III
A SUMMER SAUNTERING 

FOR the professional hobo New Hampshire is a most inhospitable region. For the hiker it is a paradise. There was a time when hotel clerks in fashionable mountain resorts looked with haughty disdain upon the man whose only baggage was a pack-bag. For a considerable period, too, even the farmer-folk looked askance at the man with dusty boots, for the tramp terror had been stamped deeply upon the New Hampshire countryside by repeated professional hobo outrages. It re­quired drastic special legislation to rid the State of this pestilential vagrant, and although that legal prohibition still stands in force, it is clear that the people are now able to dis­criminate between tramps and trampers, until farmers and hotel-men alike as readily open their doors to-day to the latter, as they vigor­ously slam them against the former.

The advent of the automobile drove the bicycle off the roads, but to the gentle art of tramping it is destined to be a stimulation. No car can ever encroach upon the moun­tain trails, which will always remain sacred to the hiker, while out on the open road, the auto is his friend, helping him cover monot­onous stretches of hot highway, and provid­ing, through the increasing patronage of its devotees, new moderate-priced hotels that cater to the transient.

As for trails, they increase in number yearly. Old Abel Crawford and his son, those pioneer hotel-men of the mountains, recognized that trails were as essential as frying-pans to their business, for people went to the mountains to go into the mountains in those days. There were no such counter-attractions as golf and tennis tournaments, or motor trips on valley roads. But he who went into the mountains a hundred years ago (and it is considerably more than a cen­tury since the first hotel was built where now stands Fabyans)¹ had to pick his own way and rough it. In recent years the mountaineering clubs have opened mile after mile of trail, even to the remotest ravines and sum­mits, and latterly the hotels, noticing that there are still those who go to the mountains for their own sake, have followed the exam­ple of the Crawford family and have built pretty paths for the ramblers and good trails for the walkers who may chance to be guests beneath their roofs.

There are times when two is a company and three a crowd, but that does not neces­sarily apply to a jaunt of this nature. A third man has his good points, and for the sake of even numbers and general good-fellow­ship a fourth also may be considered. But Thoreau's precept as to companions may well be kept in mind.

The charting of the course in advance is important, and one of the most enjoyable features of the trip. Let the controlling factors be that there shall be a minimum amount of railroading and motoring involved, that the days' marches shall not be fatiguingly long, that a good bed shall be available every night, and that, without recourse to high-priced caravansaries, also that the cream of the scenery be included in measures of standard size. This requires careful study and con­sideration of the best maps and guide-books of the region to be covered, and the time­tables of the railroads (for the White Moun­tains this means the running schedules of the White Mountain and Portland Divisions of the Boston & Maine, of the White Moun­tain Division of the Maine Central, and of the Grand Trunk), and the summer resort lists issued by those same roads as well, these latter to furnish hints as to stopping-places along the way.

Four of us, who knew that we could travel together on the Thoreau principle for two weeks, thus planned out what we considered the de luxe tramp of the White Mountains. Our time limit was the traditional two weeks' vacation. Our daily mileage was to be gov­erned by what we could do in comfort. There was to be no attempt at big stunts or record times. The impetuosity of youth had long since ceased to dwell with any of the four. We knew that blistered feet had no place in the good time we planned. One mile an hour uphill was to be our gait, with three times that at a steady swing on level going. Due allowance was made for occasional hold-ups on rainy days, and rights were reserved to change our course at will should the incli­nation prompt it. It all worked out to a charm. In two weeks, in the midst of an abnormally heavy rainfall, but one day was lost from that cause. Only twice were we caught and thoroughly soaked (even waterproofs are not invulnerable at all times), and on both of these occasions this was due chiefly to our own carelessness. And only once did the weather force a radical change in the day's programme.

The itinerary of the trip, in the main de­void of flourishes as to its scenic charms, may be sketched in briefest form for the benefit of him who would follow on.

Glencliff, at the height of land between the Pemigewasset and Connecticut waters, was our jumping-off place. Three trains a day from Boston stop there, and quarters for the night are available in the little village by inquiring of the station-master. Arrivals by the two earlier trains will have no cause to tarry here except on account of weather, and the Dartmouth (College) Outing Club's trail to Moosilaukee summit is easily found by in­quiry at the station. It is a beautiful trail, well watered, steady, and easy of grade, and Moosilaukee is well worth a climb, for the view it commands is extensive. For those who ascend in the afternoon the little sum­mit hotel offers shelter and substantial fare, but if the ascent is made in the morning, four hours and a half being amply sufficient for the slowest walker to cover the five miles, the descent into Kinsman Notch can be made during any three hours before sunset. We felt that the full day that we devoted to the mountain was anything but wasted, the morning spent in a leisurely ascent, the after­noon in roaming about the moor-like summit tableland, followed by a refreshingly restful night in that clear upper air.

