I had my vacation scheduled pretty tight; finish at work, go home and do final pack checkout, make sure I've got everything, and leave in the pre-dawn hours of the morning of 14 September. However, due to project deadlines and assorted problems on the job, I ended up having to leave 2 days later. Given that I was planning my trip from 14 September to 25 September, from the southern trailhead at Notchland (Davis Path trailhead) to the Sportsmen's Lodge in the far north at Big Diamond Pond, I decided that leaving on the 16th meant I'd have to push harder and faster than I wanted to push. This was a vacation, after all! No 20 mile days. (At least, not by plan!)
Since my return date was carved in stone, I had to skip part of the trail. I decided that if I was going to miss part of the Cohos Trail, I'd prefer most to miss the part in the extreme south, where crowds still occasionally congregate. So, instead of starting south of the Presidential range, I started to the north and west, at Zealand Campground.
My original ride for the 14th had left me high and dry for the 16th. Not his fault, of course; he'd committed to the 14th, and if I couldn't make that date, that's my problem. I found a backup ride for the 16th, a saturday, and gritted my teeth in anticipation of crowds on the trail for the weekend. In this, I was pleasantly mistaken. I saw 7 people on the trail on my entire trip, discounting road walks. Of those 7, 3 were trail crew, clearing blow-downs. Of the other 4, 2 were day-hikers local to the area, and only 2 others were in for the long haul, like me.
My ride and I had a grand time. She hadn't seen mountains like this before, so we took our time and mosey'd on in the slow way. We flew along in beautiful sunny driving weather, with the radio blasting loud and obnoxious heavy metal, driving way too fast and enjoying it entirely too much.
There's this little pond I manage to hit almost every time I drive into the Presidential Range area, somewhere near the western end of the Kancamagus highway. This was no exception. My ride and I stopped, got out, strolled around the pond to the large rock outcrop jutting out into it, and lolled around in the sun for a while, enjoying the beauty of typical unspoiled New Hampshire. Eventually, we wandered off to Zealand.
My ride was the worrying sort. You know, the type that when she drops
you off at home, she waits to make sure you have your keys and can get
in the door? The idea of dropping me off in the middle of nowhere and driving
away really disturbed her. It just wasn't normal! But eventually, she managed
to abandon me, leaving me high and dry in the wilderness.
The first couple steps of the trail for me were highway, along 302 westbound from the campground. The trail followed an old jeep trail up Cherry Mountain. Most of the early trail here was good, but as it got higher up, the tall grasses and weeds overgrew the trail more and more. Unfortunately, they were also wet from the rains. The good news is that I didn't have to worry about getting my feet wet after the first 2 miles. I think y'all can guess the bad news!
Right away, I knew this trail was going to be something special. Within my first mile, I looked down and saw the first moose prints of the trip. I was to see many, many more of these as the journey wended northbound! A few hundred yards after the first prints, I entered a clearing where a peregrine falcon circled overhead. Finally, 2 hours and 20 minutes into the trip, I saw my first moose.
No, not a moose. A MOOSE! She looked to be a docile old cow, but she was still enormous. She glanced over at me, swinging that massive head and arching her neck, then dismissed me out of hand. I was beneath notice. I hadn't felt so completely ignored since the last time I tried to pick up a gal in high school.
Now, I've hiked a lot in the wilds of Vermont, but despite a print or three, I'd never run across a moose in the flesh. Yet here I was, less than 3 hours into my trip, and I'd already seen my first. If you've read Kim Nilsen's (father of the Cohos Trail) descriptions of his moose encounters, his descriptions of size and massive, slow, ponderous movement are hard to grasp. He's dead on target. You've got to see it to believe it.
The trail degraded steadily. During that first mile, it went from cleared jeep trail (the old access route to the one-time fire tower on the summit) to overgrown and weed-choked. I passed several moose beds on the way up as the trail grew in. With the recent rains, everything was soaked, including me and my precious feet, a feeling I was to come to know well on this trip. With the smells of the vegatation rising around me, I felt like I was hiking through a vegetable salad!
From weed-choked, the trail narrowed substantially, until I was following a track over and through a lot of standing water and little streamlets, choked with moss and boulders. This is typical trail in truly remote New Hampshire. Don't be fooled by the trails you see in the Presidential Range. New Hampshire is a very wet country!
The trail did clear up for a brief half-mile or so, just time enough
to get a few pictures. Here's good trail in NH, and a shot
of me standing on it at the beginning of the trip.
Cherry Mountain actually has two summits. The southern summit, Mt.
Martha, was the first for me for the trip. It had a nice clearing on top,
good views, nice tenting. I was tempted, but I wanted to at least make
it to the northern side of Owlshead, the northern summit.
The trail between Mt. Martha and Owlshead is known as Martha's Mile, and is considered a pleasant little stretch. According to Kim Nilsen, the trail is about (surprise, surprise) a mile. According to local trail signs, the trail is only 0.8 miles. The truth? They're both right. It's 0.8 miles of horizontal distance. Welcome to New Hampshire, where the trails are for real men who don't mind hiking with two feet and two hands! If you're used to the gentle mountains of Vermont, you may be surprised at the mountains of New Hampshire. There seem to be a lot more steep, pyramidal summit cones. Both summits of Cherry Mountain had steep final stretches at the top.
The views from Owlshead were also very nice. It was a lot rockier, with
exposed ledges and no easy, broad clearing for a campsite. The sunset was
a wonder to behold. Unfortunately, my camera wasn't adequate to the task
of saving the image for everyone else, but some views need poetry, not
photography. It's very frustrating to realize that the light streak in
these pictures was actually a bright pink, very colorful - and my camera
did this to it.
My big problem was that, here I was on top of Owlshead with the sun
already below the horizon, and no campsite in sight. Time to get out the
headlamp and stumble along. The descent from Owlshead was predictably steep,
burning my hopes for a convenient campsite along the way. Finally, about
a quarter mile down from the summit, I found a short level spot stretching
away from the trail. Following it for a bit found me a spot where my tent
would fit without too much overhang. I was rarely so glad to have a
free-standing tent, though!
The night was bitterly cold. I shivered through a lot of it, in my sleeping bag. Despite a bag rating of 20 and a bag liner, I was cold at what my thermometer told me was only low 30's. I must be getting soft.
Not having a lot of experience with moose yet, I was worried about my
tent placement. It looked almost like a hint of a pathway running under
my tent, and I was concerned that I might have pitched my tent in a moose
highway. Later on, I was to laugh at these fears. Once you see the real
thing, you know. I was perfectly safe.
