# Down East Latch Strings/Chapter 15

   The mountains, indeed, that they may show their dignity and communicate their favors, require to be approached with great painstaking and peculiar respect.—Bartol.
Here, at the entrance to the White Mountains, let us pause for a few moments' study of that region, in general, so that we may proceed more intelligently. "One may travel," remarks the geologist Huntington, "and make extensive tours without map or guide-book, and, at the end of a summer vacation or a year of travel, return to his home and be as profoundly ignorant of the country he has traversed as a man is of astronomy, who has spent his whole life in a mine." Our little party were not of this heedless class; nor do we believe it, gentle reader, of you. Hence the most accurate maps available have been enclosed in this little book for your use.
The White Mountains occupy the whole centre of New Hampshire, between Lake Winnipesaukee and the valley of the Amonoosuc, from the Connecticut on the west to the Androscoggin on the east—an area of over 1,700 square miles. The hills of central Vermont connect them with the Hoosac and Catskill mountains southward, while their extension northward is found in the heights of northern New Hampshire and in the summits along and beyond the Maine lakes, aligning them with the rest of the great Appalachian system fronting the Atlantic coast of North America. Of this system, the culmination of the White Mountains in the Presidential range is the highest expression, except a group of peaks (curiously enough termed The Black) in western North Carolina; but the northern group is loftier in effect and every aspect, save mere measurements, because the more arctic position carries its heads above the reduced timber line, and gives an appearance of alpine altitude denied to the summits of Carolina; while the hard crystalline rocks, and the prevalence of coniferous trees lend sternness and vigor to New Hampshire landscapes, befitting a mountain picture better than the softer foliage and more rounded lines that characterize the still beautiful steeps of Carolina and Virginia.
Though there are hotels and a few small summer settlements in the midst of the peaks, and well-travelled roads penetrate most of the gorges, all the villages are on the outskirts of the mountains, in the valleys of rivers forming the avenues of approach. Railways now skirt the mountains on every side, and cross the middle of them, with branches to Mt. Washington, the Profile House, Bethlehem, Jefferson and Lancaster. Elsewhere, stages run,—the same big, red, four or six-horse coaches identified with all that was exciting and poetic in the mountain tour a generation ago. To every point of importance, and by ​almost every conceivable route, excursion tickets from Boston to the mountains and return, good for a longer or shorter time according to kind and price, may be bought at the offices of the Boston & Maine Railroad; or, as in our own case, the ticket for a longer journey may be made to include the White Mountain tour.
The most favorable season for a visit to the higher mountains in the opinion of the judicious and experienced editors of both Ticknor's Guide to the White Mountains and of Eastman's Guide, is July and August, for then the cool air of the highlands affords the most grateful relief to the burning heats of the cities. "The hotels and boarding-houses are then filled with guests, and parties are frequently formed to visit the interesting points in the vicinity of each. Metropolitan society transfers its headquarters and its modified ceremonials to the shadows of the mountains, and the villages are filled with busy and exotic life. On account of the clemency of the temperature, camping-parties can then attack the higher mountains and explore the great ravines. But, for the comparatively few persons who can choose their own time, who have vigorous physical powers, and who love nature with an ardent and undivided love, the months of September and October will be found more favorable for the visit. Then is the season of the harvests, of the magnificent coloring of the autumnal forests, and of clear and bland air. Accommodations are more easily obtained at the hotels; and whereas in August the transient tourist is often obliged to sleep on sofas or floors in overcrowded houses, in the later months he is sure of comfortable quarters and quiet rest. One of the best times to enjoy the scenery is in late September and early October, after the sky has been cleansed by the equinoctial storm and before the higher peaks have been covered with snow.
The clothing provided should be warm and water-proof, in order to meet the emergencies of weather belonging to a mountain climate; and especially stout and comfortable shoes, in order that the walking and climbing may be indulged without stint. Wagon roads and mountain paths in all directions will tempt you, and the danger is rather toward over-doing pedestrianism at first, than toward not being eager enough about it. Almost everywhere good trout fishing may be found.
