TRIP #5, 2014--Yucky Mucky!

Yucky Mucky!
We were exploring by 8:15 a.m. as an older Chevy zipped past. "I guess he's late for work," I said, as we watched the car disappear over the rise.
"That's what you'd call a Maine-iac," answered Andy, grinning.
It was 37 degrees when we left the motel, but the bright sun warmed Little Red, even without turning on much heat.  We cruised along U.S. Route #1 in sweatshirt comfort.  Without the hardwoods just yellowing and pines lining both sides of the road, it was hard to imagine we were traveling at 50 m.p.h. on U.S. #1 with nary a car in sight.

From Shackford Head State
Park we could see Campobello.

Andy had planned out routes to Eastport, a town on the north side of Cobscook Bay.  "It seems funny," I told him, "that we are north of Campobello Island, which would be outside the U.S., but here we are still in the U.S."  We headed toward Shackford Head State Park.  Without passports we wouldn't be crossing into Canada.
"Shackford Head sounded like a really good place to hike," said Andy. "I give Maine a lot of credit.  It's a poor state and they are preserving land, especially shoreline."  We parked in the gravel lot and studied the trails. There were no pamphlets. Red blaze to blue to yellow to red would take us all the way around the peninsula.  We set out on the Ship Point Trail for the 3.4-mile loop hike.
Beware of red Fire Ants, warned a couple signs as we entered the trail.  "Don't worry," said Andy.  "No self-respecting Fire Ant would be out in this temperature."  It was probably in the 40's.

Low tide uncovered rock outcroppings and mud flats.

"You mean if you don't sit down on his ant hill or fallen tree house," I added. From Schooner Trail we had beautiful views of Cobscook Bay.  Just as we approached one point, two eagles took off across the water.  I could see the white feathers on their heads and under their tails.  Here the 173-foot rocky headlands rose above pocket beaches and protected coves.  From the rocky outcroppings along the trail we could see what we thought were salmon farms in the ocean.  "They are here because the tide has such a good flow," said Andy.  "It cleans out the beds consistently." The sea gulls must have thought so too.  They made all kinds of noise in the distance. We learned later that we had seen Atlantic Salmon aquaculture farming sites.

Fish flourish in farms that are
cleaned by the extreme tidal flow.
 

Overlook Trail followed connecting paths through the woods and back to the far side of the peninsula. Shackford Head Trail took us back to the main parking lot on Cobscook Bay to complete the 3.4-mile loop.  We could hear the tide rushing out.  "See the flow?" pointed out Andy.  It sounded like a river of water rushing to the sea, and we could see tiny white cap waves of current as the receding water was pulled outward.  "The Bay of Fundy has the highest tides in the world," said Andy, "and we're not all that far south of the Bay of Fundy."
The Shackford Head Trail showed signs of recent storm damage with trees down everywhere.  "It looks like Tara's backyard with all the blow down from Super Storm Sandy," said Andy.

The S.L. Wadsworth building houses
the oldest chandlery shop in the U.S.

In Eastport, Maine we browsed in a couple gift shops and walked out along the main pier.  "This town is doing better than Lubec," said Andy, even though I noticed quite a few storefronts that were empty.  "It looks like they are trying to restore the old town," he added.  S.L. Wadsworth was still in business selling hardware. The sign outside marked the building as a National Historic Site, the oldest chandlery shop in the United States.

The fisherman statue dominates the
harbor in downtown Eastport.

