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    Tag: New Hampshire

    • From Fenway Park to Barred Owls in the Night

      Yesterday afternoon I changed up the routine and watched the Boston Red Sox play the Detroit Tigers at Fenway Park. Day games are a different vibe than night games, and all games are a different vibe during a pandemic. But we’re slowly coming out of it, and going to a baseball game on a beautiful day felt pretty cool.

      It’s been decades since I’d seen that many empty seats at Fenway Park. Social distancing requirements demand low capacity, and we were among the lucky few to get in to see the game. Honestly the game was a mess of bad pitching and horrific defense for both teams, with 21 total runs scored. But being back inside the park after a couple of years, and especially the last year, made it special.

      The entire experience, like everything else nowadays, occurs with appropriate precautions. They zip tie the seats you’re not supposed to sit in, and have some ushers walking around asking you to put your mask on if you aren’t eating or drinking. I saw plenty of people breaking this rule, but people are spaced so far apart that it didn’t matter much. The group I was part of is fully vaccinated and more comfortable than we might have been otherwise. No food vendors walking up and down the stairs pitching hot dogs and popcorn, and there were limited options below. But we were still at Fenway Park and loving the afternoon vibe.

      Back at home in New Hampshire and ready to call it an early night, I heard the calls of Barred Owls in the woods behind the house. Loud. Close. And what sounded like three or four owls. We don’t generally have Barred Owls in the neighborhood, mostly because we have Great Horned Owls and they stay clear of each other. But here they were, and the night was filled with the apocalyptic sounds of Barred Owls in the night.

      You can’t just slip away to dreamland when there’s a cacophony of owl calls outside. So I walked outside on the deck and stood listening to them in the dark. High up in the tree canopy, making baby Barred Owls or at least deep in negotiation. I thought about the contrast between Fenway Park and the woods of New Hampshire on this beautiful day in May. I’m not sure what this “new normal” will be, but if this was it, I felt lucky to have been a part of it.

    • A Hole in the Ground

      Walking through the woods of Hampstead, New Hampshire we found an old mine quietly marking time. A modest hole in the ground, really, with scattered bits of Mica all around. To call it a mine seems a bit of a stretch when compared to the big mining operations elsewhere in the world. But it called to me, knowing I’d been looking for it, and seemed to sparkle in the sun for the attention.

      Mica is also known as Isinglass. From a resource perspective, Mica is sheet silicates used in everything from glass making to fashion to a key ingredient in gypsum. It has some heat-resistant qualities and is non-conductive, which makes it useful. But it’s very expensive to mine and labor intensive, so most of the mining now is done in India. For anyone complaining about their work, I’d point to Mica mining as one of many professions that might be a bit tougher.

      In New Hampshire you see flakes of Mica everywhere but the meaningful sheets (or “books”) were harder to find. When they did find it, they’d root it out by blasting and drilling carefully around the sheets. Keeping the sheets intact was the labor-intensive trick.

      There’s a semi-famous mine in Grafton called the Ruggle’s Mine, now closed, that used to be a tourist attraction. Visitors could carry out whatever rock that met their fancy. The mountain where it was mined was called Isinglass Mountain. You can find it on a topographical map but good luck finding that on the list of New Hampshire’s 1,786 mountains. Does a mountain lose prominence when people dig holes in it?

      Back in the woods, I wondered about this old hole in the ground, once a Mica mine, now a landing place for leaves and pine cones. There’s little history around it, probably because it really isn’t any bigger than a cellar hole. But it’s in my nature to wonder about such things. Not so much for the hole but the people who labored in it. I imagine they’re buried somewhere in town, filling their own holes in the ground. What was their story?

      Holes in the ground aren’t nearly as flashy as waterfalls and mountaintops. I can’t blame anyone who skimmed the first paragraph of this post and thought, “not for me”. But there’s a story there in the ground, marking time like the rest of us. And I wonder, what would it take to dig it out? For without a story it’s just another hole in the ground.

      Mica Mine hole in Hampstead, NH

    • A Visit to Fall of Song

      The Fall of Song is a popular place located on the grounds of Castle in the Clouds in Moultonborough, New Hampshire. The is a waterfall with infrastructure to support the masses, with a large parking lot a short walk from the walls and a boardwalk that runs right up to the waterfalls. These make it far more accessible than most of the waterfalls I visit, and likely ensures a lot of company when you visit at peak times. As is my nature, I visited off-peak and had the place to myself for a short time.

