Intersecting slopes on Mount Chocorua, New Hampshire

Posted on December 1, 2014 by Dianne Fallon
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Climbing the ledges to the summit of Chocorua in Albany, N.H.

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

My son paused to let her pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kid is beating the pants off of us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resources

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

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

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

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Up in the air at Kluane National Park, Yukon Territory

Posted on November 14, 2014 by Dianne Fallon
The plane was waiting at Haines Junction airport.

At the Haines Junction Airport, our 1980 Cessna. Planes sure do have a long lifespan.  I’m glad I didn’t know that we were flightseeing in a plane that pre-dates the personal computer. If only well-maintained computers lasted this long.

The clearing weather presented both a threat (mostly to our wallets) and an opportunity.  As we pulled into Haines Junction, we debated our options.

The circle was nearly complete.  Along with my 13-year-old son, my Alaskan friend Elizabeth and I had traveled from Juneau to Skagway, and over White Pass to Carcross and Whitehorse. Canoed on the Yukon River and soaked in the Takhini hot springs.

Should we venture out to the Kluane-St. Elias Ice Fields — the world’s largest non-polar icefields and the largest protected natural area in the world? The plane was small, the price steep. Plus, after packing so much in already, might we fail to appreciate the awesomeness of the ice fields?

I reminded myself — and explained to my son — that as a living-on-the-edge 20-something, I had emptied my bank account to take a similarly expensive flight to Glacier Bay National Park. Although it’s  possible that I’ll get to Haines Junction again, I had to admit that it’s not likely. Hence, we went for it.

We began our flight over brown green alpine slopes where we could see specks of Dall sheep grazing, but soon began to fly up these glacier rivers into the heart of the Kluane ice fields.

We began our flight over brown green alpine slopes where we could see specks of Dall sheep grazing, but soon began to fly up these glacier rivers into the heart of the St. Elias-Kluane Ice Fields. Below, rivers of ice, trimmed with layer of gray silt.

As the plane buzzed its way deeper into the remote ice fields, the pilot pointed out different peaks, including Mount Kennedy, named for JFK after his assassination, and climbed in 1965 by his brother Robert — the only mountain Robert ever climbed.

robert kennedy photoThe expedition was the first attempt to climb Mount Kennedy. The highly experienced team included Jim Whittaker and Barry Prather, both part of the first American team to climb Mount Everest. Senator Robert Kennedy had been invited to join them, although he had a fear of heights and had never climbed any mountains (not even Mount Washington).  He accepted the invitation, he said, “for personal reasons that seemed compelling” and he “returned with a feeling — apart from exhaustion — of exhilaration and extreme gratification.”  Despite attempts to keep his participation a secret, word leaked out. The climb became a huge media event (for more, see newscast clip and other resources at the bottom of the post).

Robert Kennedy left several JFK mementos on Mount Kennedy, including his watch, a copy of JFK’s first inaugural address, and several PT boat tie clips.

This is either Mount X or Mount Kennedy, named for JFK. Bobby Kennedy climbed Mount Kennedy (which is a major alpine expedition, not a hike) and left his brother's watch and some other artifacts on Mount Kennedy.

I took this photo near Mount Logan.  I believe it is Mount Kennedy (which is a subpeak of Mount Logan), but am not positive. What I am sure of:  if you find yourself in Haines Junction on a clear day, the flightseeing tour is a not-to-be missed experience.

In his Life magazine article, Kennedy wrote about how impressed he was by the climbers’ measured courage.  The climbers told him that “politics was far more dangerous than climbing.”

A view of Mount Logan, Canada's highest at X feet. In the distance (but not in this photo), we could also see Mount Elias, the second tallest mountain in the US.

A view of Mount Logan, Canada’s highest at 19,551 feet, which puts it second in line behind Denali in North America.  On the tour, we also glimpsed Mount St. Elias (in Alaska), Glacier Bay, and the Pacific Ocean.

Today, scientists study the ice fields to learn more about climate change. This past summer (2014), bad weather stranded a group of Japanese scientists for two weeks after their pick-up date, at the camp pictured below:

In the heart of the ice fields, Japanese scientists who had been conducting research were stuck on the ice fields two weeks after their departure date due to bad weather. The scientists had just been flown out that morning.