Just across from Wadsworth's was a huge statue of a fisherman, painted in bright colors.  A plaque explained the much larger-than-life-size figure had been constructed in 2001 for the FOX-TV series Murder in Small Town X.  Angel Juarbe Jr. had won the $250,000 prize for best reality show, but the New York City fireman was killed in 2001, when the World Trade Center collapsed.  The fisherman statue was dedicated to Juarbe and refinished in 2005.Our next stop was Saint Croix Island, Maine's International Historic Site.  The park commemorates not only the location of one of the earliest European settlements on the North Atlantic Coast, but its harsh lessons that led to a more successful French settlement at Port Royal, establishing a French presence that endures today.  Here in July of 1604, Pierre Dugua, Sieur de Mons, chose a small island in the middle of the St. Croix River for a French settlement.  Dugua, Samuel Champlain and 78 men had sailed from Havre-de-Grace, France with their flagship La Bonne Renommee to pursue the lucrative fur trade and hopefully discover a Northwest Passage to the Orient.  In exchange for Dugua's promise to claim land for the king, convert the natives to Christianity, cultivate and settle the territory and explore and seek out precious metals, King Henri IV granted Dugua a trading monopoly and the title of lieutenant-general of Acadie.

Life size bronze statues tell the story of
life in Pierre Dugua's Saint Croix
Island community of 1604-1605.

Champlain, a map maker and chronicler, drew up the plan for the settlement.  The men, at the mercy of black flies, built a fortification, a storehouse, a dwelling for nobleman Dugua and then their own homes.  They constructed an oven and a hand mill to grind wheat, planted vegetables and grain, harvested shellfish, and fished for alewife and bass.   Passamaquoddy Indians served as guides for the coastal explorations led by Champlain, and he probably tried to convert them in the small chapel built by the French at the foot of the island.

Visitors to the Maine Historic Site see St. Croix Island across
the bay, but the actual town site is only reached from Canada.

Expecting a temperate winter with the same latitude as France, Dugua and his settlers were ill prepared for the severity of North America. The river froze, the tides heaved cakes of ice too treacherous to cross, and the citizens of Saint Croix Island were trapped--cut off from fresh water, game and wood fuel.  Cider froze in the barrels and had to be issued by the pound.  By spring 35 men had died, but the Passamaquoddy brought game for the survivors to trade for bread.  In June, Dugua's ships returned from France with more men and supplies.  But the colonists had learned some valuable lessons.  They dismantled the structures and moved everything of value to Port Royal.  Hence, the colony that pre-dated Jamestown (1607) ceased to exist as an American settlement, and the French laid claims in Canada.
"They have been doing a lot to spruce up Calais," said Andy, when we were back on the road.  It was 56 degrees at 12:30 p.m.
Right across the river was Canada, but we weren't going there.  I had asked the park ranger in the Saint Croix Island Visitor Center.  "I wouldn't if I were you," she advised.  "You'd have no trouble going over to Campobello Island, but they could give you a very hard time coming back.  I wouldn't chance it."  We took her advice.

Tide is low as we gaze from the
viewpoints of the Sipp Bay Preserve.

It took some sleuthing to find Burby Road and the Sipp Bay Preserve after Andy checked his map and I watched for road signs.  But we found the 92 acres with excellent views of East Bay and Sipp Bay.  Another property of the Maine Coast Heritage Trust, this parcel seemed newer and less developed.  We followed the one-mile trail through woods of white pine and red oak around the peninsula and ventured out on the tidal flats.  A large tidal range causes very strong currents with extreme flow, but the tide was still going out.
Thank goodness for lots of moss in the woods to clean off the yucky tidal muck!  Originally part of Knowlton's Dairy Farm and used for pasture, the area is frequented now by commercial fishermen, families, school groups, artists and recreational paddlers.  The pamphlet said the region is important to the Passamaquoddy Tribe as ancestral camping and hunting grounds while accessing the bountiful fishing grounds by canoe in Sipp Bay and East Bay.

Thick green moss and
white and grey lichens
carpet the forest floor in
Cobscook Bay State Park.

Cobscook Bay State Park charged admission, so we chose the public access boat ramp.  Quite by surprise we found the blue blaze, 1.3-mile nature trail that led to the park and back in a loop.  "I like walking on the soft moss," said Andy.  In spite of one tremendous climb, the trail followed the shoreline through heavily wooded terrain.  On the return leg we caught views of the ocean inlet through the trees.  A floating dock surrounded by mud flats rested on beds of mussels.  "The tide is just changing," noticed Andy.  "These lobster boats are just starting to turn in."