 

The trail down the eastern slopes of Moosilaukee

Within a scant half-mile of where the trail down the eastern slopes of Moosilaukee emerges upon the State highway in Kinsman Notch, we found the tidy log cabin of the Society for the Protection of New Hamp­shire Forests, where the custodian made us welcome with food of a filling sort, and bunks fragrant with newly pulled balsam tips. Kins­man Notch, until the building of the State road in 1915, was an almost unknown region. The Beaver Meadows and the underground passages of Lost River, now protected within the three-hundred-acre reservation of the Forestry Society, are among the notable at­tractions of the mountains.

It is singular that this gorge, now deserv­edly famous as the third great natural wonder of the Franconia section of the mountains, should have remained undiscovered until 1895, within seven miles of a long-estab­lished summer resort. The profile of the Old Man of the Mountain on the Cannon Moun­tain cliffs, overlooking the Franconia Notch, has been known far and wide for many years. So, too, the Flume, at the southern end of the same great notch, has been one of the notable spectacles of the mountains ever since mountain touring began. And yet the Lost River lay hidden in the forest until a local guide stumbled upon it by chance only twenty-odd years ago. In the estimation of one of its earliest explorers, the late Frank O. Carpenter, of Boston, it "far surpasses the Flume in its surprises, its massive rock archi­tecture," and is "unique in its dark, gloomy caverns." Though but three or four hundred feet wide, this cleft in the mountain extends from a third to half a mile, the stream cork­screwing its way through the dark passages from forty to seventy-five feet below the crest of the canyon walls. One of the first to make the passage of these Stygian caves found that three hours of continuous exertion had been required for the trip. To-day, thanks to the bridges and ladders placed by the Forestry Society, the difficulties and dangers have vanished, and a single hour suffices for the easy passage through.

Just what caused this tumbled mass of rock, which now, as a spectacle, attracts thousands of sight-seers every year, has somewhat per­plexed those geologists who have seen it. In the opinion of Robert W. Sayles, of the Department of Geology at Harvard University, who has studied the caverns, this river be­came lost perhaps twenty-five thousand years ago, when, toward the close of the glacial period, an earthquake shook the cliffs above and tumbled down the great blocks that now fill the gorge, burying the stream from sight. The great pot-holes in the stream-bed, which are among the curiosities of the present day, he has pronounced to be the largest known anywhere in this country, and he thinks that they must have been caused, perhaps just prior to the earthquake, by a torrent of water that poured through the notch from the melt­ing glacier that filled the great valley to the westward. Of this he feels certain, although admitting that the earthquake theory requires further study for complete substantiation.

The next attraction along the route is the walk across the ridge of the Franconia Range, but it is a half-day's tramp thither through the woods from Kinsman Notch to the hotel at the Flume. The first three miles is on the highway toward North Woodstock, which brings the tramper to the site of a burned logging mill. Here the bed of the old lumber railroad leads sharply to the left, and winds around through the woods six miles to its junction with the Franconia Notch highway, two miles below the Flume, all of which may be covered in a long forenoon. A lazier way would be to continue on the highway from the old mill for four miles to North Wood­stock village, with a glimpse of the Agassiz Basins on the way, and catch the motor stage up the Franconia Notch on the morning or afternoon run. A pleasant afternoon at Flume need not drag, for the trail behind the hotel leads in an hour to the top of little Pemige­wasset Mountain, a glorious viewpoint for the notch ranges, and back toward Moosi­laukee. Or if upgrade walking is not attrac­tive, there is the stroll to the Pool, and up the road to the great pot-hole known as the Basin.

