up before reaching the cabin).

Two gray jays at the clearing where the fire tower used to stand.

Gray jay in the fir trees just below the Mt. Cabot summit.

Finishing up lunch around 1 p.m., I decided to go for the entire loop. I was planning to power through the fire tower clearing after a short look at the hazy views, but I had to linger and visit with a couple of gray jays. They weren’t quite as bold as the jays on Mount Waumbek, who will eat out of your hand, but they were happy to steal a few bits of my granola bar.

And on to the summit, a half-mile from the cabin. The wooded Mount Cabot peak is peaceful but anticlimactic, and I pushed on. The trail descended, then climbed uphill, and before I knew it, I was at the junction for the side trail (.3 mile) to the Horn. I had already hiked over the Bulge without feeling the pain.

I scrambled up to the Horn and its 360-views. Confronting the large glacial erratic that caps off the Horn, at first I wondered if I could get up there. Exploring its perimeter, I found that the south-facing side works for a short person, and I pulled myself up via a large crack.

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The haze had cleared and I had great views from the Horn, including this south-facing view, with Mount Washington in the distance.

The friendly crack (from perspective above) that gave me leverage to pull myself up and scramble down the Horn.

The friendly crack (from perspective above) that gave me leverage to pull myself up and scramble down the Horn.

After my snack and rest on the Horn, I was off to Unknown Pond, where lots of vegetation restoration is underway. The Forest Service wants hikers to stay away from the shoreline (which of course is the best spot to hang out when visiting a pond). I rested briefly at a designated spot  to enjoy the view, and then checked out the campsites, just above the pond (a 2-minute walk). The campsites were empty on this full-moon Saturday (and I didn’t see a single person on the Unknown Pond trail, although I had met hikers on the Kilkenny Ridge).

View of the Horn from Unknown Pond (photo by John Compton of 1HappyHiker.com).

View of the Horn from Unknown Pond (photo by John Compton of 1HappyHiker.com).

I expected my last leg, a 3.3 mile walk on the Unknown Pond trail, to go quickly, but it was a trail, not a logging road, with lots of small rocks and a couple of stream crossings. Not difficult, just not a jogging path. But I made good time to the parking lot, where my lonely car was the only one waiting for its owner.

Although I’m happy that I finally checked Mount Cabot off my 4000-footer list, I’m even happier that I discovered this area north of the Notches. From the Horn, the Percy Peaks (featured image on header) called to me. Camping at Unknown Pond would be a great overnight on a northerly hike along the Cohos Trail. The deluxe shelter on Sugarloaf Arm sounds like a palace. Next September, when the Notch trails are packed with hikers, I’ll continue heading north.

Good-bye, Mount Cabot! I'll be back another time to explore on the Cohos Trail.

Good-bye, Mount Cabot! I’ll be back another time for more exploring on the Cohos Trail.

Notes and resources:

The York Pond-Bunnell Notch and Unknown Pond trailheads that complete the Mount Cabot loop are located at the end of York Pond Road off NH 110, just north of Berlin, NH. (Note that the northern end of the Unknown Pond Trail is located off Mill Brook Road , also off Route 110, in Stark, NH. You can’t do a loop hike from the northern end).

The gate closure sign at the New Hampshire State Fish Hatchery scares people off from doing the loop. I called the Fish Hatchery and learned that the gate is only pinned at 4 p.m., and not locked until 10 p.m. As it turns out, the gate wasn’t closed when I drove out around 5:45 p.m. However, to avoid an accidental car stranding, I recommend calling at 603-449-3412 to confirm that the policy remains the same.

If you want to explore far from the madding crowds, the Cohos Trail is a 165-mile trail that begins in the Crawford Notch area and ends at the Canadian border.

Read more of my 4000-footer posts here, including the trip to nearby Mount Waumbek.

Caps and castles on Mount Jefferson

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IMG_4775On Friday, prospects for a hike up Mount Jefferson looked gloomy. The higher summits forecast called for steady 50 mph winds, with hurricane force gusts, and winter temperatures in New Hampshire’s Presidential Range, as one weather system collided with another.

But by Monday, July 4, the winds had settled down, and no storms clouded the radar. A perfect day for climbing 5,716-foot Mount Jefferson.

The 2.5 mile Caps Ridge Trail promised a short but challenging hike to the summit, with hikers surmounting three rocky outcrops known as the Caps before continuing up the rocky slope to the Jefferson plateau. I knew the hike wouldn’t be a piece of cake, but we climbed up and over the three caps fairly quickly. Aside from the first cap, which begins with a tricky steep  slab of granite, the three caps were fun to climb and not as difficult as I expected.

First views of Mount Washington on the Caps Ridge Trail. Great views to the west as well, of Bondcliff and the tip of Mount Lafayette.