A view of the research camp.  The stranded scientists were picked up earlier on the day of our flightseeing tour. Note the plane tracks on the ice fields.

A "close up" view of the research station. Note that one person is still down there, and hopefully still sane after spending two weeks of waiting out the rain, fog and snow.

A “close up” view of camp. Note that one person was still down there, and hopefully still sane after spending two weeks of waiting out the rain, fog and snow, in very close quarters.

A moulin in the ice field.

A moulin in the ice field. A moulin is a vertical shaft through which water melts and flows to the bottom of the glacier, where it serves as a puddle-like lubricant that facilitates glacial motion. You don’t want to fall into one of these things.

Beautiful puddles.

Beautiful puddles.  Bitterly cold, but they bottom out on the surface of the glacier, unlike the bottomless moulins.

Heading back to Haines Junction, using the glacier as a path.

Heading back to Haines Junction, and following the glacier as a highway.

The plane landed at the Haines Junction airfield like a feather dropping to the ground.  Behind the pilot, one passenger was suffering from the effects of motion sickness (it was messy).   Even so, he was grinning along with the rest of us.  Definitely not too much awesomeness.  How could we go to Kluane National Park and not take a dip in the lake?

After our flight, we camped at Kathleen Lake Campground, a $10 bargain that mentally reduced the cost of the flightseeing tour.  The next morning, we took a dip in the lake, where average summer surface water temperature hovers around 52 degree F (11 C), just a few degrees less than what we are used to, but cold enough to render The Seal speechless.

Heading down the Haines Highway to pick up the ferry in Haines, Alaska, we passed by Dezadeash Lake. Although just a few miles south of Kathleen Lake, Dezadeash is a shallow bath tub known for its warmer temperatures (up to 65 degree F/18 C in summer) and many migratory birds, including Trumpeter swans.

Trumpeter swans on Dezadeash Lake.

Trumpeter swans on Dezadeash Lake.

Links and resources

Kluane Glacier Air Tours operates out of the Haines Junction Airport.

“The Strange History of Mount Kennedy,” by Sean Sullivan at The Clymb.

“Our Climb Up Mount Kennedy,” by Robert Kennedy.  Reproductions of images and text from Robert Kennedy’s April 9, 1965 Life magazine account of his climb.

Below, news report Senator Robert Kennedy’s climb up Mount Kennedy.

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

Posted on October 27, 2014 by Dianne Fallon
Now, the Chilkoot River was running high. Although the trail is hard-packed and obvious, I wonder if today's hikers are confused by the arrows pointing in opposite directions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resources

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

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

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

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

 

 

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A slew of seals at LeConte Glacier

Posted on September 29, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

The blue icebergs bobbed and floated seductively, dangerous but enticing, clues that somewhere upstream lay a glacier.  But in Southeast Alaska, navigating a field of icebergs field is dangerous is any season, all the more so in November, with its short days and chilly temperatures.

Icebergs still cluster around the mouth of LeConte Bay as they did in 1879 when John Muir visited this region. When we visited, This one was especially striking.

Icebergs still cluster around the mouth of LeConte Bay as they did in 1879 when John Muir visited this region. Then, the glacier reached almost to the head of the bay.

But back in 1879, naturalist John Muir, being Muir, would not be dissuaded.  This was a man completing a canoe voyage of several hundred miles, in November, in Alaska. After several weeks of exploring southeast Alaska, Muir was  heading back to Fort Wrangell with Captain Toyatte, his Stickeen Indian guide, and several others.   As their party passed between a headland and the opening of Wrangell Narrows, the river of icebergs and floes floating out of the mountains intrigued Muir.  He wanted to follow the trail, to see the legendary Thunder Glacier for himself.

Captain Toyatte, knowing the hazards well, issued a strong protest. The icebergs might upset the canoe, tossing them and all their gear into the water. At worst, they would drown in the icy water; at best, they might make their way to a wilderness shore with no gear, food, matches, or way of transport.

But Muir, being Muir, kept pushing. “Oh, never fear, Toyatte,” he said. “You know we are always lucky–the weather is good. I only want to see the Thunder Glacier for a few minutes, and should the bergs be packed dangerously close, I promise to turn back and wait until next summer.”