      The Fall of Song was once called Ossipee Falls, so named for the mountain range they’re in. I’m not sure exactly when the name changed to the medieval, lyrical Fall of Song. It may have been in the mid-19th century when the area was known for its mineral springs, or maybe later when BF Shaw came up from Lowell to build Ossipee Park mountain resort here. Or maybe it was when the property was sold to Tom Plant who built his Castle in the Clouds. Any of the characters from that time could have named it Fall of Song. It really doesn’t matter, I suppose. The falls have drawn visitors for generations because they’re simply beautiful.

      Fall of Song

      In the winter and early Spring the gates are closed but pedestrians are welcome. A quick half mile walk up the road offers beautiful views of Shannon Brook tumbling down to greet you. You soon reach The Pebble, a giant glacial erratic that stands watch between the brook and the road. I see a lot of glacial erratics in my walks through the woods, and this one is pretty impressive.

      The Fall of Song is an impressive 40 foot plunge through narrow granite walls. With recent rain they were singing with gusto, with an icy mist swirling into a rainbow in the afternoon sun. I appreciated the boardwalk for what it offers in accessibility for people who might not otherwise see Fall of Song, while thinking about how great the photo might have been without the boardwalk in the picture. So it goes.

      Fall of Song and Shannon Brook

      Not being one to settle for the easily accessible, I hiked up the trail above the falls to see them plunge from above, and then made my way up to Bridal Veil Falls just above Fall of Song. This second fall is one you have to earn, but in doing so you feel you’re in on a little secret that those who only visit Fall of Song never know. I tried several approaches to get to the best vantage point without being completely satisfied with any of them and have promised myself another visit to see them again.

      Shannon Brook, above Fall of Song with a glimpse of Bridal Veil Falls above

      There are several other falls above Fall of Song worth a look, with Bridal Veil being the prettiest. And you can spend a lot more time hiking this area beyond the waterfalls. For all my wandering further north in the White Mountains, the old volcano ring of the Ossipee Mountain range offers stunning vistas. This is a place worth returning to.

    • Finding the Magic Behind the Ice

      There’s something uniquely foreign about the experience, akin to visiting an ice palace in a fantasy movie. Humans aren’t supposed to be in such places. At least that’s what we tell ourselves when we look at a waterfall from the front. And when it’s frozen in winter? Well, there’s something chillingly locked away in… there.

      Now, in case you’re wondering, this isn’t the first time I’ve been behind a waterfall. Like countless thousands, I’ve walked behind Niagara Falls and for the price of admission seen the roaring waters dropping away from the safety of a dim, well-engineered if soulless tunnel. Interesting, to be sure. But not magical.

      It’s clearly the ice. It forms a wall over the falls that announces, “sorry, closed for the season”. There’s beauty in the frozen stillness of a waterfall in winter, of course, but there’s a small part of you that feels betrayed by the ice. You hear the muted sound of water falling deep inside, and want for more.

      Enter Beede Falls in Sandwich, New Hampshire. In warmer months it’s a 35 foot horsetail of falling water with a popular swimming hole. In winter it’s an ice bulge, beautiful but seemingly as inaccessible as other frozen waterfalls. But this one offers a secret for those who dare. You can duck and crawl in behind the falls on the left or right side, and even crawl all the way through if you wanted to. For some less tall than me standing up is even possible.

      I wondered at the characters over the years who have crawled behind the falls in all seasons. I wasn’t the first on this day, and other hikers waited patiently for me to finish to have their own turn in the tight tunnel between granite, water and ice. How many humans have made this crawl over the thousands of years that this cave and waterfall have danced together? A lot, I suppose. But for a few minutes, there was only me and the ice and water.

      That’s where I finally saw the magic locked away behind that frozen blue skin. Deep behind the water is indeed falling, forming icicles and frozen bubbles successively grown upon each other to form otherworldly sculptures. And through it all that shower of water penetrates the center, surrounded by its icy shield and backlit by the daylight beyond. An incredible wonderland so foreign to me, so delightful, that I felt I’d gone to another world. And indeed I had.

      Beede Falls, behind her icy shield

    • Twice the Fun: Mount Israel & Beede Falls

      Not every amazing hike is over 4000 feet. In New Hampshire there are other lists besides the 4K list, lists like 52 with a view, which offers some beautiful views with a bit less effort than the 4000 footers. For a warm Sunday with snow melting into snowball-making consistency, a couple of friends invited me to join them on a hike of Mount Israel and for a bonus, a visit to Beede Falls, one of the waterfalls on my personal checklist to see in 2021.

