tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67780947331182576032024-03-13T12:56:29.735-04:00Naturally New EnglandExploring the wilds and wildlife of New EnglandDave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-8139106314481792792011-12-11T08:44:00.001-05:002012-10-02T19:41:54.856-04:00The Return, Part 3: The Mirror of Misadventure<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Adventure is not outside man; it is within" - George Eliot</blockquote>
<i>Author's Note: It has been sometime since I last wrote in this blog. For those of you who have enjoyed these tales and wondered at their absence, I apologize. For those of you who did not miss these poor scratchings, and who groan at the mere thought of their resurrection, I apologize most humbly.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHKjK9L8d7wuNhwb8xR30eQn79NWzcR-Umvo_a4kYRQjX8ape0m3K7QvTxf6MtJh1YDjNU5D-S5E6IpdTUB71ABcZ_KrgpAPyeKqstXfW1n8dZSHpHeuRm7zL_q_XgQgHSlMyFdPLbgFN/s1600/Leaving+Washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHKjK9L8d7wuNhwb8xR30eQn79NWzcR-Umvo_a4kYRQjX8ape0m3K7QvTxf6MtJh1YDjNU5D-S5E6IpdTUB71ABcZ_KrgpAPyeKqstXfW1n8dZSHpHeuRm7zL_q_XgQgHSlMyFdPLbgFN/s400/Leaving+Washington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">View back to the summit of Mt Washington as we descend the cone on our way to Jefferson.</span></td></tr>
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Mark and I descended from the summit of Mt Washington along the northwest face of the summit cone. Our next objective was to join the Gulfside Trail, a section of the Appalachian Trail, which would take us toward the hike's third peak. The Gulfside Trail lies along the northwestern rim of the Great Gulf, a massively deep glacial cirque that cuts into the Presidential Range and runs roughly five miles along a northeast to southwest axis. A glacial cirque is a valley cut into a mountain range by the inexorable grinding of an alpine glacier. The mouth of the Great Gulf opens to the northeast, and the steep headwall lies to the southwest. There are few places in New England that can rival the majesty of the peaks, gulfs, ravines, and spurs of the Presidential Range of the White Mountains. It is true that remarkable and arresting beauty can be found in the simplest of places, the smile of a child, the curve of a woman's neck, the effortless flight of the Swift. But the beauty of the wild lands is woven with the awe inspiring majesty mountains, and if you fail to be simultaneously enthralled and humbled by this world, then your spark of life has grown very cold indeed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpKcfBPaep5uGbdfVOFwkt9VHyabZbY3hVa5E3lz24RtdTXOF55x0zCe1Wi-zys0f-PIgIrGUvlKfW4e1viTZkjzTAvuQa2QS4UjzmsmKnngKI6F-Yx8nBNW6jR9bXOZ1JoRarmMRj9dD/s1600/Northern+Presies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpKcfBPaep5uGbdfVOFwkt9VHyabZbY3hVa5E3lz24RtdTXOF55x0zCe1Wi-zys0f-PIgIrGUvlKfW4e1viTZkjzTAvuQa2QS4UjzmsmKnngKI6F-Yx8nBNW6jR9bXOZ1JoRarmMRj9dD/s400/Northern+Presies.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Crossing the high plateau of Mt Washington, we approach the headwall of the Great Gulf. The northern Presidentials stretch for miles across the gulf.</span></td></tr>
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Our way lead across the high plateau of Washington, that remarkable flat tundra-like expanse below the summit cone. Across this alpine table-land runs the Cog Railway as it climbs from the valley below to the summit buildings. We would have to cross the railbed as we hiked toward the Gulfside Trail and Mt Jefferson. As we ambled we watched the cog train ascend the rail one more, slowly sliding upward as many pale faces peered out of the Cog's passenger car's windows. Reaching the railbed we stopped to inspect its construction of stout timbers and cold iron, and talked briefly about its makeup and how the design oddly fit in the chaos of the table-land's shatter stones and grasses. We did not know it at that point but we would get to know the rails and ties quite intimately later in the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamhP56kvIBv2fAIoVuPhL16-idCQFHBL7CspNBxj8wRKSoyj6mnVNDFPKB0RfXDs56SvHnngDInpmIhUlMIEI3qmwzw0r5TqmOnGBEeNSTtFAa7DTDKg7D8kyZQt2jCUWBGR9qEMbOKt-/s1600/Cog+train+passes+1st.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamhP56kvIBv2fAIoVuPhL16-idCQFHBL7CspNBxj8wRKSoyj6mnVNDFPKB0RfXDs56SvHnngDInpmIhUlMIEI3qmwzw0r5TqmOnGBEeNSTtFAa7DTDKg7D8kyZQt2jCUWBGR9qEMbOKt-/s400/Cog+train+passes+1st.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">As we approach the Cog Railway railbed, an engine and car slowly climbs up towards the summit.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9X9Pg7ekDWBS96i8B38OgAUxhFVpIr5mzFjxxsYQV70J6b0pUu1jZenU8HpPR_XQB242siUsTe0c1-c2xvwLmoWMLXGsbhCkyknyNfwl_ZJpOK1dANQ1ArxT6kqzzldU5-r-p2PuU1z3/s1600/Trail+and+railbed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9X9Pg7ekDWBS96i8B38OgAUxhFVpIr5mzFjxxsYQV70J6b0pUu1jZenU8HpPR_XQB242siUsTe0c1-c2xvwLmoWMLXGsbhCkyknyNfwl_ZJpOK1dANQ1ArxT6kqzzldU5-r-p2PuU1z3/s400/Trail+and+railbed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We have crossed over the Cog railbed, and our trail, marked by cairns, runs along and just up from the headwall of the Great Gulf. Mt Dartmouth, Mt Deception, and Owl's Head (not to be confused with the 4,000 footer of the same name in the Pemigewasset Wilderness!) are some of the peaks visible in the distance.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VgCHJbxFvgY5MLLxblUHKYIaeHpzGzHTSREqJU9R33vUtmsbS7c5Bw7aEP3QcZsyedkjQlDH6J676UZLgcg7Amv6pDTeGp7_XN_w4dwqsG5hCnsPCjMxKTYcgv7eRyYsCHcFnsBY3fmS/s1600/Train+passes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VgCHJbxFvgY5MLLxblUHKYIaeHpzGzHTSREqJU9R33vUtmsbS7c5Bw7aEP3QcZsyedkjQlDH6J676UZLgcg7Amv6pDTeGp7_XN_w4dwqsG5hCnsPCjMxKTYcgv7eRyYsCHcFnsBY3fmS/s400/Train+passes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now on its descent, the Cog Train passes us, engine first. As we watch it crawl by the passengers watch us watching them.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzz5kdhjRrn3Faov3GWf3g2f6EWvYBc3fhSxcswdYVLDzNmsjA8PsfVgl05nPXJfJrgX-Ve3dmjLNsB-py5IxhaXukk80KkahMD2FAKWetcq1FmaAjVyRydLMTlxLivagZiG_a2_wW-i3C/s1600/Train+crests+descent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzz5kdhjRrn3Faov3GWf3g2f6EWvYBc3fhSxcswdYVLDzNmsjA8PsfVgl05nPXJfJrgX-Ve3dmjLNsB-py5IxhaXukk80KkahMD2FAKWetcq1FmaAjVyRydLMTlxLivagZiG_a2_wW-i3C/s400/Train+crests+descent.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The train edges over for the descent down Jacob's Ladder. At this point, it is only the cog gear below the engine grasping the central track of the rail that keeps the train from plummeting downwards and the passengers and their mortal coils from being parted!</span></td></tr>
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Once it passed over the railbed, the trail then paralleled it as it approached the intersection with the Gulfside. As we traveled, the cog engine and car had descended past us on its return to the station below. Its passage had taken our attention away from the landscape, albeit briefly. Now we paused to take in the gaping maw of the Great Gulf. We stood at the top of its headwall and took in the crazy patchwork of greens, grays, and browns that clad the walls and floor of the gulf roughly 1,500 feet below. The sharply different greens were caused by the stands of different trees, dark green were the Spruces, Firs, and Hemlocks, while the paler greens were mostly Birches. Looking small and dark far, far below us in the Gulf was Spaulding Lake. The grays were the living stone of the mountain, either bare slopes too steep for vegetation to take hold, massive boulders, worn stone columns and massive boulders standing proud of the trees, long slashing scars from landslides, or the chaotic rubble of talus slopes. The browns were the spreading colors of Fall, as well as the rents in the forests caused by the more recent slides. Ranged across the gulf's far rim were the angular peaks of the northern Presidentials.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGQgDKIX16kWUqSqDjlX2IHftUz-pV7mAEBlzN5vYJxn0c3aNYm9wkho4dDmMUeFKo47FasAc-TJi5THGxDE4o0G939geF_-VMVrluZlb1f-T4p_sQTUel4UK3qRhUMo-cXDhzb4iOLPO/s1600/Great+Gulf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGQgDKIX16kWUqSqDjlX2IHftUz-pV7mAEBlzN5vYJxn0c3aNYm9wkho4dDmMUeFKo47FasAc-TJi5THGxDE4o0G939geF_-VMVrluZlb1f-T4p_sQTUel4UK3qRhUMo-cXDhzb4iOLPO/s400/Great+Gulf.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Great Gulf and the northern Presidentials. The peaks are, from left to right. Mt Jefferson, Mt Adams, and Mt Madison.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwfdCT0KYDB8M9P7q5L4SeZ4vdXxMJavQ2HnDCWau832ad0tBB0o6qe127gpgvGi3hsGpCSo1MewI2APOrBbHgouYyFGxypfZ-PjOaQfPuD5hGBHibJ7yK8qzNmOrbmaKfataAI1-7VdZ/s1600/Mark+over+Gulf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwfdCT0KYDB8M9P7q5L4SeZ4vdXxMJavQ2HnDCWau832ad0tBB0o6qe127gpgvGi3hsGpCSo1MewI2APOrBbHgouYyFGxypfZ-PjOaQfPuD5hGBHibJ7yK8qzNmOrbmaKfataAI1-7VdZ/s400/Mark+over+Gulf.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark stands on a long splintered and eroded ledge above the gulf. While this looks dangerous, it was only risky for Mark. I was quite safe taking the picture. So no worries really!</span></td></tr>
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Having taken in the breathtaking views from the headwall, we walked on. At that time I was feeling less than sanguine with regards to, well, everything. It was later in the day than it should have been considering our progress. I was feeling poorly, but Mark was not. Caution would have us descend and skip the considerable extension of time and effort to attain Jefferson's summit. That summit would be the only new one for me however, and that coupled with Mark's enthusiasm for continuing, over-road my better judgement (which admittedly is a fairly minor speed bump) and I determined we would push onward, not downward.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyhTI9ys0ljBVE1QwuSPAoNdgMcm8Aaxsi7RBQL1ujcdZbB51Des33jQoib3Sh-cxNf4Dud5KWdBMvwSO-_xXKPfh8ExMUCbRxLDwHdzmi8MIbHEY7k5kvBqJQHsZRNcPaUhRV4PGaShK/s1600/Trail+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyhTI9ys0ljBVE1QwuSPAoNdgMcm8Aaxsi7RBQL1ujcdZbB51Des33jQoib3Sh-cxNf4Dud5KWdBMvwSO-_xXKPfh8ExMUCbRxLDwHdzmi8MIbHEY7k5kvBqJQHsZRNcPaUhRV4PGaShK/s400/Trail+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We reach the intersection with the Gulfside Trail.</span></td></tr>
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Soon we reached the intersection with the Gulfside Trail and turned onto it. The first peak along our path would be Mt. Clay. The Gulfside Trail skirts around the western flank of this minor summit but a loop trail runs across it. Considering the time of day, my physical state, and the distances we still had to cover, I decided we would take the faster route around the summit, rather than take the extra time and effort to cross over it. Mt. Clay is not one of the "4,000 footers" despite its height. It has to do with the AMC defined criteria for a 4,000 footer. So while I felt a pang at not crossing its summit, we were not skipping a targeted peak of the hike. Mt. Clay would have to await a return visit at some future date.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1ESHs-xDLYDdOVb6AhggVMkFml3tNLDv6sQTy68NgR5_ib7p8HrRJ5t03PXWcFY1A3rwpnPlqxx40Ybu2ZSKUUbWQUq1Wrs3hM65G7mYBkzpnzvx_lqrJlnwp2vwZsM_UPRs927liyHC/s1600/Approaching+Clay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1ESHs-xDLYDdOVb6AhggVMkFml3tNLDv6sQTy68NgR5_ib7p8HrRJ5t03PXWcFY1A3rwpnPlqxx40Ybu2ZSKUUbWQUq1Wrs3hM65G7mYBkzpnzvx_lqrJlnwp2vwZsM_UPRs927liyHC/s400/Approaching+Clay.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Clay. Really more a shoulder of Mt. Washington than a distinct peak.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXsPOteDfbFSc5Gn9sHh44Hekh0Y4uOa5GBFICXmrTyIljG98kv3asv25A00WD8yiFv1ZkYr65uAtxj5s41OeCCVRxy7P1_HmSvY6OZb-BtAjFRy1ygBx5aDk4wYzM6KJUylvYljaAc9T9/s1600/The+valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXsPOteDfbFSc5Gn9sHh44Hekh0Y4uOa5GBFICXmrTyIljG98kv3asv25A00WD8yiFv1ZkYr65uAtxj5s41OeCCVRxy7P1_HmSvY6OZb-BtAjFRy1ygBx5aDk4wYzM6KJUylvYljaAc9T9/s400/The+valley.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The view from Gulfside Trail near Mt. Clay down into the valley that holds the Cog Railway base station. The railbed is visible along the ridge to the left and the base station and its approach road are clearly visible in the center.</span></td></tr>
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The pace of a hike is determined by the condition of the hikers, the condition of the weather, and the nature of the trail. One of the slower trails to traverse is one whose bed is made up of large, angular, and chaotic stones. This surface requires each step to be carefully chosen and made. It is more tiring as well as being more time consuming. This is due to the additional muscular effort needed to maintain balance when one's foot rests not on a flat surface, but rather on an uneven angular surface that often is much smaller than your boot's sole. Thus did many minutes sift through the hourglass as we pushed on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWfCKKH5E8y4uKSmHxTwyDY15B1DbZWvET2FY2w8qK1bCIFnsHHZjAE0Jh_pppKaVBdvuqQRVXj7Tq0clYhgTgGJmLvmY_JPwpeqf60sFnAVKRQlJU5gphOyS6aZxl8Wc4o-ZETDUCCkW/s1600/Jewell+Trail+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdWfCKKH5E8y4uKSmHxTwyDY15B1DbZWvET2FY2w8qK1bCIFnsHHZjAE0Jh_pppKaVBdvuqQRVXj7Tq0clYhgTgGJmLvmY_JPwpeqf60sFnAVKRQlJU5gphOyS6aZxl8Wc4o-ZETDUCCkW/s400/Jewell+Trail+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The intersection of Gulfside Trail with Jewell Trail. Jewell Trail would be our path down once we returned from Mt Jefferson. Well, that was the plan anyway.</span></td></tr>
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Passing around Mt. Clay, we reached the intersection with the Jewell Trail, our planned descent path, and took a brief break near the trail sign. In my head I knew we had a lot of ground to cover before we were back here and could start downward. It was becoming clear to me that our pace had to increase if we were going to achieve that before darkness fell. I also knew Mark could easily increase his pace, and that it was me, being under-the-weather, that would have to make the effort to step it up. So with a growing sense of urgency within me, we set out while I felt a small but persistent tug from my better judgment. Oh how feeble better judgement is when pitted against desire! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt Jefferson rises ahead!</span></td></tr>
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I was thinking more and more that we were likely going to hike out in darkness. In and of its self, that is usually not a problem at all. But on this occasion Mark had forgotten his head lamp, and we were facing the undesirable reality of hiking downward on a boulder strewn trail with only one light between us. The possibility of a twisted or broken ankle was decidedly higher under that circumstance. So to speed our pace up, we decided to drop our packs in the vicinity of a gash in the western wall of the Great Gulf called the "Ravine of the Sphinx," and make a dash for the summit of Jefferson. And by "dash" I mean a slightly faster grind for me. So lightened in weight, we reached the final approach to Jefferson's summit, across the sedgy plateau called the "Monticello Lawn." A satisfying feeling of accomplishment lifted my spirits.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwe93g95EzRBzxDmXG4uKM6J96hkmXcWQvfkI95bcuM4oIVbXNZhiWsI1P_wXrfbmdDgZ_m66nf2u7Uw2jo5iRz6rZnJd5dBRP69GgHS8MlZTw5GetyXdzMwCjcv3uoBbbKuWAexay0HV3/s1600/Lawn%252C+gulf%252C+washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwe93g95EzRBzxDmXG4uKM6J96hkmXcWQvfkI95bcuM4oIVbXNZhiWsI1P_wXrfbmdDgZ_m66nf2u7Uw2jo5iRz6rZnJd5dBRP69GgHS8MlZTw5GetyXdzMwCjcv3uoBbbKuWAexay0HV3/s400/Lawn%252C+gulf%252C+washington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Monticello Lawn. With the summit of Mt.Jefferson behind us, we look across the lawn and the Great Gulf to Mt Washington. At the right edge of the image, in the distance, is the summit of Mt Monroe.</span></td></tr>