The trail down from Owlshead was an improvement over the salad climb up Mt. Martha. My boots were wet from the day before, but at least they didn't get another dousing. Eventually, I stumbled out onto 115. Civilization again! At the parking lot by the roadside, I found a nice hiking stick someone had left propped up against the trailhead sign. I left the one I'd plucked from the trail-side and grabbed an improved model. It's funny; every time I go hiking and pick up a stick, I leave it at the trailhead sign when I finish, but this was the first time I found one myself.
On the way down Owlshead, I took my first (and only) spill of the trip. I managed to take a chunk of skin and flesh from my left hand. Ouch. S'life.
You'll notice that I haven't mentioned any people yet. There weren't any! The first people I saw since starting the trail were drivers on the highway.
I've always hated road walks. I can pound ground all day long for mile
after mile of rocks, roots, mud, stone ledges, even boulder-hopping above
treeline, and my feet are fine. Give me a half-mile of road walking and
I get blisters. I was definitely not happy with this one. But having no
choice, I shambled along, trying to put my brain into "zombie" mode so
I wouldn't have to feel my feet shredding.
Along the way, the views back toward Owlshead were the best I'd seen.
Well worth a blister or two.
With the blisters I already had, and the distance I had to get to a campsite, I decided to skip Cherry Pond. OK, OK, I admit it, I'd planned to skip it from the very beginning of the trip. To really get good enjoyment out of a spot like that, you need to come in with the time to sit and be quiet for a few hours. I wanted to get some distance behind me to get myself back on schedule. Losing the two days at the beginning really hurt.
The first human being I saw outside of a car was the tiny little girl (3? 4?) who was trying to call back her rather ferocious canine guardian. Cute girl, very big, very loud dog. Still, dog lover that I am, I would have loved to stop and make friends, but he wasn't having any of it. I was on his road, near his little girl!
I finally got to Jefferson. On my way in, I passed a roadside "on your honor" vegetable stand, dropped in a few coins and grabbed a tomato. Every time I'm on a long distance backpacking trip, I always crave fresh vegetables. Here, I got 'em! I ate that tomato on the spot, just like I always used to eat them fresh from my parents' garden, as a wee one.
Just around the corner ahead, I stopped into the local gas station/24-hour convenience store and picked up some spare batteries and bandaids and a slice of pizza. I never had it so good on the trail!
I had three offers for rides right there in the parking lot. I guess folks in Jefferson are used to seeing backpackers come through. If they'd offered before I did the long part of the road-walk, I would have said yes. Here, I was less than a quarter-mile from the trailhead up Mt. Starr King, so it wasn't worth it. I already had my blisters.
The walk up to the trailhead is a nice little stroll in itself. There are some lovely homes along the road there, and the views of Mt. Washington are something else! There was already snow on the mountain, of course, and the observatory was positively glowing in the golden light of late afternoon. Unfortunately, I was feeling too lazy to get out the camera, something which happened all too often on this trip.
The trail up Mt. Starr King was the best I'd seen so far on this trip. Unfortunately, I was hitting my second day crash and just didn't care. I've noticed this in myself before. Whenever I'm on a long trip, the second day is always very depressing. I feel like I can't make the whole distance, I don't want to be out there, and I just want to give up and go home. I've never figured out why, but at least I know to expect it now! This trip, I knew it was artificial and just did my best to ignore it. It did make the trail up Mt. Starr King into a struggle, though. I had to fight both my mood and the trail, and every step seemed steep, steep, steep. It was a struggle just to make the summit.
There's a beautiful little spring somewhere around a quarter to half mile south of the summit. My favorite mountain spring always used to be the one at Goddard Shelter on Mt. Glastenbury in southern Vermont, but this one just about won me over. It was a perfect little basin, coming out from under a rock shelf. The water was crystal clear and flowed over gravel and sand, and tasted wonderful. I still filtered, of course. I'm paranoid about giardia.
I tanked up at the spring and kept going. For this trip, I was carrying 3 liters of water at a time. Normally, I only carried 2; however, since there weren't established shelters with water at the end of each day, I decided I'd need to carry extra for dinner and breakfast each day. I was right, too! Only twice in the whole trip did I camp near a source of water, and one of those times was the rain barrel at Mt. Cabot's summit cabin.
I'd like to register one of my several complaints about Kim Nilsen's guide book right here. He mentions the really good sources of water, such as the spring on Mt. Starr King, but he doesn't mention a lot of the other ones. From his descriptions, I thought I'd find the rest of the trail to be dry, all the way up from the spring. It wasn't so! At least 3 good springs were pouring water across the trail on my way up, and in several places the trail doubled as a stream-bed. Admitted, it had rained the day before, but the amount of water suggested that there was usually water to be found here. Kim's book tells you where you have reliable water sources, but he leaves out a lot of the secondary sources that are definitely worth noting. Of course, I couldn't do any better myself. Those who can't do, whine and complain about those who do.
At the summit, I caught the views, then headed down to the several campsites
mentioned in the guidebook. There's an old chimney just beyond the summit,
where a cabin used to stand. The campsites are actually just below that
clearing, but I was so enamored of the views that I set up my tent right
there. Mistake. Big mistake! The wind came howling across the void
and slammed into my tent all night. I barely slept until about 3am when
things quieted down!
That night was another cold and windy one. I was glad I had the chimney there; I managed to keep my stove going mainly by using the chimney as a wind block. I'd start my dinner and then duck into my tent to escape the biting wind, then jump out to stir things and jump back in. Eventually, my dinner was ready, and I brewed up a pot of hot cocoa to warm me up enough to sleep. I also knew that I'd been neglecting my water intake, trying to conserve water for stretches where Kim didn't mention any water sources. If I'd only known....
Starting down from the summit, I knew from the guidebook that I had an easy ridge-walk to Waumbek, which is mainly worthwhile as a NH 4000-footer (4006'). It certainly wasn't worth it for the views! As I passed the summit cairn on Waumbek, I left the Mt. Starr King trail and reached the Kilkenney Ridge Trail, which I found to be most like the trails I'm used to in Vermont.
The trail northbound from Waumbek had the worst set of blow-downs I have ever seen, anywhere. I spent more time off the trail than on it, detouring around them. After about a half-mile, things finally cleared a bit, although I still hit the occasional log-jam on the trail.
I bounced over the three Weeks mountains so fast that I wasn't sure I'd hit the middle one until I ran into a trail crew between Middle Weeks and Mt. Weeks (the northern summit), who told me where I was. They were busily clearing a drainage spot for a small trail-side spring (not in the guidebook!) where I stopped to fill my mostly empty bottles. We had a nice chat, something about navy boys in dresses that I flatly refuse to repeat. *grin* You do meet the strangest folk in NH!