First views of Mount Washington on the Caps Ridge Trail. Great views to the west as well, of Bondcliff and its neighbors, and the tip of Mount Lafayette.

As we ate lunch atop the third cap, out of the summit wind but high enough to bask in the views of open alpine terrain and Mount Washington, we consulted the pages I’d copied from my guidebook, Smith and Dickerman’s The 4000-Footers of the White Mountains.

Climbing up the Caps looks scarier than it is. My son is a teen and now a stronger hiker than me, but younger hikers can do this route as long as parents are prepared to turn back if weather deteriorates. I hope it goes without saying that I wouldn't recommend the Caps as a first hike for younger kids. But once they get some experience....

Climbing up the Caps looks scarier than it is. My son is a teen and now a stronger hiker than me, but younger hikers can do this route as long as parents are prepared to turn back if weather deteriorates. I hope it goes without saying that I wouldn’t recommend the Caps as a first hike for younger kids. But once they get some experience….

We felt energized and the day was young. What else could we do?

In the distance, about a mile away as the crow flies, the rock heaps of Castellated Ridge, known as the Castles, intrigued us.  We consulted my Smith and Dickerman pages, which described a possible loop from the Jefferson summit down to the Castles, then across the lower mountain on the Link Trail back to the Caps Ridge Trail.

The language was slightly intimidating:  the Link Trail was “extremely rough and tiring, making for slow going.”  But we had the entire afternoon on a beautiful summer day. Hiking above treeline on the Castle Trail for a 1.5 miles down to the Castles would be amazing.  When again would we have this perfect combination of weather, time, and opportunity? And how hard could the hike be, really, given that the hike up the Caps had seemed fairly easy (at least by White Mountain standards)?

So after a snack at atop the tallest of the three peaklets at Jefferson’s summit, we began to pick our way down the Castle Trail. “Trail” is a bit of a misnomer, as it suggests a path, while the Castle Trail is mainly a cairn-marked route across a jumble of lichen-covered rocks.  But the lichen glistened green and the wide open skies made for a pleasant if nerve wracking traverse down the slope of Jefferson towards the Castles.

On the Castle Trail, and not another hiker in sight.

On the Castle Trail, and not another hiker in sight.

My teenage son scrambled ahead of us and I worried about a twisted ankle or full-on header (coming close to both myself), but I had to let go of those worries, assume all would be fine, and get online in the coming week to buy a New Hampshire HikeSafe family card. (Later, my son casually mentioned that he thought he had twisted ankle several times, but had shaken off the stumbles and continued).

On July 4, I expected crowds up high, but the mountains were open and empty, perhaps because of the weekend’s harsh weather. After we left the Jefferson summit, we didn’t see another hiker until we arrived back at the parking lot at Jefferson Notch Road. I suspect that the Castle Trail is not heavily used, because if it was, twisted knees, broken ankles, and hypothermia would keep New Hampshire’s search and rescue teams even busier than they already are. (Although, sadly, this past February, a search and rescue team had to carry out the body of a 54-year-old man who froze to death in Castle Ravine, just below the Castles).

Hiking down towards the Castles, I wondered if I had misread Smith and Dickerman’s language describing the 1.7 mile Link Trail that would take us back to the Caps Ridge Trail. Surely, “rough and tiring” combined with “slow going” had referred to the treacherous footing of Castle Trail, not the upcoming Link Trail.  Or maybe the writers had gotten it wrong?

The Link Trail crossed the mountain through the trees and couldn’t be that hard.  The thought of an easier trail ahead kept up my spirits as we continued to climb the Castles, shimmying down steep pitches and between rocks slabs (ironically, one reason we chose this trail was the opportunity to avoid hiking down the Caps).

Hiking down to the Castles, which look over the lightly-traveled Castle Ravine.

Hiking down to the Castles, which looks over the lightly traveled Castle Ravine.  The hike also  offers a continuous view of Mount Adams and the barren terrain around it.

After a half-mile, we came to the link with the Cornice Trail, another rough trail that leads back to the Caps. Still a mile to go to get to the Link Trail. Sigh.

In the distance, the three Caps looked like little bumps on the mountain.  Below us, the Castles seemed to rise from Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

A break atop the last section of the Castles.

A break atop one of the Castle ramparts, not far from the junction with the Link Trail.

Finally, we reached the Link Trail, which HAD to be easier than the descent from the peak to the Castles. But it wasn’t.

My perspective was likely distorted by fatigue and expectations, but the challenge continued, unabated. Up and over rocks, across streams, including one that plunged over granite at a nearly perpendicular angle off the mountain (but easily crossed at a level spot a few steps up the trail), we trudged up and down through the woods, on a mossy path that served as a thin carpet over Jefferson’s rocks.