Wild roses form a sea break along
Mowry Beach Trail.

Klondike Mountain, a protected area managed by the Downeast Coastal Conservancy, included spectacular views of the surrounding area.  A one-mile trail started in an open field that was sprinkled with gnarled apple trees, skirted the water, climbed 150 feet to the bald summit of Klondike Mountain and returned through forested land.  By 4 p.m. I was photographing my own shadow at the top.

Back in Lubec we notice the lighthouse across the bay,
but this one is Canadian so we can only admire from a distance.

Mowry Beach, another Downeast Coastal Conservancy area situated in Lubec behind the sewage treatment plant and the consolidated school, was immaculate at low tide.  We walked the boardwalk for .4 mile and noticed the wild roses past bloom. The huge bushes were loaded with brilliant red fruit called rose hips.  Sea gulls picked for crabs far out in the mud flats. Yucky mucky, I said to myself, but there wasn't a piece of trash on the beach... just seaweed and shells.  "This shows that these people care about their environment," said Andy.  "Their livelihood depends on it."
Muddy, yes, but the beach and mud flats at low tide were anything but yucky!

TRIP #5, 2014--As Far East As...

As Far East As We Can Go
"It's another lovely day in Maine," said Andy, peeking out the window at 7:30 a.m., but at 7:00, when he first got up, the parking lot was bathed in fog. That was my clue to get moving.
"What do people do for a living in Clifton, Maine?" Andy mused, as we drove east on Route #9.  "I guess they could work in Bangor.  It's drivable, but it's too far from the coast to fish."
Just then we passed a lake called Chemo Pond and a large campground. "I know what one of them does," I joked.  "Runs the Chemo Pond Campground."
"Don't be a wise-beep," he snarled, grinning sarcastically.

Low tide attracts clammers and uncovers beachfront.

We stopped by the roadside along Route #191 in Whiting to get some pictures of low tide.  "This area has incredible tides," said Andy  "It's not like the Bay of Fundy, but the tides here are still pretty extreme."
In Cutler four men were out clamming.  We parked near the road and walked down to the water's edge. Low tide had exposed millions of rounded rocks of all sizes.  "How in the world did they drive out there and what a way to make a living!" marveled Andy.
Across the water rose the steel towers of naval communications.  Restricted. Authorized personnel only! read one sign. "I think that's a submarine communications station," explained Andy.

From the local library in Cutler,
we can see the whole harbor.

We parked at the library in Cutler and admired the panoramic view of the bay.  "You would have a better view if you drive back a mile and head out Destiny Bay Road," suggested a white-haired gentleman as he left the library. We followed his advice, but at low tide, our view from above was better.

Quoddy Lighthouse warns ships of dangerous cliffs and ledges.

The Lighthouse and Quoddy Head State Park marks the easternmost point of land in the continental United States.  Here, the major industry for many years was the catching and canning of herring.
We walked the one-mile High Point Trail to an overlook and listened to the steady blast of the fog horn in the distance and the clanging of a buoy bell near the foot of the cliff face.  The pamphlet called this easy walk the Coast Guard Trail with its view of the Quoddy Narrows. But regardless, the wet forest path offered some scenic views of the rugged coastline and offshore islands.

Quoddy Lighthouse marks the
easternmost point of the U.S.

Inside the West Quoddy Head Light Museum, we learned that this lighthouse, built in 1808, warned mariners of Quoddy's dangerous cliffs, ledges and Sail Rock.  Among the first to use a fog bell and later a steam-powered foghorn, this lighthouse greatly reduced shipwrecks in such a foggy area, even as shipping increased.  The current red and white tower was constructed in 1858. Automated in 1988, the light still shines through its original third-order Fresnel lens. Hamilton Cove Preserve, a part of the Maine Coast Heritage Trust, protected the Hamilton Cove and its surrounding beach, cliffs, and meadows.  Before we headed toward the water, we carefully read the hunting restrictions.  Two weeks until the first season opens.  We were relatively safe, even without orange. 
Low tide gave us beach access.  "This will come up really fast once it starts to come in," said Andy.
"It's already turned, but it's going to rise ten feet. You can tell by all the seaweed-covered boulders that are currently exposed."