I told them about the blowdowns, warned them what they'd hit ahead. Apparently there was another crew meeting them, coming up from the south behind me. They were planning to meet in the middle. It's nice to know that there are such dedicated trail crews out there making it possible - even easy! - for people like me to do these trails.
I flew over Mt. Weeks and started my descent into the first of the dreaded NH notches on my trip. I've always had this lingering terror in my heart for NH notches. Vermont notches are nothing; I've done them with hardly a blink or a strain. NH notches are an entirely different animal. Thus, it was with a healthy dose of trepidation that I started down Willard Notch between the Weeks and Terrace Mountain. I was veritably cringing at the thought that I was going to have to hit a second notch later in the same day, to make it to my target for the end of the day, Mt. Cabot and the cabin there.
Willard Notch was actually a pushover. I was still in my break-in stage, unused to the effort of hiking with a massive pack, so I struggled, but it was still much easier than I'd expected. That's another thing I've learned about my backpacking. It takes me a few days to get back into shape for it. The first day is OK because I'm fresh. The second day is miserable and I'm depressed. The third day, I start to settle into the grind, and my body shows occasional flashes of the level of hiking fitness I had on the last long-distance trip I did. The fourth day, I'm at about 50% of peak, and by the 5th day, I'm in proper shape and moving along well, with occasional drifting back into slow and wimpy. After that, it's clear sailing.
The views from Terrace Mountain were sweet, but I didn't want to take the time to get out the camera, just in case the bounce through Bunnell Notch should happen to be rougher than Willard Notch. It was, but not by enough to matter.
I filled my water bottles from the stream in Bunnell Notch and started
the long climb up Mt. Cabot. Long, but not arduous. I did stop at Bunnell
Rock for the views and snapped off a few quick pictures.
It was a little worrying to see the sun slowly sinking below the horizon
as I kept flipping through the switchbacks on the way up. The dense spruce
and fir kept me from getting any impressions of how high I'd climbed, but
from the smell of the air I knew I had to be getting close. I could just
about count off the elevations: 2700, 3000, 3400... It was almost a surprise
to finally come out of the trees into the hacked up clearing in which the
summit cabin resides.
The cabin is a honey of a spot for an overnight. I had it all to myself that night, and debated a fire in the wood stove to warm things up, but decided I was just too lazy. I hit the rain barrel pretty hard, though, dipping into it again and again for mug after mug of hot cocoa. The one irritating thing was that while Kim Nilsen says that the cabin boasts a small supply of food which he urges hikers to replenish, the truth of the matter is that the local rangers have requested that hikers not leave food on the grounds that it'll attract rodents (true). In fact, any food left will be packed out by the rangers. Grmble. I had been counting on jettisoning some food at the cabin to lighten my load - in fact, I planned on it from the beginning. Unfortunately, this left me packing out the entire remaining load of food I had. What they really need is a metal storage unit like you can find at Corliss Camp in northern VT. Oh, well.
Facilities at the cabin have changed in a number of other ways. They now have a complete rain water recovery system, so I had as much water available as I wanted. I must have had three pots of hot cocoa that night/morning, not to mention two meals, just because I could. The tobasco sauce in the cabin went well on my noodles. Yum! I also took notes on the construction of the cabin, since I've been considering helping to build a similar structure in the Adirondacks. (Long story)
The cabin boasts 8 bunks below and another 8 above in the loft. The loft was locked, so it's a good thing I wasn't there with 15 of my closest friends. There's a propane stove, complete with huge propane tank, rain barrel and catch, cooking gear, candles, lanterns, and everything you might want. I spent much of the evening fantasizing about the fun I could have coming up there with a few friends, the stuff for a stew at night and a big egg, bacon, and potato breakfast in the morning. Most of my friends aren't really backpacking/camping people, but even someone who isn't used to the grind could love it with this kind of introduction!
The sunset that night was wonderful. The cabin faces west, so
I got a number of really good shots from the porch. Unfortunately,
it was windy and bitterly cold (par for the course on my trip) so I'd run
outside to take a quick picture, then duck back in before my hands froze,
then lather, rinse, repeat. Fortunately, the pictures were worth it.
I've even found one of them as wallpaper on someone else's computer.
After a pot of cocoa to warm up and get hydrated, I made my breakfast and lounged about eating and poking around until after 9AM. Finally, around 9:15, I got everything packed up and moved out. I didn't even bother to tank up on water, since I knew I was headed down to the plateau area of the Kilkenny Region, where I'd have a number of ponds and streams.
From the summit cabin, the trail descends a bit before a final easy climb to the real summit. Like Kim says, the real summit is completely wooded and "flat as a griddle." There are a few small views from where the fire tower was sitting, but the views from the cabin are far superior.
The trail from Mt Cabot followed the Kilkenney Ridge Trail all the way to the South Pond Recreation area, taking in the Bulge and the Horn along the way. The Bulge was fairly boring, no views to speak of, but the trail was wonderful. The KRT was some of the best trail of the entire trip, if not the best trail.
The Horn was off on a short side trail. I stood there at the junction and argued with myself for a while. I wanted to pound some ground while I had good weather and good trail (the weather was spectacular). However, the thought of missing out on the views from the Horn (reputed to be some of the best in the entire area) finally lured me in.
The was an ongoing argument I had with myself for the entire trip. On a trail such as the Long Trail, in neighboring Vermont, most of the good views and sights worth seeing are actually on the trail. Here in NH, on the Cohos Trail, this wasn't the case. You have to make a little more effort to take in the side trails and the extra miles to mine the treasures of this wilderness. However, they're worthwhile, every one!
The Horn was no exception. The trail leading up to the summit was fairly hard to follow. It probably followed the optimal route, threading up between and over and around massive boulders, but this made it twist and turn so much it was easy to slip off of it. I finally ended up leaving my pack behind and just scrambling over boulders in a beeline. The scrambling got fairly challenging, and once I had to backtrack around a boulder or three, but I made it.
The actual summit of the Horn is a massive boulder, perched on top of bedrock. The views were unparalleled. I wanted to take some pictures of the mountainscapes, but I knew from experience that with the best panoramas you need really need a special camera. I did go ahead and take one shot of the rugged mountains in the distance, as well as a shot of the summit boulder itself from my perch on it. There wasn't a single man-made structure within eyeshot, anywhere. This was truly the back end of beyond!
Mountain view from the Horn
Continuing on from the Horn, the trail descends down toward Unknown Pond. Nilsen makes much of Unknown Pond in his guidebook, and it deserves the praise. Completely unspoiled and worth a trip on it's own merits, I'd visit it again happily. It also made for a nice place to stop for lunch, but I was skipping along to Kilburn Pond. Stomach, be quiet! Stop scaring the moose and beaver!