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The summit of Mt. Jefferson is a small plateau upon with rise three little "peaklets," the tallest of which is the highest point and is thus the true "Summit." The plateau hosts the intersections of several trails marked by trail signs and robust cairns. Reaching the summit, we spent a little time enjoying the incredible views, the feeling of completeness caused by reaching all three peaks, and the wonderfully wild feeling of standing so high above the surrounding lands. A handful of summits are my very favorites in the Whites, and Mt Jefferson had found an unassailable place among those favorites. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdHtnv-wtEQERKgKpTuiIe_FThHXHTqPInekKtUvVc0czT-llohbAAwNCvA0xCKgLpHBYFrY9GfikPMB06Wom6jcN3raJTjQicotxXnJzKPaXxfG3liiwQ8CgAD72Wx11qow-OW8p6TkD/s1600/Carters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdHtnv-wtEQERKgKpTuiIe_FThHXHTqPInekKtUvVc0czT-llohbAAwNCvA0xCKgLpHBYFrY9GfikPMB06Wom6jcN3raJTjQicotxXnJzKPaXxfG3liiwQ8CgAD72Wx11qow-OW8p6TkD/s400/Carters.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Seen from the area of Monticello Lawn, across the Great Gulf, the Carter Range stands to the east. Beyond those mountains lies western Maine.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTk0-Xc78ReqC-bilVzvDhke-b4ni7Cw22ysX7RrAM3dsPfM7rBQCTtMmU7iUWyCIh3sFmhZh_OBHVtZWdbFbSZr38kqOPAXb63JJBm_8cU1hX7Fm70hZ4upakzyXKXGHFZzqv95-uuuu/s1600/Gulf+Washington+Monroe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTk0-Xc78ReqC-bilVzvDhke-b4ni7Cw22ysX7RrAM3dsPfM7rBQCTtMmU7iUWyCIh3sFmhZh_OBHVtZWdbFbSZr38kqOPAXb63JJBm_8cU1hX7Fm70hZ4upakzyXKXGHFZzqv95-uuuu/s400/Gulf+Washington+Monroe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt Washington seen from Jefferson. Monroe stands to the right. The three peaks our hike traversed.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4dtmjmOnk1alkSo5f6ERh2HenVbgTUH6YKSeT8bqRnrxS81LUXERnE4HPEUIz-G8sPhpuIyUiEqrwKyr_tFWukVjZKJ4NLqf7ebq-rUe-tpfZ9y2Y00JJM0DaVRA4Uq7fpjLjolxMDfvV/s1600/Adams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4dtmjmOnk1alkSo5f6ERh2HenVbgTUH6YKSeT8bqRnrxS81LUXERnE4HPEUIz-G8sPhpuIyUiEqrwKyr_tFWukVjZKJ4NLqf7ebq-rUe-tpfZ9y2Y00JJM0DaVRA4Uq7fpjLjolxMDfvV/s400/Adams.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Adams, another of my favorites, as seen from the summit area of Mt. Jefferson.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIlibwI6HG7yvT3W5yt7vpA3GVYPLBw2e0oNcpYhXr9TnGddnf3jaRE6dPjVhFaGshyphenhyphenTroScDV2H_Luziofardq4XRAXnpIfx5xIU6YyFq1qITq-cQyRdoOoVvcEyREVgULwo08_o_Cd7/s1600/Mark+on+Jefferson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIlibwI6HG7yvT3W5yt7vpA3GVYPLBw2e0oNcpYhXr9TnGddnf3jaRE6dPjVhFaGshyphenhyphenTroScDV2H_Luziofardq4XRAXnpIfx5xIU6YyFq1qITq-cQyRdoOoVvcEyREVgULwo08_o_Cd7/s400/Mark+on+Jefferson.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark snaps a photo on Jefferson's summit.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48I6XQgmbF5CoskUz7DVAcJ2Dt_mfPkMhenOCuiakb527p6rXmAl7YT1zCkgIvyXIbaIjhjqKHJ7RtXtOgzgija3TJp0zPtx3GJrOwuSl2fcR_CezJr8LHwBhs4TOARhcqbBsWOHTuBvs/s1600/Cairn+below+J+summit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48I6XQgmbF5CoskUz7DVAcJ2Dt_mfPkMhenOCuiakb527p6rXmAl7YT1zCkgIvyXIbaIjhjqKHJ7RtXtOgzgija3TJp0zPtx3GJrOwuSl2fcR_CezJr8LHwBhs4TOARhcqbBsWOHTuBvs/s400/Cairn+below+J+summit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A venerable cairn just below Jefferson's summit still harbors the corporeal memory of the Fall's first snowfall. Mt Washington in the distance.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqanGubUEdQ4DXbSdISjCkjuPDLZgksKy9wAuEkmsASvjFjeG2vg9-l9iZ1bJdQ_NbmifAVBhc48mVNnPoxq3KFOF9jKegH5BDgYDm1eGilIhveTpq3lLAf0OTO4e7cY4qXcEeBRhBDSm/s1600/Carin+and+signs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqanGubUEdQ4DXbSdISjCkjuPDLZgksKy9wAuEkmsASvjFjeG2vg9-l9iZ1bJdQ_NbmifAVBhc48mVNnPoxq3KFOF9jKegH5BDgYDm1eGilIhveTpq3lLAf0OTO4e7cY4qXcEeBRhBDSm/s400/Carin+and+signs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Weather-worn trail signs, and robust cairns, mark the trails across the summit plateau. Cairns are more than works of art, they are montane hiker's lighthouses, as-it-were, during poor visibility and foul weather.</span></td></tr>
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I always have preferred to spend a long time lounging any summit, unless driving off by conditions. If we had arrived 2 or 3 hours sooner, as originally planned, we would have. But the lateness of the day coupled with the distance still to be hiked, roughly 5 miles, had us quickly descending the summit and retracing our steps toward our outlet path, the Jewell Trail.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkPNGr3raRaf4YZYI_n2bXGw89yISkMgV5IWZ9CTUh8ozkS1GFmgFQYaI2gzC1QnhzC9me_grVY9TSFaK51yPXY13u0oMBmlR7DmCNIHqneo5iYihXf2TWGjKkxeHRHIWmoUxT-yWtn-l/s1600/Mark+and+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkPNGr3raRaf4YZYI_n2bXGw89yISkMgV5IWZ9CTUh8ozkS1GFmgFQYaI2gzC1QnhzC9me_grVY9TSFaK51yPXY13u0oMBmlR7DmCNIHqneo5iYihXf2TWGjKkxeHRHIWmoUxT-yWtn-l/s400/Mark+and+I.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark and I leave Jefferson and begin the hike out.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55N7XkWvGbpfdkkDd8kQ98oFzyXdsJ0z7A5lJ4qLae5SyE0yzCAK5QW0dbWFx6-uo8groGkWZHp_J9EZz6JlgpAo2c80SOAszPKvl-c7_cHQX9BfYjzWSA_KJm2F19aqGa48oaXdGHORk/s1600/Mark+leaves+lawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55N7XkWvGbpfdkkDd8kQ98oFzyXdsJ0z7A5lJ4qLae5SyE0yzCAK5QW0dbWFx6-uo8groGkWZHp_J9EZz6JlgpAo2c80SOAszPKvl-c7_cHQX9BfYjzWSA_KJm2F19aqGa48oaXdGHORk/s400/Mark+leaves+lawn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark leaves Monticello Lawn. The lack of a pack is thanks to our "dashing" to the summit, and the long shadows being cast speak to why we were dashing. The peaks running in the middle distance are the southern Presidentials.</span></td></tr>
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It was during the stretch between leaving Jefferson's summit and retrieving our packs that I started expressing my concern to Mark that we would have to share one light on the Jewell Trail, and that I was concerned about someone taking a spill. Mark remarked we should just hike down the Cog Railway since it was out in the open and would have better light for longer, as well as being a pretty straight course back to the car. I was immediately struck with the idea, and decided that we would do just that. It seemed an elegant solution. It wasn't.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKR2rzlCBZSxlV6rkbKJoVbR7c66nywSg_bfEWNJMLmmSjALunAz1z8HeV4iLc50mRrHDd_C-cSmM_R4n69AmpVVtv9zergdbo1IJqZ6laxekHfWfVfxuEgJRS827trjbFs8cT5T1FNUD/s1600/Railway+and+station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKR2rzlCBZSxlV6rkbKJoVbR7c66nywSg_bfEWNJMLmmSjALunAz1z8HeV4iLc50mRrHDd_C-cSmM_R4n69AmpVVtv9zergdbo1IJqZ6laxekHfWfVfxuEgJRS827trjbFs8cT5T1FNUD/s400/Railway+and+station.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Cog Railway along the ridge ended up being our chosen road. Looked easy really. It wasn't easy. Not in the least easy!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvtlOna9ldcPDOB1RckxfTxemRxrleSOh2CWROWKlArqFWczONLnbDd6IAK99VInKfmVITEB63vjZMigRy7VQzl7q1n0udE3Su09xssZPc7G0PHAdzSj7eHbNmN94L93JI7zTee0LKSTL/s1600/The+rail+option.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvtlOna9ldcPDOB1RckxfTxemRxrleSOh2CWROWKlArqFWczONLnbDd6IAK99VInKfmVITEB63vjZMigRy7VQzl7q1n0udE3Su09xssZPc7G0PHAdzSj7eHbNmN94L93JI7zTee0LKSTL/s400/The+rail+option.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Leaving the Gulfside Trail we head across the slope to hike down along the Cog Railway railbed.</span></td></tr>
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Having committed, we left the trail and cut across the slope to the railbed. We thought there had to be a path alongside the rail for maintenance and/or access. Surely this would a doddle! When we reached the rail we found that no such path existed, and that the side of the railbed was a jumble of large stones. These stones were too large to rock hop without most assuredly taking a nasty injurious misstep or ten, especially in the gathering darkness. We also could now clearly see these forbidding boulders stretch down the entire section of rail visible to us. So there was precious little choice, it was either walk down on the actual rails themselves, or painstakingly retrace our steps all the way to Jewell Trail junction. Since we knew the last train of the day had already run, and slogging back to Jewell held no attraction at all, we chose to walk the rails. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmtFPuxqL1QcE8uHMlf8CWgv34msPNfJI5jqWKXbxGfRzEqbQWkJR9dKQwusIsaI06heRHU-QAJnO7BuM28AEmL7_AtYn-i6GPlBerFSVGqBDCiTLuuzmjXa9WyZ7-NpLG4g7YHwLfKA6/s1600/Mark+on+rail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmtFPuxqL1QcE8uHMlf8CWgv34msPNfJI5jqWKXbxGfRzEqbQWkJR9dKQwusIsaI06heRHU-QAJnO7BuM28AEmL7_AtYn-i6GPlBerFSVGqBDCiTLuuzmjXa9WyZ7-NpLG4g7YHwLfKA6/s400/Mark+on+rail.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark on the rails. This was taken earlier in the hike. And it is on the flat section of the plateau. As we descended the rails, the pitch became very steep and the ties between the rails become heavily smeared with grease and irregularly spaced and angled. It was a most tiring and unpleasant descent.</span></td></tr>
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At first it seemed a good call. We were able, with caution, to descend upright, stepping from cross tie to cross tie. All too soon however we started the steep descent down the section called Jacob's Ladder. Here the rails rose as much as 20 feet on a wooden trestle over the rocky surface and the ties become irregularly spaced, angled, and covered in nasty grease and oil. With darkness growing nearly complete, we were often forced to use both hands and feet to stay on our slippery perch, going feet first like two ungainly four-legged crabs! The awkwardness and strain of the slick descent soon had my leg muscles burning, not to mention my hands being rendered utterly black with oil and grease. As we slowly "crabbed" our way down this now obviously foolish path, I saw clearly reflected in my mind's mirror of misadventure, that the Jewell Trail with one headlamp was looking pretty damn good now!<br />
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I could go on and on about how unpleasant and exhausting the hour was that it took us to crawl down the Cog railbed. I won't though. I'd rather not recall the awful specifics of what ended up being a mini Bataan death march. I didn't take any photos at the time to illustrate the folly of it. I should have, but then I just wanted it to end as fast as possible. It did finally, of course. When were nearly down the expected maintenance path did at last appear alongside the rails, and we gratefully climbed off onto terra firma (terra no greasa!) and limped our now filthy selves back to the car. After cleaning up as best we could we headed to dinner and then drove the long miles home.<br />
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As the saying goes, we learn more from our mistakes than from our successes. I made several mistakes, or poor decisions on this trip. I chose to ignore my illness and push on even though my reduced pace caused us to be way behind schedule. I failed to ensure we had all the gear we should have before we started out, and we ended up being a headlamp short. We survived though, and Mark pointed out that our sketchy descent made a better story to tell friends. And it was more exciting due to the added risk and a small matter of technically being an illegal trespass. Ya, I guess it does make a better story. Especially since no one got hurt, or arrested! Not getting to answer questions from the authorities was most likely due to the fact that it was too dark to see us on the rails. I did lose my favorite jacket though, forgotten somewhere near the Ravine of the Sphinx. I wonder who is wearing it now... <br />
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<br />Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-50735998518644322332011-11-18T08:29:00.001-05:002011-12-10T23:32:14.864-05:00The Return, Part 2: Storm Spirit<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Seems like such a simple thing<br />
To follow one's own dream<br />
But possessions and concession<br />
Are often not what they seem"<br />
From <u>Days That Used To Be</u> - Neil Young</blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROaHaLZamuU_AHFIEx6lEfnZmmog_o5yMrTrdGbG-ynl1nCNBUA9a1MQU43146ORGNXHJNDRe4jF4nP6emqePEFWsvs_AMv79k20TlLFkVEb7y1ARt22SM0UJb4SrEz3_zSJAEibv6i7R/s1600/LoTCHut+on+to+Monroe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROaHaLZamuU_AHFIEx6lEfnZmmog_o5yMrTrdGbG-ynl1nCNBUA9a1MQU43146ORGNXHJNDRe4jF4nP6emqePEFWsvs_AMv79k20TlLFkVEb7y1ARt22SM0UJb4SrEz3_zSJAEibv6i7R/s400/LoTCHut+on+to+Monroe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lakes of the Clouds Hut. Mount Jefferson is the left peak behind, Clay center, and Mount Washington rises out of frame right.</span></td></tr>
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We reached the hut. The hut's season had ended and it was battened against the coming hammer blows of winter. The dark green shutters contrasted with the pale gray of the walls and roof. The walls and roof in turn blended into the grays and browns of the mountains as they awaited the snow and ice to come. The growing season in the alpine zone is brief, and it was well over as Mark and I dropped our packs and settled on the benches along the hut. The air was cool and quickly I felt the sweat on my back turn cold, without the body heat generated by effort it was time to put a jacket on. We would have a brief snack here before continuing on our hike.<br />
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As we had approached the hut, I had started to feel the discomfort and malaise return that had been troubling me for weeks. I didn't mention this to my companion at this point as I did not want to make him concerned. I am admittedly one of those guys who tries to grind out pain and illness rather than give in to it. This approach has both pros and cons. It is not the wisest behavior I know, but then I rather doubt anyone who knows me well would expect me to always do the smartest thing. And by "always" I mean "ever." So Mark and I discussed the hut while we ate a quick high calorie bite, and then we shouldered our packs and started the short climb of about a quarter mile of stoney trail to Monroe's summit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuoSMQEYqEnRS2TOrFFRWOAC-XuOwmNIKgfMxjjQf3ADVrca-kNuhwpl1NijCikwe8BiDnm7NfAsSw4lQ4gEDDKuAKjt70-Jt31DNaPoo0vvggwoZ6KhArNT1BoOsvroZiRoSsKZs1Tol/s1600/Approach+to+Monroe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuoSMQEYqEnRS2TOrFFRWOAC-XuOwmNIKgfMxjjQf3ADVrca-kNuhwpl1NijCikwe8BiDnm7NfAsSw4lQ4gEDDKuAKjt70-Jt31DNaPoo0vvggwoZ6KhArNT1BoOsvroZiRoSsKZs1Tol/s400/Approach+to+Monroe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We ascend the short climb to the summit of Mount Monroe. The trail is a bed of placed stones delineated by small cairns.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwnX9NLCTfa_i3jEzyt9g9DjTEGS90J7VhUyoY8ELZVizhX81btRafOgliZFKAlPnpZA7HcFy4_pugEojKN7s388k8hjsoCmNa1PN3VgUJ-Uu5aMoJOPHIh2Q6d48mm40izEUZLB3hKo0/s1600/Hut+and+Lakes+from+Monroe+aproach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwnX9NLCTfa_i3jEzyt9g9DjTEGS90J7VhUyoY8ELZVizhX81btRafOgliZFKAlPnpZA7HcFy4_pugEojKN7s388k8hjsoCmNa1PN3VgUJ-Uu5aMoJOPHIh2Q6d48mm40izEUZLB3hKo0/s400/Hut+and+Lakes+from+Monroe+aproach.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking back at the hut and the two "lakes" from the approach to Monroe's summit. These "lakes" are more accurately called "tarns."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwoopL8woPL3mT43CNu0HilyVmcIAF0P-wkoHY9dhKSLEcOwLI0X1Mjoqg7oASEUjaYsEm5pGTYVegBhvWXMoXkpfWEAaoub9j0JjTgQ6ttpLTpzXtGD7Taqo9rmdeieUrZeZDdX-6t9cn/s1600/Hut%252C+Jefferson%252C+and+Washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwoopL8woPL3mT43CNu0HilyVmcIAF0P-wkoHY9dhKSLEcOwLI0X1Mjoqg7oASEUjaYsEm5pGTYVegBhvWXMoXkpfWEAaoub9j0JjTgQ6ttpLTpzXtGD7Taqo9rmdeieUrZeZDdX-6t9cn/s400/Hut%252C+Jefferson%252C+and+Washington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Above the hut in this image, looking to the north, are three peaks of the Presidentials. From right to left are Washington with its masts and buildings, Mount Clay, and Mount Jefferson.</span></td></tr>
