# Down East Latch Strings/Chapter 16

Where is the Glen House?" asked Prue, when we had fixed on a time for going thither.
"In the Glen."
"Ah! So good of you! Where is the Glen?"
"Between the northern part of the Presidential range and the Carter mountains. If you will look at your map you will find a narrow valley extending north and south and drained by the Peabody river. That is the Peabody glen, or simply The Glen; and the hotel, which is half way up its length, is named after it. At the head of the river the valley narrows into a mere defile, called, in New Hampshire phrase, the Pinkham notch, on the other side of which the Ellis river flows southward through Jackson to the Saco."
"Is it pretty?"
"In my humble opinion it is the best of all the narrow valleys, for while it does not equal in depth and precipitousness the Crawford notch, which is usually thought the climax of White Mountain scenery, and which we are saving to the last on this trip, there is a wider and more varied outlook, more grandeur in the mountains exposed from the higher points of the road, and more picturesqueness of that richer sort which requires some human item in its attractions to warm our sympathies as well as to excite a purely mental admiration. Don't you agree with me, Baily?"
"Yes, quite. And I think we shall conclude, after we have seen the whole region, that this eastern side of the mountains is more interesting and delightful as a whole, than its western."
The Glen House is 1,632 feet above the sea and 820 feet above Gorham. The dry, pure, and fragrant air of this locality affords relief and exemption from the annoyances of rose-cold or hay-fever, many of whose victims escape its attacks by sojourning here. The handsome new building occupies a grassy knoll at the foot of Mount ​Carter, overlooking the Peabody valley and fronting an amphitheatre formed of the five highest mountains in New England,—Washington, Clay, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison. They are only three or four miles distant, and no hills intervene to cut off the view of their whole vast bulk and altitude. Each is distinct from its neighbors; and all the great gulfs that separate them from one another, and each of the massive buttresses by which the peaks are supported, are in plain view. It is the only point, right at the foot of the mountains, where their unobstructed height and breadth can be gauged; and if in this nearness we lose that tender and idealized beauty which a longer focus gives, we gain an impression of solidity, bulk and majesty.
Moreover, on this side, their lines both of structure and sculpture, are far more strong and noble than on the other, so that, even though we may be quite as near the foot in the upper part of the Amonoosuc valley, the impression of grandeur is far less there. On that (the western) side, the mountain slopes join into a much smoother and more continuous wall-like slope, while here the peaks are separated by profound indentations or "gulfs," between whose "lean and wrinkled precipices" deep shadows lurk while the peaks may be lit up by sunlight, or become marble white under snow. "Mount Madison (5,365 feet) is on the right, left of which is the sharp and symmetrical pyramid of Mount Adams (5,794 feet), then the massive crest of Jefferson (5,714 feet), the low humps of Clay (5,553 feet), and the hotel-crowned peak of Washington (6,293 feet), is on the left, peering over lofty spurs and secondary peaks. The high crags of the Lion's Head are seen on the left, near the opening of Tuckerman's ravine. The deep gorge of the Great Gulf opens into the range towards Mounts Adams and Jefferson, containing the dense forests of the West Branch. This noble view is presented from the piazzas and front rooms of the hotel. On the cast, is the high and massive Carter range, which is rarely visited, on account of its tangled thickets; and more to the south are the slopes of Carter Dome and Wild Cat. Below the hotel, on the west, is the pleasant valley of the Peabody river; and above, on the west, is a far-viewing clearing, in one corner of which is a reservoir." (Sweetzer).
The Glen House is a headquarters for excursions; Mr. Milliken's stages and mountain wagons are incessantly going and coming; and bis claim that his horses and equipments are the best on the Atlantic side of the continent, can no doubt be sustained. Considering the numbers and wealth of the crowds which from May to October patronize them, they ought to be.
Every pleasant morning the spacious piazzas present a scene of active preparation for some outing. "Anglers, with rod and basket betake themselves to the neighboring trout-brooks, artists to the woods or open. Mountain wagons clatter up to the door with an exhilarating spirit and dash. Amid much laughter and cracking of ​jokes, these strong yet slight-looking vehicles are speedily filled with parties for the summit, the Crystal cascade or Glen Ellis; knots of pedestrians, picturesquely dressed, move off with clastic tread for some long meditated climb among the hills or in the ravines; while the regular stages for Gorham or Glen Station depart amid hurried and hearty leave-takings, the flutter of handkerchiefs and the sharp crack of the drivers whip."