Of this quiet little village, Bethel, in which we can imagine no greater change to have taken place since his day than the improvement of certain roads and the enlargement of hotels, Starr King remarks, that it is the North Conway of the eastern slope of the mountains. "But its river scenery," he adds, "is much richer than that of the Saco; and it has so many pleasant strips of meadow, like the 'Middle Intervale,' relieved by the broad, winding Androscoggin in front, and by ample hills in the rear, brightly colored to the summit with fertile farms, that, for drives, it is a question if North Conway would not be obliged to yield the palm.…We can see now the wide array of ​gentle hills swelling so variously that the verdure of the forests, or the mottled bounty of the harvests, drooped from them in almost every curve of grace. Some of these hills were partially lighted through thin veils of cloud; some were draped with the tender gray of a shower, which now and then would yield to flushes of moist and golden sunshine; not far off rose a taller summit in slaty shadow; and between, on the line of the river, the different greens of the intervale would gleam in the scattered streams of light that forced their way, here and there, through the heavy and trailing curtains of the dog-day sky. In the morning or evening light, that horizon must enclose countless pictures which only need selection, and not improvement, for the canvas."
The best one to attempt was Mt. Abram, and immediately after luncheon a young man brought around a carriage and drove us swiftly away toward its base. How smooth this road seemed after the wrenching and jolting to which we had grown accustomed in the backwoods! And how doubly pleasant were the farms and orchards and neat houses throughout the valley! Then the way became steep and rocky, as we began to ascend the mountain's flank, and presently the carriage halted in a farmer's dooryard half-way to the top, and a path was pointed out to us by which we must walk the rest of the way, ​across fields and pastures where cows and sheep were nibbling among ledges of naked rock.
The view was well worth the trouble (which amounted to little, as climbing goes) and lay more or less open to us during all the ascent, since on the western side the mountain is nearly clear of trees, and is a favorite point of pilgrimage from Bethel. In the northwest and north were the high points in the rough region about the Grafton notch, and many of the peaks we had left behind us in the lake country. To the cast and southeast, Maine seemed less upheaved; but when we swung round to the southern horizon and crossed again into New Hampshire, all the horizon became ragged with "sierras long."
We remembered this as one of the best views of the White Mountains, though quite different from some more "stunning” ones seen later on. No doubt this high appreciation was partly due to the foreground, since between us and the rough, forested foot-hills, rested the vales of the Androscoggin and Wild rivers, and the green fields and neat villages of Bethel. "Bethel is one of the loveliest and dreamiest of mountain nooks. Its expanses of rich verdure, its little steeple, emerging from groves of elm-trees, its rustic bridge spanning the tireless river, its air of lethargy and indolence captivate eye and mind."
We might have remained contented a long time in that pleasant hotel on The Green in old Bethel. The romantic Wild river remained to be explored, and, besides many shorter drives, that twelve-mile one to the curious Albany basins of which we had heard; but it was Saturday, and we had planned to spend Sunday at Gorham; so the afternoon train bore us westward.
That was a wonderful car-ride! "The brilliant meadows, proud of their arching elms; the full, broad Androscoggin, whose charming islands rise from it on a still day like emeralds from liquid silver; the grand, Scotch-looking hills that guard it; the firm lines of the White Mountain ridge that shoots, now and then, across the north, when the road makes a sudden turn; and at last, beyond Shelburne, the splendid symmetry that bursts upon us when the whole mass of Madison is seen throned over the valley, itself overtopped by the ragged pinnacle of Adams."
The road keeps close to the river, yet just escapes the foothills of Mt. Moriah. In the neighborhood of Shelburne, N. H., the narrow strip of fertile meadow widens out into an elm-shaped vale between the hills, dotted with cottages and two or three hotels, for Shelburne is deservedly one of the favorite stopping-places. Its environs con​sequently have been well explored, and paths are kept marked to the summits of Mts. Moriah, Ingalls, Winthrop and Baldcap. The latter carries Dream lake, at the height of 2,600 feet, the Giant's falls and other interesting features. The view from Mt. Baldcap (2,952 feet) is described as very remarkable.
The drives along this portion of the Androscoggin valley were long ago conceded to be unsurpassed in all the mountains. Starr King is never weary of extolling them for varied interest in the beauty of the scenery, the historic and traditional associations involved with the prominent points of the landscape, and the scientific attractions connected with some portions of the road.