Andy poses at Green Point on the Coastal Trail.

The pamphlet said that whales and harbor seals could be seen offshore, but with the tide out, we didn't see any.

Spectacular views along the Coastal
Trail reveal sheer cliffs and
dangerous rocks.

Where Hamilton Brook emptied into the Cove, owner Benjamin Hamilton once operated a mill that cut lumber to build several ships in an adjoining shipyard.  We spotted one small boat far out in the Cove, probably a lobster man checking pods.The 1.23--acre preserve embodies Maine's remote and wild terrain with 1.5 shoreline miles of cobble beaches, sheer cliffs and rocky promontories.

Before the tide comes in, the Hamilton Cove Preserve
gives us access to the ocean.

Later in the day we returned to Quoddy Head State Park, acres purchased by the state of Maine in 1962, to hike the Coastal Trail.  It offered sweeping views of Grand Manan Island with its towering cliffs.

Far in the distance the shores of Grand
Manan Island rise from the water.

Strong tidal currents between West Quoddy Head and Campobello Island drive what is said to be the largest whirlpool in the Western Hemisphere.  We hiked along the Coastal Trail for a mile out beyond Green Point, impressed by the 80-foot cliffs of gabbro, a dark coarse-grained rock that started out as molten magma millions of years ago.  Gulliver's Hole, a narrow chasm formed  by erosion of a vertical fault in the gabbro, moaned like a snowing giant.

Late in the day the sun casts long
shadows as we hike the Coastal Trail.

As the sun slipped behind the trees after 5:00
p.m., the temperatures dropped dramatically.  Shallow-rooted white spruce and balsam fir swayed as the breeze picked up.  Because the peninsula is surrounded by cold water, the park has extreme oceanic climate conditions with cool temperatures and lots of wind and fog.  "I think it's time to head back," I told Andy, as I stumbled over trees roots.  "I will be a very unhappy camper if I have to navigate back along this trail in the dark!"  That was enough of a hint.  We retraced the trail back to the parking lot.
The evening was cold--a see-your-breath-kind of cold.  But we stepped outside and walked down the street anyway, away from the motel light, to see the Milky Way, a distant ribbon of white across the sky overhead.

TRIP #5, 2014--Crossing Maine-land

Crossing the Maine-land

Beds of black-eyed Susan punctuate the river walk
at the Rest Area in Skowhegan, Maine

When Andy looked out the window at 6:30 a.m., Gorham was blanketed in fog.  A half hour later when he went for coffee, the misty cloud had lifted and the temperature read 36 degrees.  This is cold country!  Wisps of steam rose from cooling ponds, and even a nearby cornfield showed evidence of evaporation as the ground gave up heat and moisture to the chilly air.  We headed north to Maine.
Most of Rumsford, Maine was hidden behind clouds of smoke from the paper mill. "They are good paying jobs, and it pays the bills in a one-industry town," Andy said. Smell is not pollution. What we saw was mostly steam in the air, but it DID smell, even with all the car windows closed.
We followed Route #2 through Mexico, Peru and East Peru. "Drew would feel right at home up here," said Andy. "He could split logs all day."  The trees in this area are just starting to turn, and we spotted three turkeys foraging along the roadside.
We stopped at a Rest Area in Skowhegan, Maine to stretch our legs at 11:15 a.m.  Picnic tables interspersed with beds of black-eyed Susan dotted the bank of the broad Kennebec River.  It was a pleasant place to relax as one young couple bounced their baby boy in the sunshine and an older couple walked their dachshund.  But the air was chilly, and a light breeze ruffled the changing hardwood trees.

A bronze to the honor the Vietnam Veterans is flanked
by an army tank and a mounted helicopter.