One line of stages runs to Gorham, another makes two trips a day through Jackson (twelve miles) to Glen Station (fifteen and one half miles) on the Portland and Ogdensburg Railroad, connecting with trains to and from Boston and Worcester; and a third leaves morning and afternoon for the top of Mount Washington (eight miles), connecting there with the trains of the Mount Washington Railway down to Fabyan's. In addition, two regular trips in mountain-wagons are made every day to Glen Ellis and the Crystal cascade. Besides this there are various walks to places of interest; to trouting reaches in the gay Peabody river and its tributary brooks; to the Garnet pools,—basins dug by whirling stones in the bed of the river, a mile distant; to Osgood's cascades, one and one fourth miles; and to Thompson's falls and the Emerald pool (the subject of Bierstadt's famous painting), some two and one half miles southward, where an exceedingly good view of Mount Washington and the ravines on its eastern flank can be had. And always and everywhere yon can turn your eye from river and lakelet, green meadow or gay woodland, theatrically grouped masses of moss-garnished rocks and smart birches, fragrant brier-thickets, or soldierly firs, to the blanched summits that in sunshine smile so benignly upon the secluded glen, but in storm threaten so terrifically.
of any excursion on this rough range are very great, and few persons attempt it. The Carter notch, however, is more easily accessible by paths from either the Glen House or Jackson.
Baily and I seriously discussed leaving Madame Prue at the Glen House, where there was a gay crowd of tourists, some staying for weeks, others coming and going, and making some of these longer and rougher tramps, but relinquished the idea, and decided simply to see Glen Ellis and the Crystal Cascade, which we could do all together, and then push on over the summit of Washington.
"This is only a reconnoissance anyhow," I told them, with a sigh of resignation, "and we cannot expect to do more than learn the way. Next year we will settle down at points like this, until we have made thorough explorations of the surrounding country."
"That's just what we will do," Baily replied in strong approval. "I mean to come up here early, next summer, and conquer these out-of-the-way cliffs and gorges, if it takes till Christmas."
"How about all your other plans?" I ask.
"They'll have to wait," is his stout reply.
"Even the fishing at Rangeley, when Miss Blank is there?" Prue enquires carelessly. ​"Well—I might run up there—it's no great distance, long enough for that, you know."
Early in the afternoon a little party of us climbed into one of the big wagons and set off for the cascades,—a trip that is one of perfect entertainment. Whirled along at a rapid trot over a smooth road, the scenery presents sone new delight at every stage of advance. For half a mile after leaving the hotel you keep in sight those magnificent lines of Washington's southern crest which are so admirable from the piazza. The changing aspects of the crags of the Lion's Head, and the loftier ridges behind them become very striking as we attain the gentle eminence whence branches of the Peabody and the Ellis diverge in opposite directions from a single pool, and where we begin to descend to the southward. There would be food enough for the eye, even without these crags, in watching the struggles of the little river among its vexing boulders; in noticing the confidential way in which tiny brooks come noisily out of their thicket-shelters, dart across the sunny road and disappear into the wood; or in the lovely contrasts of color which this mixed foliage presents, now that autumn has begun to dye the more tender leaves. At the end of the third mile we come to a somewhat larger stream, swift and clear, where there is a house and country store; and here we get down and follow a path about half a mile into the woods on our right, ascending the stream close to its rocky bed, where at this dry season a dozen rivulets are finding each its own way down among ledges and loose rocks, always on the jump and singing merrily. After a time we come to a shaky bridge laid across the stream upon two long tree trunks, and then climb a steep bit of rocks and spruce-roots to the top of a miniature cliff, and there—right opposite, but coming from one side, at a sharp turn in the course of the creek,—is the Crystal cascade.
Of its kind it is unequalled. Imagine a very steep stairway of rocks perhaps eighty feet high, at the head of an alcove in the forest, the sides of which are tapestried with moss and vines, ferns, and every manner of clinging green thing, the bottom filled with a pure pool, and the whole over-arched with out-bending limbs of trees that seem proud of their charge; and that down this precipitous stairway of natural ledges slides a sheet of diamond-clear water, sporting, pratling and spinning, to splash and glide into the bright pool. I can recall no waterfall in all my travels that is like it, nor can I think of any, great or small, so satisfying in its secluded loveliness. You are not compelled to admiration, nor wonder, nor terror; you simply accept its perfect beauty as what your soul has long been waiting for, and feel that you would never grow weary of it, nor cease to enjoy its music and its lacelike cataracts, any more than a lover expects to to grow tired of the face and voice of his mistress. I have never felt this way elsewhere toward a waterfall but once, and that is on an obscure tributary of the Russian river in California; and now I think that of the two, I like this better.
​On this same stream half a mile farther down, reached by another path through the woods at the left of the road, is the Glen Ellis fall, which we next visited, and which is of a quite different order of beauty. Its surroundings are wilder, and you can catch glimpses of the heads and horns of beetling crags, and of slopes of black forest reaching upward thousands of feet. The river, instead of a scattered brook, is now a torrent, plowing its way through closely set rocks and confined in a dark gorge. "Descending by slippery stairs to the pool beneath it, I saw, [it is Samuel Drake who is speaking,] eighty feet above me, the whole stream force its way through a narrow cleft, and stand in one unbroken column, superbly erect, upon the level surface of the pool. The sheet was as white as marble, the pool as green as malachite. As if stunned by the fall, it turns slowly round; then, recovering, precipitates itself down the rocky gorge with greater passion than ever. On its upper edge the curling sheet of the fall was shot with sunlight, and shone with enchanting brilliancy. All below was one white feathery mass, gliding down with the swift and noiseless movement of an avalanche of fresh snow."