Gorham (N. H.) is a thriving village on the Androscoggin, at the mouth of the Peabody river, which issues from the deep vale between the White Mountain and Carter ranges. It is twenty miles above Bethel, ninety from Portland, and is noted among tourists as the nearest village to Mt. Washington. Stages for the Glen House (eight miles) leave on the arrival of all important trains; but travellers who hurry on to the Glen, because they suppose there is nothing worth seeing at Gorham, make a great mistake. The hotel, to be sure, does not command encouraging views from its windows; but no point in the mountains offers views to be gained by walks of a mile or two that are more noble and memorable. "For river scenery, in connection with impressive mountain forms, the immediate vicinty of Gorham surpasses all the other districts from which the highest peaks are visible." It is only sixteen miles to the top of Mt. Washington, and Adams and Madison arc still nearer. On the south, the Peabody glen opens away into the highlands, flanked on the cast by the lofty crests of Mts. Moriah and Carter; and on the northwest are the long serrated lines of the Pilot mountains, the scene of brilliant displays of color towards evening. The rugged bills north of the Androscoggin river tower closely on the north of the village, throwing out their rocky cliffs to the verge of the stream. The roads are admirable in the neighborhood, but those who do not care to tramp about in search of the picturesque can easily get a carriage. Heavy mountain wagons are sent out to the top of Mt. Washington, or on any other desired excursion, whenever a party is made up to fill them. (The same statement might be made of every hotel and large boarding-house in the mountains; nor is the tariff of charges a high one, even to the non-tourist mind. Guides and camp-helpers for rough mountain tramps can always be obtained.)
That first evening we did no more than stroll leisurely up upon the bushy knoll called Soldier's hill, intending to get our bearings and decide upon to-morrow's trip; but the glory of the sunset flames cast upon those hoary giants southward, marking their western angles with strong color, and hiding all the gashes in their eastern slopes under heavy shadow; the alternate glow and paling which made the moun​tains of the Carter range change their aspect every moment; and the swimming color veiling the upper valley and its softly outlined hills, made us forget our maps and our anxieties for the morrow in the pleasure of to-day. Then, as twilight settles down, we walk arm in arm back through the quiet village streets, watching the stars peep coquettishly over the darkening summits, and go to our beds, glad that once more we are leaning upon the great bosom of the highlands.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills," was the resolution of the sacred psalmist: and, pleased with this doctrine, next morning we hastened to obey it, starting so early as not to scandalize other good people who felt in duty bound to go to church.
Steeply from the northern bank of the river, opposite Gorham, spring the battlements of Mt. Hayes, traditionally celebrated for "bears, blueberries and views." Not having lost any bears we were not hunting for them, and it was too late for blueberries; but the "views" remained, for the day was clear and warm. At the end of the street we found a suspended foot-bridge which was slight enough to be decidedly "teetering," yet had no guys or rail within reach of one's hands. Neither the swift water swirling underneath, nor the swinging of the frail structure, disturbed me; and probably my sturdy treading in advance (supposing the others would follow as calmly), augmented the shaking, for that bothersome wife of mine at once began to squeal and complain, sidling along with arms outstretched and waving as if she were walking a tight-rope. Baily hurried to her assistance, but was ungratefully commanded to stay where he was, for fear the bridge would break (it was safe enough), which he most gallantly and sensibly declined to do. I unwisely ventured to suggest that had Baily not been there with his solicitude she would not have thought it worth while to say Oh! so often. But this was an indiscreet remark, for I was informed that I was a heartless wretch, wouldn't care if she fell off, and—snappishly—that I would "catch it." Hearing this, I gave the bridge a lively shake, whereupon a shriek rent the air, and poor Baily was seized with such a despairing clutch that both of 'em nearly tumbled into the wine-colored whirlpools, seeing which I let the poor things creep on in peace.
All the sunshine that turned the leaves to gold and sent long spear-like rays of gleaming silver through the spruce groves, could not warm Prue's face into a smile as we walked up that sloping road, and I prudently kept out of the way. A little distance beyond the bridge there are the works of an abandoned mine, where the ruins of a stairway offered an easy means of ascent toward a high shoulder of rock which we thought ought to afford a fine look-out. Up these stairs I started, they following; and after getting pretty well out of breath,—evidently the day was too warm for a two-mile tramp to the summit with comfort,—we attained the brow of the crag and received our reward.
​Right beneath us the valley held a dark little pond and the flashing eddies of the Androscoggin, with busy Gorham and Gorham Falls. The nearest slope opposite was Pine mountain, densely wooded, and the northernmost ridge of the White Mountain range. Off at the left the many-peaked mass of Mt. Moriah was near at hand, hiding everything beyond, while beside it, toward the right, were The Imp and Carter, their slopes (with Carter's crested ridge in full view) falling away into the Peabody ravine and Pinkham notch, interdigitating (Baily's word—good one, isn't it?) with the long, narrow flanks of the White Mountains.