The section of trail between Unknown Pond and Kilburn Pond was a bit muddy in spots, with a number of extremely boggy areas bridged by much-decayed bog bridges. In several spots, the water would have been at least knee deep, with muck and mud deep enough to make it potentially mid-thigh or hip-deep. Balancing across collapsed, decayed, creaking and shattered bog bridges made for more excitement than I needed. In one spot, the trail actually crossed over a beaver dam, probably the most challenging crossing.
Aside from wet crossings and occasional mud, the trail was in great shape. Eventually, I made it to Kilburn Pond. I plopped my poor aching buttocks down on a log and dug out my bagel and peanut butter for lunch. Then it happened. I had one of my rarest moments on the trail. People showed up! A nice middle-aged couple was tramping through for a day-hike to Roger's Ledge for lunch. I desperately tried to remember how to speak english... I'd only had trees and wildlife with which to practice for a while!
Climbing up the small hill of Rogers Ledge was not all that difficult. The trail had improved again, leaving behind the wet spots. The views from Rogers Ledge were, of course, completely worthless. Don't waste your time. Nope, nothing to see here! Meanwhile, I'll hog the views all to myself... *grin*
The trail was in perfect shape coming down Rogers Ledge toward the South Pond Recreational Area. I was making excellent time, but I deliberately stopped short, a little early. According to my guide book, overnight camping was not allowed at the rec area, and I didn't want to tempt my luck with the local fuzz. I wandered off the trail just short of the side trail to the Devil's Hopyard and pitched a tent in the woods.
With trees finally available, I made a point of properly bear-bagging my food and hanging it another 100 paces away from my tent. The spot was a miserable campsite, but it was a wilderness location, never before used and hopefully not to be used again for some time. At least the ground was extremely soft, covered with rotting leaves and downed and rotted branches that were, if anything, softer.
I made myself a veritable feast that night. Since I had expected to ditch some food at the Mt. Cabot Summit Cabin, I had much more food than I needed to make it to Big Diamond Pond. I made and consumed two big meals, both vanished into the maw that is my gaping stomach, followed by large chunks of a stick of pepperoni I kept around for just such munching occasions.
That night was a warm one, the warmest yet. I finally got a chance to strip off the wet, filthy rags I called clothing and relax, sprawled out in my natural glory (inside my tent - relax, people!). As it got dark, I was half-dozing on top of my sleeping bag, relishing how good it felt not to feel something filthy clinging to cringing skin, when I heard a sharp *crack*. I opened my eyes and listened, but nothing followed for a while. I was about to dismiss it as a false alarm when all bedlam broke loose.
*Thump*crunch*crackle*CRACK*thud*thumpa*thump!* I don't know if anyone actually maintains a list of the top ten things you do not want to find yourself saying in the middle of the night, but if so, please add, "Oh, shit! There really is something out there!"
I scrambled into my clothing and grabbed my flashlight, but by then
the disturbance had passed. After going outside and carefully checking
around and making sure that my feed bag was intact and in place, I finally
went to bed. Morning investigation revealed a few turned divots and some
prints which lead me to conclude that at some point during the night, a
full-grown moose must have come thundering through my campsite. Apparently
it missed my tent by about 15 feet. Pleasant dreams, kids!
The remaining trail down to the junction with the Devil's Hopyard Trail was less than 2 tenths of a mile, and it went very quickly. I dropped my pack at the junction and wandered over to the gulch. I really hate to say it, but I've seen that kind of scenery before and it just doesn't grip me. The side trip is worthwhile, the Hopyard is spectacular, but it's just not my kind of thing. I didn't bother trying to track down the little waterfall that the guidebook insisted hides near the back. Sorry, Kim. (Jeez, I actually feel guilty!)
The trail into South Pond was no longer wilderness trail - it was a "civilized" footbed, complete with benches and nice little spots along the pond. A nice walk.
At the rec area, I met the first and only pair of Cohos Trail hikers of the whole trip. They had started down south like me, but were bailing from here due to lack of enthusiasm and time. They had originally been headed through to Big Diamond Pond, just like me. It was an interesting pair: a surgeon, who cheerfully confessed that he "commits" surgery, and a postal worker who claimed to be traveling light: only 3 handguns. They made interesting company for the roughly quarter mile we walked down the road together. They had come into the rec area last night and, finding nobody around, camped right there on the beach, figuring to be up and packed before anyone official might wander by. Apparently it worked out OK for them, too. Pity, because I would have joined them. The beach was a much nicer campsite than my hiding place in the woods.
We walked out together, talking about our respective trips. They told me about their trip to Devil's Gulch, and trying to find the mysterious waterfall, hanging onto the wet, slippery walls of the ravine and trying hard not to plummet to their deaths. I think I'm glad I skipped that part.
Apparently, I'd been traveling a lot faster than they had, and I still had a full head of steam for completing my journey. When we got to the place where the CT branched off of the park road onto the snowmobile trail in the woods, I stayed on the trail. They walked the road to the highway, from whence they hoped to hitch a ride into town. I'd like to say I never saw them again, but....
The trail tried to follow snowmobile trails through a tiny little patch of woods less than a mile square. I watched for blazes, but they just weren't there! After the second unmarked junction - both of them were "Y" intersections, so I couldn't just go straight, I began to think I should have taken the road, too. The second junction had one trail that went left onto nice high ground with clear footbed but poor grooming, whereas the second one went downhill under a few downed trees and immediately hit a small bog's worth of mud. I took the left branch. Eventually the snowmobile trail petered out into a briar patch. However, there was a small path that kept going through the thorns, which looked more like a game trail than a hiking trail. If I didn't know I could easily bushwack my way out of the mess, I would never have continued. However, I did, and just as the herd path disappeared, I could see a clearing ahead. OK, just a few more paces, I can find my way out, right?
The clearing turned out to be a sandpit in the middle of nowhere. No trails of any kind connected it with the rest of the world. However, I was now close enough to hear the trucks on the highway, so I bushwacked out again, just a little farther. After crashing through a dense thicket I came out just above the highway and made my way down just in time to meet up with the other two hikers as they walked toward town, thumbing their way along Route 110.
For anyone else who does this trail, I'd suggest skipping the side trip on the snowmobil trail. It's about a quarter mile long anyway, and definitely not worth the headache. I understand the point, the effort to keep the trail off of roads when possible, but without a few blazes (I saw one, at the initial turnoff from the road) it isn't worth the headache just to avoid the road.
