TRIP #5, 2014--Brake for Moose

Brake for Moose
A cold, grey mist clung to the tree tops this morning as we headed east. "This is like many mornings when Drew and I hike the Appalachian Trail in New England," said Andy. We cruised along through the chilly dampness.
The little town of Mascoma, New Hampshire, celebrated the coming of autumn with scarecrows.  All the businesses and many residents mounted the eclectic creations garbed in clothes that were apropos to the location: motorcycle rider scarecrow at the local garage, aproned scarecrow at the pizza parlor, bride and groom scarecrows at the church.
By 9:00 a.m. in Canaan when we turned north on Route 118, the sun broke through and the fog lifted immediately.

Like a picture window, the timbers of the overlook frame
the White Mountains on this gorgeous September day.

From Lincoln, New Hampshire, we crossed the White Mountain National Forest on Route #112, the Kancamagus Highway.  Signs read, "Save your life. Brake for moose."
"Might we see one or is it hunting season?" I asked Andy.  I decided to watch anyway. Here and there along the road trees tinged yellow and crimson where the sun hit directly, but slopes retained the green.  Only north-facing areas showed evidence of fall approaching with occasional dots of red and brown.  We stopped at Hitchcock Trailhead pullout to enjoy the view.
Pemigewasset Overlook at 2,855 feet offered a beautiful panoramic spectacle, but the chill drove us back to the car.
C.L. Graham Wangan Grounds looked east into the sun.  From here we could see more red color dotting the northern slopes of the White Mountains.  We descended a couple hundred feet to Sugar Hill Overlook, and the temperatures rose into the 60's.  New Hampshire has the right idea.  Here posted signs warn visitors against graffiti but the protective shelter and benches were already carved and disfigured.

Near the Homestead, the Swift River
provides a steady source of water.

At the Russell-Colbath Homestead, we took the Interpretive Trail for half a mile through white pine forest to the Swift River and back.  Signs explained that England harvested 200-foot white pines for masts for the king's ships.  The last one was taken in 1849.  Very valuable, the trees had to be at least 24 inches in diameter at the base and without branches in the first 80 feet.  Heavy fines were levied against anyone damaging trees marked with an arrow for the king.  The felled masts were hauled out over frozen ground in the winter by teams of 88 oxen.In 1901, settlers started calling for some protections of the forest.  So between 1906 and 1916, the Conway Lumber Company owners, all from out of state, cleared every available slope before protections against clear cutting could be passed by the state of New Hampshire and the federal government.
Luckily for us, the Russell-Colbath Homestead was open for visitors and manned by a guide in pioneer garb.  She was just heading for the wood shed to replenish the fire when we arrived.  The house, built in 1832, has no insulation and only one central fireplace in the kitchen. Five daughters hauled feather beds from their upstairs loft to sleep on the white pine floor and stone hearth in the winter when temperatures reached minus 30 degrees.  The house offered a glimpse into life on a homestead and provided a sense of the struggle for survival and settlement in a remote mountain valley.  Here, hunting and trapping provided food and clothing for families and income for homesteaders.  Selling and trading furs was common practice in the primitive backcountry.Thomas Russell bought five 100-acre lots for a total of $5.25 in 1831.  He built the house on lot #13 and sold the house and lot to his son Amzi in 1832.  Amzi married Eliza Morse George in 1834 and they moved into the house and raised five daughters, all subsisting on meager garden crops, wild game and fruits from field, forest and stream.  A sawmill and store on the property also provided a moderate income.

Plank floor and fire in the fireplace make the kitchen cozy and warm.

In 1887, Eliza Russell deeded the property to daughter Ruth Priscilla and her husband Thomas Alden Colbath.  Three years later Ruth had the front door altered to give out mail and was named Passaconaway's first postmistress.  She held the position for 16 years.  The guide demonstrated by lifting up a small door within the door where Ruth Priscilla passed out the mail.
In 1891, Thomas Colbath left the house, saying he would be back "in a little while."  Ruth Priscilla never saw him again.  For 39 years she kept a light in the window, but Thomas never returned until 1933, three years after Ruth Priscilla died.  By then the estate had been divided among the four living cousins.  Tom just wandered away again.
In 1961, the property was purchased by the USDA Forest Service, and in 1987, it was accepted in the National Register of Historic Places, "embodying local and regional significance not found in other places or structures."
Next to the cemetery an elderly park worker painted a sign post.  The area was well maintained and nearly 200 years old.

At Rocky Gorge the Swift River tumbles between walls
of granite as it heads downward into the valley.

When we arrived at Rocky Gorge about noon, visitors clambered over the granite boulders of Swift River.  Probably a madhouse in the summer, the area cleared so we could photograph the bridge sans pedestrians.
A one-mile loop trail encircled Fall's Pond.  Up and down it wound through the pine woods, over tree roots and around rocks.  "This is a pretty good workout," said Andy.  Puffing, I managed to keep up with him.  I even spotted a couple trillium growing near the path.
We parked near Albany Covered Bridge, built in 1869 and rebuilt in 1970.  The most scenic shots were from rocks in the river.  I didn't fall in!

Albany Covered Bridge connects the nearby town
with the outside world.

"Let's take the longer trail," suggested Andy, looking at the interpretive sign.  It was only .2 mile, sloping gently uphill through the woods to the junction, then 1.3 miles of up and down climbing on the Boulders Trail to reach the Ledges."We're almost there," called Andy after an hour.  "I can see light coming straight down from up above."
"Well, if you're almost there, then I must be almost almost there," I panted and puffed, climbing 30 feet below him.
But the view from the top was spectacular.  A French-speaking family urged us to follow the trail another 100 yards to the end for more views of the White Mountains.  "Those peaks are Maine," said Andy, when we reached the far end of the ridge.

Views from the Ledges are spectacular from every angle.

A lone woman rested with two small dogs at another overlook.  "It took me two full hours to get up here," she said.  "I had to carry the Chihuahua."
Coming down the other side was easier on the lungs but much harder on the knees.  The slope never let up.  "I think it's shorter than the 1.3 miles going up," said Andy, "but we never would have made it to the top going this way."  He was probably right.

From the top of the Boulder Trail
New Hampshire is God's country.

Poor Little Red!  As the sun slipped closer and closer to the peaks of the White Mountains west of us, Andy decided to drive up Hurricane Ridge Road.  Hoping to find a sunset view from the top, he wound his way uphill about five miles on a one-lane road.  Safe inside Little Red, I wished for a bear or a moose. I thought of the signs we had seen more than once along the road:  Brake for Moose.  I was ready, but no such luck!