      A bit of history is in order. Mount Israel is named for a settler named Israel Gilman, who lived near the trailhead for this mountain. There’s still an active farm near that trailhead, and it’s easy to imagine the land in the 1760’s when Gilman was walking around this place. Mount Israel is located in Sandwich, New Hampshire, which also has a bit of history in its name. The town of Sandwich is named for the 4th Earl of Sandwich, John Montagu, supposedly the inventor of the sandwich. Given that, I made a point of packing a sandwich for the hike, in honor of the Earl (or whomever it was, lost to history, who made sandwiches for him).

      The hike began at Mead Base in Sandwich, with a straightforward two mile hike up the Wentworth Trail. For those wondering about the name of the trail, a bit more history for you: Sandwich was founded in 1767 from a grant by Governor Benning Wentworth. Another name you’ll come to know is Daniel Beede, who was chosen to lead the settlement of Sandwich and granted 100 acres. Place names usually betray the history of that place, and if you look hard enough you’ll find Easter eggs like these on maps and street signs.

      I quickly fell in love with the Wentworth Trail. It winds through old growth oak and pine trees, with some tree trunks four feet in diameter – exceedingly rare around here. The snow cover acted as a spotlight on the biggest trees in the forest. I was smitten with one oak tree that had to be a witness to the transition from Native American land to English settlement. Further up, the trail wound around granite ledge and hemlocks, offering glimpses out to Squam Lake and the surrounding ridge line.

      The summit of Mount Israel is 2620 feet with 1900 feet of elevation. Despite its modest height relative to some of the other mountains in New Hampshire, it didn’t disappoint in views or the stunning beauty of the trail itself. Steep enough for a workout, short enough to give you time for other adventures. We made short work of the trail and before we knew it we were back at the trailhead at Mead Base and Act II.

      A half mile from the trailhead is another wonder worth visiting, Beede Falls, which is named after our friend Daniel Beede. The walk itself is wonderful, with granite ledge and scattered glacial erratics lining the edge of the trail. A large cave named Cow Cave offered a quick distraction. It was so named by some cows that decided to shelter inside the cave one day deep in the past. The cave was interesting, to be sure, but the real show was Beede Falls.

      In late February the falls were largely frozen, and we walked out on the ice that must be a lovely swimming hole on a hot summer day. The amazing part of Beede Falls in looking at them from behind. The falls froze solid in front, but you can access the back from the left and right side, and crawling behind them offered a magical trip into an icy palace. Water cascaded from the granite ledge, plunging between the icy wall you see on the outside and the cave formed behind. There’s just enough room to go all the way through it if you’re adventurous and don’t mind getting a little wet.

      In all our days on this earth, how often can you say that you got to see the world from the summit of a small mountain and from the crawlspace behind a waterfall in the space of a couple of hours? If you’re blessed with good health and mobility, then surely life is to be lived fully. Adventures like this one are within reach of most of us. All you’ve got to do is get out there.

      Frozen Beede Falls
      Ice wall in cave behind the falls
      Summit of Mount Israel

    • A Rock in the Woods

      History whispered from the woods, calling me to find it. A mere rock this time, set in place to forever mark the border between two agreed-upon places, as settlers tended to do. This one, they say, was set here in 1741, a year after being settled and eight years before Hampstead would be incorporated. The other town, Atkinson, would be incorporated twenty-six years later. That there is a carved A and H on the stone that is a handy indicator that you found it, but neither settlement was known by these names in 1741. Hampstead was known as Timberlane Parish then, and Atkinson at the time was a part of Plaistow, New Hampshire. No, the carving came sometime later. And so did the red paint used to highlight the letters.

      Living on a border town between New Hampshire and Massachusetts, I’m fascinated with these border markers. Some are easier to find than others, conveniently standing aside the road they’ve watched grow over their lifetime. But others are more evasive. And town border markers tend to be less fussy still. When the plowed fields return to the woods they always wanted to be the stones become hidden. And that’s where the fun begins for adventurous history geeks like me. This one wasn’t so hidden; it appears on trail maps for the conservation land it resides in. But ask the 15,000 residents of the two towns where it is and maybe 400 might not give you an odd stare back. The rock isn’t exactly a national landmark like the fictional Plymouth Rock.

      And yet, this tiny rock in the woods marking the border between two towns was set in the heart of the lands the Abenaki once used to stage raids on Haverhill, Massachusetts only four decades before. It would stand witness to the French and Indian War, the Revolutionary War, The Civil War and two World Wars, drawing the settlers from the land that surrounds it to fight for survival nearby and across the globe. And of course it would witness the birth of a nation.