For the record, I think the trail that went down into the mud was the right one, as I should have guessed. (Basic principles - pick the worst looking trail, you'll be right!) I came out a bit west of where I should have emerged, and had to backtrack east along the highway a bit to get to my bridge over the Upper Ammonoosuc.
The trail follows along the roads for a little while, just to cross the river and get back into the wilderness. I was almost tempted to stick out my thumb just to get a nice hot meal at a local diner, but I had plenty of food and I wanted to get to the Nash Stream Valley to spend the night. Little did I know what kind of night I was destined to have!
The trail dived back into the woods along (active) logging roads. The carnage of the logging work didn't make the nicest scenery right next to the trail, but the walking was easy and the woods 50 feet away from the road were pristine and beautiful.
Eventually, the trail crosses a few small streams before rounding Bald Moutain. Surprisingly, the views as the roadway climbed up the far side of the notch from Bald Mountain were very nice - a welcome surprise and a nice addition to the grunting and sweating of the climb.
The trail continued to follow old logging roads and new logging roads until just short of Rowell's Brook, where the trail left the road and began cutting through the woods. The trail looked brand new, some of it obviously cut this very year. The short part near the brook was pretty rough and muddy, with a very soft footbed that couldn't handle a lot of pounding yet.
I stopped at Rowell's Brook (at least, I think that's where I stopped!) and had a hot lunch. I also took a few pictures of the brook - to my way of thinking, these were the best pictures I took on the entire trip. The digital camera I was borrowing for the trip had the ability to record 15 seconds of audio and video, and I really wish I'd thought to take advantage of that. As it is, the still pictures will have to speak for themselves about the restful nature of sitting next to a babbling, chattering brook in the middle of the stark NH wilderness on a cool sunny day in late september. When I think back on this trip, this is definitely one of the finest moments to pop out.
Upstream
Downstream
Leaving Rowell's Brook, most of the trail in the area was either logging roads of varying quality (but easily followed) or brand new trail, freshly cut and usually still flagged and heavily blazed, with no footbed to mark the way. I had to pick my way very carefully sometimes, watching for every flag and blaze, because the ground often held no clues where the trail went. Knowing that I was in the middle of one of the larger stretches of wilderness in NH, I didn't want to completely lose my way!
I have to say, the trail work through here was first rate - just new and rough. The blazing was twice as frequent as I was used to seeing. The flagging added another factor of trail marking, so it was as if I were following a triple-blazed trail. The trail layout was well done and carefully thought out. My only complaint was that the ground was so virgin that sometimes I had trouble telling where I could safely put my feet. The moss covered everything, and sometimes it was hard to tell what was a rock and what was a mouldered stump that would cave in under my boots.
Before reaching Victor Head Ledge, the trail is back on logging roads. By the time I reached the cairn that marked the turnoff for Victor Head Cliffs, I was sweating up a storm. The day had turned surprisingly hot, and the bugs were finally back. I looked at the fact that I could go climbing up, up, up steeply to Victor Head, or I could skip it and climb slower but steadily on the main trail. Grmble.... I couldn't resist the temptation. Up I went, grunting and swearing at the steep trail.
The summit of Victor Head really was a summit. Completely wooded with but a few overlooks, it still had that "summit" feel. There were two main overlooks, one at the sotuh side, just past the highest point, looking down to Christine Lake. Off of the west, another view framed the finest view of the Percy Peaks I have ever seen in person or on film. Check them out for yourself:
Christine Lake from Victor Head - the ledge is in the foreground.
Just for those who wonder what the ledges look like, this is a view
of the ledge itself, with Christine Lake in the background. The brown stuff
on the left is moss.
Now this is a perfect view of Percy Peaks! The leftmost,
South Percy, is actually shorter than the rightmost, North Percy.
I scampered back down Victor Head Ledges, trying to make some miles. I didn't have a clue where I was going to spend the night, since beyond South Pond, Kim doesn't mention any more campsites. I didn't want to spend the night on the woods road that leads down to the Nash Stream Road, since I knew that it was probably a major moose highway. I figured I'd find a nice place somewhere in the woods off the trail, but the woods were all dense thickets or rough ground pocked with boulders. There hadn't been anything remotely resembling good camping ground in the entire stretch since I left South Pond.
I pushed hard to make good time, thinking I might find something around Jimmy Cole Brook or on the other side of the Percy Peaks. However, the freshly cut trail just didn't lend itself to haste. The sun was starting to get low, and I still hadn't found a campsite!
I started the climb up the Percy Peaks and growled a lot, looking for a spot. Nothing was level enough. At least water wasn't a problem - every now and then I could stop and listen and hear water babbling somewhere. I tracked down one babble to a tidy little spring hidden along the mountainside, about 50 feet below the fresh cut trail.
I finally resolved to find some level ground in the saddle between the peaks. When I got there, I looked around in dismay: it was all uneven hummocks, with the only level places being covered with enough trees that there was never a big enough clearing to pitch my tent. I was rapidly coming down to the wire, and I still had no solution. I also knew that if I tried descending, skipping both peaks, I'd probably hit sundown before the Nash Stream Road and have to finish out the day by flashlight.
I finally came up with the stupidest of all ideas. I would climb up South Percy - I didn't want to miss it, after all! - and see if there was a clearing at the summit. Usually, the fierce wind will sufficiently mangle the local foliage at the summits that I might get lucky.
Unfortunately, the trail up South Percy was an old bushwacking route that had been heavily blazed for use for peak-baggers. The trail was just too narrow for a full pack. I got snagged at least a dozen times. Twice, I had to take off my pack and drag it behind me. The spruce and fir was just too dense to move! I knew I was in big trouble; I might make the summit with some daylight left, but I didn't know if I could make it back down to the saddle before sundown if the summit proved to be impossible. I finally resolved that if I couldn't find anything, I'd sleep sitting up, propped against a mossy boulder with my tent handy to pull over as a tarp if it rained. Not my idea of a comfortable night.
It didn't work that way. The trail was impossible; there would barely have been room to try and sleep sitting, and it wasn't improving toward the top. I finally broke out onto the summit, and it was dense on the east face. I followed the trail the final few steps to the true summit, and behold! It broke open into some clear and empty bedrock! I had just enough room to pitch my tent if I wanted, but the weather report was supposed to be good, so I ended up laying out my sleeping roll right there in a perfectly contoured granite lounge.
I took the time for some pictures - North Percy from South Percy looked so close that you felt you could just jump over to it. I watched the hawks circle lazily around the summit while I got ready for bed. I also got a few pictures of my latest "bedroom" on the mountaintop.