This morning we noticed a few interesting things about Maine:  1. Don't mess with the logging trucks.  They get the right of way. They're bigger.  2. Gas is cheaper here. The average seems to be about $3.399 a gallon.  There are fewer people (drivers, that is) to milk.  3. The hamlets are small, and lots of trees grow between them.  4. In spite of numerous one-lane maintenance areas, manned by men and women with stop/slow signs, the roads are immaculate.  Citizens take pride in Maine property.

A mighty builder, Paul Bunyan dominates
the Cross Insurance Complex.

We checked in early at the motel, which gave us freedom to tool around Bangor.  Following the signs, we found the Galen Cole Family Land Transportation Museum.  Even though the museum was private and charged entry fees, the surrounding monuments honored Maine residents who had sacrificed their lives in wars  We walked the grounds, amazed at the numbers of men and women who had died from such a small state.  A World War II jeep commemorated the soldiers from WWII in bronze. Marble and granite stones listed individual names of servicemen and women from World War II and Korea. Andy walked through the Lowell G. Kjenstad Memorial Bridge, a wooden covered bridge.  "They did a nice job here," he said, "but it's too bad it is in such an unfriendly location between highway and airport."
On the opposite side of the parking lot and museum, a bronze statue  honored the Maine Vietnam Veterans, 1961-1975.  Behind the statue, dedicated in 2004, was a Bell-Huey helicopter mounted high above the ground and a monstrous army tank.

The Memorial to the Battleship Maine
remembers the sacrifice of brave
Maine soldiers and sailors.

On the fringe of downtown, we found the statue of Paul Bunyan outside the Cross Insurance entertainment complex and the Hollywood Casino Hotel and Raceway.  "That would be perfect for our front yard," I suggested, "but I wish it didn't say no climbing. I'm so tempted to crawl up into his arms!"    Andy didn't comment.Downtown, Andy took me on a walking tour of Bangor.  We parked at the Congregational Church and walked 10 or 12 blocks of this big city that has the population of our small Connecticut town.  The first stop was the Maine Memorial, commemorating the soldiers and sailors who died in the 1898 Spanish American War.

The Peirce Memorial
honors Paul Bunyan.

Blocks away we saw a bronze to Hannibal Hamlin, a Bangor native who served as Abraham Lincoln's Vice President from 1861 to 1864.  Andy and I had never heard of him.  Guess we missed out on some history. The Lady Victory bronze honored the veterans of all foreign wars in a downtown plaza park.

The Thomas Hill Standpipe holds
Bangor's water supply.

Several blocks away was the Peirce Memorial with a Paul Bunyan bronze statue.High on a hilltop overlooking the city stands the Thomas Hill Standpipe.  "I don't have any idea what it is," said Andy, as we parked nearby."It looks like a giant lighthouse," I added.  The interpretive sign described a giant wedding cake made of steel, pine boards and cedar shingles.  The standpipe is actually a huge steel water tank, built in 1897, holding 175,000 gallons of water and controlling the city's water pressure.  The tank is encased in shingles and is on the list of National Historic Sites.  I guess someone wanted to make it pretty.

Sights and smells along
the Boardwalk pique
the senses.

Orono Bog Boardwalk, a National Natural Landmark, attracted lots and lots of locals who came to walk the boardwalk in the late afternoon.  The path into the Boardwalk took us through rich wetland forests of winterberry, red maple and black ash.  About 1.25 miles long of Maine scenic beauty, the floating boardwalk, made of rough sawn hemlock, crosses a peat bog that is as much as 20 feet thick.

Andy studies the interpretive sign that explains how
low-growing plants dominate in areas where peat is thickest.

It's a land of dwarfed spruce and evergreen shrubs, tufted cottongrass and insect-eating plants.  More than 14 species of Spagnum moss help create the acidic, low-nutrient, water-saturated conditions necessary for peat to form.  The mass of peat and the distinctive environmental conditions of the bog have been 11,000 years in the making. Seven interpretive stations along the trail described the vegetation and animal life.  The natural find was a lovely hour of strolling in the 73-degree sun, a sharp contrast to our hikes at Mount Washington yesterday.
Our day of exploration ended with a drive around the campus of the University of Maine.  We were impressed by the immensity of the school, spread out and spacious with a well-maintained atmosphere.  "And it's always better to go to school where it's cold," said Andy.
He thinks it helps the studying when warm distractions are eliminated.