Finally, after one last uphill, we returned to the Caps Ridge Trail, much later in the day than we had planned (so much for the leisurely swim in the river, followed by a relaxing dinner, and a daylight ride home). Ours wasn’t the last car to leave the parking lot – maybe the third to last – and plenty of daylight still remained, but we definitely felt like we had hiked a long, long day, even though the total distance covered was only 6.7 miles (yes, less than seven miles).

My husband, son and I were all exhausted, but being a glass-half-full kind of person, I was glad we’d explored the Castles, both for the beauty and isolation of the open alpine terrain and for the lessons learned.

Namely, just because trails connect and offer options other than out-and-back doesn’t mean they are necessarily viable “loop trails.”

Of course, the experience of a hike depends a lot on expectations. We expected the Caps Ridge Trail to be an arduous scramble up slippery rocks. It was easier than expected.  For the Castles, the reverse was true.

Hikers who want to experience the spectacular landscape of the Castles and undertake the hike expecting a long day of slow going will be rewarded great views in a lightly visited side of the Presidentials. I cursed myself many times on the Link Trail for pursuing this route, but I have no regrets–even though I won’t do it a second time.

Sources and resources

The Caps Ridge Trail begins at the height of the land on Jefferson Notch Road, the highest road in New Hampshire (closed in winter). The turn to the Notch Road is 3.5 miles down the Cog Railway Road, off Route 302 and near Bretton Woods Ski Resort.

A variety of other trails lead to the Castles from various other nearby locations, although if you study the map, you’ll see that all appear to be equally arduous. On NortheastHikes.com, Daren Worcester describes the Castle Trail hike to Jefferson’s summit from its origin on Route 2.

For more information on the February 2016 death of hiker Timothy Hallock, whose frozen body was found by other hikers, see accounts in the Manchester Union Leader and from WMUR TV.

Read more of my posts about 4K hikes at my Hiking page.

 

 

Waterfall wonderland on the Ammo Trail to Mount Monroe

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Every May, I try to fit in my “end-0f-the-semester hike”, a few days after completing grades and graduation. In May, this hike usually involves some snow and ice, along with cool air, few people. and open vistas.

I love my job as a community college teacher/administrator. But working with students from all ages and walks of life, I encounter more than the typical share of life’s challenges compressed into 15 weeks: students with depression and anxiety, illness and emergency surgeries, suicides and overdoses (usually of family members but sometimes a student), and other troubles, plus a couple of annoying cases of blatant cheating.  I have plenty of students without such troubles, but the weight of those who do tends to build up over the course of the semester.

My work with students is a sacred space of sorts. I usually can’t do anything about the other issues, but I can help them learn to find good sources, or create smooth transitions in paragraphs, or develop an idea into a solid short story.

My end-of-the-semester hike is both a way to celebrate the finish and to enter my own sacred space, where the clutter and noise of the semester subsides, as it must, when I am navigating an icy patch of leftover snow on a steep trail.

This May, I decided to conquer Mount Monroe, one of a handful of 4,000 footers left on my list, a 7-mile round-trip hike via the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail, also known as the Ammo trail — 2,900 feet of elevation gain, most of it in one steep mile up the Ravine.

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Evidence of Hurricane Irene, which sent trees tumbling into the river and hurled boulders across trails.

On Friday morning, I set out at a good pace through the forest of fir and birch trees. Without the hardwood foliage, the forest was both shady and full of light.

After an easy mile, the trail began to climb along the Ammonoosuc River.  The tumbling river still shows much evidence of the havoc wreaked by Hurricane Irene in August 2011 when a wall of water crashed through these mountains. I was planning to hike the Ammo Trail that weekend with my family, with an overnight stay planned at the Lakes of the Clouds hut, but the Forest Service closed down the White Mountain National Forest, a good decision that probably saved some lives and lots of worry.

After another (relatively) easy mile along the river, I reached Gem Pool.  But I knew tough times were coming — 1,562 feet of elevation gain to the Lakes hut at the head of Ravine, then another third of a mile to 5,372-foot Mount Monroe.

Gem Pool

Gem Pool looks like an inviting place to cool off on a hot summer day.

Sure enough, the hike from Gem Pool was basically straight uphill.  Is it the toughest mile in the White Mountains?  I’m not sure if it’s any harder than Kedron Flume Trail up Mount Willey, or the mile from Galehead Hut to South Twin Mountain.  Since I’ve hiked those trails, I knew I could get up the Ammo.  But could I get down?

Even with the steeps, I couldn’t stop smiling, as I discovered waterfall after waterfall. I’ve never seen so many beautiful waterfalls on one trail, except in Iceland. As I approached the upper half of that mile, I began to encounter patches of hard-packed icy snow.  The sun had softened up the snow, and on flat spots, it was easy to walk across.