North Percy from South Percy
My sleeping area - the shadow of me with my arm raised falls right
across where I slept. Note the late hour from the shadow's angle!
This shot is the other direction from the last one, shot from the
same place, into the sun. Look closely at the dead tree in the upper left-central
and you can see the summit canister wired to it.
I was a little more careful than usual in cooking my dinner - I didn't want to leave anything at the summit by mistake, not even a scrap of paper. I'm usually very careful about litter - if I pack it in, I carry it out - but this was a remote summit, and I wanted to be extra careful. The last thing I'd want to encounter here would be someone's food wrappers, and I tried to return the courtesy.
Dinner was good, even though I managed to burn the instant broccoli alfredo a bit. Ooops. The second meal was better. (Having all the extra food, I was still on double-rations.)
I didn't bother to bear-bag anything. On a summit surrounded by super-dense spruce and fir with only one way in - and no trees over about 6 feet - it seemed pointless. I just stuffed everything into my pack and covered it with the rain cover. I also stole an idea from Kim and lay my rain slicker out over my sleeping bag to keep the dew off. I had to tuck it under and weight it down with rocks to keep the wind from lifting it off of me, though.
I lay there and watched the sunset turn the sky all sorts of colors,
and after that I watched the milky way emerge like I'd never seen it before.
I tried to stay awake to watch it wheel through the sky, but the cool,
gentle breezes and the comfortably sculpted granite lounge conspired to
put me right to sleep. I can honestly say that I've never before or since
slept as well as I did that night. Everytime I woke up, I'd look straight
up into those stars, sometimes catching a shooting star, and then dozing
right back off.
I lay there and watched the sun come up a little at a time, and finally got my breakfast when it was light enough - slowly, and much interrupted for sunrise gazing.
I was lucky. The weather had held all night. Not a single drop of rain. I packed up my gear and wended my way down the trail from the summit. It wasn't any easier in the morning, going down. I had the sense to have things ready for removal and dragging this time, is all.
I made it down to the saddle between the mountains just in time for the rain to start. It started there and continued, on and off, for the entire day. When I contemplated the potentially wet slabs on North Percy and the major miles I wanted to make that day, I decided to leave North Percy for another day and just cruise.
The trail was still awfully rough down from the saddle, but at least I was headed downhill, and the effective triple-blazing continued all the way to Long Mountain Brook South Road. The road was somewhere between woods road and driveable - not really negotiable on wheels, but close enough that only a little work would be needed. Let's all hope that it never happens - I like the wilderness wild!
Going down this trail was a treat, easy and comforting after the strain and effort of following the freshly cut trail. Despite the warnings in Kim's book about many moose here, I didn't encounter any until later in the day, much farther north. As it was, I had a nice walk in the woods - and the rain - down to Nash Stream Road.
Breaking out onto Nash Stream Road was both a blessing and a curse. No matter how much rock-hopping, soggy trail, ground-pounding on good trail, tree roots, ledges, etc, I hike, my feet are fine. Half a mile of road-walk will give me instant blisters. Also, the road was open enough that the wind could reach me, lashing rain into my clothing. By this point, I'd stripped down to just my pants and a slicker - no shirt - keeping warm from the effort, but the temperature continued to drop. Eventually I had to start putting on more layers under the slicker.
The rain finally started to slacken sometime around the spur trail to Pond Brook Falls. At the time, I was in a hurry, so I just went to take a quick look. However, I was blessed to be able to come back much sooner than I'd expected - my father was picking me up at the end of the trail, and he and I drove back here so he could see some of what I'd been doing. Together, we rambled up and down the falls. That was one of the best parts of the whole trip!
After the rain paused for a while, I stopped off at one of the crossings of the Nash Stream and had an early lunch. I was making excellent time through the wilderness, rapidly headed toward a potential 20 mile day. For a few brief shining moments, I got to sit there next to the stream with the sun on my shoulders and the wind down to a gentle breeze. Then back it swept, right after lunch. I kept moving and stayed warm.
The Sugarloaf arm was a relief from the road walking, and the wind was slowed considerably by the trees. I have to admit that leaving behind shorter and leveler terrain for the climbing and zig-zagging was probably a mistake, but worthwhile mistakes are what it's all about.
At the junction for the Sugarloaf Mountain Trail to the summit, I gave some serious thought to skipping the mountain. However, I was carrying a cell phone for a reason - I needed to coordinate some details about the end of the trail. And since I knew my reception in the valley would be non-existent, I had a perfect excuse to climb the mountain.
A word on cell phones. Yes, I typically carry one. No, it isn't on unless I need to make a call. Normally, I carry it for emergencies. On some longer trips, I'll make plans to use it to figure out pickup at the end of the trail. I try to keep it as unobtrusive as possible. Although I'll confess that once, on a different trail in another state, I thought about using it to order a pizza. *grin* Hey, it was just a thought!
The trail up Sugarloaf was steep and wearing. I faced it like a man: I whimpered a lot. When I got to the summit, the views were non-existent. The rain and the clouds had misted the mountain over. Except for the altitude gain, the side-trip was a waste.
Back down to the Nash Stream Road, I hit the trail for the Nash Stream Bog. Now, I've never been a fan of bogs - in fact, I hate seeing the word on my maps, 'cause I figure I'll end up wading through it at some point. This was different. The trail stayed fairly dry, better than a lot of the mountain parts of the trail. I admit that it kind of grew on me. The occasional viewpoints onto the bog were rather pretty in their own way, and it made a nice change from the usual mountains. The rain held off, too, for a while.
Back to the Nash Stream Road, the trek northward finally led me to a gate, where the trail joined grassy woods roads and old logging roads. This was no longer a hike - it was a late afternoon's ramble. I felt like I should have a dog at my heels and a rifle at my side - not for shooting, just 'cause it seemed to go with the moment.
The trail couldn't get any easier than this. Gently uphill, with easy, grassy trail and truck-width trailbed. The occasional open meadows were a nice novelty.
At one of the upper meadows, I finally saw my second - and third! - moose of the trip. It looked like a cow and a bull, making eyes at each other. Fortunately for me, neither one spared me a second glance. It's a good thing, because there really wasn't any place to run - the trees at the edge of the trail were so dense that I'd probably hit them and bounce. I just kept my distance and slowly tramped on by.
The day was beginning to run short. The sun was headed down. It was also going from pleasantly cool to chill and cold. I was looking for a place to pitch my tent. The upper meadows were mostly behind me, and I didn't want to get trampled in the middle of the night anyway. I kept pushing, looking for the "perfect place."