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It was not very long before Mark and I reached the flat summit of Mount Monroe. This was a new peak for my companion. For me, it was a return to a summit I had last visited nearly twenty years before. My young friend had not even been born when I last stood on this perch. That day many years ago it was shrouded in a cold October mist, and no views could be had that day. Now the views spread out in all directions, peaks by the scores, valleys, lakes, and towns met our gaze from this lofty place. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZDMIVxyu_6hxcNphPNQzCt4ybM2HVSkNQzVPCXkPZE4024HA7Y4KutcllBKzuJ2EpVmeDkHPRAtOsQPPF7j9Vp0HMWi03lYBVGtGTbgzosYH1lPXA1EnkJgjDkT1mVu7HTIr54gOqWZ8/s1600/AT+below+Monroe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZDMIVxyu_6hxcNphPNQzCt4ybM2HVSkNQzVPCXkPZE4024HA7Y4KutcllBKzuJ2EpVmeDkHPRAtOsQPPF7j9Vp0HMWi03lYBVGtGTbgzosYH1lPXA1EnkJgjDkT1mVu7HTIr54gOqWZ8/s400/AT+below+Monroe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Below the summit of Monroe, to the southeast, lies a broad open shoulder. In June this shoulder is festooned with wildflowers. The Crawford Path is easily seen crossing the shoulder.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZ6FpkWIqLaNsCIUNtQq6g8tmugMFLbUmTJ5i9O7f1j8tMwDakyc8NbPmOM2QZmO2NrviEQ6_PpeSENgbnwN0LJ-PnQywtOH900wFV_m5gOjTDKbQ_c7cJlbdDMOC54dtFP-BuRuN2Hm-/s1600/Mark+on+Monroe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZ6FpkWIqLaNsCIUNtQq6g8tmugMFLbUmTJ5i9O7f1j8tMwDakyc8NbPmOM2QZmO2NrviEQ6_PpeSENgbnwN0LJ-PnQywtOH900wFV_m5gOjTDKbQ_c7cJlbdDMOC54dtFP-BuRuN2Hm-/s400/Mark+on+Monroe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My companion snaps a few photos from the summit of Monroe.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1JAsTMxvAl1yhI-_e8FZIHgfn2ZzonKoULadBUU1EunAXyA0x4wFkXznEIA9EkhhvQZH6Wzvk85iWh82aHjsCZv47qlnSXGCRhoz9Wt4OQTcY4FCOHL5XkvTAG34PeX8BSBADC28Jev0/s1600/Southern+Presies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1JAsTMxvAl1yhI-_e8FZIHgfn2ZzonKoULadBUU1EunAXyA0x4wFkXznEIA9EkhhvQZH6Wzvk85iWh82aHjsCZv47qlnSXGCRhoz9Wt4OQTcY4FCOHL5XkvTAG34PeX8BSBADC28Jev0/s400/Southern+Presies.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The southern Presidentials seen from Monroe. At right is Little Monroe, a little left of center barely more than just a high point on the sharp ridge is Franklin, the obvious dome at center is Eisenhower, the peak just to the left of Eisenhower is Pierce, and finally, further left and away is Jackson. The Three peak ridge beyond Eisenhower is, from left to right, Willey, Field, and Tom.</span></td></tr>
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Our stay on Monroe was brief. We had most of our hike still ahead of us and I was starting to think we might run out of daylight before we ran out of trail. So after soaking in the views and the feeling of accomplishment that comes with every summit, we headed back the way we came. We would backtrack to the hut and then head past the lakes on our way up Washington. The return to the hut was just a matter of minutes, going down hill is almost always faster than going uphill! But not always of course.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG96xmopFimw55-zPRDAOXXGFN_bhvyCZsbqrEJyorFcY2FvXQXFQVe2zPBPo52_dm8genE_v9h4ZT64lR_PdAk0rhrRnPOVoOq0arz7keFOGum7V7-AH_1YGxyecS-fc7BevNpD_OzFkC/s1600/Lower+Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG96xmopFimw55-zPRDAOXXGFN_bhvyCZsbqrEJyorFcY2FvXQXFQVe2zPBPo52_dm8genE_v9h4ZT64lR_PdAk0rhrRnPOVoOq0arz7keFOGum7V7-AH_1YGxyecS-fc7BevNpD_OzFkC/s400/Lower+Lake.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The lower "lake." This tarn is only slightly larger than an acre and just over 8 feet deep. In summer some of the many hikers and lodgers at the hut sometimes swim in the crystal clear, cold water.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NW3GcnQDo-9KuBMSCytfc8JLNie99RaQ9Wx7dzi2hOp4oY_dwgpBgTZC6PfeH5o6VcTI2x7PqvuEWTTuHpwrf_i50utbZKa6OLnd3p5gxuhh8ZFOGCfcORDwaZHWGuYOHcDnBn5rpiXx/s1600/Monroe%252C+Hut%252C+Lake%252C+and+Bretton+Woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NW3GcnQDo-9KuBMSCytfc8JLNie99RaQ9Wx7dzi2hOp4oY_dwgpBgTZC6PfeH5o6VcTI2x7PqvuEWTTuHpwrf_i50utbZKa6OLnd3p5gxuhh8ZFOGCfcORDwaZHWGuYOHcDnBn5rpiXx/s400/Monroe%252C+Hut%252C+Lake%252C+and+Bretton+Woods.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The lakes were once called the "Blue Ponds" and "Washington's Punchbowl." Whatever name man chooses for them they are beautiful relics of the forces that have sculpted these mountains.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7DhkFHTA6o1TqfnusJ9UnMK2OzuGimp6eBFFS4nKzg_TTmOPsKB4CJeR-4ooQ79VwmhUSQUs59lAQJQEzaJJLVcyQXg2TgvWoBOdGerd53jZC0kakmE_5kvmsY9HxjCawhBFTF27_Xik/s1600/Monroe+profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7DhkFHTA6o1TqfnusJ9UnMK2OzuGimp6eBFFS4nKzg_TTmOPsKB4CJeR-4ooQ79VwmhUSQUs59lAQJQEzaJJLVcyQXg2TgvWoBOdGerd53jZC0kakmE_5kvmsY9HxjCawhBFTF27_Xik/s400/Monroe+profile.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The silhouette of Monroe is a what is known as a "roche moutonee," or "sheepback." This profile was created as the glacial ice of the last ice age ground up the slopes from right to left. The inexorable grinding of the ice created the smooth slope of Monroe's northern face. As the ice crested the peak it ground downwards on the other side, gouging the southeastern face and creating the distinctive peak that remains to this day.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoVJaYL5Roi2YH-mKjMlgUpBF8mJp8kSizhBadaXIFqJAD0bsZkkauSq2iFjG4T32QF-_l1twEn3Vq34D4tyyuAeHp9Hb1S_NqZFmudxBEZ_ZqtbBWLYFPcKWoU5ogfPavvmxxGDPy85Q/s1600/Southern+Presies+from+lower+cone+of+Washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoVJaYL5Roi2YH-mKjMlgUpBF8mJp8kSizhBadaXIFqJAD0bsZkkauSq2iFjG4T32QF-_l1twEn3Vq34D4tyyuAeHp9Hb1S_NqZFmudxBEZ_ZqtbBWLYFPcKWoU5ogfPavvmxxGDPy85Q/s400/Southern+Presies+from+lower+cone+of+Washington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another look at Monroe from a little further up the trail. You can see why Monroe is so easily recognized from a great distance. Compare this "sheepback" shape to the nearby dome of Eisenhower in the earlier photo. Every mountain has a different face as surely as we do.</span></td></tr>
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They call New Hampshire the "Granite State." There is a very good reason for this, because it largely is. And because of that, one could be easily forgiven for assuming Mount Washington is a massive pile of granite. It isn't. As iconic of the "Granite State" as Mount Washington is as the highest peak in New Hampshire (and the northeast for that matter), it is not granite. The "Rock Pile," as Mount Washington is apply known to those who walk its slopes of riven and chaotic stone, is primarily quartzite and mica schist. The difference means much more to geologists than hikers admittedly, but I find certain pleasant irony in that. Another icon of New Hampshire, perhaps the most iconic of all, the Old Man of the Mountain fell in 2003 and is no more. A deeper irony may be found in the fact that the Old Man was indeed granite, Conway Granite to be specific. We often see mountains as eternal and insuperable. Yet no mountain will survive the passage of time and the forces of nature that act to grind, splinter, and topple. To us, the mountains are eternal, but that is only because we ourselves exist so briefly by comparison.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBbmnQk-H-MtLDAgWP8yZJsu0FGrvlhDYB6pTxEtiKgLw4YAOKu26JNAp3ltl9rvXx99iQNAQSz0saIq3eBuB5eLCc-uVU26MeR1278PqQlcPGmyggorjz5qO6WgmW3EgaLGNmanVrkTe/s1600/Mark+on+lower+Washington+cone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBbmnQk-H-MtLDAgWP8yZJsu0FGrvlhDYB6pTxEtiKgLw4YAOKu26JNAp3ltl9rvXx99iQNAQSz0saIq3eBuB5eLCc-uVU26MeR1278PqQlcPGmyggorjz5qO6WgmW3EgaLGNmanVrkTe/s400/Mark+on+lower+Washington+cone.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark passes a cairn as he climbs towards the summit of the highest peak in the northeast.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT4a8xQUnvzj6UtK6XFAZX1sGVKZbmmk4VcQkjkDXjfSgEd0fixkr6-UMLbQTNtWkaJYhpslJGJHLjMFyXxh24wbb3ftEJrkb1mWg_FUqYcZIONV4uAbwBK3_P1yiRDQzvYzp1h5sdyllX/s1600/Upper+cone%252C+Observatory+peaking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT4a8xQUnvzj6UtK6XFAZX1sGVKZbmmk4VcQkjkDXjfSgEd0fixkr6-UMLbQTNtWkaJYhpslJGJHLjMFyXxh24wbb3ftEJrkb1mWg_FUqYcZIONV4uAbwBK3_P1yiRDQzvYzp1h5sdyllX/s400/Upper+cone%252C+Observatory+peaking.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The remnants of the early season snowfall still can be seen among the rocks of the upper cone. The Mount Washington Observatory mast at center was sheathed in ice from the storm that was slowly splintering and falling off in sudden loud rattling showers.</span></td></tr>
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It would seem a matter of course that the highest summit in the White Mountains would be the mecca of all those who hike these crystal hills. Indeed this would certainly be true, and admittedly it is true for a few, if not for the Cog Railway and the Auto Road. The history of Mount Washington since the arrival of Europeans is one of eco-exploitation, culminating in a summit that now has snack bars, restaurants, a gift shop, and flush toilets. These are hardly the things montane hiking is usually filled with, and not the things most who hike peaks want to find at the apex of their effort. Though these words may lead the esteemed reader to believe I hold some repulsion to this alpine outpost of humanity, I do not. I can not undo the history of this mountain, and I'm not sure I would if I could. I will say however that I am much happier among tumbled boulders and barren stone than asphalt and concrete.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5twpU8xW4scHZe-ZFYdHfCQ9AT1rtdNNIL37L2gLuUBdN5926GuFgTTdjVRbvpZYh7np8CTSALocbImuTTidA2CYhgX41qpzmcwMR8Qo5oqfg6_8VQwlDVp_hjT5MLjlLJD8sjz_3_gXY/s1600/Mark+cresting+summit.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5twpU8xW4scHZe-ZFYdHfCQ9AT1rtdNNIL37L2gLuUBdN5926GuFgTTdjVRbvpZYh7np8CTSALocbImuTTidA2CYhgX41qpzmcwMR8Qo5oqfg6_8VQwlDVp_hjT5MLjlLJD8sjz_3_gXY/s400/Mark+cresting+summit.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We arrive. Seen from just below the summit, the mast speaks elegantly of the sudden immersion back into humanity that we are about to experience.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The summit of Mount Washington is a New Hampshire State Park. It is also a weather observatory, and in summer a restaurant, train station, and destination of an almost constant stream of cars and buses.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Cog Railway embarks summit tourists for the return trip down the mountain.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzd06NcYORvIsj7LNW8YSALkjqFYP2IojvBBFNc3pyQclfJfScOCaSvq-YzE8n_eNL3qce4X2uASOp5XZgXqI-KlBzFNoGRCAEE9H97ztgFCZoEKRT0LcbkPkmIuNh5SkT6q5P1LrK-XWN/s1600/Front+of+Observatory+building.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzd06NcYORvIsj7LNW8YSALkjqFYP2IojvBBFNc3pyQclfJfScOCaSvq-YzE8n_eNL3qce4X2uASOp5XZgXqI-KlBzFNoGRCAEE9H97ztgFCZoEKRT0LcbkPkmIuNh5SkT6q5P1LrK-XWN/s400/Front+of+Observatory+building.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The eastern face of the Mount Washington Observatory building.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mmL2EcXr3rU_VpnwalOfdZ4NIgMYPW0_oCeTifpkzDoyeMjUd2Gm_U7fvINb-zL2jsPwW_ky9pp9ztiySKHUXCDpmkx3wJL-1Yoy11EEuUvAB7MPK5gRW4PTTI-xDXH9_h26mxyu3ReP/s1600/Cog%252C+Autoroad+view+from+summit+area.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mmL2EcXr3rU_VpnwalOfdZ4NIgMYPW0_oCeTifpkzDoyeMjUd2Gm_U7fvINb-zL2jsPwW_ky9pp9ztiySKHUXCDpmkx3wJL-1Yoy11EEuUvAB7MPK5gRW4PTTI-xDXH9_h26mxyu3ReP/s400/Cog%252C+Autoroad+view+from+summit+area.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Mount Washington Auto Road and Cog Rail just immediately the summit. Note the cog rail's center strip where the cog engines' gear attaches and holds the engine firmly to the track.</span></td></tr>
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When Mark and I reached the summit we were met by a crowd of tourists who had arrived in cars and on the Cog Railway. All these people were looking about in wonder at the panoply of the mountains, and frankly many looked a bit lost and out of their comfort zone. It was much cooler on the summit than below, a good 20 to 30 degrees cooler, and it was pretty breezy. Mark and I were dressed properly for the weather and had gear with us for much worse conditions. But many of these tourists were under dressed and looked as if they were feeling the cold. One was even in pajamas. What is it with this new fad to wander about in public in sleepwear? I could hardly imagine a less suitable place to be clad in pajamas than the summit of Mount Washington. One nice lady in the crowd asked me if we had "walked" up. When I answered in the affirmative she remarked how nice it was that we were getting exercise. With jaws clamped firmly shut by discretion, I joined my companion and we went inside to grab lunch at the snack bar. When in Rome...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqOMuHCy-gNmMubNhNFo8qKgWkIB8ggxQ1NQ0XUUfF4x055t7PcMBwieb_VwedLl4SoAiqbta3-b1lFIc2IIiBHeh5_eDHq5bI6lHPNGnCWVpsWw4XG9RO1Addk_w1yz8A3hmBqOFk0FU/s1600/Observatory+turret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqOMuHCy-gNmMubNhNFo8qKgWkIB8ggxQ1NQ0XUUfF4x055t7PcMBwieb_VwedLl4SoAiqbta3-b1lFIc2IIiBHeh5_eDHq5bI6lHPNGnCWVpsWw4XG9RO1Addk_w1yz8A3hmBqOFk0FU/s400/Observatory+turret.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The turret of the Observatory on the observation deck. Several webcams are located in this structure and captured images can be viewed on-line.</span></td></tr>
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We ate some of the displayed sandwiches and people-watched while we did so. I was feeling quite poorly at this point, though I still tried to keep this knowledge from my friend. I knew we had a bit of a slog still to do before we could drop our packs for the day. It had always been part of my plan to decide when we reached this point whether or not to include hiking to Mount Jefferson on this trip. This would be determined by our physical condition and time on trail. Well, at this point Mark was doing excellently while I was struggling with feeling unwell. There are many human weaknesses, and I have more than my share of these to be sure. One weakness I often succumb to is to attempt to accomplish more than I should. We've all heard the sage advice, "listen to your body." Well I have ignored what my body has been saying for more than a half century, and this day would be little different.<br />