Reluctantly, Toyatte paddled into icebergs.  The glacier, Muir said, was “one of the most imposing of the first-class glaciers I had as yet seen…..a fine triumphant close for our season’s ice work.”  

Because of the dense pack of bergs, Muir observed the glacier at a distance of two miles. We were lucky, and were able to come with a half-mile (or maybe even a bit closer)

Approaching LeConte Glacier. We stayed a good distance from the glacier, as room-sized chunks of ice calving from the face create waves that can easily swamp a small boat.

Approaching LeConte Glacier. We stayed a good distance from the glacier, as room-sized chunks of ice calving from the face create waves that can easily swamp a small boat. LeConte is also known for “shooters,” icebergs that break off the face underwater and then shoot upwards.

As for John Muir, visiting LeConte Glacier, for us, was both an afterthought and a triumphant close to our stay in Wrangell, Alaska.  The bears at AnAn Bear Observatory had drawn us here, and we also planned to cruise up the Stikine River. Why not visit the  glacier while we were there?

Like Toyatte, I felt some trepidation, revolving around my credit card bill.  But when I would get to Wrangell again? We signed on.

I am so glad that we did.  LeConte Glacier, named in 1887  for Muir’s close friend, Joseph LeConte, a geologist at the University of California in Berkeley, was every bit as imposing as Muir described it. (The glacier was named by Navy Commander Charles. M. Thomas who conducted the first official surveys several years after Muir’s visit).

Although the glacier is a regular destination for small boats from Petersburg and Wrangell, LeConte is tucked away in a lesser-visited region of Southeast Alaska.  Thus, visitors can enjoy its splendors in relative solitude — we saw only one other boat (briefly) on the day we visited — and its huge population of seals, more than 2,000 of which live in the fjord.

The seals of LeConte Bay. More than 2,000 make the bay (which is more of fjord) their home.

The seals of LeConte Bay. More than 2,000 make the bay (which is more of fjord) their home.

For the non-glaciologist, glaciers are almost impossible to comprehend: LeConte stretches back 21 miles into the mountains and in places is a mile deep.   Although LeConte, the most southern tidewater glacier in southeast Alaska, has retreated 2.5 miles since 1887, it has both receded and moved forward in the past 30 years, and scientists regard it as stable (that is, it may recede one year but will move forward in another).

The tidewater is why the Tlingit Indians gave it the name, Hutli, which Muir translates as “Big Thunder.”  According to Muir, the derived from a mythical bird that produced sounds of thunder when it flapped its wings.  And LeConte Glacier makes big thunder, sometimes many times a day, when house-sized chunks of ice calve from its face and drop into the fjord, as in this video:

The glacier was magnificent, awe-inspiring and beautiful.  The seals were a very thick layer of icing on an already rich cake.  Amidst all the seals, my Seal was in heaven.

Our daylong trip to LeConte also included a stop in the fishing village of Petersburg. I’d been here once before on a dark 2 a.m. ferry stop, so I enjoyed strolling around in daylight.

Petersburg, Alaska, was established by Norwegian immigrants. Many touches of Norway are evident. We stopped here for a couple of hours but easily could have enjoyed more time here.

Petersburg, Alaska, which had been the site of Tlingit summer fishing camp for centuries, was settled by Norwegian immigrants in the late 19th century. Many touches of Norway are evident. We stopped here for a couple of hours but easily could have enjoyed more time here.

Reading John Muir is not for the faint of heart, as his 19th century prose is dense and wandering.  Even so, I’ll dare to conclude with his 1879 conclusion on Alaska:

To the lover of pure wildness Alaska is one of the most wonderful countries in the world. No excursion that I know of may be made into any other American wilderness where so marvelous an abundance of noble, newborn scenery is so charmingly brought to view as on the trip through the Alexander Archipelago to Fort Wrangell and Sitka. Gazing from the deck of the steamer, one is borne smoothly over calm blue waters, through the midst of countless forest-clad islands… nearly all the whole long way is on inland waters that are about as waveless as rivers and lakes. So numerous are the islands that they seem to have been sown broadcast; long tapering vistas between the largest of them open in every direction.

Although I probably could use fewer words, I couldn’t have said it better myself.

(John Muir’s book, Travels in Alaska, is available in multiple formats at Gutenburg.org, and also readily available in print).