Waterfall with small headwall of snow on the Ammo Trail.

Waterfall with small headwall of snow on the Ammo Trail.

But when the trail inclined, I had to consider whether to pull on the microspikes.  Sometimes I could get around the icy patches, but since I was alone, I erred on the side of caution, and pulled on the spikes, then pulled them off, then pulled them on again.  On the last quarter-mile below the Lakes hut, I wore the spikes continuously and they gave me confidence to work my way up the steep slabs of rock and snow.

Another view of falling water.

Another view of falling water.

Earlier that morning, I’d had delusions of grandeur, of possibly summiting Washington, or   at least hiking over to the Jewel Trail after completing the hike to Monroe. By the time I arrived at Lakes, however, I knew that I would ONLY be climbing Monroe — more than enough for my first major hike of the season.

I knew I had reached the top of the Ravine when Lakes of the Clouds hut rose above me.

I knew I had reached the top of the Ravine when Lakes of the Clouds hut rose above me.

After passing the Lakes hut, and shedding my spikes, I continued to the junction of the Crawford Path and the Mount Monroe Loop and climbed up a pile of  rock pile to Mount Monroe.  Above treeline, I encountered no ice, just some patches of soft snow leftover from a storm two days earlier.  The trail to the summit is a bit of tricky climb on rocks, but just a third of mile from the junction, so it didn’t take me long to get there.

The rocky heap of Mount Monroe

The rocky heap of Mount Monroe

On Mount Monroe, I enjoyed a quick lunch as the wind picked up and gray clouds hovered above Mount Washington.  Although the forecast did not predict any storms, I know that in the Presidentials, the weather can change quickly.  I made my way down to Lakes, and rested a bit on a sunny bench there, out of the wind. It was lovely to sit by the always-busy  hut with no people except a small AMC research crew out collecting data on flower blooms.

View of Mount Washington and one of the still-ice covered Lakes of the Clouds.

View of Mount Washington and one of the still-ice covered Lakes of the Clouds. Note the rusty colors of the alpine flora.

Now, it was time to descend the Ammo. I was definitely glad I had my spikes. Carefully, I picked my way down the trail, sometimes sliding on my butt. The quarter-mile from Lakes into the woods was laced with hard-packed slippery snow, and demanded total concentration.

At one point, a text message beeped from my husband. I stopped to text him back,  asking him not to text me again. I was confident that I could get down, but knew that I had to completely focus on the trail.

The waterfalls were still beautiful, but I couldn’t appreciate them quite as much on the way down. After the steep descent, I was relieved to get to Gem Pool, and to the easy hiking from there to the parking lot.

By then, the challenges of the semester were long gone, erased by the work of climbing up and sliding down rocks, reaching for sturdy branches, and putting one foot in front of the other.  Now, I’m ready to begin again.

I added a rock to this pile for the memorial to XXx, a college student who died of hypothermia near this spot in December 1932 on what was probably his end-of-the-semester hike.

I added a rock to this pile for the memorial to Herbert Judson Young, a Dartmouth college student who died of hypothermia near this spot in December 1928 on what was probably his end-of-the-semester hike.

 

Sources and Resources

The 4000-footers of the White Mountains: A Guide and History, by Steven D. Smith and Mike Dickerman. Always a great resource, especially the view guides.

Checking the Higher Summits Forecast, from the Mount Washington Weather Observatory, is a must before hiking in the Presidentials, where weather conditions can vary dramatically from the Valley.

Note: The Ammo trail is easy to follow but not well-blazed, so hikers need to keep an eye on certain turns where arrows guide the way.  Also, a variation of this hike from the Cog Railway parking lot cuts about a half-mile off the hike.

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it rains, you get wet.

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

At first, clouds filled the depths of King Ravine.

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

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

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

Being on a mountain at sunset is awesome.

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

 

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

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

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

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

New England weather is fickle, especially in the mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sources and resources

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

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

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

The world’s worst weather: Bring it on!

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

Crisis on Mount Washington: The empty sugar barrel

The wind howls and we stir the pot

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spooky solitude: The lonely trail to Owl’s Head

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sources and resources

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

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

Additional 4,000-footer reports 

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

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

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook: Mount Moosilauke

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

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

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sources and resources:

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

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

 

 

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

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

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook: Mount Moosilauke

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

 

On my own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boulders and rocks, rocks and boulders on the Osceola Trail down to the parking lot on Tripoli Road.

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

Sources and resources

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook: Mount Moosilauke

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

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

 

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

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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).

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).

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 19th 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

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?

 

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

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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 50th 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 19th 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.