To be sure of these points we had to consult the map. Now Prue carried this but let me look over it with her, and was as talkative as usual. So I made up my mind that the bridge incident was forgotten, and you may be sure I did nothing to revive it, even by saying I was sorry, (as in fact I was). "Let well enough alone" is nowhere better advice than in a cooling quarrel. On the right, we could see only far enough past our own ledges, up the broad and well-peopled valley of Moose river, to get the profiles of the Randolph and Cherry ranges, themselves standpoints for a magnificent prospect. But these side parts of the picture received little attention; for our eyes were fascinated by the glory of the huge summits lifted into the sky right in front of us,—Madison in all his gigantic breadth, Washington only half-hidden behind him, and a long buttress of Adams sweeping down towards the head of Moose river.
How really mountainous and glacial they looked that morning, the first powdering of snow upon their aged heads! How massive and majestic! The noblest among the mountains that stand around them become insignificant from such a point as this, and we forget them in our homage for these central peaks, sitting like king and queen, high upon their thrones under a royal canopy of purple sky. We bow in admiration before their strength and serenity and grandeur of proportion. The rugged breadth of Washington, especially, was shown to us,—his soldierly erectness and defiance. Though only the slope of the lines and the deep shadows suggest them to our sight, the great gorges that separate him from his peers are easy to realize; and we wonder again at the temerity of men invading the sanctity of that heavenly height, even while we watch sunlit plumes of smoke from the locomotives scaling its crest, and can trace the long line of carriage-road marked athwart its northern slope. Madison is shapely and picturesque, with its deeply-notched top and the mighty buttress bracing it against the weight of Adams; but it has not the majesty and fascinating excellence of Washington.
When noon approached, we began our return. Clambering down over the smooth ledges and steeply inclined thickets, where I helped Prue all I could, we reached the shaky staircase, and I warned my companions who passed ahead of me, to be cautious, as one section of it, at least, down a vertical step of the cliff some twenty feet in height, seemed so loose that a little exertion would push it down.
​"Do you think so?" asked Prue, who was standing at its top and looking at it critically; then, "Oh, Theo, I've left my parasol—you'll have to go back and get it. I'm so sorry!"
Her tone was not sincere, nor her look; and suspecting that she had left it "on purpose," I toiled again up those baking rocks and through that confounded brush to get the article, my mood in nowise softened by the echoes of merriment from below. Sliding and crashing back, I regained the stairway only to find the loose section removed, and no way left for me to get down to where those two jokers—I hate practical jokes!—were comfortably reclining on a grassy bank indifferent to my comfort, except by a long detour and bruising scramble over the rocks.
"Thank you, ever so much," were Prue's only words, uttered in the sweetest way, when I handed her the umbrella and brushed the dust from my clothing; but Baily, less sure of his position, felt it necessary to produce the flask in which le kept his stock of apologies in liquid form, so that they would flow more easily than peace-offerings generally do. I accepted the apology, and then we strolled for a mile down through the sunlit woods, with the swift, dark river on one side and the brawny hill on the other, and recrossed to the village by a lower, more solid and extraordinarily picturesque bridge, swung from cliff to cliff above the gorge of the Androscoggin.
And Prue, having paid me off, was now all serenity.
We had availed ourselves of only one, and the handiest out of many remunerative excursions in the vicinity of Gorham, where a few minutes' walk only is needed in almost any direction to open pictures to the eye hardly to be surpassed. The loftiest height in New England, for example (counting from where yon stand to its summit), is the aspect of Mt. Adams presented from the river-road, about a mile and a half above Gorham; and at the bend of the river, a mile above, is the best view attainable of Moriah, The Imp and Carter.
As for the celebrated drive down the river to the Lead-mine bridge, past Granny Starbird's ledge, it has been called the best in New Hampshire for an artistic mingling of river, meadow and mountain; but a party who drove that Sunday morning to Randolph hill and back, said nothing could equal the views they had, so I hesitate to decide.
Nearly all the mountains within sight have paths to their summits, in ​regard to which a guide-hook should be consulted. The Carter range presents the greatest difficulties. Mt. Surprise, one of the lower peaks of Moriah, was a favorite point of pilgrimage with Starr King, and Mt. Hayes, another; indeed, he seems to have been more fond of this eastern side of the mountains than of the other, and is said to have written the greater part of his immortal book at Gorham.