Wrangell and Petersburg Resources

Visitor info for Petersburg can be found at the Chamber of Commerce.

For more details on LeConte Glacier, see Pat Roppel’s 2013 article, Southeast history: LeConte Glacier, in Capital City Weekly (a Juneau newspaper).

From Wrangell, we visited LeConte Glacier in a jet boat with Brenda  Schwartz Yeager of Alaska Charters and Adventures.  There are several similar outfitters in Wrangell and Petersburg.

In Wrangell, the lumber industry ruled for many years, but today, fishing and tourism keep the town going.  Large cruise ships can’t visit Wrangell (a plus, in my opinion) although several smaller adventure-type cruises visited where we were in town.

We stayed in a roomy suite at the Wandering Channel Bed & Breakfast.  The Stikine Inn is a full-service hotel, with a good restaurant.  The Wrangell town website lists all lodging establishments.  You don’t need a car in Wrangell unless you want to explore more of the roads and trails of the Wrangell Island.  A daily Alaska Airlines flight provides service from Seattle or Juneau.

 

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Bears, bears everywhere: AnAn Alaska adventure

Posted on September 15, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

From the platform, we could see the drama at the outhouse unfolding, predictably, almost comically, if not for the fact that the climax could be a dangerous human-bear encounter.

The older gentleman had scurried across the boardwalk to the outhouse, about 100 feet away from the viewing platform. Once he closed the door behind him, a large male black bear ambled out of the woods and approached the outhouse.  On the other side, a second bear climbed up the creek bank and began to shuffle towards the same location.

You too could be trapped in the outhouse at AnAn Bear Observatory -- but probably only for a few minutes.

You too could be trapped in the outhouse at AnAn Bear Observatory — but probably only for a few minutes.

Inside the outhouse, the occupant had no idea that he was surrounded on all sides by very large black bears.  If he looked out the peephole, he wouldn’t be able to see the bears.  People being people, he probably had half-listened to the ranger’s instructions to watch for the “all-clear” signal before exiting the outhouse.  That was the purpose of the peephole — to watch for the signal, not to spot bears.

Upon opening the door, he came face to face with Bear #2.  Quickly, he shut the down as the ranger began to shout. “Stay in the outhouse. DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR! Do not open the door until I give the ‘all clear’ sign.”

This time, he listened.  And waited for the bears to do their thing, that is, to amble along. They had no interest in the outhouse; to them, it was just part of the scenery, like the man and the rest of us on the platform.

At last, the ranger gave the “all-clear”.  The man rescued himself from the outhouse (used by 60 or so people each day).  Later, he smiled when we teased him about his adventure.

Just another ordinary extraordinary day at the AnAn Creek Bear Observatory in the Tongass National Forest, near Wrangell, in southeast Alaska.

Both black and brown (grizzly) bears have been coming for eons to AnAn Creek in July and August to eat spawning salmon.  For many years, this locale was known mostly to Wrangell locals as THE place to see bears. But about 20 years ago, when visitors started to heavily discover AnAn, the U.S. Forest Service began to actively manage the site to prevent human-bear problems.

During spawning season, a permit system limits visitors t0 60 per day.  A small boat is needed to get to the AnAn trailhead, so most visitors come with a guide.  At the trailhead, a ranger or guide leads visitors up the half-mile trail to the viewing “platform.”

“Platform” is just that: a platform, surrounded by a waist-high fence that bears could easily climb across or squeeze through if they were so inclined.  These are not tame bears, but hungry ones here to stuff themselves with as salmon. At times, bears come so close to the fence that a dumb person could reach out and touch them.  Rangers quickly move people — and their cameras — back from the fence if bears approach it.

On the magical morning that I spent with my son (The Seal) and friend Elizabeth at AnAn in August, we saw at least 15 different black bears doing their thing: killing and eating salmon, ambling to and from the forest, sniffing at the outhouse.

Each bear had its own preferences and ways of doing things. One liked to grab a salmon, take a couple of big bites, then dip into the creek for a fresh meal. Another would bring his catch up to a small knoll overlooking the creek and eat the entire fish while keeping eye on the world around him.  A third liked to eat his salmon in privacy, in a little nook made from big boulders on the side of the creek.