One of the great pot-holes in Lost River’s Gorge

 An early breakfast at the hotel (a present-day possibility at many White Mountain hostelries which indicates their interest in the tramper) and the whole day can be de­voted to the long walk over the ridge from Mount Liberty to Mount Lafayette, one of the most inspiring routes in the region. Three hours will amply suffice to mount the ridge, either by the new trail to Flume Mountain, or by the old route up Mount Liberty, the four miles of the ridge can be traversed in three more, although there is never any tend­ency to hurry there in fine weather, and the descent from Lafayette to Profile House rail­road station takes but two. If dawdling on the heights leads to the missing of the late afternoon train, there is another in the even­ing which will connect with good hotel quar­ters at Bethlehem Junction, on the main line to Fabyans and the foot of Mount Wash­ington. One day there will doubtless be a tramper's hut or two on Mount Garfield and the Twins, whither good trails already lead, so that this circuit by rail around to the Great Range will be needless. To cross the intervening mountains from Lafayette to Crawfords to-day involves the packing of a bed-roll and two or three days' supplies, part of the way a pathless scramble between the crest of the Twins and the trail at Thoreau Falls that leads to Wiley House Station in the Crawford Notch.

It being a piping-hot morning when we turned out at Bethlehem Junction and cast our eyes toward Mount Washington, we readily decided to spare ourselves the un­necessary toil of clambering up the Mount Pleasant path, and bought our railroad tick­ets through to the Summit Station instead of to the Base. Doubtless many would pre­fer to railroad around to Crawfords, and ascend by the historic Bridle-Path to the Appalachian Mountain Club's hut at the Lakes of the Clouds, a glorious stroll of six miles, more than half of it above the timber with the world unrolled beneath. Moun­taineer beds and fare are at the service of all comers at the hut, or real beds may be found at the hotel on the summit of Mount Washington, an hour's climb beyond.

A more alpine approach to the Great Range would be to continue on the train to Willey House Station, and clamber up the cliffs of Mount Webster by one of the most inter­esting trails in all the mountain region. But it is long and it is steep, and from Webster's summit to the Lakes of the Clouds hut it is eight stony miles. Only the stoutest of legs should attempt it, and in nothing short of the finest of weather.

 
The cliffs of Mount Webster

 Once on the summit of Mount Washing­ton, the apex of New England, the tramper has a bewildering wealth of possibilities lit­erally at his feet. With a good trail-map in hand the fixing upon a choice of routes will not be difficult. Given a clear day and the pick of them all is easily that across the Northern Peaks, six miles on the treeless ridge, to the huts at the Madison Spring. Should bad weather interfere, and fleeting time forbid the awaiting of a favorable turn for that passage of the peaks, a safe and sure descent may always be made by the carriage road to the Pinkham Notch side, a route that is far from being prosaic even in a cloud.

To cross the Franconia or the Presidential Ranges in a simple summer cloud may not be prudent for the inexperienced, as the trails are dim amid the rocks, and the cairns are readily missed. To attempt to force their passage in a cold and freezing rain, a con­dition that is sometimes experienced at those altitudes even in summer, is positively peril­ous, and lives have already been sacrificed to such foolhardiness.

From the Madison huts to the Glen the map will show a choice of mutes, or if it is voted that this should be the climax the rail­road is easily reached in less than four miles of downgrade on the opposite hand. A prime favorite Glenward is through the virgin for­est of Madison Ravine by Parapet Brook and the Gulf. With us a leisurely week had al­ready been consumed, and the descent was made for a Sunday amid the semi-urban joys of Gorham, whither our spare clothes had preceded us by parcel post.

To complete the circuit of the mountains through the east and south the obvious route from Gorham leads over the crest of the Carter-Moriah Range. From the outskirts of Gorham village the trail leads across the Huggermugger Bridge and up the slope of Mount Surprise, with its inspiring view of Mount Madison and Mount Washington, and continues on over the summit of Mount Moriah and down into the saddle of Imp Mountain, an easy day's ramble, but one that involves the necessity of camping at this point in the Appalachian Club's shelter. An­other similar day, still following the ridge trail south over the Carters to the Dome, brings one at night into the remote fastnesses of the Carter Notch with its hospitable hut. Till comes that happy day, and come it will, when a hut is opened midway the Carter Range, the easier road to the notch along Nineteen-Mile Brook will doubtless be the choice of most.

Crawford Notch, Franconia Notch, and Pinkham Notch are all well-known White Mountain localities, but, except to a com­paratively small number, Carter Notch is scarcely more than a name. To the tramp­ing fraternity it is known as a wild gorge between the Carter-Moriah and Wildcat Ranges, but as neither railroad nor wagon-road passes that way, no others have seen the beauties of its precipitous walls, or felt the charm of its sparkling twin tarns. To those whose strength of wind and limb have carried them into this wild spot it has a fas­cination that draws them again and again, not only in summer, but in the dead of win­ter as well. Now that this notch has come into possession of Uncle Sam as a part of the White Mountain National Forest, it is destined to be better known, for as time goes on the Government will open up such places with better trails, trails adapted to saddle animals as well as to pedestrians. For one descending Mount Madison through the Gulf, it is an easy afternoon's stroll from the Glen into the notch, where a day may be most enjoyably spent in exploring its caverns, in whipping the lakelets to lure their speckled trout, or in climbing to the summit of the overhanging Dome for its wide and much-repaying view.

From Carter Notch a pleasant valley trail leads to the south five miles to the upper end of the Jackson valley, there connecting with a path to the summit of Black Moun­tain with its observatory, which commands one of the best views of the Great Range. If the trail along the ridge of Black is fol­lowed south from the tower toward Jackson village, a most interesting day can be com­pleted within a total of some ten far from difficult miles.

A night in one of the numerous hotels in Jackson and again the future road must be mapped out. It is a safe assumption that the first step thence will be toward Mount Pequawket's summit, most readily reached from the Jackson side by the Pitman Trail, some four miles down the Thorn Mountain road in Lower Bartlett. Descending from Pequawket to Intervale for the night the next most attractive possibility is to cross the interval and the Saco River to Diana's Baths for the ascent of North Moat Moun­tain, spending the day in the ramble along the ridge toward the south. If a telephone message has been sent ahead in the morn­ing before setting out, for a helpful auto­mobile to meet the rovers as they emerge on the Albany Interval road in the late after­noon, the day will end with a comfortable night at the hotel at the foot of the Weetamoo Trail to Mount Chocorua, the starting-point for yet another day.

Chocorua sentinels the eastern end of the southernmost rampart of the mountains, the Sandwich Range. No White Mountain trip could be complete for us that omitted the climb up Chocorua's rocky crest, with a night at the little house that snuggled for twenty-five years beneath the cone. Wrecked by the great gale of September, 1915, it was restored in part the following year only to be again swept away in that winter's storms. Homely it was in the Yankee sense, but in the hearty greetings of its veteran landlord, David Knowles, and in the unpretending but generous quality of its entertainment, there was true homeliness. The pleasant memories of that little house among the rocks, that remain with thousands who have been its guests, afford a firm founda­tion for its successor.

Now that the only refuge that the moun­tain affords is the chilly cavern beneath the great Cow Rock, where Frank Bolles once passed a lonely vigil with the stars, few will know the glories of a night on that windy watch-tower, but will seek their shelter in the valley to the south. A long summer's day will be ample to cross the mountain, descending through the fine old forest along the Brook Trail, or by the Bee-Line route, with its recurring backward views of the cone above, to Paugus Mill and Wonalan­cet village. With two more full days Sand­wich Mountain will be crossed, by way of Whiteface Interval and Jose's Bridge, into Waterville,- and Mount Osceola ascended for the final stretch down its western side to the railroad at Woodstock, almost at the foot of Moosilaukee once more.

 
Chocorua’s Great Cow Rock

 Our trip has circled the mountains, hit­ting all the high spots en mute. We might have followed a faster pace, to be sure, for there is nothing record-breaking in some­thing less than one hundred and fifty miles afoot in a fortnight's space. It was swift enough for any who like to take their ad­ventures in moderation. It was a holiday to be remembered, a genuine vacation of relax­ation, and what was equally conducive to satisfaction in the frugal Yankee mind, it had been something short of extravagant in expenditure. We had lived well, and had indulged ourselves in numerous lifts by train and automobile, yet the average of our daily costs for the fourteen days did not greatly exceed three dollars. Switzerland might be able to beat the experience in thrills, but not in reasonableness of cost and in thorough satisfaction.

 

* The mileage and elapsed time are cumulative for each day, dis­tance and time being figured from point last named in previous line. The times here given are sufficient for leisurely walking.

MAPS: White Mountain National Forest, two miles to the inch, published by the U.S. Forest Service. Mailed on application to For­est Supervisor, Gorham, N.H.

Eleven sectional trail maps of the White Mountains, drawn by Louis F. Cutter, and published by the Appalachian Mountain Club, Boston, Mass.

 

¹ Eleazer Rosebrook, grandfather of Ethan Allen Crawford, opened his house to travelers in 1803.