TRIP #5, 2014--Rain, Rain, Go Away

Rain, Rain, Go Away
"It's raining lightly, so what are we going to do?" moaned an older couple in the motel breakfast room.
"But the sun is breaking through the cloud layer in the East, and it's only 9:15 a.m.," I told them, as I returned our room key.  "It's supposed to burn off by noon."
We headed toward Gorham in a roundabout way.

As clouds shroud the valley, the ducks
at Willey Pond follow us across the bridge
to the far side, hoping for a handout.

At Willey Pond, 1340 feet, the ducks followed us for a handout. A line of low clouds dribbled on the valley in a cold mist as we crossed the foot bridge. Webster Cliffs, over 3800 feet, were nearly shrouded in fog at 10:00 a.m., and the summit of  Mount Willey, over 4,300 feet, only peaked through the damp mist.

The hillside at Silver Cascades shows
early signs of fall foliage color.

By the time we drove down the road to Flume and Silver Cascades, it was sprinkling again.  We waited 20 minutes, watching the heavy trucks struggle up the gorge road, and then made a run across the street to see Silver Cascades. Just up the hill, the Flume Cascades dribbled down the cliff face in a steady stream.  "I'll bet this waterfall is gorgeous in the spring," said Andy.
At the top of the hill by the Appalachian Trail Club's Highland Lodge, we spotted a patch of blue sky, the drips stopped and one ray of sun promised clearing.  "Through hikers have about a month left to make it to Mount Katahdin," said Andy, and the manager at the Crawford Notch Railroad Depot told us the high for tomorrow would only be in the 50's.

Mount Washington Hotel Resort holds a
place of honor at the base of the mountain.

Nestled against the foot of Mount Washington, the legendary Mount Washington Hotel Resort at Bretton Woods looked like a Cinderella castle.  Even though the rain had stopped, a thin cloud layer outlined the red turreted roof.  A few golfers discussed their shots on an outlying green, but an imposing guard house discouraged us from driving in and trying to walk the grounds.  I guess that's reserved for the rich and famous.

Activity at the Mount Washington Cog
Railway increases as tour buses pull in and
locomotives gear up for the morning runs.

The Mount Washington Cog Railway is a relic of times gone by.  Built in 1869 as a coal driven steam locomotive running on a cog rail track up the steep slope, the railroad has survived to modern times and continues to draw crowds of tourists.  A bus load pulled in as we parked.  "I don't think they will see much today," said Andy, even though we noticed a few patches of blue sky.
"And I hope they take coats," I added, remembering the newscast had promised a high of 37 degrees at the summit.

The business office is ready for action.

This isn't exactly the bear
Sue had in mind, but it will do.

In the museum we shook our heads about one display.  A wooden sled on a cog track could slide a single man down the track for 3.25 miles in three minutes.  It had a hand brake which must have been laughable at that speed.  We imagined the Olympic toboggan or bobsled run, but this contraption had no sides on the sled or the cog track.

The Cog Railway retains some coal driven
engines, even though others have been
replaced by more eco-friendly locomotives.  

I snapped a picture of the original office desk and old Smith typewriter.  It looked just like one my father used for many years in his accounting business.  He composed nightly letters to me in college as well, detailing the accomplishments of the day and even what he had for dinner.   Like father, like daughter, I guess!

Ripley Falls is a half mile
hike into the backcountry.

Ripley Falls Trail climbed .6 mile to a hidden waterfall.  The sheets tumbled and spread across a sheer granite face.  We trekked in, avoiding puddles and scrambling over rocks.  Just as the trail turned left and descended over a huge jumble of boulders at the base of Ripley Falls, the sun broke through.  Several chipmunks scurried from under one boulder to another, avoiding our company.  "That was a good choice," complimented Andy.  "Drew and I never saw Ripley Falls.  When we came down the other branch of that trail from Zealand Hut, it poured for 7.4 miles and never let up."  Andy and I were a lot luckier today.