Especially memorable was the visit of a mama bear and her cub, as these photos illustrate.

Mama Bear and her cub ambled out of the woods and checked out the situation just below the platform, then decided to climb back up the bank.

Mama Bear and her cub ambled out of the woods and checked out the situation just below the platform, then decided to climb back up the bank.

Baby Bear became interested in a half-eaten salmon on the outhouse boardwalk, and lost track of its mother. When he looked up from the fish and realized mother was gone, he began to look for a place to hide and found this tree limb behind the outhouse.

Baby Bear became interested in a half-eaten salmon on the outhouse boardwalk, and lost track of its mother. When he looked up from the fish and realized mother was gone, he began to look for a place to hide and found this downed tree behind the outhouse.

Mama Bear returned with lunch and couldn't find her cub. She began to look around and eventually spied the cub in the forest.

Mama Bear returned with lunch and couldn’t find her cub. She began to look around and eventually spied the cub in the forest.

AnAn is the only bear viewing place in Alaska where visitors can see both brown and black bears feeding in the same location at the same time. However, when we visited, we “only” saw black bears.  The brown bears must have been off eating berries, or maybe were eating on a later shift.

Despite the fact that AnAn is teeming with bears in close proximity to people (including those trips to the outhouse), no humans have been attacked by a bear in the 20 years of Forest Service management, although at least one bear has been killed at AnAn when it charged a human.   I don’t know the details of the incident, but I suspect the charge had more to do with human stupidity (getting a good photo) than predatory bear behavior.

However, our guide, Brenda Yeager, carried both bear spray and a gun on the hike up to the platform, as did the ranger at the trailhead.

I’ve long had a love-hate relationship with bears.  Or maybe love-fear relationship is a better way to describe it.  I’m fascinated by bears and always hope to see one, safely, at a distance.

But I never sleep well in a tent if I know bears might be around.  I worked in Yellowstone during a summer when a bear pulled a hiker from her tent and ate her. A few years later,  I woke up in a tent in Alaska’s Brooks Range to the sound of something large brushing up against the tent.  And yes, it was a bear.  And yes, my heart pounded with fear and adrenaline, even though it was a black bear, not a grizzly.

That bear got into our group’s food supply (locked in an allegedly bear-proof barrel) and began to settle in for a long munch until we managed to drive it off with a couple of well-placed rocks targeted at its rump.  But we didn’t stick around either, packing up our tents at about 3 a.m. so that we could begin putting as much distance as possible  between us and the bear.

At AnAn, the opportunity to view bears up close in what felt like very safe circumstances was a magical, almost mythical opportunity.  I wouldn’t even have minded being trapped in the outhouse — as long as I didn’t have to sleep inside.

More bears:  Alaska really is teeming with bears, and they come out of the forest during salmon season.

On our first day in Alaska, in Juneau, the Seal and I headed out in the early evening to Mendenhall Glacier to take in the glacier after all the cruise-ship crowds had departed.  On our way out, we took a short stroll on the bear-viewing walkway around Steep Creek. Within minutes, (as seen in the video below) we had seen our first bear, killing and eating a salmon.

The bears grab all the headlines but the salmon are just as beautiful, here in the clear shallow waters of Steep Creek, Juneau.

Wrangell Resources

From Wrangell, we visited AnAn in a jet boat with Brenda  Yeager of Alaska Charters and Adventures.  There are several similar outfitters in Wrangell, all reputable. We chose to go with the Yeagers because they specialize in smaller groups.

AnAn probably isn’t the best destination for small children because they may get bored and hungry during the several hours most outfitters spend at the platform. No food is allowed on the trail or at the platform.

In Wrangell, the lumber industry ruled for many years, but today, fishing and tourism keep the town going.  Large cruise ships can’t visit Wrangell (a plus, in my opinion) although several smaller adventure-type cruises visited where we were in town.

We stayed in a roomy suite at the Wandering Channel Bed & Breakfast.  The Stikine Inn is a full-service hotel, with a good restaurant.  The Wrangell town website lists all lodging establishments.  You don’t need a car in Wrangell unless you want to explore more of the roads and trails of the Wrangell Island.  A daily Alaska Airlines flight provides service from Seattle or Juneau.

