# The Heart of Monadnock/Chapter 2

II
But "If winter comes shall spring be far behind?" Up there in the north, on those frozen crags and ridges the magic chemistry of nature is at work, "thawing snow flakes into flowers," while in the southern home of the Mountain-Lover the crocuses and tulips and the pansies break like flame. April. May. Then the time for the mountain comes at last. Out of the heat of southern June its lover returns to his own.
Breathless he drinks in again the air of crystal limpidness; breathless he gazes with rapture at the unchanged cliffs awaiting him, lifting their serene fronts clad in purplish-gray from the surrounding sea of gay spring green. With bared head he stands in ​their presence. "Ages are thy days, thou type of permanence!" It is all a reality—and not a dream.
Half intoxicated with pleasure, he flings himself on the needle-strewn ground burying his face in its crisp brown fragrance. He stoops to lay a caressing hand on the broad, four-leaved white flowers of the bunchberries which carpet sunny open glades. Almost in a single thought he takes in all the coming delights. He knows that far up above, his foot will soon fall with light and loving pressure on the tiny, shiny leaves of the sturdy little mountain cranberry, lining smooth little hollows and creeping up to the foot of towering rocks, their brave little rosy-white blossoms telling cheerfully of the snow drifts beneath which they have lain warm and snug all the long stern winter that has just past. And he knows that high up in the little caves opening to the northeast there still lurk lingeringly some drifts of icy snow sullenly yielding to the high-wheeling chariot of ​Phoebus. And he remembers also the endless, crowding ranks of blueberry bushes mantling all the spaces between the rocks up in the sunlight, with their close-set rose-touched clustering blossoms, promises of the pinky-blue succulence to come. Sheep-laurel is lending its magenta to the color scheme. The shad-tree still whitens the upper forests, though on the plains below, its white petals would long since have fallen.
The limpid springs, full to the lip, lie in every rocky hollow, clearer than amber; gay little giggling brooklets are whisking along tiny rocky channels, babbling little mountain secrets as they flirt with their banks. He could hear them. Then growing broader and more opulent and more occupied with their own affairs, they come tumbling down in miniature cataracts, spreading out here and there into broad pools to rest while they collect their forces for another mad excited little plunge. . . . And there is moss everywhere of every shade of melting green, cushioning rock and ​stone and bank. The spruces are decorated with their yellowish-green tassels. The cool and exquisite chrysoprase-green of unfolding ferns embroider the woods. Gay bird notes still fill the air. Beauty, virescent, eager, beckoning, sparkling, intoxicates the senses.
Every path beckons. Shall he go first on the well-worn trail to Point Surprise just to make perfectly sure that every dear stone is still out-cropping in the same place? Humming in unmusical tenor, just in the sheer joy of living, the Mountain-Lover springs up the rocky staircase upwards to the right. First he must swerve to see if the Iron Spring is functioning properly. Yes, the spring is as active as ever. Up the rising ascent obliquely to the ridge he goes until the path turns sharply to the east where rising in front of one is seen a break in the trees and a wall of rock against the sky line. One quickly over-tops this and ​as the head comes above the line, it is Point Surprise indeed for a new comer, for he is on the edge of an unexpected precipice which defines the long length of the Pulpit Rock shoulder. Below is a sheer drop, broken as it descends by irregular, spruce-covered ledges. Here one looks off into misty distance towards the east, across a softly undulating landscape, over shimmering lakes and receding hills, blurred against the horizon line,—bathed at this hour of the late afternoon in dreamy ethereal blue. Here and there appears a white and slender spire; roofs of outlying farmhouses and scattered villages break through the thick greens; ribbon-like roads wind across the valleys. Tender, peaceful, serene.
The climber drinks in all the familiar beauty with avid delight; with the sun at his back the colors have marvellous values. He pats the worn rock with affection—even though this spot is far too popular ever to detain him long. He looks to right and left Shall he go down to the right towards the ​Matterhorn and Hello Rock and pursue the fascinating tangle of paths that thread the lower reaches of the precipice? Or shall he, today, keep to the left along the Cliff Walk, towards Emerson Seat and Thoreau Rock? He chooses the upland trail, and takes his rejoicing steps slowly, lingeringly, in sheer abandonment of pleasure, along the cliff, where for a long distance the trail creeps saunteringly close to the edge of the green gulf. With every northward step and turn of the cliff the landscape changes. New lakes gleam out; new horizon lines of rippling ranges flow to the northeast, towards Peterboro', sleeping in its quiet valley. Peterboro', whose prosaic name is musical with the rhythm given by the Master, whose genius found its home there. Here and there the climber pauses to look from the intimate detail of beauty on the left hand, in the ridge itself, where the trees in their sunny spring garments cling close to romantic gray walls of rock, and where sequestered nooks appeal, carpeted luxuriously with ​moss, back to the flowing, misty beauty far below him.