This Ellis river comes out of Tuckerman's ravine, an enormous gorge scooped out of the southeastern side of Mount Washington, whose southern wall is formed by the great curving buttress called Boot's spur. The Crystal and Ellis falls are only two out of many less notable cataracts upon its course, which is a headlong rush downward from the "snow-arch" and a circle of snow-banks preserved until late in the season under the shadow of the mighty walls at the head of the ravine.
"Tuckerman's ravine," says Ticknor's Guide, "is divided into two sections, the broad vestibule in which are the cascades and Hermit lake, and the inner and higher chasm of the ravine itself. It is the most remarkable piece of scenery of this character in all New England, for though it is neither so deep nor so long as King's ravine, it surpasses it in the steepness and sweep of its cliffs, and in its close relation to the supreme summit. It is, moreover, much easier to traverse, being free from dangerous crevasses, and requiring only a powerful exertion of the thews and sinews. Ladies have frequently traversed the ravine, and encamped in its depths. In view of the possibility of accidents it is not prudent for people to make this excursion alone.…The best way into the ravine, for those who wish to see all its glories, is by the Appalachian path, which leaves the Jackson road three miles south of the Glen House, and runs in to the Crystal cascade.…It is a hard hour's climb from the snow to the Summit House, the upward route being marked by splashes of white paint on the rocks. The path is kept in repair by the Appalachian Mountain Club, and is a very pleasant forest trail." It is hardly advisable, however, for any but the most vigorous to go on to the summit through Tuckerman's. Better content yourself with the climb ​to the thick bank of drifted snow, through which the stream cuts a subnivean channel in the spring, leaving an overarching span of ice which lasts until August, and then return to the Glen House by the alternate path.
When we could permit ourselves to stay no longer at the Glen House, we took places in the next morning's stage to the Summit House, and then devoted the afternoon to a drive to Jackson.
The first three miles were over roads with which we were already familiar; beyond the Glen Ellis path-entrance, we trod new ground.
The forest here skirts the road on both sides, and Prue was continually going into ecstacies over some flaming maple, or a birch, dangling golden coins from silver branchlets, intermingled with the shapely spires of evergreens. Out of this universal forest—the great Pinkham woodland from which this defile or "notch" was named—crags and smooth faces of rock would jut in dull blue or black masses, sometimes closely overhead, for we were now in the narrowest part of the pass where the foot of Carter Dome was braced squarely against Washington's extended foot.
"A foot clad in Boots," interjects the punning Baily, referring to the great spur which nearly blockades the valley. But the woods give us many chances to look out; and at the cottage, halfway (where we stopped to water our horse, and a pretty little girl came out with a tray of apples, pop-corn in tiny bark baskets, and cakes of home-made maple sugar to sell), you look back and get some new and most impressive views of the Presidential summits. This autumn air was wonderfully clear, and the houses upon the summit of Washington were distinctly visible. I think this one of the best views open to the tourist who keeps to the roads, of the Presidential range, and of Washington in particular. The mountains seen from this point are crowded together and appear in profile, where their steepest slopes can take effect. The summits stand high and bold above the trees—higher and bolder than from the Glen House,—recalling to me very vividly the appearance of the Sierra Mojada, in southern Colorado, as you look northward from Walsenburg or Cucharas. The gashes made by trickling water on this well-scarred side—every copse-feathered chasm and cleft—were especially emphatic and sightly, and every jutting crag distinct. But the time of day was right, and the season favorable. Indeed, Starr King thought October the best season for the Glen, since by the middle of that month the summits are often entirely covered with whiteness, as they had not been yet for us, save on that single morning which showed the glorious picture from Lake Umbagog.
A succession of points occured, as we proceeded, where this magnificent picture could be studied behind us at various angles and with differently grand effects; and the traveller who enters the Pinkham notch from the south on a fine day must be filled with enthu​siasm, if he has the least capacity for enjoyment of mountain scenery,—and I pity him who has not!
The road down from the Pinkham notch to Jackson, runs along a broadening and always interesting valley, with superb sierras on either hand—heights identified with some of the very earliest tales of exploration. The village itself lies in a lovely nook between the foot-hills of Iron and Tin mountains, with the ragged crests of Mounts Crawford, Resolution, the Giant's Stair, and others in the west, the cone of Kiarsarge in the south, and a crown of lofty peaks northward. All the great heights are far away, however, and the foot-hills near by are mostly cleared, yet dotted with copses and lines of trees that lend a somewhat cultivated appearance to the surroundings, pleasantly relieving the solid woodland that elsewhere overspreads the hills with an unbroken pall. Here are broad meadows, many farms, and a neat little hamlet of hotels of handsome modern architecture and every appearance of comfort, among which, quaint old farmhouses and an elm-shaded meeting-house do not seem out of harmony.
"There is room to breathe here," Prue declared, "and you can see the mountains without being right against them, or half alarmed lest they should slide down upon yon some night."
I wonder how she will feel at the Profile House!