Posted in Family and Kids, Travels | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Spooky solitude: The lonely trail to Owl’s Head

Posted on July 21, 2014 by Dianne Fallon
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

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

If People Magazine existed in 1776: cast your ballot for the hottest Patriot!

Posted on July 4, 2014 by Dianne Fallon
John was about 28 in this 1765 portrait by John Singleton Copley, and recently had inherited his uncle's business. I highly recommend coming face-to-face with the painting at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts. Both John and the painting are stunning.

John was about 28 in this 1765 Copley portrait. I highly recommend a date  with  the painting at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. Because it’s an inanimate object, you won’t have to worry about John flirting with other patrons during your encounter.

Patriot John Hancock is the King of memorable signatures, so much so that his name has become synonymous with signing a document.  As President of the Continental Congress, he was the first to sign the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776.

But John was memorable for more than a pretty signature.  When I turned a corner at the Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts and came face to face with this John Singleton Copley portrait of Hancock, I thought, wowza, he is one handsome Patriot!  And probably a fun date, as he reportedly had a taste for luxury and the finer things in life.  Rumored to somewhat of a lady’s man, Hancock finally settled down at age 38 with Dorothy Quincy, but apparently continued to flirt.

As King of the House of Hancock, a merchant house he inherited from his uncle, John Hancock could have lived a life focused on  parties and luxury. But instead — partly because of British policies that targeted merchants — he got involved in politics.  Although Hancock didn’t die broke, he spent a good amount of his fortune to support the Continental cause, instead of using the cause to increase his fortune. Now that’s patriotism.

unnamedMy encounter with John made me wonder:  which other patriots of 1776 might be possible winners in a People-magazine style contest for “hottest Patriot”?  Below, in addition to John Hancock, I nominate four additional Patriot hotties.  Cast your ballot — or contribute another nomination — for your favorite Patriot by making a note in the comments.  All commenters will be entered into a drawing to win a copy of my just-published book, Pioneer on a Mountain Bike: Eight Days Through Early American History.

If you have qualms about voting for a Patriot hottie, because you are married or involved with a significant other, keep in mind: THESE GUYS ARE ALL DEAD.   Be sure to vote — or nominate another Patriot — by the July 12, 2014 deadline!

Doesn't Nathan look like he just stepped off a movie set? No portraits or other images exist of Nathan, so this XXX sculpture is an idealized image, based on descriptions of young Nathan as X, Y and Z.

Doesn’t Nathan look like he just stepped off a movie set? No portraits of exist of young Nathan, so this Bela Lyon Pratt sculpture (1912) is an idealized image, based on descriptions of young Nathan as fair-skinned, with blue eyes and “flaxen” hair that he kept short.

Captain Nathan Hale:  “I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.”

My second nomination is Nathan Hale, captured by the British in New York City and sentenced to hang for espionage.  He is remembered for his speech at the gallows, in which he uttered some variation of the famous sentence above.

At 21 years old, Nathan was just a kid, albeit a mature and well-educated one who had graduated from Yale in 1773 at age 18, then accepted his first position as a teacher before the outbreak of the Revolution.  Did the British really have to kill him? Breaks my heart. I know it must have broken his mother’s heart, and surely the heart of at least one girl, if not several.

President Thomas Jefferson:  Imperfect Renaissance man

Thomas Jefferson was 62 when he sat for this 1805 portrait by Rembrandt Peale (New York Historical Society).

Thomas Jefferson was 62 when he sat for this 1805 portrait by Rembrandt Peale (New York Historical Society).

Thomas J. was getting up there in years when Rembrandt Peale painted this portrait in 1805, but still projected rugged good looks. Doesn’t he bear a striking resemblance to the actor Robert Redford?

Yes, Jefferson was a slaveowner, and had other imperfections (not to mention his Embargo Act that wrecked the economy), but this lead author of the Declaration of Independence, born to privilege, was a true democrat as well as a republican who believed in democracy, the republic, and the rights of the individual.

After 11 years of a happy marriage, Jefferson deeply mourned the death of his wife Martha, and honored her promise to never again marry, as she did not want another woman to bring up her children.