He comes to the point where the Cliff-path crosses the Thoreau trail which leads up from the house on the other or west side of the ridge. High in front looms the brown mass known as Emerson Seat and just below it the other which is called Thoreau Rock. He could turn across here and he would drop down to the house in ten minutes for all this previous sauntering has been like taking the two long sides of a very acute-angled triangle. But though it is getting towards supper time and an unromantic mountain appetite assails him, he is not quite ready to turn back yet. He takes the Thoreau trail for a short distance across the valley of the ridge, then turns sharply to his right and up the little crevasse in the steep, bald rock; across this he goes and into the woods at the Chipmunk-trail—but not along its whole distance which would lead him too far this evening. Instead he scrambles down the swift descent ​ THOREAU'S SEAT
​known—and not euphemistically—as Do-Drop-Down, which leads him through deep woods to the house . . . But there will be tomorrow and another after that. Weeks of tomorrows!
The Mountain-Lover each year renews his acquaintance with his mountain by lingering degrees; like a lover coquetting with his mistress he dallies over its approaches, taking now this side, now that, seeking out favorite haunts, smiling happily, and content to be smiled on without words at first, as he alternately draws nearer and recedes. The love, the whispered confidence, the delight in nearness all await him, but like an epicure, he at first just sips his pleasure. These early days are like the bouquet on wine.
All last night there was a deluge of June rain; one thunder storm after another. This ​morning the brooks will be in their glory, and today therefore, the way must be to the west. Beyond the old barn and under arcading trees threads a tiny path leading to all the trails on Monte Rosa, and this the saunterer takes till he comes to the path that skirts the spur and leads him to Monte Rosa brook. Long before he comes in sight of it he hears its miniature thunder and he plunges down the last sharp little descent as eagerly as if he had never seen tremendous mountain cataracts on mighty ranges. The beloved little brook is tearing along joyously, full from bank to bank; the mossy stepping-stones are submerged and their tops show green and shining below the water. Down the bank the loving explorer takes his slow way stopping every few moments to delight over some slight turn of the baby-cataract as it flings itself petulantly down some great descent of some ten feet or so in mimic fury, then as if laughing softly to itself like a mischievous child it extends its arms gaily to mossy banks on ​each side of the wider bed in which it now finds itself.
Witching Undines throng here; the Mountain-Lover knows it and plainly hears their exultant peals of elfin laughter; he turns his back every now and then to the stream ostentatiously, ever hoping that unwarily they will throw off the cloak of invisibility which they swiftly assumed when they heard his first footsteps on the banks of their fairy haunts. He catches their mocking laughter, but he never can turn quite quickly enough to catch the glimpse he craves. The edge of white foam that fringes the brown-green mantle is all he actually sees. He appeals to the saucy nymphs reproachfully; he holds out his hands entreatingly; he promises solemnly not to tell—as if mere words could ever tell!—to another mortal of their mocking buoyant beauty flirting its sparkling drops through the crystal June air, if they will lift for just one instant the pied cloak of amber and green that conceals their elusive gayety.
​"No!" he plainly hears them shout gibingly in tinkling notes. "No!" and "No!" and "No!" He is sure from the sound of their scudding footsteps, scurrying over the surface of the water, that they are whirling all hands around; then he guesses that they are breaking ranks and stooping to scoop up water in their slender hands to fling it over him mockingly in radiant spray, as he springs threateningly on a rock in the midst of the Liliputian stream. Those impish nymphs! The saunterer laughs and stooping in his turn he gathers up slippery handfuls of icy amber water and defiantly flings it back at the little waterfall, as it just here loses its footing and slides down on its back over a broad slanting rock, well smoothed by all the myriads of other little cataracts that have lost their own footing in the selfsame spot and have tumbled down in the same ignominious manner. Any normal cataract, big or little, prefers to leap down in its own daring fashion in one swift plunge . . . Frisky, tantalizing little sprites! ​But it is something to be sure they are there, even if they refuse to reveal themselves to mortal vision.