      So sure, it’s just a rock in the woods, but it’s a rock that has seen a few things in its job marking a random border set in 1741 between two settlements in New Hampshire. And I wondered, brushing the snow off it for a better look, how many of those people have wondered at it in that time as I do now? And for how long will it guard this border before such things don’t matter again? I wonder.

      1741 A/H Marker

    • On New Paths

      What good is livin’ a life you’ve been given
      If all you do is stand in one place – Lord Huron, Ends of the Earth

      If snow transforms the landscape, then a walk in that snowy terrain transforms the winter walker. Add a new path and suddenly you’re seeing the world entirely differently than you had before. Add snowshoes and you’re suddenly set free to break off trail to see new places, explore animal tracks that run off into the woods, and to see what’s on top of a rise you might have walked by at another time of year.

      There’s a popular pursuit in hiking called red-lining, in which hikers hike every bit of every trail on a map or guide. A popular red-lining pursuit in New England is hiking the AMC White Mountain Guide. The whole point of red-lining is to explore new paths – to get off the crowded hiking trails and try something new. To do it, and to belong to a small group of hardcore hikers who have also done it. And add a measure of accomplishment and camaraderie in the world of hiking. I don’t see myself hiking every trail in the AMC White Mountain Guide, but I’m fully onboard with hiking new trails and seeing the previously (for me) unseen.

      On Valentine’s Day I explored trails previously unseen in a forest I’ve spent a lot of time in. Snowshoeing with friends, we walked a trail largely by ourselves to new places. When you’re on a new trail like that, every step is a discovery, every bend in the trail is a curiosity, and every trail junction is confirmation and validation of what the map was trying to tell you all along. There’s magic in taking that image on a map for a walk and making it real.

      The day after a long walk on new trails you start thinking about the trails at those junctions that you didn’t take. You wonder at what you might have missed down that way and begin to realize the allure of red-lining. For how do you want to spend your time in this world? Sticking with the familiar or exploring new places and challenging yourself in new ways? There are other paths that warrant exploration. I’ve seen them out there, if only on a map.

    • Hiking Cannon Mountain

      A flurry of texts over the work week from two directions with questions about hiking led to a decision to join forces for a hike of Cannon Mountain. On the one hand were the Perry’s, increasingly famous in the White Mountains for years of summiting mountains and red-lining trails. I don’t recall a hike in the last couple of years where they didn’t know at least one person on the trails. And a text from my niece Kellyn offered a nice treat, with her deciding to hike with us as well.

      Cannon Mountain is an old granite mound that’s famous for a sheer rock face that once held the Old Man of the Mountain until it collapsed in 2003, and for the tram built to promote tourism and skiing on the mountain in 1938, making it the first passenger tramway in the United States. The Old Man of the Mountain gave this granite mound its first name, Profile Mountain, but eventually its resemblance to a cannon from some vantage points let to what we’re familiar with now.

      So the stage was set for four hikers to set out on a cold February 13th morning for a hike from Lafayette Campground. We chose the Lonesome Lake Trail, with three of us starting in micro spikes on the snow-packed trail. Our fourth hiker stuck with snowshoes the entire time. The conditions on the popular trail made either option fine. As with other hikes, you quickly know when it’s time to put on the snowshoes. For us that was when we took the largely unbroken Dodge Cutoff Trail over to Hi-Cannon for the hike up to the summit.

      Lonesome Lake is a beautiful lake sitting in the bowl of Cannon and the neighboring mountains of the Kinsman Range. It’s a destination of its own, and plenty of people hike up to see it, walk on the frozen lake for the beautiful views it offers, and then hike back down. But you don’t summit mountains when you turn around halfway. We powered on, snowshoeing through a wonder of marshmallow trees up the steep trail. There’s one ice-caked ladder on Hi-Cannon that I’ll always remember for the limited footing options presented to us, but we all got past it with a little help and a dose of courage.

      The thing about summits is they tend to be much colder when you’re exposed to the wind and you stop moving. Sweaty gloves quickly freeze up, making a change a requirement to keep your fingers working. We considered the observation tower for a few minutes and opted to just hike down to the ski resort’s Mountain Station, where I’m told you can buy a beer at 4080 feet. I opted for hot chili and hot chocolate, with extra hot, thank you. It’s a rare day when you can summit a mountain and have hot chili waiting for you. We quickly warmed up and reached a point where if we didn’t get going we might choose to close out the place. Onward.