Jefferson was both a critic of slavery and a slaveowner, and it’s hard to reconcile why he didn’t walk the walk on the issue of slavery.  Was his 37-year relationship with his slave Sally Hemming a mutual love relationship or an exploitive master-concubine one? We don’t know, but I can see why Sally might have found him attractive, even if he was 30 years her senior.

Major General John Stark:  “Live free, or die. Death is not the greatest of evils.”

This is a popular image of John Stark, but I am not sure if it is an actual portrait or an idealized image. I welcome any identifiers.

This is a popular image of John Stark, but I am not sure if it is an actual portrait or an idealized image. I welcome any identifiers.

During the Revolution, Massachusetts supplied the rabble-rousers like John Hancock and Samuel Adams, while New Hampshire quietly fielded many of the Revolution’s key generals.  Major General John Stark, who is looking pretty good in this portrait, established the strategy for a successful losing battle against the British at Bunker Hill (kind of like the recent US performance in the World Cup; we didn’t win, but showed the soccer world that the American team is now a force to reckon with).  Later, Stark led the Continentals to victory at the Battle of Bennington, Vermont.

Stark’s famous sentence (above), now the New Hampshire state motto, is from a letter he wrote to a group of Bennington veterans in 1809, when they gathered there to commemorate the battle.  By then, Stark was 81 and and not well enough to travel.

In 1776, at age 48, John Stark was no longer a young man, but he WAS dashing.  Perhaps his 11 children kept him young.

Ironic twist: When New Hampshire made Stark’s words the state motto in 1945, they also passed a law making it a crime if to conceal the motto on the state license plate.  In 1977, the Supreme Court said First Amendment freedoms trumped the state’s right to require all citizens to display a particular ideology on the official license plate.

Paul Revere: Midnight Rider/Go-t0 Guy

Paul Revere, 1768 portrait by John Singleton Copley. Revere probably had more gray hair by 1776, but the same intensity.

Paul Revere, 1768 portrait by John Singleton Copley. Revere probably had more gray hair by 1776, but the same intensity.

Silversmith Paul Revere might seem an odd choice for hottest Patriot.  In 1776, he was the married father of eight surviving children (he eventually fathered 16), and in this  portrait, completed eight years earlier, he was already a little jowly.

But Revere’s nomination illustrates that for all of these Patriots, it’s really the entire package that make a guy attractive — personality, looks, gusto.  The expression on his face — the lifted eyebrow, the piercing gaze — suggests thoughtful determination.  You can tell that Paul is a go-getter, whether it be riding to Portsmouth, N.H. in 1774 to let the town know the British were coming, or sounding the alarm a year later at Lexington and Concord, or in crafting a silver platter or cup.  Revere put his all into anything he took on.

Remember to vote!

Perhaps some will find a contest for the hottest Patriot irreverent.  But as a history geek, I love getting to know the people of the past.  These Patriots were guys who lived lives, who laughed, loved, and sometimes drank too much. They could be heroes, even if sometimes they were hypocrites, and in some cases had an equal number of friends and foes.  All  could  have hunkered down and ridden out the Revolution with their heads bent low to the ground,  but instead chose to risk their lives, liberty, and property to create a new nation.  Now that’s hot!

Enter your vote — or your nomination — in the comments by July 12, 2014 to be eligible for the book drawing!

P.S. At some future point, I will run a contest on Patriot women, although I may have to broaden the category to include a portrait of the very intriguing Margaret Kemble Gage, the wife of British General Thomas Gage, and definitely not a Patriot.

 

Posted in Seacoast (mostly) History, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

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

Posted on June 27, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

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

 

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

Goodbye, antibiotics, hello summer: travels with Lyme Disease

Posted on June 20, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

After the phone call, I realized that our pediatrician had an approach, a way of talking about a delicate subject that he had used many times before.

After ten years of near-perfect health, my daughter had become a high-maintenance patient, in and out of the office at least a dozen times in the past year, with many phone calls between visits.

A year earlier, I had found the tick in August. In September, the fever began, and then the horrible wracking cough.  Six weeks later, the fever escalated over several days, then finally broke. The intensity of the cough began to diminish. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

But a few weeks after the fever ended, the weird stuff began. Soon, I could predict, on a six-week cycle, the onset of mysterious ailments:  A staph infection on the toe, then on the index finger. An unrelenting headache. Weeping behind the ear. More finger infections. Blood work that suggested off-the-chart allergies, or a parasite, but no evidence of either.

By June, my daughter had missed a third of the school year. When she was feeling good, life went on as usual: Odyssey of the Mind, cross-country, hiking, travels. Every time an infection cleared, I thought we had turned the final corner.

Now, as another school year commenced, our concern centered on a throbbing pain in my daughter’s mouth that had begun with a cold sore, and then spread to her lower jaw. The gum was now recovered, pink and healthy. But the pain remained.  We paid $500 for an x-ray to see if an abscess was in the jaw. Nothing.

Then she woke up with another throbbing finger, leaking pus. As usual, I attacked with my full arsenal: hot water soaks, yarrow poultices, antibiotic ointment.  But the infection remained. We started Augmentin, which we had used several times before. The jaw continued to throb. Overnight, the finger turned hot red to the knuckle.  Cefdin was prescribed. After a couple of doses, the throbbing began to ebb in the finger — and in the jaw.

Then the phone rang.

“I’m very concerned about Jenny,” the pediatrician said.

Finally, at last, after all these months, the doctor was concerned enough to call.  A feeling of relief washed over me. Maybe now the medical professionals would ask more questions, would probe more to figure out what was going on.

“I’m concerned too,” I replied.

“I’m very concerned,” he repeated, and paused. “I think your daughter needs psychological help.”

The mismatch between his words and what I expected to hear was so great that I had to pause and decode, almost as if the doctor was speaking a foreign language I could barely understand.

I took a breath. “What I’ve learned,” I said, “is that when something is mysterious, the fallback diagnosis is psychological.”

After I hung up, I was shaking and trying not to cry, because I didn’t want to scare my daughter. I felt powerless. The doctor who I thought was going to help make my child well was washing his hands of us. Although I wanted an answer, a diagnosis, what I most needed was a sense that the doctor was our partner in solving this puzzle.

Fast-forward through another year.  Days and weeks of missed school.  More finger infections. Five weeks of stabbing abdominal pain, a short break, then months of unrelenting nausea. Many visits to the acupuncturist, the allergists, the gastroenterologists, and the naturopaths.  X-rays, an ultra-sounds, CT scan, and endoscopy. Every sort of rare condition ruled out.

“Is your daughter being bullied at school?” the family practice doctor asked.

All along, I had asked about Lyme Disease. When I pulled the tick off my daughter, it left an itchy red welt, but no bulls-eye rash. The Western Blot had come back negative. No joint pain, no Bell’s palsy. No, it couldn’t be Lyme Disease.

Finally, we met with a Lyme Disease specialist, a doctor who doesn’t operate in the box that constrains mainstream medicine in making this diagnosis. “I’ve seen these symptoms before,” he said after reviewing my daughter’s list of ailments. After more testing, he prescribed four to six months of antibiotics, and various supplements.

2400 grams a day of amoxicillin was daunting, but we took the leap. September began with another attack, pain in the ear, then the abdomen. But we weren’t frightened. We had a name for what was causing the pain. The antibiotics would kill off the bacteria that were digging in and causing problems.

In February, my daughter completed six months of antibiotics.  She had some bumps along the way, but has been free of all symptoms since then. I am not 100% certain that she had Lyme Disease. But I’m certain that she had an infection caused by that tick bite.

I had long worried about Lyme Disease. But when the doctor diagnosed my child with chronic Lyme, I wasn’t scared.   Now, we could focus on getting well.   The scariest moment in our travels with Lyme disease was the day that the pediatrician called.

Additional resources on Lyme Disease

Every year, researchers are discovering new strains of bacteria or viruses that cause disease and are carried by ticks.  Currently, the Centers for Disease Control lists 14 illnesses linked to tick-borne bacteria.

In 2013, the CDC modified its estimate of annual Lyme cases ten fold, from 30,000 to 300,000. Most Lyme specialists believe that the higher number is a low estimate.

ILADS, or the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, sponsors research, conferences, and the dissemination of information about Lyme Disease.  Lyme Disease has caused a major split in the field of infectious disease medicine and ILADS is an outgrowth of that split.

Posted in Family and Kids, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 16 Comments

On my own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

Posted on June 12, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

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

 

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