Andy tells me this is a freight line.

We headed north to Pinkham Notch.  Instead of clearing as the patches of blue sky had hinted, the clouds descended.  Mount Washington was shrouded in misty, grey cloud-cotton.  Totally overcast, many of the other peaks poked in and out of the undulating mass.  Every so often a bank shifted and a brighter spot developed and then disappeared.
By 2:45 p.m., we pretty much gave up on any further hiking.

Hidden in the wilderness from a trail off
an unimproved road, Triple Falls is a
little gem of nature.

"It's 32 degrees at the summit," reported the ticket salesman at the Mount Washington Auto Road office. "But it's fog covered up there, so you won't see anything."  We hadn't intended to drive it anyway.  But we browsed in the gift shop, chatted with some people from Pennsylvania and watched a couple cars start through the main gate.
After we had checked into our motel in Gorham, the showers ended and a rainbow arched across the sky.  We set out to find a moose.  Pinkham B, an unimproved summer passage, took us past the trail to Triple Falls.  A short .15-mile climb over thousands of tangled roots followed a tumbling brook to a hidden gorge with three small waterfalls.  Moss covered everything and the huge trees tossed on the sides of the brook were a testament to the powerful forces of water in other seasons.  By the time we got back to the car and followed Pinkham B to Route 16, there were more patches of blue sky.  "This is the clearest it has been all day," said Andy.
But the summit of Mount Washington was still hidden in fog.  And no bears or moose were to be found!

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!

TRIP #5, 2014--Back on the Road

Back on the Road
"You are the only one I'm waiting for," called out Andy from the bottom of the stairs. "Everyone else is ready to go!"
And I was ready too.
It was time to hit the road again. This time we would pick up five New England states, even though Andy had traveled through four of them while hiking with Drew in July on their quest to tally Appalachian Trail miles on foot.  Retirement Trip #5 would bring our jointly traveled total of revisited states to 47.
"I don't know if we'll ever get back to North Dakota," mused Andy, as we drove in and out of early Sunday morning traffic on the Wilbur Cross Parkway, heading toward Hartford. "Hawaii?  Well, there's a better chance for that than Alaska."
But to me it didn't matter.
With the sun warming my right shoulder and a crisp fall breeze nudging the tree tops, life on the road felt good. In Little Red, our almost 20-year old Saturn, we cruised along with a month of adventures ahead of us.
"I think Vermont is the most unspoiled state of all the 50 states. No buts about it--the state least spoiled," said Andy.

Known for its covered bridges, Vermont even features bridges
that lead to private companies. 

We turned onto Route 44A, heading toward Woodstock. "But you'd never retire here. It's number 50 for taxes and retirement potential," he continued.  We drove past a covered bridge on Route 106. "It's a long winter too," he added.

Maisey is remembered.

Outside fall was in the air as a crisp breeze ruffled the grass around the bridge. "The trees are just starting to turn," said Andy.  Here we were three hours from home, three states away and probably three weeks closer to winter. A brook gurgled under the covered bridge, and nearby a monument marked the burial site of Maisey the Moose. Three hours from home, and we were in a different world.
Our first excursion of Retirement Trip #5 was the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historical Park, the oldest national park in Vermont, one of the nation's first programs of scientific forest management, and the only national park to tell the story of conservation history and the evolving nature of land stewardship in America.

The Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller house and gardens offer a
peaceful retreat on a cool September day.