This morning is a day radiant with concentrated essence of June and sunshine and brown needles and young ferns and freshly wet earth and pungent woodsy smells and the sheer joy of living. Today it shall be—say the Sidefoot path as far as the Noble trail, then up by that to the ridge, then along the crest to Pulpit Rock; perhaps back by the steep Hedgehog path that tumbles straight down by sharp-edged, broken rock, from under the Pulpit itself. Or perhaps on to the Four Spots and back around by the Green Carpet trail. Oh, anywhere! The Mountain-Lover therefore betakes himself first to the Sidefoot path where it winds obliquely upwards to the left, making its way across a bed of pale-green, almost transparent ferns, avoiding a tree here and getting itself around a rock there; and then lift​ing itself up a steeper bit to the point where the Noble trail diverges; the latter clambers uncompromisingly straight up the wooded cliffs, mounting abrupt masses of rock that are like long stone staircases; on and up threads the tiny path through the low-growing spruces, emerging now and then on outcropping ledges which constitute one of the many charms of wandering around on Monadnock, giving repeated delicious vistas of the out-lying world. One is never long shut away from inspiring open stretches, even in deep woods. If not a ledge, then some huge rock-sentinel heaves high its great head . . . Up and still up scrambles the ambitious little trail—the Noble trail—,only occupied in getting itself up to the heights as directly as possible . . . One never treads it without a tender thought of its gallant-souled maker. The world seemed colder when he left it. Does not the great Mountain-Spirit itself miss his presence and his love?
The path finally with a last aspiring jump ​springs above tree-line and climbs onto the back of the dolphin-like crest; there it contentedly merges itself in the Bald Rock trail which takes its own climbing way to the huge bulk of Pulpit Rock. From the junction of the trails the way lies on the top of the ridge, with the world spread out on both sides. The north is still shut away by Pulpit Rock, looming high in the near distance. More clearly now are seen the Peterboro' hills undulating in a fascinating blue line into the horizon. Far below, closer against the sheltering mountain, lies the Ark, half enshrouded in its clustering trees, place of quaint delight to its own loving sojourners.
From the Ark comes the path that is known as the "Red Cross Trail" from its picturesque marking. Looking down at it the climber follows its course in fancy across the pastures far below, along the romantic banks of Mead's brook, which having danced and scrambled down in gay leaps and daring dives from Monadnock itself, now, fuller and deeper and beginning to feel ​its importance, goes singing on its way through dim green woods of hemlock and maple and oak. In imagination the climber can see the needle-strewn way striking up some steep pitch, beside the frolicking stream, pausing now to take a loop and find the Spring that Will Hyde found, then sturdily again attacking the abrupt heights, up and up and up, the red cross steadily pointing out the way. Many a time has the climber taken that path and he retraces it in memory, looking down at the sunny, smiling valley below.
Out beyond glimmers Thorndyke Pond in its shining length. On every side dots of dancing sunshine punctuate the landscape from gleaming sheets of water. The climber pulls off his hat and waves it in a general greeting to each loved landmark hailing him from far and near.
Then, finally, in his onward course comes the last steep, but not difficult ascent winding past the old Lead mine, up ledge after ledge till he tops the highest and at last ​ THE HEDGEHOG TRAIL FROM PULPIT ROCK
​stands on the grave and stately mass that juts out, when seen from the west, like a great promontory. Tradition says that when all Monadnock itself was still forest-clad and the haunt of wolf-packs, before the revealing flame had given its splendor to the world, this bald, uprising mass on the long south shoulder was the one open point. From here the line of the crest drops again gradually northward to the deep indentation where lies a little cross-valley between it and the mountain. On the other side of this little cross-valley, rise sharply small precipices one after another as the great peak begins to lift itself from the trees.
The Mountain-Lover flings himself down against a rock with his face to the north. It is the nearest view he has taken of his Giant since his arrival. He holds his breath a little. Though he knows every line and slope and crag and drop of that beloved height, he takes his first thrill all over again, plus all the later thrills, as he gazes. Over the summit, deeply, ineffably blue, ​bends the June sky caressingly; to the northwest a pile of rosy cumuli mounts just behind a craggy point, clearcut in outline against the pure translucent blue. Color deep, soft, thrilling. The northern sky looks like a profound ocean of melting depths, through which could one float forever.
And there is the eagle! Soaring in its strange and stately flight with no visible motion of its wide-spread wings, it wheels and mounts and sinks and rises again, as if with the sheer joy of swinging far aloft in the glowing light. The climber again pulled off his soft hat, this time in greeting to his old friend; for years a pair have made their home here on the mountain, out on the Dublin Ridge,—apparently a preëmpted spot for never are others of their kind seen here. The young are evidently sternly driven forth year by year to fare in less picturesque places. Monadnock would not seem quite itself without the floating, majestic flight of those two wheeling sentinels.
​Long the Mountain-Lover lay back against the rock, facing the calm breadth of the summit, gazing at it with love welling up in his heart and listening once more with freshly attuned ears to what the grave, mighty pile had to tell him. Wordless are its impressions as yet; but an indefinable calm slowly smooths out tangles in his tired brain and unties knotted mental muscles. He dreams—and is at rest. When he rises at last from the crisp moss, and stretches himself with lazy delight he feels years younger. The magic of the mountain has well begun.