That's when I had my closest encounter with a moose - closer than I'd like to come again. There's a point where the logging road is no longer trimmed - about where I left the last two moose - and the trail starts to narrow while following weed-choked skidder trail. Just barely beyond the final crossing of the Nash Stream - down to a tiny trickle this far upstream - I found that I wasn't the only one looking into bedtime.
There he was, bedded down right by the trail. A big black bull, massive rack of antlers. He'd already trampped down his bed and was lazing about, half asleep. He was definitely not asleep, but didn't look all that lively. He saw me looking up at him and lifted that massive head to look me over, then dropped it back down for his nap.
I had a choice. I could go back a ways and pitch my tent somewhere farther down. Not a great option, given how much I hate backtracking. I could try to cut through the woods around the moose so as to keep my distance. The woods were closer to thickets than woods, though, and incredibly dense. I could wait and hope he decided to move on - yeah, right! Or I could try and calmly walk by an animal that could decide I was too close and deserved to be rendered down into a grease smear. Bad idea.
I was feeling a little ornery - a lot ornery. I decided that I was going to keep going. I crept along, getting closer and closer to the moose - too close, I was already too close, and I knew it, but I just wanted to slip on by. He lay there and watched me out of half-lidded eyes, occasionally raising his head to look at me more carefully. I watched him for signs of increasing nervousness, but didn't see any. He watched me for, hell, I don't know, but I don't think he saw it either. I crept up closer, and finally slipped beyond him. For one heart-stopping moment, I was so close that if I'd reached out my hand and he'd arched his head forward painfully, he could have bitten me. Far too close. Close enough to smell him, and to hear his breath. I winced in anticipation of seeing him start to lumber to his feet, picking out the best place to try and crash into the thickets next to the trail. But apparently he decided I wasn't worth disturbing a good nap, and I think he breathed as big a sigh of relief as I did when I was beyond him and making tracks up the hill with my heart pounding a mile a minute.
For the record, that was a pretty stupid thing to do. The only thing that would have been more stupid would have been stopping to take pictures. Sorry to disappoint - I wasn't that stupid. I can't show y'all the moose.
I kept going a little farther, finally reaching a spot where Kim relates in his book having his personal "best" encounter with a moose. It was a meadow high up on the ridgeline, an old bulldozer cut leaving an arid moonscape behind. It was also the only place I'd seen where I could pitch a tent. The wind was already rising, higher than it'd been when I spent the night at Mt. Starr King, but where else was I going to sleep? It was the first place I'd seen where I could fit my tent!
I pitched my tent right next to a log that served as a bench, at the intersection of 4 different moose highways. I'd learned that moose generally don't like to walk through things they can walk around, so I was feeling fairly safe. I had to stake it out very carefully, with my full gear inside the tent to weight it down.
The meadow formed a natural amphitheater with a spectacular view back toward the northwest range, away to the west. I was just below Gadwah Notch and Mt Muise, at the spot described in Kim's book under the heading, "The Great Wall." The ground was either wet and marshy, with up to 4 inches of water, or bare and dry and rocky, pock-marked with hundreds of moose prints. I took one picture from that spot, facing west toward the northwest range, before pitching my tent.
If you look closely at the pockmarks in the bare ground in the foreground, those are moose prints. The peak in the back left with the distinctive summit is Sugarloaf.
The wind had risen and the cold was coming in, along with potential rain. I cooked my dinner in the lee of my tent, just to keep my stove running. My first meal was unremarkable, and the second was just filler. I finally hit the sack before the sun went down, as the first raindrops started to patter in, just as my hands were going completely numb from the wind and cold (through my gloves, no less).
That night was by far the most miserable I've ever spent outdoors. I've slept in inadequate sleeping bags in winter and had my toes ice-cold all night. I've slept in wet sleeping bags. I've slept in crowded shelters with snoring that rivals buzzsaws. But I've never had a night to rival that one.
The wind howled in from the west at an unbelievable rate. The rain came in intermittent showers. It was bone-chillingly cold. My tent wasn't having a good night. The wind would come crashing in and hit my tent just right to plump it out, and the entire tent would plump out full with an enormous *BOOM*! Then the wind would shift tactics and blow rain up under my rain fly so that it was effectivly raining inside my tent during the night. My sleeping bag stayed on the pad, so I kept dry underneath, although rain in the face will not aid your efforts to sleep. I still had a puddle in the tent by the end. And every now and then, just when I almost dozed off despite everything, a tremendous record-breaking gust would hit my tent like a mallet and flatten it down to my face. Several times I had to sit up and brace my tent by hand from the inside. The wind was unbelievable!
The wind and rain kept up all night, and I never slept more than 15 minutes at a time, at the most. The worst part came around 1:30 in the morning, when I discoverd that at some point, an errant gust of wind had hit my cheap tent just right to begin a tear along the lower back side, above the floor seam. The wind literally tore a hole in my tent! As a more minor point, it also managed to rip out two of the 6 stakes.
In the morning, as soon as it was light enough, I got up and took stock of the situation. I had a good food supply, but I was fairly cold. My boots were already wet - soaked - from the day before. My tent was damaged. I was exhausted from lack of sleep. I looked at the upcoming trail and my spirit quailed.
I packed everything up, then started down the trail back to the Nash Stream Road, then changed my mind and went north for a while. The trail was drenched, covered in 4 inches of standing water. It was a nightmare at 38 degrees. I turned around and started out. I changed my mind again. I flip-flopped like a yo-yo before finally, after going halfway up the ridge, deciding things weren't going to get any better, and I didn't want to spend another night in a soaking wet, ripped and torn tent. I wish I could say that I looked adversity in the eye and stepped forward, but the truth is that I kept telling myself that this trip, I didn't have goals. This trip, I was just going to keep going until it wasn't fun anymore. It wasn't fun anymore.
I started back out the way I'd come in. My friend the bull moose was long since gone. I don't think he liked the wind much either. I just put my head down and humped it out at top speed. Going downhill, I made excellent time. I kept pulling out my cell phone to try and call for a pickup - I wanted to have a ride waiting at the north end of the Nash Stream Road. No such luck - I got enough signal to dial only once, and that time, I could hear them but they couldn't hear me. Feh.
So I started the long walk out to Nash Stream Road, knowing I'd also need to make a longer road-walk out from there. This did not improve my mood. However, it could be worse.
The walk out was a piece of cake, going gently downhill on easy, wide, flat logging roads. Upon reaching the Nash Stream Road, I just walked on down it. I certainly wasn't going to go back down the trail when I had a nice road with the (remote) possibility of traffic that might give me a lift! I was doomed to see little traffic, though, as I already knew.