A tour of the house, built between 1805 and 1807 for Charles Marsh Sr., the father of George Perkins Marsh, revealed a hodgepodge of memorabilia.  There was obviously no planning as far as decorating was concerned. For two generations the owners kept the 1800's Queen Anne style architecture, furnishings and gardens intact while adding 20th century renovations. The guide pointed out paintings by Thomas Cole and Albert Bierstadt, American landscapes that are part of an extensive collection. She also explained a little of the history that connected George Perkins Marsh (1801-1882) to Frederick Billings (1823-1890) and Laurance S. Rockefeller.  Marsh, a keen observer and American diplomat in Italy, penned "the actions of humans brought the earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the moon."  He wrote Man and Nature in 1864, a careful analysis of the human impact on nature and a plea for responsible stewardship that became a founding text of the environmental movement.

This Vermont carriage trail
reminds walkers of the
poetry of Robert Frost.

Billings, a Vermont native who had made his fortune as an attorney in San Francisco during the Gold Rush, purchased the Marsh family farm in 1869. He was devastated by the barren hills and silted river, the site of land denuded of trees and destroyed by erosion and flooding. He set out to build a model farm based on wise land stewardship. When he died in 1890, his wife Julia and three daughters--Elizabeth, Mary and Laura--continued the vision.  When Mary's daughter Mary French wed Laurance S. Rockefeller in 1934, it brought together two families with a strong commitment to conservation."No photography in the house," ordered the guide, but the gardens were another story. Andy and I wandered in and out along compact flower beds and hiked about a mile along one of the carriage trails that crisscross Mount Tom. White pine, Norway spruce, hemlock and red oaks towered overhead... some more than 150 feet tall. 

Imagine driving home through Taftswell Covered Bridge
each day!

"About 80 percent of the forested land of Vermont is once again wooded," said the guide. Thank goodness for caring and observant citizens like Marsh, Billings and Rockefeller. Although the trees have not reached the 200-foot heights of pre-Revolutionary War America, they grow tall and, with scientific management, stand proud.


In the late afternoon light,
Quechee Gorge is hidden
in shadows.

"Woodstock is a classy town," said Andy, as we drove along the tree-lined streets. "I only know one person who ever stayed at the Woodstock Inn. That was in 1971, and then the rooms were more than $200 a night."  We walked through the elegant old lodging with its garden spa and library. Everything was decorated with distinguished good taste.The rest of the town spread out from a spacious green. Little shops lined the side streets. We watched one shop owner tend the flowers just outside her store and pick up a blowing tissue.  "You wouldn't see that too often," said Andy.Tidy and neat, Woodstock shows that citizens take pride in their community.  We purchased a muffin to share and two coffees at a local shop. It was pleasant to sit at the wrought iron tables outside and watch the shoppers across the street. In spite of the chilly 59-degree temperatures, a bright sun overhead and the colorful hanging baskets of petunias warmed the atmosphere.

Dewey's Pond reflects the white pine
trees along its edge as the sun sinks lower.

Taftswell Covered Bridge in Vermont, from 1836 but rebuilt in 2003, attracted tourists who crossed and slowly re-crossed in their vehicles. The bright red-painted wood contrasted sharply with blue sky and dark pines. "Don't stop in the middle of the street," called out a biker to a motorist, when he pedaled by.
As the sun dipped behind the ridges outside of Woodstock, Quechee Gorge nestled in the shadows. We parked at the Quechee Gorge Gift Shop and Snack Bar and strolled back and forth across the highway bridge, admiring the views of the Ottauquechee River far below.  "We never walked upstream when we were here years ago," announced Andy, "so we'll head that way."  Vermont's grand canyon trail, padded with wood chips, offered views of the gorge and a lookout near the dam. Farther along the .9-mile descent, we reached Dewey's Pond, lined with cattails and covered with water lilies. A small group of young adults practiced yoga stretches on a grassy rise, as two or three older couples admired the reflection of bank-lined white pines in the placid water. The uphill walk back probably challenged one or two of them. We felt good. The Appalachian Trail goes right down the main street in Hanover, New Hampshire, through the center of town skirting Dartmouth's campus. We had dinner at Molly's, while a huge college crowd lined up outside. "How many places can you say you had a beer on the Appalachian Trail?" joked Andy. And there would be even fewer places along the Trail that offer Thai pizza with garlic, chives, broccoli, chicken and sweet Thai chili!