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Once we finished our gas station quality lunch we refilled our water bottles and headed out onto the observation deck. I pointed out some of the surrounding geography and topography to my young friend as we momentarily delayed the last leg of our hike. I looked at Mount Jefferson in the distance. I had never been on that summit, and a mild case of summit fever welled up in me and battled with my better judgment. I was feeling under the weather and we were behind schedule. We should just skip Jefferson and head down. Unbidden, Mark expressed his strong desire to continue on to Jefferson. I felt like hell, weak and tired. I had returned to a mountain I had last climbed almost three decades ago, a mountain that was the first I had ever climbed. Long before Europeans came to this land, this mountain was called "The Storm Spirit" by the early Americans. As I stood here once again, a storm of conflicting feelings churned inside me. On the one hand was conservative caution and a quick descent, and on the other was wistful longing to continue our walk among the clouds to visit a peak I had never been to. Longing quickly won of course, it seems it always does. So Mark and I adjusted our pack's straps and headed for the trail that lead to the next mountain. I was elated to be leaving the madding crowd behind and to feel the broken stone of the "Rock Pile" under my boots again. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUM_xDs1Vcv_EYeA2-typNXlNloNS4B2__1vmurQ4x84KX096ndIliJkrEg2R_iUxy0kALAtzLgKZKNSyHOZqVuYdYFypChs-AQFBQ8pCiKDKf7aWq3fTf3xFSwMnsvgauNRdxcF1kUas-/s1600/Leaving+summit+looking+west.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUM_xDs1Vcv_EYeA2-typNXlNloNS4B2__1vmurQ4x84KX096ndIliJkrEg2R_iUxy0kALAtzLgKZKNSyHOZqVuYdYFypChs-AQFBQ8pCiKDKf7aWq3fTf3xFSwMnsvgauNRdxcF1kUas-/s400/Leaving+summit+looking+west.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sun beams stream through rents in the clouds as Mark and I leave the summit of the "Storm Spirit."</span></td></tr>
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<br />Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-72982163167904591252011-11-06T00:32:00.000-04:002011-11-17T11:19:02.471-05:00The Return, Part 1: The Fish Place<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You might get lucky some days, not a drop of rain<br />
And you're too long on the town and you leave your trouble on the train<br />
And then there's only doubt until you're on your feet again<br />
There's only up or down<br />
- From "Up or Down" by Patty Griffin -</blockquote>
<span class="body">September 18, 2011. It was looking like a nice day was unfolding, but the morning air was still cold. The western flanks of the Presidential Range loomed </span><span class="body">against the bright eastern sky</span><span class="body">. Those slopes facing my friend Mark and I </span><span class="body">were dull in their own shadow as we </span><span class="body">drove along the Cog Railway approach road. For Mark it would be the first time climbing the highest peak in New England. For me, it would be a return to a place I had first visited nearly three decades ago. I had not been back to since. In August of 1982 I climbed Mount Washington. It was the first mountain peak I had ever climbed, an experiential first I share in common with many hikers. Then I had been a young man, and alongside me was a pretty girl who would become my wife, mother of my children, and ultimately my ex-wife. I have traveled many paths since that long ago day, some figurative and some literal. Now it was high time to walk a path of return, and once again visit the peak the Native Americans called Agiochook. With me this time round was a fine young man who I am always pleased and proud to hike with. The first Autumn snow had fallen on the high summits of the White Mountains a few days before, and though it had mostly melted or sublimated, the weather on the mountains would be decidedly cooler today than during my last visit, 29 years ago. It was 95 degrees that August day, today it was more than 50 degrees cooler.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwXfksPGXgklf773LhjItw2_r3qXUEUerEJjThyp3jyp107dLRmilIpQQtIs1nCe1t3a3KFadVvJKrTWxWNJARa4Il17f6xqRqMKqngtq0lpK8YN0vHWp3fKpxOO7J-gKWGr4uX9RBE1r/s1600/Washington+from+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwXfksPGXgklf773LhjItw2_r3qXUEUerEJjThyp3jyp107dLRmilIpQQtIs1nCe1t3a3KFadVvJKrTWxWNJARa4Il17f6xqRqMKqngtq0lpK8YN0vHWp3fKpxOO7J-gKWGr4uX9RBE1r/s400/Washington+from+Field.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The western flanks of Mount Washington as seen from Mount Field in October of 2010. The hike Mark and I would be doing this September day would take us up those western slopes. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Mount Field is named after Darby Field, who made the first recorded ascent of Mount Washington in June 1642.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="body">We planned to visit three of the peaks in the Presidential Range on this hike, Mount Monroe, Mount Washington, and Mount Jefferson. The starting point would be the base of the famous Cog Railway in the Bretton Woods Valley. From there we would ascend the lovely Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail in the broad Ammonoosuc Ravine. "Ammonoosuc" is Native American for "Fish Place." Our ascent of the fish place would be the first leg of three on this hike. This would bring us to the Appalchian Mountain Club's Lakes of the Clouds Hut in the saddle between Mount Monroe and Mount Washington. From the hut we would briefly turn south and ascend Mount Monroe's summit before returning to the hut and thence north to the other summits. Once we had visited all three peaks we planned to return to our starting point via the Jewell Trail. That would be th third leg of the adventure. That bit of the plan would ultimately not be executed as expected, but more on that later. First, let's discuss just what the Cog Railway is, and just what "Peppersass" was, shall we? After all, though we didn't know it then, the Cog Railway would play a lead role in the final act of this hike. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XZvMvvSWzJ1E-ttmBdTRimgEnuSzOeShAHNMKRuhEYYLf0q-Sf673hsQNUSsBHFNMRDWckNYkKP9Iv-ZRub_y5qZ2LDmiJ7ooYzSuSwLT5sDT2mSR45o1UoJJK9MzkvQLcERDhlNjaM-/s1600/Peppersass+Jewell+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XZvMvvSWzJ1E-ttmBdTRimgEnuSzOeShAHNMKRuhEYYLf0q-Sf673hsQNUSsBHFNMRDWckNYkKP9Iv-ZRub_y5qZ2LDmiJ7ooYzSuSwLT5sDT2mSR45o1UoJJK9MzkvQLcERDhlNjaM-/s400/Peppersass+Jewell+Trail.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The steam engine called "Peppersass" on display at the base of the Cog Railway. The orange netting behind Peppersass is the blocked off Jewell Trail Cutoff bridge. The bridge was closed after being partially dislodged by the flood waters of Tropical Storm Irene.</span></td></tr>
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In 1857, a self made man named Sylvester Marsh climbed Mt. Washington with his Pastor. The two men were met by terrible weather once above treeline and nearly perished, ultimately crawling and staggering into the early summit house/hotel, called Tip-Top House. As a result of this harrowing experience, Marsh decided to undertake building a safer way to the summit, and designed a cog railway to be built on the western slopes. His plan was considered fanciful (if not insane) and he was given disdainful permission to proceed all the way to "the moon" if he should like! Marsh persevered, and the first railway built to a mountain summit started commercial operation in 1869. The railway climbs approximately 3,600 feet along one of the mountain's western ridges to the 6,288 foot summit. The Ammonoosuc Ravine lies south of this ridge and Burt Ravine lies north. It is the second steepest rack railway in the world. The steepest section of the track, a trestle called "Jacob's Ladder," has a grade of over 37%.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmt-PvA63WDTJeRKC2WoDeqSxoxzZX6tPQOnt_nM_tfn1aogpBnJp1kEiANlkaTY6Bvpb1vzKLwrppbrN9D7cR8_S_q17aJS1-te_EQYjYB7Xczk_4YCHqiO8CA_bolCaT9_XnNwAEXl3/s1600/jacobs_1868.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmt-PvA63WDTJeRKC2WoDeqSxoxzZX6tPQOnt_nM_tfn1aogpBnJp1kEiANlkaTY6Bvpb1vzKLwrppbrN9D7cR8_S_q17aJS1-te_EQYjYB7Xczk_4YCHqiO8CA_bolCaT9_XnNwAEXl3/s400/jacobs_1868.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The building of Jacob's Ladder. From a stereograph by the Kilburn Brothers 1868. The New Hampshire Historical Society (www.nhhistory.org). This image does not show the steepest section of the "Ladder", believe me!</span></td></tr>
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Steam engines, specifically designed and built for the purpose, were used in building the Cog Railway. The first of these, called "Hero", was built in 1866. The vertical boiler of its engine bore a remarkable resemblance to the peppersauce bottles of the period. Consequently it wasn't long before "Hero" was replaced with the quaint moniker "Peppersass." When the railway was finally completed, Peppersass was used as an engine to move passenger cars up and down the railway, and it soldiered on in this role for 12 years before being retired. In July of 1929, Peppersass made one last run up the Mount Washington Cog Railway. It had been taken out of retirement and refurbished for one last ceremonial run up the Cog. Six train loads of VIPs and passengers made a procession climbing the Cog, the last being Peppersass which was towing a flatcar for photographers and journalists who would record the event. The original plan was for Peppersass to go no further than the start of Jacob's ladder. Considering the age of Peppersass, and the stresses the extreme steepness of the "Ladder" put on engines, this was a reasonable caution. The ascent went so well however that caution was abandoned and it was decided to continue upwards over the treacherously steep section of the Cog. Peppersass once again conquered the "ladder".<br />
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When the descent down the Cog was finally started, six people were riding Peppersass. After about a half mile of progress, and still above Jacob's Ladder, a loud crack was heard from the front of the engine. A tooth had sheared off from one of the gears. This caused the engine to dislodge from the rack, rendering the brakes useless. No longer connected to the central rack, and at the mercy of gravity, the engine immediately started to gain speed down the track. Peppersass quickly accelerated down the track towards the steep Jacob's Ladder. The engineer, with no way to slow the wild descent, yelled for everyone to jump for their lives. Everyone did so, except one man. Those that jumped were saved, including the engineer's son, though most were injured. The one man who did not jump, Daniel Rossiter, the official photographer for the New Hampshire Publicity Bureau and the B&M Railroad, clung with fear to the rocketing engine as it tore down the Ladder. Tragically, Rossiter was thrown to his death at the foot of Jacob's Ladder while the out of control engine careened wildly on. Peppersass's uncontrolled descent lasted nearly a half mile, damaging the structure of the railway as it plummeted, before finally toppling off the track and crashing among the boulders on the ridge. Its broken and scattered remains were ultimately recovered, and Peppersass was rebuilt for display at the railways base, where it remains to this day.<br />
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Mark and I took a quick look at Peppersass and the other railway equipment on display before we headed up the ravine trail. Tropical Storm Irene (mentioned in the previous post, "Three Girls, a Lake, and a Storm") had impacted the mountains a few weeks before, and the damage its rain and wind inflicted was soon apparent.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48aX40Zp8Lz0uBbSx8iGCjRRmQSNh1PKhykRWpqbkgLa7tz8JVfz5rv-DprqH1vhSaE_XaZC5hPDNgijZBsZF7cVUQE_QQlK4HaHGYxTVy1EDG-JV9OEe-VWdbb4JucNxvaRYrhwyT7zF/s1600/Trail+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48aX40Zp8Lz0uBbSx8iGCjRRmQSNh1PKhykRWpqbkgLa7tz8JVfz5rv-DprqH1vhSaE_XaZC5hPDNgijZBsZF7cVUQE_QQlK4HaHGYxTVy1EDG-JV9OEe-VWdbb4JucNxvaRYrhwyT7zF/s400/Trail+start.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trailhead sign at the Cog Railway Base.</span></td></tr>
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Heavy rains and strong winds have three immediate effects on mountains, flash floods, rapid erosion, and blowdowns. All three effects were clearly evident on the Ammonoosuc Trail as Mark and I ascended. During Irene, the Ammonnosuc River had swollen into a torrent and had ripped up trees and chewed up its banks as it grew to many times its normal width. The signs of deep water swallowing up the trail were everywhere, with freshly turned earth, mud, gravel, and shattered trees piled well beyond the normal water course. As we walked we took time to stop and marvel at the force of the event and to try and imagine the chaos of the scene during the tempest. The ravine must have been a frightening and awful place to be that tumultuous day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5GDK-UTf3G2ItW69qsENvgHZwDjfS8wgu4V50c7bIai0zsIc97_P9YdXRO4b3C0G9Nszsmk7_lCkDisY51jhuC0XcSxd_A3CdQIvW6f4V6FzLA8LA2FBLGWyqPi2tN7JesrupE-NnwoC/s1600/Irene+damage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5GDK-UTf3G2ItW69qsENvgHZwDjfS8wgu4V50c7bIai0zsIc97_P9YdXRO4b3C0G9Nszsmk7_lCkDisY51jhuC0XcSxd_A3CdQIvW6f4V6FzLA8LA2FBLGWyqPi2tN7JesrupE-NnwoC/s400/Irene+damage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Ammonoosuc River headwaters, swollen by the rains of Irene, tore the ravine trail and uprooted thousands of trees.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ssfgKpJOXEYw2sk4W9qB5ggKmnbfKk4VxVjGMD7OYf_zXu5qZWOzem5PjrylPzpkOu9N-CF48VFnaQKIK8GjBFeehwCmhEvyyBGM9rEghD907E1-PvML3Tjg_G_2D62SnPJP7iEIg4mj/s1600/Irene+damage+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ssfgKpJOXEYw2sk4W9qB5ggKmnbfKk4VxVjGMD7OYf_zXu5qZWOzem5PjrylPzpkOu9N-CF48VFnaQKIK8GjBFeehwCmhEvyyBGM9rEghD907E1-PvML3Tjg_G_2D62SnPJP7iEIg4mj/s400/Irene+damage+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The woodlands along the river, normally far from the water's edge, is littered with debris from the cataract and the base of multitudinous trees were abraded and shredded by immersion in the flotsam laden flow.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWjbInvJ-A4prCBvuXO7xctDyzQWgNwRn8han-uNeKVGDWNl435QFBGBzgAjJe0PFXmyKKpnIaDJlPZGUOdhxFJIhTca88h5kMMOBZ9awegcSBn-x4TrY26VHN3zss5mn9oHDyIZXEWbrW/s1600/Irene+damage+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWjbInvJ-A4prCBvuXO7xctDyzQWgNwRn8han-uNeKVGDWNl435QFBGBzgAjJe0PFXmyKKpnIaDJlPZGUOdhxFJIhTca88h5kMMOBZ9awegcSBn-x4TrY26VHN3zss5mn9oHDyIZXEWbrW/s400/Irene+damage+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The river, now returned to within its banks, is littered with the broken trees of Irene.</span></td></tr>
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The Ammonoosuc Ravine is a broad ravine created through erosion, not through glacial action, as some of the ravines and cirques of these mountains have been created. When heavy rains fall suddenly in these ravines, the hydraulic forces that carved them are ramped back up and the erosive action is accelerated. Mark and I spent a little time looking at the damage wrought by Irene, but we had a long hike ahead. <br />
<br />
The lower stretch of this trail is an easy grade, and we made good time despite the still wet conditions that made much of the trail muddy and slippery. Some sections of the trail were very badly eroded by the waters of Irene and will need some tender loving (read that as hard, back breaking) trail maintenance.<br />
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Before long Mark and I came to a beautiful little pool called Gem Pool, formed by a tributary of the Ammonoosuc. Here the trail crosses the brook and turns up the ravine becoming much steeper than here-to-fore.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsNfdwAXNsHk_T8qi5dIQ90tgFTpFx6vricH0OsOhRTs823SrB8LcyfoGZcQHmtoBo4hyDdmMnyDS5tV1c4b0DKWhPR_HImuHUCGywULxqowdJka-_6HNDR84w9u64cY3lXNez4xr0Kf6/s1600/Gem+Pool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsNfdwAXNsHk_T8qi5dIQ90tgFTpFx6vricH0OsOhRTs823SrB8LcyfoGZcQHmtoBo4hyDdmMnyDS5tV1c4b0DKWhPR_HImuHUCGywULxqowdJka-_6HNDR84w9u64cY3lXNez4xr0Kf6/s400/Gem+Pool.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gem Pool. This marks the end of the easy trail grade and the start of the steep ascent to the saddle between Washington and Monroe.</span></td></tr>