The camps (wilderness houses, no power or phone) were all extremely unique. The names alone were worth the trip, but you'll have to go visit the area yourself to find out; I'm not sharing! I will say this, though. One camp had a boulder in front that had been carefully painted to look like a landshark just emerging from the front lawn. I couldn't resist having a seat there and munching some gorp.
The first sign of humanity I saw was a young woman out preparing one of the camps for the winter, with her canine protectors. There were two dogs. One was a monstrous rotweiler who stood back, growled once to let me know that there'd be no funny business, then just stood there watching. The second was a tiny fluffball, some kind of miniature, and he took off after me like the wrath of Genghis Khan revived! Now, I'm all in favor of man's best friend, but I really was happier when the lady called off the vicious 3-pound beastie who was bravely trying to tear off my ankles - as high as he could reach. It was a completely terrifying experience!
Farther down the way, I ran across an older gentleman stacking wood for his camp for the winter. We got to talking, and apparently he (Hank) and his sons come out here to go snowmobiling in the winter. He wasn't planning on heading into town anytime soon, but my sore feet offered him a $20 and off we went.
The trip out to town was even longer than I realized; I was awfully glad I caught a lift, or I might not have made it by sundown. However, with the bonus of a lift, I got dropped off at the nearest pay phone, at a gas station with a nice deli and fried foods place inside. A few dollars poorer from my wallet and I was richer by a hot meal and the knowledge that my father was on the way down to get me from the Sportsmen's Lodge up north. As always, it felt so good to sit there at a picnic table and watch the world go by, with my boots and socks off and my feet resting comfortably on the grass. By the time my ride arrived, I was almost too comfortable (and sore!) to move.
But move I did, and managed to dump my pack and gear into the back of the truck. My father was vaguely curious about what I'd been doing with myself, so I offered him the chance to see, first hand. So after working so hard to get out of the Nash Stream area, I found myself driving right back into it. It was worth the extra time.
There were so many sights in the area that I'd wanted to share with someone, and this gave me a chance to do exactly that. Our first stop was Pond Brook Falls. We walked out the short trail and started ambling right up the convoluted granite of the streambed. It was a very nice moment, one of the finer moments of the trip. The knowledge that I was going to get a hot, home-cooked meal at the end of the day had nothing to do with it, really! You believe me, right?
We eventually wandered out and drove the rest of the way up the road to the end. We couldn't resist; we parked the truck and started rambling back up the same trail I'd come down that morning. It was wide, smooth, and grassy; exactly like most of the trail I hiked wasn't. But it was perfect for a father and his son. Somewhere, about as far up as we went, we saw what my father insists was a moose, hopping off the road into the woods. I didn't realize it was my father's first moose! After all, fathers know everything, have done everything. *grin*
The drive back from the road was uneventful, but long. Seeing the Sportsmen's Lodge finally come into view was a wonderful moment. I was just sorry I hadn't gotten there under my own power. Another day, I'll be back to catch what I missed.
First things first. Long, hot, HOT shower, steaming up the entire room. Nothing in the world feels as good as that first hot shower after a week on the trail! And then I got to get dressed in clothes that were dry, comfortable, and didn't smell at all. It was truly a joyful moment. I just wished I could have shaved, too - the beard always itches. But you can't have everything.
I will say this - the lodge really lays out a great spread. I ate myself silly that night, then wandered out to the docks and looked up at the stars. They winked at me. I winked back. It was a nice end to a long day and a longer night before.
Waking up in the morning in a bed was a strange experience. I still couldn't stop myself from waking up at the crack of dawn, but I did linger for an hour before getting up. I finally wandered down for coffee without disturbing my father (I got sick of waiting for him) and waited for him to join me downstairs.
Apparently the lodge is popular with the locals. A lot of local boys stopped in for breakfast that morning, most of them getting ready to go out and fix a snowmobile bridge that was down, the rest getting ready to go fishing on the pond. It was a family affair, too - among the fishermen were a few little girls. No little boys. That was mildly amusing. It didn't slow them down any... Later on, I was to see one of the little girls come running up with a huge fish, bigger than anything I've ever caught. Sexism is apparently dead in the far north of NH.
Eventually my father wandered downstairs, and we started doping out what we were going to do with the day and travel. We finally settled on the following plan: after a hearty breakfast, we'd spend the day looking around the area, see some of the sights, then head out before it got too late.
First, though, some pictures of the Sportsmen's Lodge area, as promised to my mother.
This is Big Diamond Pond, by the Sportsmen's Lodge in the far north.
Here's the fishing docks at Sportsmen's Lodge.
Big Diamond Pond from the docks.
Uphill toward the lodge from the docks.
Local wildlife. ;-)
One of the cabins at Sportsmen's Lodge.
Another cabin at Sportsmen's Lodge.
There, that sucked your bandwidth, didn't it? Anyway, we drove on down to Dixville Notch. It really is something to see, and we have the pictures to prove it. We also parked the truck and wandered up the trail a bit toward Huntingdon Falls, after the obligatory pictures up the cliffs.
Table Rock at Dixville Notch.
The trail up to table Rock. 0.3 miles, straight up!
Northern side of Dixville Notch.
Grand Balsams Wilderness Resort - one of two world-class hotels along the Cohos Trail.
Typical trail sign, with the Cohos Trail (CT) logo visible.
Relax, that's all the pictures. I was going to add pictures of the waterfalls, but unfortunately my camera battery chose that moment to die on me, and I certainly didn't carry a battery charger over 100 miles for one use.
The waterfalls were a nice little touch. My father appreciated them even more than I did, I think. But as the day wore along, it was getting time to head back. I confess that I was motivated in large part by the thought of the upcoming meal I was planning back in Troy, NY. There's a favorite restaurant that I usually reserve for special occasions, and I'd been wanting to get my father there for ages. The shameless plug: I'm talking about the Villa Valenti, out on Rt 100 in Wyantskill. If you like really good italian food, done the right way, from scratch, with the best ingredients, then this is the place for you. If you have a history of heart trouble and the thought of 13 gallons of olive oil in your dinner scares you, I'd advise you to run like hell!
It was a long, uneventful ride home. As I recall, it rained a bit on the way back. After being in the woods, you get used to everything moving at a walking pace. Suddenly, here I am in a truck, flying down the interstate at 75 mph in the rain. I think I almost had a seizure!
It was already getting late when we got back to Troy, but there was time to call in our reservations and relax for an hour before heading for the restaurant. I won't bore y'all with stories of dinner - you can go check out the restaurant on your own some day. Trust me, it'll be worth every penny!
Want more? Then I'll have to refer you to the same line I used in my Long Trail journal: go out and hike it yourself! My journal's done!