      Crossing a ski trail is akin to crossing a highway. You judge the oncoming traffic, decide whether your speed can overcome the approaching traffic’s speed and go. We quickly crossed over to the trail back to the summit observation deck, crowned the summit and began our descent using the Kinsman Ridge Snow Chute, er, Trail. On the map, 4/10’s of a mile of hiking, but a lot of squiggly elevation lines stacked up in a small space. We butt-slid down large sections, my snowshoes were more telemarking skis on other sections, and we all collected snowy memories that will make great tall tales someday.

      On one of the butt-sliding sections I lost a water bottle. It wasn’t until we’d snowshoed across Lonesome Lake and I changed to micro spikes that I realized it. My disappointment at losing it turned to delight when we got to the trailhead and someone who’d found it and beaten us down the trail while we lingered at the lake had left it sitting on a post waiting for me. Good hiking karma right there. It was hard to come away with anything but positive vibes after hiking Cannon Mountain on a pristine winter day. A solar halo signaled goodwill to all. A very good day indeed.

      Cannon Mountain from Lonesome Lake
      Solar halo through the frosty trees
      Lonesome Lake with Franconia Ridge beyond

    • Joyful Walks

      Now shall I walk
      Or shall I ride?
      “Ride”, Pleasure said;
      “Walk”, Joy replied.

      Now what shall I —
      Stay home or roam?
      “Roam”, Pleasure said;
      And Joy — “stay home.”

      Now shall I dance,
      Or sit for dreams?
      “Sit,” answers Joy;
      “Dance,” Pleasure screams.

      Which of ye two
      Will kindest be?
      Pleasure laughed sweet,
      But Joy kissed me.
      – William Henry Davies, The Best Friend

      Joy and pleasure sound similar, but joy is something you can build off of, while pleasure seems more, well, short term. In the forever competition between Pleasure and Joy it’s interesting to note that walking is solidly in the corner of Joy. I’m at my best walking, and fill with joy in those moments on a trail or in the quiet places in the world. I know I’m not alone in this respect.

      What makes walking so positive for the mind and soul? Something in the rhythm of walking long distances clears the fog. Reboots the brain. I don’t have a lot of eureka moments walking, but I’m always better for having done it.

      Today was filled with miles of joyful walking. A poem like the Davies poem above hits you differently when you’re blissfully tired and sore from miles on the trail. Don’t get me wrong, pleasure is nice too, but today belonged to joy. And it started with a long walk.

    • Making Tracks

      I promised myself a snowshoe walk in the woods for lunch, and dammit if I wasn’t going to honor that promise. There was more snow drifting down, quietly adding to the base layer in fluffy contentment. Day-old snow welcoming the new to the accumulation. We’re in the weather pattern now, folks. Snow-upon-snow: February in New Hampshire.

      I’d walked these woods on Sunday, but felt a return was in order. Conservation land, with trails popular with dog walkers and tree whisperers. At lunchtime on a random Tuesday in winter you don’t expect a crowd but you expect somebody. In this case one car running, its driver staring down at a phone screen, oblivious to me strapping on snowshoes and beginning my walk.

      The trail is compacted again, a day after six inches of snow and with more in the air, speaking to the popularity of the trail. I help compact it for twenty steps and then move off trail into deeper snow. This is what I came for after all: the highly addictive, calorie-burning bliss of clumping about in deep snow. I followed an old stone wall that spends its lifetime keeping the woods and fields apart, and wonder at the farmers who built it a few hundred years ago, and the generations that mended it until the woods finally wrested back control of the land. Now it’s my turn on the land, and I quietly honor those who came before me; their hard life on display.

      I rejoin the trail and the pace picks up, crossing a bridge over a stream I see a stand of old pines and step off trail to walk amongst them. Just me and the snowshoes, walking an endless blanket of white that covers the features of the land. Fallen trees, dormant vines and brambles, rocks and frozen wetland all lay together under Mother’s white blanket. And one soul clumping about above like a kid at recess. For that is how I feel, being out like this on a snowy workday.

      I think about the time. How long have I been out here? 45 minutes? An hour? Hard to say, really, and I don’t want to look at the watch or phone to find out. But I know it’s time to head back towards the car. Clumping along, I join a familiar path, newly blazed but strangely not compacted as much as other trails. I help with that task while walking under hemlock trees – old friends who I speak with now and then across the years. They’d like me to linger awhile, I smile and hint I’ll be back another day. And cross a stone wall and step out on another field of white.

      The car isn’t all that far away now. I could be in it and back in my home office in minutes. But the snowshoes want to fly some more, and so do I. Not just yet, world. I step off the path and walk back into the deep snow, a wandering soul in a quiet, timeless field. I spot a tall stone wall on a rise across an unbroken plane, set my course, and fly.

      A quick look back and then back on my way