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The morning was warming up. Mark and I had stripped off outer layers as we worked hard climbing the boulder path. Step up, step up, step up, was the mantra of the climb. Each footfall has to be quickly assessed and chosen among the chaotic geometry of rock, root, and gravel. Quite soon, or so it seemed, we came to a spur trail that went off to the right, or southward, to an over look into a narrow water carved slot in the ravine called the "Gorge." We took the spur to the view point and soaked in the marvelous gorge, carved in the bones of the mountain by millenia of water erosion. The Gorge is just one of so very many exquisite features of these ancient hills.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUGCm3lzcCg3MrAnvsk8wyX9Fkeza6tC6500VvI1q_hu6JXSuLejfYV-e39wQECms6bxrUbu72ygD8f0PPw_n6LXTkFbHyJvkDKORHBTDe3f6_WdzW4DQbs1V4Hfiw6Q8GE4kGtP04PfJ/s1600/Falls+in+Gorge.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUGCm3lzcCg3MrAnvsk8wyX9Fkeza6tC6500VvI1q_hu6JXSuLejfYV-e39wQECms6bxrUbu72ygD8f0PPw_n6LXTkFbHyJvkDKORHBTDe3f6_WdzW4DQbs1V4Hfiw6Q8GE4kGtP04PfJ/s400/Falls+in+Gorge.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Falls in the "Gorge"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5U-5xH3midIh_LTGuW-TeQtlpDT80B24tbbcRpZoLj2UmoqN3P7FFNtKJ99nWw0d2ZJJtwPjDfENuGy1NZkb89zWsZcZY_BMBS4GN0D0rJLdV-0TpvcGNyDMfoIc4lldfcu8KMjbsXSsV/s1600/Pool+in+Gorge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5U-5xH3midIh_LTGuW-TeQtlpDT80B24tbbcRpZoLj2UmoqN3P7FFNtKJ99nWw0d2ZJJtwPjDfENuGy1NZkb89zWsZcZY_BMBS4GN0D0rJLdV-0TpvcGNyDMfoIc4lldfcu8KMjbsXSsV/s400/Pool+in+Gorge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Pool in the "Gorge". The characteristic blue-green color of the water is clearly visible here.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdt_akbNBnNNuOcmY0b2Z8v8-mUpxZjY-N8wFHMPtZ9nVZiIL-nqcRCgizyJ9zp8XJuFxe-8rNW7oZi0wCe9mXhySqASuKFArAaMiwqlFRqOgi04RjWcvBJZlj7BrtkMGEYMXzjgssaNv/s1600/Mark+at+Gorge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdt_akbNBnNNuOcmY0b2Z8v8-mUpxZjY-N8wFHMPtZ9nVZiIL-nqcRCgizyJ9zp8XJuFxe-8rNW7oZi0wCe9mXhySqASuKFArAaMiwqlFRqOgi04RjWcvBJZlj7BrtkMGEYMXzjgssaNv/s400/Mark+at+Gorge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark takes some photos of the Gorge.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedW4Vp8NmA7QFWySJbjJOOZXzCYT4XLN445ht6LRplaXtBvmwyKYVBHyKnmez8HIWhWG-EEIrWvIMlglrzcumpxisJsqTN14zrDXmcy2JFP_-3yAXUlIK408dQB4KNz0_eGGtEpIABLoN/s1600/Blowdown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedW4Vp8NmA7QFWySJbjJOOZXzCYT4XLN445ht6LRplaXtBvmwyKYVBHyKnmez8HIWhWG-EEIrWvIMlglrzcumpxisJsqTN14zrDXmcy2JFP_-3yAXUlIK408dQB4KNz0_eGGtEpIABLoN/s400/Blowdown.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Gorge view point also offered a view out to the ravine. In this photo is the ravine with the far ridge which forms the north wall of the Ammonoosuc Ravine. The ridge line of that ridge is where the Cog Railway lies. On the far side of the ridge is Burt Ravine. At the center of the photo is a "blowdown" of trees from Tropical Storm Irene.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXXwho95ajT6cbWm5Ml6U60xIxgap0Zm1BWWYAW64B3MI_fFdV8Zc3SyIZC5JlzgsgvfXPdtWdqinvT0ToY8xqJPRDscbBmoE5_BJDOLfO9trCBq90vLERea3DtAF7UHJQ-CxnYLWhFEix/s1600/Blowdown+zoomed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXXwho95ajT6cbWm5Ml6U60xIxgap0Zm1BWWYAW64B3MI_fFdV8Zc3SyIZC5JlzgsgvfXPdtWdqinvT0ToY8xqJPRDscbBmoE5_BJDOLfO9trCBq90vLERea3DtAF7UHJQ-CxnYLWhFEix/s400/Blowdown+zoomed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here is a zoomed shot of the blowdown in the previous photo. At some point during the passage of the storm, strong winds combined with topographical effects to create a sudden high speed windburst that laid all these trees over in an instant. It would have been a bad place to be at that moment.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
After experiencing the marvel, Mark and I returned along the spur path and continued our ascent. As we gained altitude, the deciduous trees, which were primarily birches, soon began to give way to more and more firs, and spruces, with a continued presence of hemlocks. Views to the Bretton Woods Valley below occasionally opened up through the canopy of trees. We knew that much more dramatic views awaited us once we were higher up, but these early views offered us (mostly me me admittedly) an excuse to stop and take a breather. I had been feeling unwell on and off for weeks, and I was starting to feel weary and drained already. I did not mention this at this point to my hiking partner, I didn't want him to be concerned. Instead I just "toughed it out," but it did slow me down a bit as we climbed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQOhEuICsCjHS_YYEXkQXkpeIFsEVfkIy_RlPFQrhHFkCCTQmgrOu-6EKDnkHXSIkeTeTH1OvqTYZbGU-eQqk8-ZZ87_ds0SYXedbkd4Jb7eQJA2H6ywWqkfZbt4D6_orRLmiMc73eLIp/s1600/Trail+above+Gorge.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQOhEuICsCjHS_YYEXkQXkpeIFsEVfkIy_RlPFQrhHFkCCTQmgrOu-6EKDnkHXSIkeTeTH1OvqTYZbGU-eQqk8-ZZ87_ds0SYXedbkd4Jb7eQJA2H6ywWqkfZbt4D6_orRLmiMc73eLIp/s400/Trail+above+Gorge.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The steep trail ascends toward the saddle between Washington and Monroe.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqPM23YNfeJgycc8sR6y6J9OzSUWfEA_Vdl_x0EfnxtrcuTiHTD1WCUMMQJekyf_8GGglNoaFdqIGF0GynKzZ_h8PRguYjBxQ_8Ihi8UbXKGVwXdPyGj0ExiEN0zfG3WjaPazeZEtbzZrm/s1600/Mark+on+ladder.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqPM23YNfeJgycc8sR6y6J9OzSUWfEA_Vdl_x0EfnxtrcuTiHTD1WCUMMQJekyf_8GGglNoaFdqIGF0GynKzZ_h8PRguYjBxQ_8Ihi8UbXKGVwXdPyGj0ExiEN0zfG3WjaPazeZEtbzZrm/s400/Mark+on+ladder.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark ascends the only ladder on the trail. Ladders are fairly common on montane trails. They can be formed in wood, stone, iron, or even concrete. They are often much longer than this mini-version Mark is climbing.</span></td></tr>
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With the increasing elevation, the height of the trees became less and less. The upper elevations of the White Mountains are tough places to grow. The winds, ice, and snows of winter are brutal masters. And winter is long up here. Mark and I stopped to explore a beautiful open ledge with water sheeting down over its face. The thinning and failing trees also allowed us better views to the valley below and to Mount Washington towering above us to the northeast.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb83LPyojQTEWSzPanJTCIcku7GXD2_cBGT8v1FiwnSmXmUBNydpir8LOIpXl24rbJz3fVYQ4MZqeG5ZMcHW4p3Ra0XaEOAqKEwdWftATGq7VwTWKOmoXh5c8_n2p3VvIiTVbC9uYfzav8/s1600/Mark+on+watery+ledge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb83LPyojQTEWSzPanJTCIcku7GXD2_cBGT8v1FiwnSmXmUBNydpir8LOIpXl24rbJz3fVYQ4MZqeG5ZMcHW4p3Ra0XaEOAqKEwdWftATGq7VwTWKOmoXh5c8_n2p3VvIiTVbC9uYfzav8/s400/Mark+on+watery+ledge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark explores on open ledge as we near the saddle which is the home to the Lakes of the Clouds.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8qHB9mkBTFL-U8Oy3hTowwoxZeH6V_4BndDuMzQwHkZn97tHmyK5kfS7o-Yt27dWZnY2T7SsbxNaAck6LsIGikKWrdJmBfNW7x3px4hR_cP1SFLGGEnJ_aDw-F9qJIHmh9YHwsWvI30Z/s1600/Mark+at+cave+in+ledge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8qHB9mkBTFL-U8Oy3hTowwoxZeH6V_4BndDuMzQwHkZn97tHmyK5kfS7o-Yt27dWZnY2T7SsbxNaAck6LsIGikKWrdJmBfNW7x3px4hR_cP1SFLGGEnJ_aDw-F9qJIHmh9YHwsWvI30Z/s400/Mark+at+cave+in+ledge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The head of the ledge held a small low cave with water cascading down the wall above. Here Mark takes a closer look.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCiXwj-StH2iWON_Sgk6xvvwvPM75YkIjPCbDAJ7E_ijop9rNr856rky1qzJtp76_BcpUpyPQf3pvYu3sL5UzjbIkbRth-0PpzAqjhlqMhYfVgEW2L0XTIczLsd03QHoyB-TFWsRABtAQ/s1600/Cog+Railway+ridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCiXwj-StH2iWON_Sgk6xvvwvPM75YkIjPCbDAJ7E_ijop9rNr856rky1qzJtp76_BcpUpyPQf3pvYu3sL5UzjbIkbRth-0PpzAqjhlqMhYfVgEW2L0XTIczLsd03QHoyB-TFWsRABtAQ/s400/Cog+Railway+ridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">As we near the top of the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail the vistas open. Across the head wall of the ravine lies the ridge that the Cog Railway is built upon. If you enlarge the image you'll notice the train is ascending along the ridgeline, pushing an orange passenger car.</span></td></tr>
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We reached treeline. Above us stood Mount Washington to our left and Mount Monroe to our right. The air was cool and delicious. Small patches of the snow that had fallen days earlier clung to frozen existence in nooks and crevices, or snuggled in shaded patches of the grasses that grow among the rocky mountain terrain. We pushed onward. At last, the largest of the AMC huts, the Lakes of the Clouds, stood starkly gray above us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJJ3uTVolJgxd3GfzLgmcrjsJfJg4aMYownvHZOyHcalyPc9ohh88B0l6qT7tpNHJvDyzhzqr-VFkZI6RPIgaKL0VMn0JTK3DGlU7X2i0cw93UQYFo7xFnAOW5lQeqZLX6HSbgcTKfbZ7/s1600/Washington+from+Ammo+headwall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJJ3uTVolJgxd3GfzLgmcrjsJfJg4aMYownvHZOyHcalyPc9ohh88B0l6qT7tpNHJvDyzhzqr-VFkZI6RPIgaKL0VMn0JTK3DGlU7X2i0cw93UQYFo7xFnAOW5lQeqZLX6HSbgcTKfbZ7/s400/Washington+from+Ammo+headwall.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">As we near the end of the Ammonoosuc Trail, at the saddle where the Lakes lie, Mount Washington still towers high above.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljY8erqMXi3CJqj-8MrGxFajcDmaJZqXc3l8253QBe8NzF5wLAlmmh4UMj8E9bWXZbAXAso4z-lrWhqf_cIc_bzvn7W7liuU4g7wYhKH0A1xbFJqyIQ9bGFLIX1IP3aPsxMHFm820Ma3C/s1600/Lakes+of+the+Clouds+hut+from+the+Ammo+trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljY8erqMXi3CJqj-8MrGxFajcDmaJZqXc3l8253QBe8NzF5wLAlmmh4UMj8E9bWXZbAXAso4z-lrWhqf_cIc_bzvn7W7liuU4g7wYhKH0A1xbFJqyIQ9bGFLIX1IP3aPsxMHFm820Ma3C/s400/Lakes+of+the+Clouds+hut+from+the+Ammo+trail.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lakes of the Clouds Hut. The end of the "Ammo" trail is in sight as we approach the saddle between Washington and Monroe.</span></td></tr>
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The first leg of our hike was all but done. We would soon drop our packs and have a bite to eat on the benches next to the hut. Then it would be time to return to a place I had last stood three decades ago. I felt a thrill at the thought of the long delayed return. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><big><big></big></big></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-30522837892829229482011-10-01T22:27:00.000-04:002011-10-01T22:27:30.831-04:00Three Girls, a Lake, and a Storm<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote>
"Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends." - William Shakespeare</blockquote>
</div>
<br />
Time with children is not "spent," it is invested. If you are a parent, you already know this. It was August, and the end of the summer vacation was drawing near for my youngest daughter and her friends. Before they went back to school, I wanted to give them another little adventure, so I took them on a little camping trip to Maine. Now camping for me is a matter of solitude and simplicity, only the minimum gear and food needed to keep body and soul connected. However, camping with three girls in their early teens, even though they are three pretty darn tough kids, is as the British say, a bit of a "faff." That's okay though, for these three I'll do a ruddy great faff. A faff with bells on. So off we went at the rump end of August on a faff, er camping trip, to the woods of western Maine, at the South Arm campground on Lower Richardson Lake.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNmH2M2ziY316zIaCyYKIhEm5Fs-wsU6ArqG__aDAlNqmXKOtk800y8qxIvgcZiMGT-JmdVaEjZH-Wp8L1lJMK7ywvPED49D8tPmuZH82C2LkwPG4UYvlCkrSqXrOVxuIRLsEveuaUKdl/s1600/Looking+back+across+lake+to+campground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNmH2M2ziY316zIaCyYKIhEm5Fs-wsU6ArqG__aDAlNqmXKOtk800y8qxIvgcZiMGT-JmdVaEjZH-Wp8L1lJMK7ywvPED49D8tPmuZH82C2LkwPG4UYvlCkrSqXrOVxuIRLsEveuaUKdl/s400/Looking+back+across+lake+to+campground.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Old Blue Mountain behind South Arm Campground on Richardson's Lake, Andover Maine. The Appalachian Trail crosses Old Blue.</span></td></tr>
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The plan was to spend a day driving north and setting up camp, followed by a couple of days of fun, then a last day to break camp and drive through the White Mountains of New Hampshire on the way back to Connecticut. The fly getting stuck in the ointment was named Irene, a storm grinding northward in the Atlantic. Still, the forecasted impact on New England was for late Sunday night. That forecasted timing worked okay with our plans. However, you can never trust the weather to behave.<br />
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The drive north was uneventful. The three girls talked or played on their Nintendo DSIs. As we rolled along the highway Rachel started trying to get the truckers to blow their horns. Every time we passed a truck I saw Rachel's arm pumping up and down in my rear view mirror. This is the time honored sign language known by kids and truckers alike that says "Blow your airhorn man!" I lost track of the number of blasts she managed to coax out of the big rigs, but I couldn't help but wonder how many other drivers had the bejeezez scared out of them by the unexpected cacophony at 70 mph.<br />
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The skies darkened as gray clouds sank lower and squatted on the tops of the hills. A call from Rachel's mom, who was watching the radar online, alerted me of impending rain at our destination. This rain was not associated with the approach of Irene but it was rain none the less. It seemed that the setting up of camp would likely be a wet affair. In the end, it was. The drive had taken six hours, with a short stop for lunch in southern Maine. Around 5 p.m., under a light but steady rain, we arrived at the campground. After checking in at the rustic office, I immediately went to work rigging tarps while Janet and Rachel helped Emily set up the tent the girls would use. Following a hurried dinner of delicious home made soup, the rain became more determined. This drove the girls into their tent to call it an early evening while I cleaned up the dishes. Finally, with the girls fed and settled, tarps rigged well enough for the night, the last light of day gone, and the rain steady and hard, I set about erecting my own tent. It was with great relief that I finally crawled into my sleeping bag, opened a book, and cracked a well earned beer. The steady tattoo of rain on the taught tarp lulled me to sleep after an hour or so. The beer may have helped a bit as well. As Morpheus took me, I hoped the dawn would arrive a bit less wet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfopCFzc1ZdI9-55MEw6IyByqtnVfBwIUVI7WNAmBhwP4xXrhjJQUfFR53G81fm0qzA8afFfBiBO21M48aSeTp3lr315slwJgRIq1l9laEnkykEnR_E80FCF3yZ4Jth6bAkVvfHBzMl8n/s1600/Tents+after+reorg+on+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfopCFzc1ZdI9-55MEw6IyByqtnVfBwIUVI7WNAmBhwP4xXrhjJQUfFR53G81fm0qzA8afFfBiBO21M48aSeTp3lr315slwJgRIq1l9laEnkykEnR_E80FCF3yZ4Jth6bAkVvfHBzMl8n/s400/Tents+after+reorg+on+Friday.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I reorganized the camp after the rain of the night before caused a hasty make-do initial arrangement.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNRupL99ZY_HkUCtGNW_RYM7MfTZtOvAFAoIFhrWIY1CLD7z_J1HuozlVFU2NsB5R8Yj6kvwZ_meGjM-FkUPI7rkRSHp8Xt7rlBrrH2mHdT4Im0o3i8nOHTGJRxVMBgx8pkevF0RZbaj7/s1600/Camp+after+reorg+on+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNRupL99ZY_HkUCtGNW_RYM7MfTZtOvAFAoIFhrWIY1CLD7z_J1HuozlVFU2NsB5R8Yj6kvwZ_meGjM-FkUPI7rkRSHp8Xt7rlBrrH2mHdT4Im0o3i8nOHTGJRxVMBgx8pkevF0RZbaj7/s400/Camp+after+reorg+on+Friday.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The camp site overlooked a shallow inlet of Lower Richardson Lake. The open site allows for RV use but makes rigging tarps a bit tricky. A liberal use of much rope and many knots fixed that.</span></td></tr>
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It did. The rain ended by dawn and the clouds slowly raised and began to tear apart. I let the girls sleep in while I went for walk in the early light. The previous night I was curious about the presence of bears around the campground. This is a growing problem as more people and bears share the northern woods. My curiosity was satisfied when I found bear scat on the entry road, but I am not aware of any recent bear problems at the campground. As I walked I encountered several large roving feeding flocks of migrant Warblers, Chickadees, Creepers, Nuthatches, and other species. Songbird migration was well underway and these little gems would soon be winging further south to follow their food sources. After a brisk hour walk I returned to camp and started breakfast as the girls at last stirred and emerged looking bleary eyed but happy. While I was preparing breakfast a member of the campground staff pulled up in a truck and handed me an email from Rachel's mom. She had tried calling me but I had no cell service. It seemed Hurricane Irene had sped up, and landfall was now expected a full day earlier. Once again a trip to the north woods of New England with the kids was being shortened by a wind born of Africa. I told the girls we would be cutting things short by a day and they all looked a bit deflated. But the day was waxing glorious, and after a breakfast of blueberry pancakes, we organized some of the campground's canoes and set out for a day of paddling and exploring.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj700jEF0ZQpVfKJsgHfTmKuXRwiAR0p_jJiWJlcR6Vl0mwX9-LeS9xkHJOqRAaLCjWMQfaqTOVUfqK8Cul6kDBVIseJBCCIWtQ1PASFUYVR9b2hMZlnQ4m-pSxkYswU58rxZq629mznEy6/s1600/Behind+site+Friday+day+south.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj700jEF0ZQpVfKJsgHfTmKuXRwiAR0p_jJiWJlcR6Vl0mwX9-LeS9xkHJOqRAaLCjWMQfaqTOVUfqK8Cul6kDBVIseJBCCIWtQ1PASFUYVR9b2hMZlnQ4m-pSxkYswU58rxZq629mznEy6/s400/Behind+site+Friday+day+south.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The shallow inlet behind our camp site. Spotted Sandpipers and Belted Kingfishers were in residence here and were repeatedly harassed by a local Sharp-shinned Hawk </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XiHyTSI26L9Pp_QY3Ylp1-7sLPfgTSHB1BJssy596bgBVIxJuruyxd-SVhWewONEjp3RLYWVTEXPjQkEJzbspwIqssKE1NufbmxmuzZxGgxJuoDY8WHZVr3yNJy9qgkVdJF9Uirri_Vs/s1600/Rachel+on+roots+behind+camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XiHyTSI26L9Pp_QY3Ylp1-7sLPfgTSHB1BJssy596bgBVIxJuruyxd-SVhWewONEjp3RLYWVTEXPjQkEJzbspwIqssKE1NufbmxmuzZxGgxJuoDY8WHZVr3yNJy9qgkVdJF9Uirri_Vs/s400/Rachel+on+roots+behind+camp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel rests on the roots exposed by the unusually low water level of the lake.</span></td></tr>
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We sorted out who would be where in the canoes and headed out on the calm water. Richardson Lake is a fairly narrow but very long lake. We crossed the very southern tip of the lake and made landfall on the rocky western shore at the base of a woodland brook that the girls had spotted. We then set about exploring.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbaxEA5Oe4ORdsoJzwvLfsN26UzFvODxPakMGxmR7QYAlrCzpAvCtxTHFlz8in_UFrXIYNPgHK1JeA3aYY2Z6dBGNSE5uiqUUudwXCQX5cWQ0zY7n9tksBrazpsRdA1mkaC2-VfOpAUl12/s1600/Emily+and+Rachel+in+canoe+at+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbaxEA5Oe4ORdsoJzwvLfsN26UzFvODxPakMGxmR7QYAlrCzpAvCtxTHFlz8in_UFrXIYNPgHK1JeA3aYY2Z6dBGNSE5uiqUUudwXCQX5cWQ0zY7n9tksBrazpsRdA1mkaC2-VfOpAUl12/s400/Emily+and+Rachel+in+canoe+at+start.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily and Rachel manned one canoe while Janet and I manned the other.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPFs7PMs5Xwsbp4126y7OeCIkEmx8t6TyMvW0qMR889xsf9kIk7pelW5aOy3QVAvTChYPDOk1-b66lAjd13Jc1ujD_Qcu1MoYN6fXFfEVVnjsU8fRPBvlNciBua7t0BeljI0hTVIUaGlr/s1600/The+girls+start+up+the+brook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPFs7PMs5Xwsbp4126y7OeCIkEmx8t6TyMvW0qMR889xsf9kIk7pelW5aOy3QVAvTChYPDOk1-b66lAjd13Jc1ujD_Qcu1MoYN6fXFfEVVnjsU8fRPBvlNciBua7t0BeljI0hTVIUaGlr/s400/The+girls+start+up+the+brook.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The girls start exploring the brook.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-x3flk4prBEMkufGdUvqhwB_YS2LIhlcPsxKaWEAWroghDfZM6skukBXeyo-SGL6ByBfXUs0jQ_DEBDGpPpCcmrW4ICTFhx2QRevHPi57keEJKlW-YnjaeqdKqjWJhtyT57lD7n9BkKj/s1600/Rachel+standing+in+brook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-x3flk4prBEMkufGdUvqhwB_YS2LIhlcPsxKaWEAWroghDfZM6skukBXeyo-SGL6ByBfXUs0jQ_DEBDGpPpCcmrW4ICTFhx2QRevHPi57keEJKlW-YnjaeqdKqjWJhtyT57lD7n9BkKj/s400/Rachel+standing+in+brook.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel cools her feet in the clear water of the brook</span></td></tr>
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The lake was low for this time of year. This exposed a belt of boulders and rocks along the shoreline. Above this girdle the verdant mosses of the northern forests enveloped most rocks. If you have ever clambered about on wet, mossy, and algae covered rocks, you know how slippery they are. It's like walking on marbles at times. But the three girls climbed upward along the brook with ease, often going barefoot. During the many years of hiking I have done I have fallen many times. As I get older I have noticed that gravity has been getting stronger and rocks have gotten sharper and harder. Consequently I tend to watch the girl's footing choices closely, a bit like a fretting nanny. I needn't have worried with these three though, and the exploration of the brook went off without a hitch.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcz0lbBNixSOxofjyb5nyCuhaysidYdVcELsmQCsRpSW-VU3VYGHHL4DcAoo1nkhn9Ltw9ZiCLezUg-RYo14N4ZnFmc_Nkf871RRb5XeqrLu_5JcPkQtEs_D40rjpGO_QKAHUSNCf323h0/s1600/Em+and+Rach+smile+in+brook.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcz0lbBNixSOxofjyb5nyCuhaysidYdVcELsmQCsRpSW-VU3VYGHHL4DcAoo1nkhn9Ltw9ZiCLezUg-RYo14N4ZnFmc_Nkf871RRb5XeqrLu_5JcPkQtEs_D40rjpGO_QKAHUSNCf323h0/s400/Em+and+Rach+smile+in+brook.bmp" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily and Rachel in the brook.</span></td></tr>
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Once we had fully explored the brook we returned to the shore and worked our way along the water's edge to an open rocky point. Here the girls began cairn building. Janet and Rachel built traditional cairns while Emily undertook a composite structure of sticks, rocks, and mud. I wandered about taking pictures and generally enjoying the girls enjoying themselves.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62G8hFpRp27vg7r1biTN2ZAkya-TVCPlS6WxsJxnZdTrpPhlgPZompZwtzdY-yEFWuz2GFEj_-JwOI_bIdBUTXAGD8oOPBGHZ954YuvkrW6xfIpC8i5F6UCxuAlFJZA_B5ixS1Ji7uAza/s1600/Rachel+builds+cairn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62G8hFpRp27vg7r1biTN2ZAkya-TVCPlS6WxsJxnZdTrpPhlgPZompZwtzdY-yEFWuz2GFEj_-JwOI_bIdBUTXAGD8oOPBGHZ954YuvkrW6xfIpC8i5F6UCxuAlFJZA_B5ixS1Ji7uAza/s400/Rachel+builds+cairn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel works on her cairn.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOB5q33YJ_i9QEaLWmBHiRsH5Ah6Ygh157O9fK67FLeUau2kzkuKikTPYwQmucVmYU2LK_bLq886NczDzMgiSjOAPwX7DesI3uKX_oh_0JFYYI9RL1z7-0-bPvFbeZ9cFMnp5BsutpUvE/s1600/Emily+builds+composite+cairn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOB5q33YJ_i9QEaLWmBHiRsH5Ah6Ygh157O9fK67FLeUau2kzkuKikTPYwQmucVmYU2LK_bLq886NczDzMgiSjOAPwX7DesI3uKX_oh_0JFYYI9RL1z7-0-bPvFbeZ9cFMnp5BsutpUvE/s400/Emily+builds+composite+cairn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily builds her cairn of sticks, rock, and mud. A sort of Pueblo-cairn.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5VWZwAiVkMN-ycc0m-L5Nog1k3d3p4sXZ75ZtUV9bInsLZVbvDS3ei-vS0GA1bttUJlSa9oXluuw2JwFHoC_LvbwnCEAkEHG7VMF0A1HHDL0FwPwEzTXng_lBvg39cqptLXqfD9YWdQA/s1600/Rachels+cairn+with+Em+and+Jan+in+background.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5VWZwAiVkMN-ycc0m-L5Nog1k3d3p4sXZ75ZtUV9bInsLZVbvDS3ei-vS0GA1bttUJlSa9oXluuw2JwFHoC_LvbwnCEAkEHG7VMF0A1HHDL0FwPwEzTXng_lBvg39cqptLXqfD9YWdQA/s400/Rachels+cairn+with+Em+and+Jan+in+background.bmp" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel's cairn is complete. (It's not really as big as it looks!)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJcsZKT0kVGRH8gVBaG9POCSCY446iJ3THWNUouvgdaf3dDjSSKqCXqjSjxHuNi8mZWuoP4htIxHFd0R2BdHjBmSJUZB0cRzis29Pz1_OoK_b7gvA0kgC6qsB-UfEsBfZchQNvP1IdazW/s1600/3+amigas+at+cairn+site.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJcsZKT0kVGRH8gVBaG9POCSCY446iJ3THWNUouvgdaf3dDjSSKqCXqjSjxHuNi8mZWuoP4htIxHFd0R2BdHjBmSJUZB0cRzis29Pz1_OoK_b7gvA0kgC6qsB-UfEsBfZchQNvP1IdazW/s400/3+amigas+at+cairn+site.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The three amigas have finished their masonry.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJWg_3jLVYLdjFmjvTbPeWr2BBTvQeAfNGVf5EiIuhX0CztNnPp8uBswn4WMH8kzFYuULobBFaB1C8xD3ZfnsYWFfVsRnrzlz2VNpo4b7E2SeUIOF9KqNna9nE9rAqinuMxvl9u0VFnob/s1600/Cabbage+White.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJWg_3jLVYLdjFmjvTbPeWr2BBTvQeAfNGVf5EiIuhX0CztNnPp8uBswn4WMH8kzFYuULobBFaB1C8xD3ZfnsYWFfVsRnrzlz2VNpo4b7E2SeUIOF9KqNna9nE9rAqinuMxvl9u0VFnob/s400/Cabbage+White.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Cabbage White (</span><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;">Pieris rapae) nectars on an aster.</span></span></td></tr>
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With 3 new cairns now adorning the western shore of Richardson Lake, the girls and I returned to the canoes and pushed a little further up the lake. A sandy spit with a large grassy area at its base was our next destination. Here we piled out again and explored the area. A lakeside campsite provided a chance for the girls poke around and play in the dirt while I stalked a few dragonflies with my camera.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKx7Qyh1jrjtUmAYSZ2mIi-2Jd-4QW_RtJBoY0pJ90UP3Bu8_gdvvA4tb_xxfDIcc79fuYvialr5yufK1z2rEfabbT1irYv8SoXI4Rd5KLvRMUs-AtRUaC3ZPQgpVZQnGjeotzqpGmXpN/s1600/Rach+and+Em+back+in+the+canoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKx7Qyh1jrjtUmAYSZ2mIi-2Jd-4QW_RtJBoY0pJ90UP3Bu8_gdvvA4tb_xxfDIcc79fuYvialr5yufK1z2rEfabbT1irYv8SoXI4Rd5KLvRMUs-AtRUaC3ZPQgpVZQnGjeotzqpGmXpN/s400/Rach+and+Em+back+in+the+canoe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We push further up the lake.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MD3yLt9ni6E-2Frywkg0r-yhvxBulWVX1kN1OzYBQ9dfmJmlko6egysamO7HtBpB_i3-nUUmHsk7Z15phj-gD0djr0WiBBhh8xJCMhZwiEn7kJB4t39-ZjXMyx4vbOClByzW-rzsoGQx/s1600/3+girls+by+canoes+at+grassy+site.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MD3yLt9ni6E-2Frywkg0r-yhvxBulWVX1kN1OzYBQ9dfmJmlko6egysamO7HtBpB_i3-nUUmHsk7Z15phj-gD0djr0WiBBhh8xJCMhZwiEn7kJB4t39-ZjXMyx4vbOClByzW-rzsoGQx/s400/3+girls+by+canoes+at+grassy+site.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our next port of call. A lakeside campsite is hidden by the spruces at the far side of the sandy beach.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK5hJWc2xppHe8hHUPXpcmdsT-m1y-aGMdjGhPhDjw9wQ3tx9vf44Mv9iHJ4zcfbDtnl6wZA23BKT_IoTHrx9Be8DAxfbazx-UlpmApiS4I_wpMnJYpdhGu_Yw3TPMmXSQhKSboqKvt6e/s1600/Em+and+Rach+explore+grasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK5hJWc2xppHe8hHUPXpcmdsT-m1y-aGMdjGhPhDjw9wQ3tx9vf44Mv9iHJ4zcfbDtnl6wZA23BKT_IoTHrx9Be8DAxfbazx-UlpmApiS4I_wpMnJYpdhGu_Yw3TPMmXSQhKSboqKvt6e/s400/Em+and+Rach+explore+grasses.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Janet walked in the water while Emily and Rachel wandered through the tall grasses.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIbAaGrjKiiFL7AVR8HhyphenhyphenWGVdZxDv1yyIo30xs2fK0QXuZu9tAGDGvM-jxVDkDWaAnkj25gI2ewWU-vj-uMVL3dkRstYrZQVBbs1mZAOsRMfblYD3J1XObwbdOqZmHPvDcGSwO6dw0K2W/s1600/Black-shouldered+Spinylegs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIbAaGrjKiiFL7AVR8HhyphenhyphenWGVdZxDv1yyIo30xs2fK0QXuZu9tAGDGvM-jxVDkDWaAnkj25gI2ewWU-vj-uMVL3dkRstYrZQVBbs1mZAOsRMfblYD3J1XObwbdOqZmHPvDcGSwO6dw0K2W/s400/Black-shouldered+Spinylegs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black-shouldered Spinyleg (</span><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;">(Dromogomphus spinosus). A common club-tail dragonfly of lakes and rivers in the east. </span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ReNZeRCGMBlBCEtpTshTm10cSAqSazXGLu3pB4WSyV_9CIEJdN_dUfVEKxGgWIiftGOSEf_R5aWQuGYhoQ9RhffSCJulNSeAQFEOa9i_bNO0whFQ5dr2LCFMI1EW4aRubhj5Fip1ctq7/s1600/Male+Meadowhawk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ReNZeRCGMBlBCEtpTshTm10cSAqSazXGLu3pB4WSyV_9CIEJdN_dUfVEKxGgWIiftGOSEf_R5aWQuGYhoQ9RhffSCJulNSeAQFEOa9i_bNO0whFQ5dr2LCFMI1EW4aRubhj5Fip1ctq7/s400/Male+Meadowhawk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A male Meadowhawk. I did not determine which species of Meadowhawk however.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">These common and oft overlooked dragonflies are gorgeously colored when properly seen.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWAFPMpaLxjQnK8mVXtUDX89M3wpsR9snd7rsuZdIlIU9dUR95Ly09zmwqJt20MUHvhPu0wgM1GV_WFfU7Orblk7rKTPct7L83P2wn38yl23Kzsc_R8rgOwrFqSBRxP1zajikl6i-Rlnw_/s1600/Rachel+climbing+bank+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWAFPMpaLxjQnK8mVXtUDX89M3wpsR9snd7rsuZdIlIU9dUR95Ly09zmwqJt20MUHvhPu0wgM1GV_WFfU7Orblk7rKTPct7L83P2wn38yl23Kzsc_R8rgOwrFqSBRxP1zajikl6i-Rlnw_/s400/Rachel+climbing+bank+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The campsite was set on a rise above the beach. Konwing Rachel can not resist a challenge, I told her I bet she could not climb the bank. As I expected, she then set about proving me wrong. It took a couple of tries but she did.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUy10hPDjTNzvt6ahIWMEfuglvqN4_anDFAP3IO8tOWS31zR5K1rQM8QwHAuFQ03xkT6vF5OXq0Wu8E9jhNvrrn-Qei1fm8gADlxVOTY-nZcATYWFJLkZ1tPLzJ5TGWwvs9JBzZrgk6VP/s1600/Girls+at+sand+bank+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUy10hPDjTNzvt6ahIWMEfuglvqN4_anDFAP3IO8tOWS31zR5K1rQM8QwHAuFQ03xkT6vF5OXq0Wu8E9jhNvrrn-Qei1fm8gADlxVOTY-nZcATYWFJLkZ1tPLzJ5TGWwvs9JBzZrgk6VP/s400/Girls+at+sand+bank+2.bmp" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily joined Rachel in the fun scrambling up the bank.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-sv7gU3Kt-HgRJ-kvliBR9SMzHcAu7YlRvo8a1tIv0qYFhkMohkKU7L6U8TXIZsDYnsV3GRtgbhyDkJ3BaRLIzIG4ojXzs1jHuBFBtgyhmEeEVCWXmedtoWwgQ3KbCNQULuh0-1xjYFl/s1600/Rachel+on+stump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-sv7gU3Kt-HgRJ-kvliBR9SMzHcAu7YlRvo8a1tIv0qYFhkMohkKU7L6U8TXIZsDYnsV3GRtgbhyDkJ3BaRLIzIG4ojXzs1jHuBFBtgyhmEeEVCWXmedtoWwgQ3KbCNQULuh0-1xjYFl/s400/Rachel+on+stump.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This picture probably best embodies the reason I brought the girls on this late summer trip, a gift of time and beauty on a northern New England lake.</span></td></tr>
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Having spent an hour or so enjoying our second stop, it was time to head back to the camp. A light breeze had been blowing steadily out of the north ever since the sky had cleared. I told the girls we would paddle out into the middle of the lake and then we would drift. The north wind would slowly push us back towards our destination. If you have never drifted in a canoe or kayak on a beautiful sunny day, or under a full moon for that matter, you really don't know what you are missing. We sat and talked and laughed while the breeze did all the work. At the last we had to hoist paddles again and bring our boats back to the launch. Once we had put the boats away it was time to take a swim. The lake water was bracingly cool and very refreshing, the perfect way to build an appetite for dinner!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY082WHv9NfPQ5ISSGX5F9lPXpMzQ7I7t4BL043M4c6KskZW4rlDU2g-amK6ORqVcUIjRGSN-RAnBMvbQvoA7_Bi3GtUV7lFJ8KOzvFq4TA2BUeqdVf4dLER0g3VDt8eXEQXJdotQqd4TW/s1600/Rachel+and+Emily+drifting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY082WHv9NfPQ5ISSGX5F9lPXpMzQ7I7t4BL043M4c6KskZW4rlDU2g-amK6ORqVcUIjRGSN-RAnBMvbQvoA7_Bi3GtUV7lFJ8KOzvFq4TA2BUeqdVf4dLER0g3VDt8eXEQXJdotQqd4TW/s400/Rachel+and+Emily+drifting.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel and Emily drifting.</span></td></tr>
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After dinner we went down to the inlet behind the campsite. The girls clowned around for a while and I took a few pictures. I soon left them along the shore while I went back to the site to clean up. Night had fallen and I had just settled in next to the fire with a beer when I heard the girls call to me to come down to them. When I joined them by the water they showed me how clear and beautiful the night sky was, and how bright the stars were. We then sat on a log and star gazed for more than hour. Emily showed her astronomical knowledge in response to Rachel's and Janet's questions. I was impressed I can tell you, these young ladies are growing up! After a bit Rachel grew chilled and I gave her my jacket to wear while the three of us counted falling stars. The peace of the night and the awe of the expanse of the milky way above us as we talked quietly will long live in my memory.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw152y0G9NuM-XzFpjqeteW2VjpBXpOnXIlzwLnQEbs90YpXdmQ2V9h1-3BPdokUTMN57Ca-MO7HXKbyeDqKroyTu0HnrRV6WSg8ckIdB05LJt6V-GMSbK_woMRYwUNhizgZu05gc20f6s/s1600/Rachel+hangs+Emily+Stares.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw152y0G9NuM-XzFpjqeteW2VjpBXpOnXIlzwLnQEbs90YpXdmQ2V9h1-3BPdokUTMN57Ca-MO7HXKbyeDqKroyTu0HnrRV6WSg8ckIdB05LJt6V-GMSbK_woMRYwUNhizgZu05gc20f6s/s400/Rachel+hangs+Emily+Stares.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel hangs while Emily looks as if she studying a new life form.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheM5PLK-sHrp2Qb3bUwfM4rNjGmDVBIRF6uQvKj2_fYjYnQYOIpsOoMk4Rx5rjRIyqqfFjLKjjH0qoFY_BiLQj5aBwXtfdhuuTwGpZHjzrZ0d5wqzX4pbBnl8pEnJv0oLop2LMDCtc3MAI/s1600/Angels+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheM5PLK-sHrp2Qb3bUwfM4rNjGmDVBIRF6uQvKj2_fYjYnQYOIpsOoMk4Rx5rjRIyqqfFjLKjjH0qoFY_BiLQj5aBwXtfdhuuTwGpZHjzrZ0d5wqzX4pbBnl8pEnJv0oLop2LMDCtc3MAI/s400/Angels+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Striking a pose.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTET1AZ5vHbjnUsulv6V3FVnsgDp2vws-gQ-UG-kQ1kYmZJ0YAPTQlUiohR-j3z2HUZ6ffJJPdNBRuLr-mu5Gd4A3NDsMZnzmvDew4PDSuEQ_U3zEpPB9HZE4PkKOcDKraWYV6vV3UdxYZ/s1600/Girls+around+the+roots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTET1AZ5vHbjnUsulv6V3FVnsgDp2vws-gQ-UG-kQ1kYmZJ0YAPTQlUiohR-j3z2HUZ6ffJJPdNBRuLr-mu5Gd4A3NDsMZnzmvDew4PDSuEQ_U3zEpPB9HZE4PkKOcDKraWYV6vV3UdxYZ/s400/Girls+around+the+roots.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel has climbed into a large root cavity while Janet and Emily clown.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7QJNCEpg-LgV98JNimEI_bPl9FwQkr2z2DH8a_Euwa7kButXaMu4R184rmifznwpQrc_wncBK8q1RkB2wtl5k1IBL_oYcrgZ-FTGXKFcuT-JIyfYqN0ZLJ2LmeDl4snCawm5such3r_Z/s1600/Fire+Ring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7QJNCEpg-LgV98JNimEI_bPl9FwQkr2z2DH8a_Euwa7kButXaMu4R184rmifznwpQrc_wncBK8q1RkB2wtl5k1IBL_oYcrgZ-FTGXKFcuT-JIyfYqN0ZLJ2LmeDl4snCawm5such3r_Z/s400/Fire+Ring.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The campground has cool fire rings with South Arm Maine cut into them. When the girls climbed into their tent to go to sleep I ended my night with a beer and a book by the fire.</span></td></tr>
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I slept fairly well that night. When I did stir during the night I heard the wail of a Common Loon far off on the lake. A Barred Owl pair also added their contact calls to the magic of the dark night. It reminded me so much of an earlier trip to Grout Pond in Vermont. On that occasion, Loons and Barred Owls had also figured prominently in the darkness, with tremolos, wails, hoots, and screams. And like that trip, this one was to end earlier than planned. Hurricane Irene was sweeping across the ocean towards New England as we slept.<br />
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In the morning I made breakfast again for the girls and started to break down the camp for the trip home. It's a lot of work doing all this as the only adult, but I didn't mind. I felt very lucky to be able to do this for the girls. By noon we were on the road. Rachel's mom and Emily's dad both filled me in on the latest forecast by phone calls. I decided we still had time to swing through New Hampshire and the White Mountains on the way south. I also wanted to get dinner at one of my favorite New England eateries/breweries, Moat Mountain Smokehouse and Brewery in North Conway, New Hampshire.<br />
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The drive across western Maine was briefly interrupted when I stopped at the Sunday River Brewery to pick of some growlers of ale for myself and for the girl's parents. As we approached the New Hampshire line, Rachel was blown away by the spectacular mountains, as I hoped she would be. Janet and Emily have seen them before but this was a new experience for Rach. She repeatedly mentioned how it reminded her of her trip to Yosemite with her mom and brother the previous year. I love bringing new experiences to the people I love, especially when they are kids. When we finally stopped across from the Mount Washington auto road base so the girls could photograph the mountains and spend some money at the gift shop, I pointed out the sharp peak of Mount Adams to Rachel and told her that her brother and I had climbed that peak the previous year. Her eyes grew big at the thought of climbing so high. I have to admit, even after having climbed so many of the White Mountains myself, the peaks when viewed from their feet still look dauntingly high to me! It was time to roll on, the girls and I were looking forward to dinner at Moat Mountain Smokehouse. And Irene was coming...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9suszfg_TUTUe7hbb-673TZtwFrVFV8EgViWsd7vLe0sSjdSjg3WQzJYa2ui976kfcioGKrttkYR4sj6dDkjBCs2prQxG95HvGjFqN_X_wseqGIiGVP-Oznl-_Qe1uPiz3yNSIseUJGx/s1600/Northern+Presis+Jefferson+Adams+Madison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9suszfg_TUTUe7hbb-673TZtwFrVFV8EgViWsd7vLe0sSjdSjg3WQzJYa2ui976kfcioGKrttkYR4sj6dDkjBCs2prQxG95HvGjFqN_X_wseqGIiGVP-Oznl-_Qe1uPiz3yNSIseUJGx/s400/Northern+Presis+Jefferson+Adams+Madison.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The second highest peak in the White Mountains, Mount Adams, rises among northern Presidentials. Mount Madison is the right-most peak and Mount Jefferson, looking smaller than it actually is, is the peak to the left</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUl5A8wkXEtK3LhQnXQcQInEypmp3c_KkwJo7Lvm8qnu2gHE9jiRmD1yhMzqrrl1zeAcfvvDylyCieiTWG2deG5LwpCU22UjfN-KHyWn3UpW3D75Z3N6pSppSM4GQDg9Zn3Kvf4XG91VLA/s1600/Emily+uses+scope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUl5A8wkXEtK3LhQnXQcQInEypmp3c_KkwJo7Lvm8qnu2gHE9jiRmD1yhMzqrrl1zeAcfvvDylyCieiTWG2deG5LwpCU22UjfN-KHyWn3UpW3D75Z3N6pSppSM4GQDg9Zn3Kvf4XG91VLA/s400/Emily+uses+scope.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily uses the view scope to study Mount Washington while Janet clowns. This is across Route 16 from the Mount Washington auto road base.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbjaZytckb3vdizohMH2GiXHu2EuXUKK_xomugNhcVLZoHT4WUohLPIWBSlRSSlfyvYVamz2iL8y-P-20xk1tpL9ubiA4Ts0kYilE3pScgU2WMqM4yZ6gQul2w5BBDeZQ9EJc3_PfehOZ/s1600/In+Moat+Mountain+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbjaZytckb3vdizohMH2GiXHu2EuXUKK_xomugNhcVLZoHT4WUohLPIWBSlRSSlfyvYVamz2iL8y-P-20xk1tpL9ubiA4Ts0kYilE3pScgU2WMqM4yZ6gQul2w5BBDeZQ9EJc3_PfehOZ/s400/In+Moat+Mountain+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We settle in for dinner at Moat Mountain Smokehouse. Oh Emily, can you ever stop clowning?!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwCCqv-RtIJNQWG8hVrPiAVog6X_M-9cKuK00va0OqjMytl13Y_h_Q0FUBus7Dpi1FhdipVVvhGipCe9rnzbXunt8QtwdXRi7ylaQH2g1hXZGj451e0yq3qMiNN9lwhbgG1XcSMnUQxhK/s1600/Sweet+Potato+smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwCCqv-RtIJNQWG8hVrPiAVog6X_M-9cKuK00va0OqjMytl13Y_h_Q0FUBus7Dpi1FhdipVVvhGipCe9rnzbXunt8QtwdXRi7ylaQH2g1hXZGj451e0yq3qMiNN9lwhbgG1XcSMnUQxhK/s400/Sweet+Potato+smile.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rachel uses a yam fry to show her happiness!</span></td></tr>
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With excellent dinners inside us, and excellent brew inside me, we set off on the long ride home. We stopped a few times along New Hampshire Route 112, known as the Kancamagus Highway, to admire the mountains it winds through. Once we picked up Route 93 south in Lincoln it was time to really fly. As we drove southward we ran into outlying arms of Irene and we began experiencing intermittent heavy rain. We raced southward as Irene raced northward toward us. It was nine o'clock by the time we arrived home in Connecticut. Rachel's mom and brother soon arrived, as did Emily's dad, to pick up the girls and get them home. We all talked about the trip for a bit but everyone needed to get home and settled before the storm hit in earnest. Luckily Irene weakened at the last moment but was still powerful enough to put most of Connecticut in a prolonged power outage and she hammered Vermont and New Hampshire hard with heavy rains and flash floods. Indeed many of the New Hampshire roads we had driven across on the way home were damaged and closed by the storm. <br />
<br />I had intended the trip to be a last fling of summer for the girls, camping, canoeing, swimming, and stargazing in western Maine. I wanted to give them a fond memory to take back to school with them, and I feel I accomplished that. I loved every minute of it myself of course. Ultimately I didn't give them the last memory of summer however, Irene did that. The start of school was delayed for days as the region's power distribution structure recovered. Still, it was all part of a bigger whole. I hope these three stay friends for their entire lives and build volumes of memories between them. It was a joy to share in this one with them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRIYaQWWL2WzT_FUNNecCz9TNRaK4CpKkAhoFKz74l0FS1uuwvB32y7B_Y30JpLl52FX2LBnx_T-pX5PsEQK7uuKH2sRXwVg2dBDEdvqfNibnotQlL7THZYy1QhtZL9p1W279KHO_VFn1/s1600/3+girls+at+Kancamagus+overlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRIYaQWWL2WzT_FUNNecCz9TNRaK4CpKkAhoFKz74l0FS1uuwvB32y7B_Y30JpLl52FX2LBnx_T-pX5PsEQK7uuKH2sRXwVg2dBDEdvqfNibnotQlL7THZYy1QhtZL9p1W279KHO_VFn1/s400/3+girls+at+Kancamagus+overlook.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily, Rachel, and Janet at a stop on the long ride home.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-52310386818824623512011-08-18T23:07:00.007-04:002011-08-21T13:05:27.711-04:00Wilderness Isolation<blockquote>"I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion." Ralph Waldo Emerson</blockquote>I am not afraid of the dark. I do not fear isolation. I do not fear being in the wilderness. I am not without fears, I have more than my share. I am not insane nor is my amygdala damaged. The amygdala is the part of the brain that plays a key role in feeling fear. Well okay, I <i>think</i> it isn't damaged. I mean I haven't had it assessed. Why would I? Okay let's forget the last two assertions and stick with the first three... dark, isolation, wilderness, not afraid, ya. The reason I mention them, or more specifically my lack of fearing them, is that under the August full moon I night hiked into the Presidential Range - Dry River Wilderness in the White Mountain National Forest to climb a peak I had never before visited, Mt. Isolation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJhBJfKfHAiJzFADUKXMYOZxeKYhTQD74qbz6eDzkWeH_ax-aoUwxGr6Y5q2KwSAO_2wGvyNuD18zoHrlmZn-PED1LbeGff19pCEn5-aWBctjYWjIatJTgHTHV9lVwAvMIuh8hyxKUBVS/s1600/Hike+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJhBJfKfHAiJzFADUKXMYOZxeKYhTQD74qbz6eDzkWeH_ax-aoUwxGr6Y5q2KwSAO_2wGvyNuD18zoHrlmZn-PED1LbeGff19pCEn5-aWBctjYWjIatJTgHTHV9lVwAvMIuh8hyxKUBVS/s400/Hike+start.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trailhead sign at 10:45 PM. I start in on an all night hike to Mt. Isolation.</span></td></tr>
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I parked in the Rocky Branch Trail parking area off New Hampshire Route 16. This is just south of Pinkham Notch where the well known Appalachian Mountain Club's Mt. Washington base camp is located. It was 10:30 PM when I pulled in. At that hour only one other car was parked in the dark and lonely lot. I had purchased gas and a six pack of Tuckerman's Pale Ale in North Conway on my way here from my home in Connecticut. As I geared up for the hike I drank one of the ales. I also packed another to drink later in the wilderness. I had never had Tuckerman's before, it is a good ale by the way. My plan was to hike the Rocky Branch Trail, Isolation Trail, and Davis Path to Mt. Isolation where I hoped to watch the Perseid Meteors, the setting of the full moon, and the sunrise. Originally I had planned on hiking in much earlier in the day than this so I could get some sleep on the summit, but with this late start it looked like I would be pulling an all-nighter. I can still do that despite my teen years being very small in the rear-view mirror of my life. I just don't want to do it very often.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMS9YQoUac7z10s6h8V1eefFKuy5u48tGKUOvCFiyTnVXMvFSbTungKDB9_t8bwbAq26PJRQg_OnRRAwmsHSNTfxasip0OnrSGRAchhcSVly_I-MKol7PesObBKHtbGtAICCVEQ2buwpV/s1600/Widow+MAker+on+hike+in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMS9YQoUac7z10s6h8V1eefFKuy5u48tGKUOvCFiyTnVXMvFSbTungKDB9_t8bwbAq26PJRQg_OnRRAwmsHSNTfxasip0OnrSGRAchhcSVly_I-MKol7PesObBKHtbGtAICCVEQ2buwpV/s400/Widow+MAker+on+hike+in.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A "Widowmaker." That's what they call fallen trees that have hung up and not reached the ground. At some point this one will continue to the ground and land on the trail. Hundreds, if not thousands, of hikers will walk underneath it before then. So I think you can see why they are called "Widowmakers"!</span></td></tr>
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I finished off the ale, locked my car, shouldered my pack, and headed in under the cold light of a full moon and the colder light of my LED headlamp. The trip to Mt. Isolation would be roughly 7.3 miles one way. I had never hiked to this mountain before and I was hoping the trail bed would be a leg friendly smooth surfaced one. At first it was, and I made good time. Early on I passed (nervously) under an impressive "widowmaker." That's a tree that has fallen over the trail but has not fallen all the way to the ground, hanging up on other trees. At some point it will break free and the thousands of pounds of it will crash the rest of the way to the ground. When that happens, if a hiker happens to be passing under it, it might earn the widowmaker name. I can promise you that if a tiny twig snapped while I was walking under that tree, I would have instantly become an Olympic quality sprinter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRbYZYAozXgdrBCxoQRCeIOx2aR3k3PhhMpcKJGlC6V-lzYEi2AnEiT3jgBJR9EbSG0pdoVY-WtRIPzplxtKbhWoLiuLA4jD9HOFsNIJq86tkjrCmbrs-FZIDgeDvy_nhifW1L_tm7k0i/s1600/Trail+on+hike+in.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRbYZYAozXgdrBCxoQRCeIOx2aR3k3PhhMpcKJGlC6V-lzYEi2AnEiT3jgBJR9EbSG0pdoVY-WtRIPzplxtKbhWoLiuLA4jD9HOFsNIJq86tkjrCmbrs-FZIDgeDvy_nhifW1L_tm7k0i/s400/Trail+on+hike+in.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The start of the Rocky Branch Trail was an easy path and I made good time climbing the Rocky Branch Ridge.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSG8GvjcFXVgNYhAfRs5O0j4QT5aT-m0273hgSqDrAxf5viVkos3xw7Vpg9HlEOcc5I3XUApzawZXmLeesZ4ALowzqblYSN2MXnazxTCBUNa7mU2ny0sXOXK7I_xzOQGysksdXz5dDt-6/s1600/Slug+on+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSG8GvjcFXVgNYhAfRs5O0j4QT5aT-m0273hgSqDrAxf5viVkos3xw7Vpg9HlEOcc5I3XUApzawZXmLeesZ4ALowzqblYSN2MXnazxTCBUNa7mU2ny0sXOXK7I_xzOQGysksdXz5dDt-6/s400/Slug+on+tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of my fellow creatures sharing the night under a beautiful full moon in the wilderness.</span></td></tr>
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Allow me to lay out the landscape for you, albeit briefly. My target summit on this hike was Mount Isolation, a peak that was only named a little more than 120 years ago by William H. Pickering, an early AMC explorer. This bald knob peak lies on the 20 mile long Montalban Ridge that extends south of Mt. Washington in the White Mountain National Forest. It is dwarfed by old Agiocochoock (Mt. Washington's native name) and very few non hikers would ever have heard of it. To the east of the Montalban Ridge lies the Rocky Branch River valley and to the west lies the Dry River valley. Both of these rivers eventually empty in the Saco. As you can imagine by its name, it is one of the more remote White Mountain 4,000 footer peaks, with the shortest round trip from a road being 12.0 miles. That route is over the Glen Boulder Trail on Mt. Washington and is not the easiest approach since it requires climbing much higher than Isolation's summit on the way there and then on the way back again. The easiest path would be the one I was taking, which though nearly 3 miles longer, has much less elevation gain along its course. It is the usual route hikers take to visit this peak. Only Mt. Owl's Head and the Bonds in the Pemigewasset Wilderness are more remote from roadside trailheads.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZFRdFUcRzwOZP3FkavkkJy4mVf3jLKPRRqsawwpawBLqTJKeUb5LiX3jfTAiDS6jAJQFu5GLRnLbG3kNJjufI4SWZ-Zuzg_2yHY0QbN2t6OTvqfH-fikz-_Dj9RftnQztITCWhPFqPsb/s1600/Dry+River+Wilderness+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZFRdFUcRzwOZP3FkavkkJy4mVf3jLKPRRqsawwpawBLqTJKeUb5LiX3jfTAiDS6jAJQFu5GLRnLbG3kNJjufI4SWZ-Zuzg_2yHY0QbN2t6OTvqfH-fikz-_Dj9RftnQztITCWhPFqPsb/s400/Dry+River+Wilderness+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The boundary sign for the Presidential Range - Dry River Wilderness Area. When I reached this point I still had a long way to go to Mount Isolation.</span></td></tr>
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The first stretch of trail I hiked was the Rocky Branch Trail, which climbs westward over the Rocky Branch Ridge, across the broad ridge top, and then downward into the Rocky Branch River valley. When it reached the Rocky Branch River I would cross the river and take the Isolation Trail northward till it reached the Davis path on Montalban Ridge. There I would turn southward till I reached the short spur trail to Isolation's summit. So you can see this is rather a round-a-bout way to get to Isolation. But there is no straight path to the summit from the east. As I climbed through the birch forest on Rocky Branch Ridge, the trail was fairly easy on the legs. The footing was easy and a decent pace could be managed even under the mantle of darkness. The biggest problem with hiking at night wearing a headlamp is that your only source of light originates very close to your eyes. This means the topography you view has no shadows since they are cast directly away from your eyes. This reduces your depth perception, making rocks and roots appear slightly lower than they actually are. Consequently there tends to be a few more stubbed toes and stumbles than otherwise would occur in daylight. Okay, a lot more.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw69EaLSofJoW98pmcRS0USyEjKLxwObeSCenTxjCYZn9i0EN8bfvVqE_kNYm6mmLto6_wx4D6zdSC5OBX3zA7Efk_6IlCVmqN-pZ8rcmFvwsJtnur3B-RtzVReGU25PDOHhZrF6mx_NtC/s1600/Tiger+moth+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw69EaLSofJoW98pmcRS0USyEjKLxwObeSCenTxjCYZn9i0EN8bfvVqE_kNYm6mmLto6_wx4D6zdSC5OBX3zA7Efk_6IlCVmqN-pZ8rcmFvwsJtnur3B-RtzVReGU25PDOHhZrF6mx_NtC/s400/Tiger+moth+cat.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Tiger moth caterpillar found along the trail. I believe this may be Great Tiger Moth (Arctia caja), an inhabitant of northern latitudes and alpine habitat.</span></td></tr>
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When I reached the top of the Rocky Branch Ridge the trail started to pass through wet rocky meadows with dense grasses and sedges crowding the path. This made footing difficult to see and choose. I was soon stumbling and tripping frequently, which with my backpack's weight throwing me around as well, started to tire my legs and annoy me. It takes a good deal of strength and effort to recover from such mishaps without falling while wearing a pack. So the dark was adding quite a bit to the effort of the hike, and also slowing my progress considerably. My emotional state was still very positive despite this awkward hiking and my lack of sleep, for I was walking under a cloudless full moon in the mountains. It was a world of ethereal silver light, brilliant stars in an indigo sky, and fantasy.<br />
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The trail down the ridge into the Rocky Branch Valley alternated between open decent footing and densely vegetated wet rocky areas where I stumbled and frequently muddied my boots and pants. Unfortunately the wet rough stretches were longer and more common than the stretches that were open and leg friendly. Eventually I reached the Rocky Branch River and crossed over the dark water using rocks and boulders that stood above (or just below) the surface. My path to the mountain would cross and recross this river several times, and at periods of high water these crossing can be dangerous or impossible. But now in August, with the river still flowing well but much less than after the snow melt of Spring, they would be easy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSHcC58ZT_kIh-b3xxykhXLX4j9jxIZd54m19bg9UyV-x1vJ2f28kYW-_jS2yIxREO8MG23yGiutLb3bfLK16YzD58OE8nOJ8ZWkclP4FpTpEalez7uXBREfBtbDpswcZ5vbGn41wKfCh/s1600/Isolation+Trail+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSHcC58ZT_kIh-b3xxykhXLX4j9jxIZd54m19bg9UyV-x1vJ2f28kYW-_jS2yIxREO8MG23yGiutLb3bfLK16YzD58OE8nOJ8ZWkclP4FpTpEalez7uXBREfBtbDpswcZ5vbGn41wKfCh/s400/Isolation+Trail+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">After crossing the Rocky Branch Ridge into the Rocky Branch Valley, I finally cross the river and pick up the Isolation Trail. Time to head northward.</span></td></tr>
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After crossing the Rocky Branch River I turned northward along the Isolation Trail. I passed awkwardly through a very muddy stretch bordered by asters (probably Mountain Aster), Spotted Forget-me-nots, and Turtlehead flowers. It was a literal mud bath with several moments when I thought I would fall. It would have looked comical to anyone watching my gyrations. However there was no one there in the wilderness with me. So I could only laugh at myself.<br />
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The trail climbed slowly upwards, crossing and recrossing the river. I frequently encountered American Toads along the path, sometimes having to quickly adjust my steps to avoid stomping one. I was pleased that the white moths I had encountered on my last night hike in the Whites, the ones that kept flying into my headlamp (and eyes), were largely absent here and now. It was mostly just the toads and me among the mud and rocks this August night. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtelgXyX0F7dUSO-PXjfIc70EZxeVy5cGCpzmlCJOn1_PZ_VaUKkB8aXykeq3QgXCevJVq5L_Z5sQ0RB_ngCfLU-1LZYJxr3-iYaDVCxMe9hLVP8J_FrrmAhjT3yKREWcWuQjPbJqIb1LM/s1600/Trail+in+dark.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtelgXyX0F7dUSO-PXjfIc70EZxeVy5cGCpzmlCJOn1_PZ_VaUKkB8aXykeq3QgXCevJVq5L_Z5sQ0RB_ngCfLU-1LZYJxr3-iYaDVCxMe9hLVP8J_FrrmAhjT3yKREWcWuQjPbJqIb1LM/s400/Trail+in+dark.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Isolation Trail climbs northward in the valley of the Rocky Branch River.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUmvUw3MX-bAuMCOoc0PZ6XOde0nHC9zVhAUYj71Z7zdXGd7KZlsU1IN854kYwx53oKwrju_ctz_uiMWgj-8ixJD2dSkUJ4fZs20P5PCTg1ZpSvfAuKgfwNsDhiCni9zzqxmixmLjc-BRs/s1600/Toad+among+bunchberry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUmvUw3MX-bAuMCOoc0PZ6XOde0nHC9zVhAUYj71Z7zdXGd7KZlsU1IN854kYwx53oKwrju_ctz_uiMWgj-8ixJD2dSkUJ4fZs20P5PCTg1ZpSvfAuKgfwNsDhiCni9zzqxmixmLjc-BRs/s400/Toad+among+bunchberry.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">An American Toad (Bufo americanus) peeks out from under Bunchberry (Cornus candensis). Bunchberry was omnipresent along the route of my hike and is very common throughout the White Mountains.</span></td></tr>
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I was aware of the time as I hiked. I wanted to reach the open summit area as soon as possible to watch the Perseid Meteor shower which was peaking this night. The sky was cloudless at this time and I could see the full moon and brilliant stars through the forest's thinning canopy. Trying to push on faster only resulted in more stumbling, and more dramatic stumbles at that. I took few breaks along the way, trying to finish the trip to the summit as soon as possible. As the birch woodland began to be more and more mixed with conifers, I knew I was gaining significant elevation. The trail had finally turned away from the river and was now heading westward. The susurrus of the river faded and failed as I pushed higher into the hemlocks, spruces, and firs. At last I reached the junction with the Davis Path. To my right, along the Montalban Ridge, the Davis path ascended Mount Washington. I turned south. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZvQ895XQHLBCeV0etJtKJT_aVLEbCsf06PVn9H_cfxGJjnbOKIC2gKT-cAiywR3VuInAUQFOHh4Hwq9tbFj4DbjKYiycRvCVgHgxdHPlwBdtf459IJE6nz9svBPEEHux5RQvQwvCwCQ7/s1600/Mt.+Isolation+sign+Davis+Path.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZvQ895XQHLBCeV0etJtKJT_aVLEbCsf06PVn9H_cfxGJjnbOKIC2gKT-cAiywR3VuInAUQFOHh4Hwq9tbFj4DbjKYiycRvCVgHgxdHPlwBdtf459IJE6nz9svBPEEHux5RQvQwvCwCQ7/s400/Mt.+Isolation+sign+Davis+Path.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The junction with the Davis Path. The last leg of my hike in was now before me.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Ridge walking is cool. Ridge walking above treeline is even cooler. I was not above treeline however, I was in a wet coniferous forest. But it was ridge walking never-the-less. I was walking along the Montalban Ridge away from Mount Washington and towards Mount Isolation. It felt great to know that the greater bulk of the physical effort and time involved in reaching the peak was done. What didn't feel great was seeing that the sky was no longer free of clouds. Indeed it had been clouding up for the last hour or more. The forecast had been for clear skies. So why were clouds obscuring the heavens above me? Because Washington was making them.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9q3pVsgoWHkFL8tnj12OtVKBdza74x2iiVdXrOsOQWRKwrxx1JtUIQAAFXVJXx_etPPJpA958SRupMFo3f0HQWHm2SZ5w8zm-IrsCd-6zd58UroJRQ2HIO0oYhSbV2raaHTLxax_FUUqA/s1600/David+path+headed+south.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9q3pVsgoWHkFL8tnj12OtVKBdza74x2iiVdXrOsOQWRKwrxx1JtUIQAAFXVJXx_etPPJpA958SRupMFo3f0HQWHm2SZ5w8zm-IrsCd-6zd58UroJRQ2HIO0oYhSbV2raaHTLxax_FUUqA/s400/David+path+headed+south.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Davis path along Montalban Ridge. Though appearing deep in a coniferous forest, the path was actually following the spine of the ridge, with the Dry River Valley to my right and the Rocky Branch Valley to my left.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Mountains make their own weather. So while the skies all around were clear, Mount Washington was generating a cloud bank that stretched directly over the Dry River Wilderness as well as the summit of Mount Isolation. The northerly wind was being forced up over the summit of Washington, where it cooled and released moisture, forming a cloud mass on Washington's peak as well as to the south of her peak. Unfortunately for me, that was exactly where I was, hoping for clear skies and falling stars. So as I approached the summit of Isolation, I knew I would not be able to view the Persieds this night. Well at least the limits of the cloud cover did not reach to the horizons. So I would be able to watch the moon set and the sun rise.<br />
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I scrambled up the spur path to my 43rd White Mountain 4,000 footer and settled behind the summit cairn to break the wind. It was 4 AM. The sky was mostly clouds but the moon peeked out above the western horizon and the first dull glow of dawnlight could be seen above the Wildcat and Carter ranges to the east. I changed into a dry shirt and added a jacket, gloves, and hat since it was in the 50s with a steady northwesterly breeze. I also cracked open the bottle of ale and settled in. I figured I had about an hour before sunrise. The summit area of Isolation is a bald knob rimmed by firs and spruces. It was not the most comfortable place to stretch out but I was dog tired. I started to feel chilled and relented to the elements, pulling my sleeping bag out of my pack and wearing it like a cloak. Thus I spent the last hour before the dawn.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkuRQj5Shf0ujB6o6Ts0odsyXiUd5jgiqwrPJmkIDV4RYEp_ymxSJa42FnBvspvuXovzhriBZNyiL2-P6U2K1so0KpSOmAdDOm3dhO1PpZeGhsSBlmDLWEgqZB3cIyock409FBTTOS-Kq/s1600/Moon+Set.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkuRQj5Shf0ujB6o6Ts0odsyXiUd5jgiqwrPJmkIDV4RYEp_ymxSJa42FnBvspvuXovzhriBZNyiL2-P6U2K1so0KpSOmAdDOm3dhO1PpZeGhsSBlmDLWEgqZB3cIyock409FBTTOS-Kq/s400/Moon+Set.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The moon sets. As dawn crept into the sky, the bulk of Washington's cloud bank shredded and melted away. Ironic timing.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I did manage a few dim Perseid meteor sightings around the edges of the cloud mass before the dawn scrubbed away the darkness. The moon was setting in the west and the eastern horizon was glowing red, fuchsia, purple, orange, and pink. I got to my feet and stared at the unfolding majesty. Here in isolation, on Isolation, alone, I welcomed the glory of the dawn and bid adieu to the sinking disc of the moon. It is at the seam of night and day that the spark of life burns the brightest. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3gbOK9r26L-9VM__3DGjDE9gb5d8uEBe1aCgFUxQduKn-_YFeRUnaGO1j17zrhtsCTCmBRI9lV8LaX5Fw4lUhhnyFZALe-2FpZWqq7VJGAlK6KDXY8lLAu8ZiwM78NcbmX6QcPs-I5ZDs/s1600/Dawn+over+Cats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3gbOK9r26L-9VM__3DGjDE9gb5d8uEBe1aCgFUxQduKn-_YFeRUnaGO1j17zrhtsCTCmBRI9lV8LaX5Fw4lUhhnyFZALe-2FpZWqq7VJGAlK6KDXY8lLAu8ZiwM78NcbmX6QcPs-I5ZDs/s400/Dawn+over+Cats.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The glory of the dawn returns to the White Mountains.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCro8m1fhbx2lX8WktAyp7EIqrq9K4TEgjslnU0s_qPojp2u8Qo92yuB6hcE5tVuUhF-Hu6ByhAkMgfKjkHBXy54o7oDowZtYaltohbdFKFwXUIujoQV22-9HHjWXwtl6eztT88x17a36s/s1600/Dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCro8m1fhbx2lX8WktAyp7EIqrq9K4TEgjslnU0s_qPojp2u8Qo92yuB6hcE5tVuUhF-Hu6ByhAkMgfKjkHBXy54o7oDowZtYaltohbdFKFwXUIujoQV22-9HHjWXwtl6eztT88x17a36s/s400/Dawn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Standing on Isolation, looking south of east, I watch the the colors of the dawn usher in the Chariot of Apollo.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As the dawnlight chased away the shadows of the night, I watched intently for the moment when the disc of the sun would break above the slopes of the Wildcats and the Carters. And then it was there, suddenly a brilliant point of light on the horizon. Sunrise. The night was over. It had held no sleep for me but this I did not regret. Most people never have the opportunity to see what I saw this morn, the setting of the full moon and the rising of the sun from the summit of a wilderness mountain peak.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeSVuRY3W7-e-uYyd1ehtZpvmhymvEZD1yx1Ggh4TLszPB1rDMkCxaDJTqXPvWqlnBbyQ1xpg78q59DwiDLE1aJbY1pGLwzxD9_a1cKaHgtuz8VQjMLQTZXXIZ0VSfkTklgpqNH0-Bj2I8/s1600/Sunrise+over+Cats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeSVuRY3W7-e-uYyd1ehtZpvmhymvEZD1yx1Ggh4TLszPB1rDMkCxaDJTqXPvWqlnBbyQ1xpg78q59DwiDLE1aJbY1pGLwzxD9_a1cKaHgtuz8VQjMLQTZXXIZ0VSfkTklgpqNH0-Bj2I8/s400/Sunrise+over+Cats.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The moment of sunrise. