Why I go to church on Christmas Eve

Posted on December 24, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

Growing up in an Irish-Catholic suburb south of Boston, I went to church 60 days out of the year:  52 Saturday or Sunday masses, seven holy days of obligation, and Thanksgiving, which was recommend by the church but not required, hence, we attended.

Although I enjoyed some aspects of the church community, such as our youth group “Gong Show” and ski trips to Vermont, I never liked going to church.   The service was boring and sometimes frightening.  I especially remember one sweltering 100-degree day in July, when our ancient pastor, Monsignor Sullivan, stood up to deliver his usual lengthy sermon.   “If you think it’s hot in here, “ he snarled at the congregation, “then wait until you experience HELL!”  Then he sat down, as we trembled, aware of our sin and our guilt in hoping for an early exit from the service.

By the time I was a teenager, the Monsignor had retired and was replaced by a series of kinder, gentler priests, but I never felt uplifted in going to church. Instead, my spirit felt oppressed.  Over the years, I have tried different parishes and churches, but I haven’t been a regular church-goer for many years. Sometimes feel that I SHOULD go to the church, for the sake of my son, but I really don’t want to.  I’ve told my son that belonging to a church is a good thing to do, but I just can’t quite bring myself to do it as I am ‘churched out’ from my childhood.

Still, I always go to church on Christmas Eve. Even if I’m not quite sure where I stand on the miraculous events of Christmas, I want my son to understand that Christmas exists for a reason apart from great deals at Best Buy.

The First Congregational Church, depicted in this early 20th century postcard, was built in 1730 and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

For several years now, my family and I have been attending Christmas Eve service at the First Congregational Church in Kittery Point.  Catholicism is so deeply engrained in my mental fiber that I’m not entirely at home in this austere Puritan building, built in 1730 by descendants of early Puritan migrants.  Where is the body of Christ, hanging on the cross? The statues of Mary and Joseph?  The 13 Stations of the Cross depicting Christ’s suffering as he walked towards his death?

But the Lord’s Prayer is the same prayer I recited at my childhood Catholic church. We sing “Joy to the World” and other familiar hymns.  The Christmas Eve service is family-oriented and we see many friends and acquaintances.  The sermon is both short and uplifting.

I especially like going to the First Congregational Church because the church is almost 300 years old.  As an entity, the church was organized in 1714, and the 1730 building is the oldest surviving continuously used church building in Maine.  (Knowing this, I get a little nervous on Christmas Eve when children and adults alike walk to the altar to light candles).

The Parsonage, now known as the Parish House, was built at the same time as the church. The building has been altered, enlarged, and has modern plumbing (unlike the church, which has no running water), but the Parish House still definitely evokes the feel of an 18th century building. This postcard claims that George Washington slept here, but that is probably more legend than truth. Washington’s 1789 “inaugural tour” visit to Portsmouth, NH is well-documented. The new President briefly touched ashore at Kittery Point during that visit but did not spend the night.

In this church, 18th century minister Reverend John Newmarch  offered comfort at funerals for too many children when diphtheria struck in 1735 and he provided theological reassurance to those anxious souls who didn’t feel the spirit move them during the Great Awakening.  It’s likely that the great itinerant preacher George Whitefield spoke from the pulpit.   During the Revolution, Loyalists and Patriots walked the aisles and prayed together on many Sabbaths.  Later, the morality of slavery was debated and prayers were offered for President Lincoln.  The church bells tolled to mark the end of two world wars.  In the mid-19th century, once the Puritans/Congregationalists got over their aversion to Christmas, congregants gathered to celebrate Christmas, just as they will on this year.

Maybe someday, when I go to church on Christmas Eve, I’ll feel more connected to a sense of faith.  But for now, walking in the footsteps of the churchgoers who came before me feels like a sort of faith, maybe a faith in humanity and its ability to endure, and to keep an institution like this antique church up and running for almost three centuries.  The world is often an ugly place, then and now. But on Christmas Eve, the bells still toll. The churchgoers sing the songs. The children light the candles.

Posted in Maine places, Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Exploring Caves and Climbing Ladders in the New Hampshire Lakes Region

Posted on November 30, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

 

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

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

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

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

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

Climbing ladders on Mount Morgan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Squam Lake View

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

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

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

Details and resources

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

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

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

Posted on November 16, 2012 by Dianne Fallon
Glowing beech trees along the Basin Trail

Glowing beech trees along the Basin Trail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Sources:

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

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

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

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

 

Posted in Family and Kids, Hiking, Seacoast (mostly) History, Travels | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Nathaniel Sparhawk and the art of swagger

Posted on September 30, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

“A wealthy merchant of Kittery, Maine”.

Nathaniel Sparhawk, one of Kittery’s most prominent 18th century residents.

So reads the caption, at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, beneath this John Singleton Copley portrait of Nathaniel Sparhawk, one of Kittery’s most prominent citizens of the 18th century, mostly because he had the good fortune of marrying Elizabeth Pepperrell, the only surviving daughter of Sir William Pepperrell.  But the few words of the caption – which likely would have pleased Nathaniel Sparhawk — do more to obscure than to illuminate his story.  Neither the caption  nor the portrait hint at the darkness in his life: bankruptcy and financial ruin, children forced into exile, the humiliation of having his wife sign off on all checks.

I encountered this portrait of Nathaniel – I’m going to call him Nathaniel, because he feels like a long-lost neighbor  — last winter, when I visited the new Art of the Americas wing at the Museum of Fine Arts.  Unexpectedly coming face to face with Nathaniel gave me the same thrill that someone else might experience upon meeting her favorite celebrity. Here he was, maybe not in the flesh, but in a life-sized portrait that helped me to connect the dots of the Sparhawk story.  An added bonus was standing before the elaborately carved door of the Sparhawk Mansion, also on display in the new wing.

This 1764 painting was Copley’s first attempt at a life-sized portrait similar to those of royal monarchs on display at the Town House in Boston. Many of these full-length portraits came to be known as “swagger portraits,” because they were intended to create an aura of grandiosity around the subject.  Sparhawk poses before imaginary Grecian columns in a classical setting, and wears a richly textured red velvet coat, with extra buttons added to give him more girth and thus more status, since a large belly was associated with wealth.

Nathaniel is smiling and relaxed in this portrait and appears to be a perfectly contented wealthy merchant.  In 1764, he probably could smile, but only because his inheritance from Sir William Pepperrell, his father-in-law, had allowed him to settle his debts and re-establish himself financially.  In 1758, Nathaniel was forced to declare bankruptcy and much of his property was sold at public auction.

One source attributes Nathaniel’s bankruptcy to increased taxation on real estate imposed by the British to pay for the Seven Year’s War (the French and Indian War on this side of the pond), but I suspect that taxation was a convenient scapegoat for that age-old problem of buying and spending more than the purse allows.  (All of the major taxation efforts to pay off the war, such as the Revenue Act and the Stamp Act, happened in the 1760s, after the war’s end).  In the 1750s, colonial businessmen flush with raw materials and agricultural products developed a taste for imported British goods. When the supply of such goods waiting to be sold outstripped the demand, many New England merchants found themselves in debt to British vendors.

Although bankrupt, Nathaniel continued to live at Sparhawk House, a luxurious 13-room mansion that Sir William had built in 1742 as

The Sparhawk House of Kittery Point, built in 1742 and demolished in 1967.

a wedding gift for his daughter Elizabeth (and once located at the end of today’s Sparhawk Lane, next to the Congregational Church in Kittery Point).  In this house, which featured many examples of fine wood-working, the Sparhawks raised five children, four sons and one daughter (two additional children had died in infancy).

Sir William died in 1759.  Although he had a close relationship with Nathaniel, who often helped him to manage his business affairs, Pepperrell’s will suggests that he didn’t quite trust his son-in-law to provide for his family.

The will left many parcels of land formerly owned by Nathaniel to Nathaniel’s various children, but not to Nathaniel himself.  It seems that when Nathaniel went bankrupt, William Pepperrell bought up many of his properties, with the intent of keeping them in the family.  Also telling is the fact that in an age when women lacked a legal identity apart from their husband, Sir William was quite clear that while income from certain properties would go to Nathaniel for “the support of his wife and children,” the property was not his to sell or mortgage, with the will stating that Elizabeth was “required to sign all receipts and to have sole power to bequeath her legacy.”

But just because Nathaniel’s portrait suggests that he wanted to look more prosperous and more important than he truly was doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good man.  He represented  Kittery in the General Court of Massachusetts and served as a justice on the Court of Common Pleas, assuming the role of Chief Justice after the death of William Pepperrell. He attained the rank of Colonel in the local militia.

I wonder if working in the shadow of his famous father-in-law chaffed at him.  Perhaps he felt that the elite of Portsmouth and Boston gossiped about him and his financial troubles.  In 1766, he was “negative-d” from the Council of Massachusetts, probably because he no longer owned enough real estate.  In the end, being kicked off the Council might have been a fortuitous turn of events because it pulled Nathaniel out of the political fray that ultimately led to the forced exile of his sons.

By the time of the Revolution, three of Nathaniel’s Loyalist sons, including Sir William Sparhawk Pepperrell, were living in England, exiled from the only country they’d ever known.  Pepperrell lands up and down the coast of Maine were confiscated by the State of Massachusetts. The war caused division within Nathaniel’s own family, with daughter Mary married to Dr. Charles Jarvis of Boston, an ardent patriot.

By 1775, in his early 60s, Nathaniel was suffering from poor health, which perhaps explains why he was not pressed harder to declare where his loyalties lay.  After he died on December 21,1776, the Boston Gazette and County Post wrote, “In all which Offices he distinguished himself as the Friend of his Country and frequently lamented his weak state of health which would not permit him to take a more active Part in the present Troubles.”

Although his son Samuel eventually returned to Kittery (but not Sir William or Andrew), the family never recovered from the Revolution.  According to one account, the Sparhawk mansion was sold in 1815 for a thousand dollars.  Another reports that one of the Sparhawk sons was living in a poorhouse by the early 1800s, although that seems unlikely, given the abundance of family members in the area.

In the latter part of the 19th century, Sparhawk Hall was carefully restored by an owner with an interest in preservation.  Eventually, Kittery businessman Horace Mitchell, a Sparhawk descendant, purchased the house in the early 20th century and hosted a visit from President Taft. In 1949, the mansion  had  a role in Louis de Rochemont 1949 movie, “Lost Boundaries,” serving as the fictional home of Dr. Scott Carter, a black doctor passing as  white in a small New Hampshire town (check out the movie to see the interior of the house; the exterior shots appear as if they were shot in front of  the Lady Pepperrell House rather than the Sparhawk mansion).

But by the early 1950s, the younger Horace Mitchell and his family were living in only four rooms of the house, having closed off the others. The house was a beast to heat and maintain and the Mitchells began to sell off individual pieces of it. The sculpted main staircase and much of the woodwork ended up in a mansion in Winthrop, Maine; the elaborately carved door went to Strawberry Banke.  In 1967, what remained of the house was demolished before preservation efforts could save it.

Nathaniel had every advantage in life, but also plenty of troubles. Although his portrait conceals his difficulties, the man himself seems to embody the essence of  “swagger”: someone who wanted to be successful and important, but maybe deep down always wondered  if he would have been able to make it without his father-in-law behind  him.  I can almost see Nathaniel swaggering down Pepperrell Road, calling out greetings to his neighbors.  He had many losses in his life, but puffed himself up and carried on.

Sources:

Burrage, Henry  S. “Colonel Nathaniel Sparhawk of Kittery.”  Collections and proceedings of the Maine Historical Society.  Maine Historical Society.  Read before the MHS February 24, 1898. P. 225

“The Making of ‘Lost Boundaries”

“Nathaniel Sparhawk.”  Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Senge, Stephen V. “’The Sparhawk Effect’ in Financial Statement Analysis“.  An internet search on Nathaniel Sparhawk often links to this material from a Simmons College professor about practices companies have used or do use to make their financial statements appear better than they really are.  However, I find no evidence that anyone other than Professor Senge utilizes this term, which Senge may have coined in using the “swagger portrait” as a classroom lesson  illustrating how companies puff up their financial statements.

“Sparhawk Mansion on Death Row.”  Link to additional photos of the Sparhawk Mansion before it was demolished in 1967.

Ward, Ellen MacDonald.  “Only a Memory.”  Downeast Magazine. February 1993, pp. 53-54.

I welcome comments, additional information about the Sparhawks, and corrections.

Posted in Art, Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

Rangeley days, now far away

Posted on September 15, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

Every summer, the town takes us by surprise.  We crest the hill on Route 4, catch our first view of the lake, and descend into an unlikely enclave of commerce:  the Pine Tree Frosty, the video store, the Laundromat, the hulking building of the Rangeley Inn.  Who would expect to find expect this vibrant lakeside village deep in the western Maine mountains?

Should we go to the equator, or the North Pole?

We’ve been coming to Rangeley for ten years now, for a week or so each summer, and the drive through town always generates the same kind of anticipation.  We feel as if we are returning home and can’t wait to get there.

As we drive down Main Street, we check the storefronts to see what’s changed.  Three years ago, Rangeley lost the pharmacy. Before that, the hardware store and soda fountain. Several restaurants have come and gone, but look, the bookstore’s still going, the movie theater is showing Spiderman.  Nancy’s Gifts has closed, but the parking lot of the Alpine Shop is full. The library has expanded its hours.  The new Moose Alley bowling alley is open for business. We’ll go there on a rainy afternoon.

After passing through town, we head up the hill on the other side of town and turn on the Mingo Loop, drive past the golf course, and turn off onto the dirt road that leads to North Camps.  Our cabin, the Silver Doctor, is the same one we stayed in last year, with the same furniture and the same view of the lake from the screened-in porch.  At the main lodge, Henry the parrot squawks as always.  Sonny, the owner, is not here, but he’s still alive andwill return by Friday.  His son Fran, who runs the place now, tells us that the lakeside campfires will be on Monday and Thursday nights, as usual. We’ve come prepared with our marshmallows, Hershey bars, and scary stories to tell around the fire.

The sun sets over Bald Mountain, across the lake in Oquossoc.

During our Rangeley days, we do the same things every year, usually adding a new twist or variation.  We wake up and drink coffee on the screened-in porch or on the dock. We sit in the sun and read books and swim.  We take the kids tubing on the lake. We play whiffle ball in the grassy field and pretend to play tennis on the mud court.  We mix cocktails that we never drink at home. After dinner, we watch the red glow of the sunset behind Bald Mountain, and the moon rise over Saddleback.

At least once, we pick blueberries in the lush fields at the Wilhelm Reich Museum.  Back at North Camps, I make blueberry pie.  We swim some more.

We explore. One day, a canoe trip, on the Kennebago River or somewhere new. This year, we canoe down the Chain of Ponds, up near the Canadian border, and one of the easier legs of Benedict Arnold’s arduous 1775 expedition to Quebec.

Making a few casts on the Kennebago River. To see moose on the river, you have to get out just after sunrise or at twilight.

Another day, we go for a hike, sometimes to a new mountain and sometimes an old favorite. This year, we drive north from Oquossoc village to climb Mount Aziscohos, a lonely summit off Route 17 which some say has the best views in all of Maine, of more than 25 lakes and endless green forest.  With binoculars, we can see the docks of North Camps.

We like our civilization and make many required trips to town: to the IGA for groceries, to the Red Onion for pizza, to the library to check out favorite books, to the Ecopolagian Nature Store to browse and lounge in the swinging chair on the porch.   By the week’s end, some are concerned that we might miss a visit to Pine Tree Frosty. But the weather is fabulous and we squeeze in our ice cream after an afternoon at Cascade Stream Gorge, where we jump from the cliffs into a deep pool of freezing water.

I have only skimmed the surface of Rangeley, (I haven’t even mentioned the fishing) but reading what I’ve written, I’m exhausted. How can we possibly do all this and not be? Where do we find the time?  Partly, we are on vacation, so we are removed from many of the daily obligations (although we still have meals to cook and, without a dishwasher, the dishes pile endlessly in the sink).  But here, we are liberated from our screens: our computers, our televisions, and other devices, our multiple emails and postings. We lack smart phones and don’t regret it.  If we must check our email, the library is open Tuesday to Saturday.

Jumping off the cliff for the first time was nerve-wracking, but once they were baptized, the jumpers couldn’t be stopped..

This year at North Camps, several of the cabins are empty. Business has been down all summer, a sign of the ongoing recession, and maybe also of changing tastes in vacation.  North Camps is rustic; the furniture is old. In some kitchens, the linoleum may date from the Depression.  Many travelers want their surroundings to look shiny and new and to come with WiFi and cable television.  In judging this book by its cover, they miss out on experiencing the richness of the story.

The kids roam free, devising their own activities, jumping off the docks and playing Apples to Apples in the new pavilion by the lake. They stay up late to finish books.  They bait fish hooks and fall off rafts.  Technically, my son could play with his Nintendo DS – we do have electricity – but during our Rangeley days, he puts it away without protest.

Our week at North Camps is a reasonably-priced vacation, a bargain even.  But what treasure we find in these days of alternating activity and pure laziness.

As an operation that’s been in the family since the 1950s (and which dates back to the 1890s), North Camps will hang on unless the owners decide to close it down and sell this prime lakeside property for the millions that it’s probably worth. We worry about that possibility but Fran tells us not to, because North Camps is their family’s special place, and they have no intention of selling it.

What changes will come to Rangeley over the next year? Will Books Lines and Thinkers Bookstore remain open? Will the Lakeside movie theater still be showing movies?  Can we count on the breakfast at the BMC Diner?  What I see as economic decline may just be part of the usual struggle to keep an off-the-beaten-path mountain community going. Compared to the 1950s, when Rangeley’s many grand lakeside hotels closed down in a matter of years, the ‘decline’ of today may just be a blip in a pattern of recurring small blips.  I hope so.

I imagine moving to Rangeley, maybe buying the Main Street bed and breakfast that was on the market for several years and which now appears to be in new hands.  I’ll swim every day in the lake in the summer, ski in the winter at Saddleback, and get to know the locals sitting at the counter of Moosely Bagels.  I’ll help to organize the Library Gala and volunteer to serve on the town’s Economic Development committee.  And soon my days will fill with emails and meetings and commitments, just like my life back home today

Then again, maybe not. There’s something to be said for having a relationship that is committed but not deep, consistent but not completely connected, because it offers the opportunity for the disconnection so hard to find in our lives today. Next year, I think we’ll stay two weeks.

 

Posted in Family and Kids, Maine places, Travels, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

The town at the end of the world

Posted on July 27, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

Sunrise view from my window at the Inn on the Wharf.

My windows overlooking Passamaquoddy Bay are open on this early July morning, but when I first woke up, I thought they must be closed, so silent is the morning at 7 a.m. On a Maine lake, the silence would seem normal, but here in Lubec on this working waterfront, the wharf is too quiet, the bay too empty, with no bobbing lobster buoys and only a few moored boats, evenly divided between working and recreational vessels.

I heard a brief spate of noise at 4:30 a.m., when the sun was rising, but nothing like the rumbles and sputters of other Maine coastal villages in the early morning, as lobster boats roar to life and motor out of the harbor, waking all but the heaviest sleepers before a silence descends again.

Today the bay is placid, calm like a lake.  So far during my stay, I have seen only a couple of kayakers out on the water, both because Lubec is far away from the hordes and because with the 29-foot tides here, the currents are deceptive and dangerous. The power of the water is visible when the tide exits through the Narrows, the channel separating Lubec from Campobello Island, New Brunswick.

Lubec’s iconic Quoddy Head Lighthouse, at the eastern most point of land in the United States. The state park offers several miles of hiking trails with amazing views of Grand Manaan Island as well as the occasional whale and seal.

Back in 1987, when I first visited Lubec, turning off Route 1 onto Route 189, I remember feeling as if I were on a road to the end of the world.  Surrounded by the gray-blue waters of the bay, I drove past green meadows and the occasional small house,  until finally, at the tip of the peninsula, I found an improbable densely packed village of small houses and a main street lined with shops and other business—a community.

Back then, one sardine factory still operated, along with McCurdy’s Smokehouse on Water Street.  Although a steep decline from the 24 smokehouses and sardine processing plants that once commanded all the best views of the bay, these two businesses persisted, thanks to entrepreneurial owners who had found niche markets for the sardines and smoked herring for which Lubec  once was world-renowned.  I didn’t take much notice these operations and only stayed long enough to get a cup of coffee at a shop on Water Street before heading over the international bridge to visit Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s family ‘cottage’ on Campobello Island.

This week, I am sleeping in the belly of Lubec’s last sardine factory, which closed in 2001, and was purchased a few years later by Victor and Judy Trafford and renovated into a waterfront inn and restaurant.  Below the restaurant, they maintain a working wharf at which fisherman unload their catch and kids sell periwinkles and clams gathered on the mud flats at low tide.

During the Depression, Lubec was a great place to live, but you probably didn’t want to visit as a tourist.  The place

Although Lubec’s fortunes have declined, the Fourth of July parade remains a big event. Although this lobster made a great parade float, Passamaquoddy Bay doesn’t support an abundant lobster fishery.

belched with smoke as fires lit on the wooden floors of the waterfront smokehouses smoldered day and night.  Everyone stank of fish, but they had jobs and money in their pockets  — a lot more than many other Americans had circa 1933.  On Saturday nights, residents thronged Water Street  to see a movie, eat a meal or catch up on the local gossip.  The Depression was a boon to Lubec because canned sardines and smoked herring were a cheap source of protein that didn’t need to be refrigerated.

Today, at Lubec Landmarks on Water Street, visitors can tour the small wooden skinning shed of the McCurdy plant and learn about the traditional process of smoking fish — a process that originated hundreds of years ago and which continued, with minor revisions, in Lubec until the mid-90s.  Fresh herring were packed into bins of salted brine to cure for several days, then strung on racks and left out on the wharf to dry before before smoking.   Then, as workers tended smoldering fires around the clock, the fish were gradually and manually shifted upwards on the racks in the smokehouse as a part of a multi-stage process for premium smoking.  Finally, the fish were “skinned” – their heads and tails chopped off – and packed into wooden boxes.

The industry rapidly declined in the 1950s and 60s, partly because herring were getting harder to catch and partly because of changes in taste, both in fish and employment.  By late 1990s, I imagine the last sardine cannery had a hard time finding enough employees to do the dirty work of packing sardines, even in an area with high unemployment.

Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, I can’t ever recall my mother opening a can of herring.  I’ve eaten smoked herring, or “kippers,” on camping trips and can’t say I was later tempted to serve them as a party hors d’oeuvres.  You can still buy sardines and herring in the supermarket – and both are an excellent source of omega 3s – but when was the last time you saw them on a menu?  What was once a non-perishable portable source of protein has been surpassed by the widespread availability of fresh fish, meats, and poultry.  Easy to blame the government for the industry’s decline (which raised concern in the 1990s about the dumping of brine into the bay as well as the safety of the traditional smoking process), but harder to blame ourselves, the ways our tastes changed.  When local or regional sustainability means eating strong-tasting oily fish, it’s harder to get on board.

Today, Lubec is a great place to visit, with its long views of the bay and the iconic red-striped Quoddy Head Lighthouse, the most easterly in the U.S.  But it takes a certain kind of person to live here at the end of the world.  The year-round population has declined and continues to decline, falling by 17 percent, from 1,652 in 2000 to 1,359 in 2010 (and down more than 60% from a high of about 3,300 during the 1930s).  Abandoned houses, some falling apart and others looking as if their owners had packed up yesterday, are a common site downtown.  The high school closed in 2010.  Like many Downeast Maine towns, Lubec struggles with a significant prescription drug abuse problem.

A house in downtown Lubec.

But the town persists.  A sizeable core of dedicated Lubeckers, both summer and year-round residents, stay on, find a way to make a living, to keep the community going.  About 100 kids attend the K-8 school and ride their bikes around town, unsupervised and free.  Retirees, teachers and others from away have bought up and renovated older houses to use as summer places. (Lubec is the kind of town where a teacher can afford to purchase a summer residence, possibly even one with a water view).

Downtown, painters and carpenters hammer away at dilapidated buildings. Every restaurant and shop on the

On Water Street, the Lubec Landmarks gallery and Atlantic Coffee Shop catch the eye with bright colors, but sit near abandoned buildings and homes.

eastern side of Water Street has a waterfront deck for viewing the Narrows, with its currents and frolicking seals.  On a summer night at the Congregational Church, built in 1820 on a high point of land downtown in 1820, a packed house fills the pews to hear a decidedly non-traditional but beautiful performance of Olivier Messian’s “Quartet for the end of time,” which the composer wrote in a prison camp in France during World War II.  The town’s half-dozen restaurants appear to be doing a brisk business during this peak season.

I am here in Lubec to study piano in the SummerKeys music program, a sort of intensive music camp for adult music students.  Founded by New York-based pianist and teacher Bruce Potterton about 25 years ago, SummerKeys has helped to pump up the town.  Most summer weeks, 40 or more students come to town from around the United States to study piano, cello, violin, guitar, or another instrument. These music students fill the inns and B and Bs, buy iced tea at the Atlantic Coffee House, and dine at the various restaurants.  On Wednesday evenings, the program sponsors a concert at the church that brings in people from around the area.

Watching Mr. Potterton, who isn’t getting any younger, race around town in his little station wagon, moving pianos and meeting with students, I am struck by how just a few people with a good idea and a lot of hard work can make a difference in sustaining a community, in creating a new ecosystem of social and commercial activity.  At the Inn on the Wharf, the Traftons, who could be enjoying a comfortable Florida retirement, work 18-hour days running the restaurant and inn, buying fish at the wharf, teaching yoga classes in the meeting room.  Visitors stay at the inn, or study with SummerKeys, and then tell other people about their experiences, and then more come the next year. This summer-based economy may be one which is more dependent on the “outside” for sustainability, but then again, maybe not.  As a one-industry fish town, Lubeckers were always dependent on the tastes of far-away consumers.

I daydream about buying a small home downtown and spending the summer by the bay, walking to the library, the grocery store, to a night out at the Wharf restaurant.   But probably not. I live near the sea now, in Kittery, and Lubec is far away, a five to six hour drive.  But I’ll tell other people about my visit, especially other music students.  And I’ll come back myself another year, to be part of this town at the end of the world, if only for a week.

More on Lubec:

Lubec:  A Border Town Shaped by the Sea: A detailed, well-written account of Lubec’s history, hosted by the Maine Memory Network.

Klondike: Lubec’s Gold from Sea Water Hoax: In 1897, an ordained Baptist minister from Martha’s Vineyard and his collaborator came to Lubec claiming that they had devised technology that could extract gold from sea water.  They set up their operation in North Lubec and hired a hundred locals to set up their gold “accumulators.” Thousands of shares for the project were sold, mostly to eager investors in Massachusetts, New York and Connecticut. Many invested their life savings and/or mortgaged their homes to get in on this “can’t miss” opportunity. A year later, Jernegan and Fisher disappeared along with the money, and the hoax dominated newspaper headlines in New England and around the country.

Visit Lubec Maine: Sponsored by APPLE (Association to Promote and Protect the Lubec Environment), this site includes information about Lubec’s history and economy, as well as about town services and community activities.

Additional links:

Quoddy Head Station:  Lodging at former Lighthouse station.

Inn on the Wharf: Modern spacious rooms overlooking Passamaquoddy Bay in a converted sardine factory. A great value and the food in the restaurant is excellent.

SummerKeys: Adult music and art program, including photography and creative writing.

West Quoddy Head Lighthouse Keepers Association: This organization maintains the West Quoddy Head Lighthouse and Visitor Center. The website includes include links to Lubec-area lodging and other local resources.

Posted in Maine places, Travels | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

A ghostly perspective on Fort Constitution and Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse

Posted on July 16, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

Motivated by my son’s interest in the paranormal, we joined a “haunted lighthouse tour” at Fort Constitution in Newcastle, N.H. on a recent summer evening. The tour of the Fort and Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse was led by ghost hunting expert Ron Kolek, of New England Ghost Hunters, and lighthouse historian/author Jeremy D’Entremont.

The sun setting over the Piscataqua from the top of Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse.

Although we didn’t see any ghostly figures or detect any spirits with the electro-magnetic field (EMF) devices and dowsing rods provided by Ron (although we  possibly had contact with one spirit in the powder magazine), I enjoyed visiting the fort from the ghostly perspective. The sunset view over the Piscataqua River from the top of the lighthouse was an added bonus.

Fort Constitution is a New Hampshire state park located within the grounds of an active Coast Guard station.  The Friends of Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouses now own and maintain the lighthouse, which was operated by civilian and then Coast Guard personnel until it was automated in 1960.  The Lighthouse was turned over to the Friends in 2000.

I’ve been to Fort Constitution before, both to visit the lighthouse and to explore its ruins. The fort has always struck me as a neglected treasure, with few interpretative signs or exhibits explaining its history.  For the past several years, the Friends have been working on developing exhibits focused on the lighthouse, and these wall-mounted posters now offer a detailed history of both the lighthouse and the personalities who operated it.

The point of land on which the Fort is located has been the site of a fort since the 1600s and was rebuilt, upgraded and renovated at various times throughout the 18th and 19th century.  The oldest structures on its grounds are the 1808 power magazine and a stone wall from the same time period. Like many old forts in New England, Fort Constitution offered a fairly mundane experience to most of its soldiers, with nothing much ever happening, in terms of battling the French, British or other possible enemies. (By contrast, the modern Coast Guard station is a busy operation, as it carries out numerous search and rescue operations and other missions).

While life at the fort may have been dull for the typical 19th century soldier, Fort Constitution is well-known to Revolutionary War history buffs as the reason for Paul Revere’s not-so-famous first ride, in December of 1774, when he rode 60 miles to Portsmouth to warn local Patriots that a British fleet might be en route to grab the powder and cannon stored at the fort – then known as Castle William and Mary — and take it away to Boston.

Revere’s alert mobilized the Patriots of Portsmouth. In a few days time, 400 men, led by future Governor John Langdon and others, had mobilized from Portsmouth and neighboring towns to seize the powder at the Fort.  The fort was guarded by only six British soldiers who were quickly overcome, tied up, and then let go once the Patriots made off with the gunpowder was taken.  One source reports that guns were fired – possibly after the fort was already taken  — so that the British soldiers could say they had tried to defend the fort.  The powder was later sent up the river and eventually hidden in Exeter, NH.

When Loyalist Governor John Wentworth learned of the Revere’s arrival in Portsmouth on December 13, he had tried to diffuse the situation, warning the leaders that they could be charged with rebellion, but the raid on the fort went on as planned. After the raid, according to an account by Wentworth, a committee came to him to solicit pardons and freedom from prosecution. The Governor said that he “could not promise them any such thing,” but told them if they returned the gunpowder, he would work on their behalf to alleviate any punishment.  Instead, led by soon-to-be general John Sullivan, the men returned to the fort and confiscated 16 cannon and other weapons.

Within a year’s time, Wentworth had to take refuge in the Fort and eventually landed in Nova Scotia.  Although I don’t want to stray too far from the ghost tour, I will add that like many “Loyalists” of the Seacoast, Wentworth was not a stick figure King’s lackey, but a man trying to do his best to prevent an outbreak of hostilities. His account of the incident suggests that he went all out to use his negotiating and diplomacy skills to find a solution to the crisis. (I’ll write more about him another time).

Fort Constitution saw no further action during the Revolution, but 33 years after 1776, on July 4, 1809, the fort’s lawns and walls were stained with blood and scattered with human flesh.  On this celebratory day, just after renovations and upgrades to the fort had been completed, a small crowd had gathered on its grounds to celebrate Independence Day with a dinner party at the home of Revolutionary War veteran and fort commander Colonel Walbach.

Suddenly, the fort was shaken by a violent explosion, as 350 pounds of gunpowder accidently exploded, with the blast ripping through soldiers and visitors.  Fourteen people were killed that day or died later,  with some bodies flung across the fort and limbs strewn throughout the grounds.  According to a report of the July 5, 1809 New Hampshire Sentinel,

“To give some idea of the force which attended the explosion, we have only to inform our readers that a leg and foot actually penetrated through a double door in the captain’s house, and made its way to the inner parts of the room, almost every window in the fort was stove in and in the house occupied by the commandant the doors were taken from their hinges, the windows broken, the shelves in the closets torn down, the ceiling much injured; in short, the building is almost in ruins.”

Because of the chaos caused by the explosion, what definitively happened was and is hard to determine, but most accounts suggest that two soldiers had taken the gunpowder out of the new magazine because it was damp and needed to dry in the sun. Somehow, the powder was accidentally ignited.

At one point, in the powder magazine, Ron demonstrated this crystal which helps to communicate with spirits. The crystal indicated (via “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” answers) that we were in the presence of a female spirit who was guarding over one of the tour’s participants.

Today, Fort Constitution has a firm reputation within the Coast Guard for paranormal activity, with reports of wandering dark figures, oily footprints and voices. Some say the tragic explosion accounts for the alleged supernatural activity, although many “hauntings” are not specific to people who were living at or visiting the fort that summer day.The New England Ghost Hunters group has conducted several investigations at the

Fort,but rely on the Coast Guard personnel, who man the fort 24/7, for most reports of paranormal sitings or activity.  In 2008, Fort Constitution was the focus of an episode on the Ghost Hunters television series (see link below), although the most dramatic moment of the episode was provided by the sudden discovery of two big spiders.

During the 1.5 hour haunted tour, we poked around the fort, climbed up to the top of lighthouse, listened to stories of various supernatural encounters, looked at ghostly photos and listened to recordings of “EVPs,”(electronic voice phenomenon) possibly generated by spirits within the lighthouse.

I’m not a ghost hunter myself and am inclined to be skeptical but curious.  I was intrigued by the accounts of supernatural activity at the fort and interested in the human history.  Ghosts seem to prefer darkness to dusk – we took the 7 p.m. tour – so in a future summer, maybe we’ll try the 10:30 p.m. tour.

The ghost hunter wondering if he is hearing voices inside the lighthouse tower.

My greatest fear that evening was that the tour would result in a middle-of-the-night visitor to my bedroom – not a spiritual one, but a tween-aged human — and that similar sleep interruptions would continue for weeks to come. But the family ghost hunter slept soundly.  Faint thumps and one or two yowls disturbed me throughout the night — a common phenomenon at the house —  so I put in ear plugs to diminish the noise.  The following day, in their chosen corners, the cats slept like dead men.

P.S. While I do my best to fact check and verify all information in my posts using a variety of sources, I also welcome additional information and corrections via the moderated comment box.  Your email does not display publicly when the comment is posted.

 

Related links:

Friends of Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouses.  The Fort Constitution tours will be offered again in 2012 on August 25 and September 29.  Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse is also open to the public on Sunday afternoons through October 7. All of these events are fundraisers for the organization.

 Ghost Hunters Season 4, Episode 28: Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse.  Aired December 10, 2008.  The official site provides a recap of the episode.

New England Curiosities Walking Tours.  Author/historian Roxie Zwicker also offers some intriguing tours and tales of Portsmouth, including her “haunted theater” tour.

New England Ghost Project

Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse Ghost Hunters episode (unofficial, in two parts).

Additional sources:

Fort Constitution. Access Genealogy.  Includes excerpts from Governor Wentworth’s correspondence that provides an account of the Patriot raid on Castle William and Mary.

Fort Constitution.  North American Forts. New Hampshire/Maine.

Fort William and Mary, Fort Constitution, Fort Point. New Hampshire Genealogy Trails. Includes excerpted account of explosion from July 5, 1809 New Hampshire Centinel (sic)

Posted in Family and Kids, Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Rock scrambling on Welch-Dickey Loop Trail

Posted on June 26, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

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

“Totally awesome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting ready to head for the summit of Welch Mountain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking in the views on Welch Mountain.

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

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

Heading down into the col between Welch and Dickey Mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

“But not for a while,” Jeremy says.

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

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

Post-hike note:

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

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

Directions:

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

Posted in Family and Kids, Hiking, Mountains | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

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

Posted on June 20, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

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

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

Looking up the ladders on the flank of Mt. Wilily

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

My plan today, after reaching Willey’s 4,285-feet summit, is to continue along the ridge to Mount Field.  Then, if the will remains, to follow the A-Z Trail to the half-mile detour up Mount Tom, a hike of about 8.5 miles altogether. In doing so, I will cross three of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers off my list.  This year, to celebrate my 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.

Posted in Hiking, Mountains | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

On Bridges and the Jet Set

Posted on June 3, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

At our Rice Public Library, I recently attended a fascinating slide show featuring photographs of “old Kittery” that was put together by Frank Totman of Kittery Point.

Of special interest to me were the photos of the Portsmouth, Kittery and York Street Railway (PK & Y), the trolley line that ran from Badger’s Island, Kittery, through Kittery Point, across Spruce Creek, Chauncey Creek,  and Brave Boat Harbor to York and York Beach.  Passengers travelled by train to Portsmouth, then hopped on a ferry to cross the Piscataqua River to Badger’s Island, where they picked up the trolley for the last leg of their journey. Vestiges of these trolley lines linger in the pilings visible at lower tides in Chauncey Creek and Brave Boat Harbor, and in secret trails concealed in the woods of Kittery Point.

The PK & Y line operated year round, but was especially busy in the summer months when thousands of tourists took the trolleys to stay at five seaside hotels in Kittery, and many more in York.  Summer visitors typically stayed at hotels such as the Champernowne or the Parkfield for a month or the entire summer.

Although I knew that the now-dismantled Memorial Bridge was opened in 1923, I hadn’t fully understood the impact of the Bridge upon the Seacoast.  It’s almost impossible to conceive that before 1923, travelers crossed between downtown Portsmouth and Kittery via ferries that ran through the day and into the night.  Upriver, a wooden toll bridge was built across the Piscataqua on pilings in 1822 and then expanded for railway use in 1844, just north of the current Sarah Long Bridge, but this old and creaky bridge (100 years old in 1922) was a one-lane affair originally designed for horses and wagons, and not to support thousands of cars.  Using the bridge required a toll, so the fact the new Memorial Bridge provided a free crossing was especially significant at the time, perhaps even more so than the fact that the bridge was designed for automobiles.

When the Memorial Bridge opened on August 17, 1923, a line of cars waiting to cross clogged the streets of downtown Portsmouth.  The traffic jams became worse each year, especially on summer weekends.  By 1927, the trolley line was out of business, and all of the hotels in Kittery Point had closed.   A synergistic combination of bridges, roads and cars had swiftly altered the way Americans lived and travelled.  People were on the move. Instead of vacationing for a month or the entire summer, seaside visitors became tourists who stayed for a week or two and who spread out among motels, cottages or other New England destinations now easily reached by automobile.

Although the Seacoast had always been ‘metropolitan’ with its ready connections to Boston and other cities by ocean and rail, the Memorial Bridge ushered in a new era and mindset for locals as well.  Prior to the 1920s, most residents lived locally.  Trips from Kittery to Portsmouth might be a weekly event for some major errand, but residents did most of their living close by their homes, especially in the winter, when living locally might mean weeks and weeks spent close by the home fires.  Yes, you could travel for miles and miles on sleighs or skis, but why would you want to spend a day half-frozen beneath a pile of blankets, unless you really had to?

These days, the Seacoast empties out during the February and April school break weeks, making for plenty of available parking at the local market and movie theater.  Families jet off to Florida for long weekends, while singles hop on planes for California weekends with old pals.  The term “jet set,” popularly used in the 1960s and 70s to describe the rich and famous, has disappeared from the tabloids because the middle class have all become members of that club.

Last summer, when the Memorial Bridge was open only for pedestrian and bike traffic, I began a habit of parking on Badger’s Island and walking to Portsmouth across the bridge. That small change shifted my perspective of knowing these two communities.  I noticed the boats docked in the marinas, the sounds emanating from Prescott Park, the ships that had pulled into port to unload cargo.  On a couple of occasions, I ate dinner at one of the terrific eating spots in Kittery Foreside and then enjoyed an after-dark walk into Portsmouth to see a movie. Now, with the bridge gone, I miss it often and mourn the changes that its closing has brought to my weekly routines.  Instead of walking downtown, more often I find myself in a car, shopping on Woodbury Avenue and at the malls in Newington.

Another era will begin in summer or fall of 2013, when the new bridge is scheduled to open. I will miss the sound and sensation of walking on wood-plank sidewalks, but can accept that non-slip treading will be a safety improvement, especially in wet weather.  Overall, the bridge will be more pedestrian and biker-friendly, as bikes will travel both ways in bike lanes instead of on the sidewalk.  The original Memorial Bridge helped the automobile hit the big time.  Perhaps its replacement will help us to better value what we lost in that transition.

Links:

Newsreel footage of the Memorial Bridge dedication ceremony on August 17, 1923. The little girl who cuts the ribbon is five-year-old Eileen Dondero, who, as Eileen Foley, went on to serve as Portsmouth’s Mayor for 16 years.

http://www.portsmouthbridges.com/Memorial_History.cfm

“Old Kittery photos.” Collection made available by David Kaselauskas. This collection includes photos of the Champernowne and Parkfield Hotels, various trolley photos and many other interesting photos, with comments, from early 20th century Kittery.

http://www.traip66.com/000/3/5/4/16453/userfiles/file/Kittery_Photos/KitteryPhotos2.pdf

Other sources and credits:

The Sarah Mildred Long Bridge:  A History of the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Kittery Maine, by Woodard D. Openo.  Portsmouth, NH:  Peter E. Randall Publisher, for the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge Authority, 1988.

“Slideshow of Old Kittery Photos,” by Frank Totman.  Presented the Friends of the Rice Public Library Annual Meeting, May 24, 2012.

York County Trolleys, by O.R. Cummings.  Charleston, S.C.: Aradia Publishing, 1999.

 

 

Posted in Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments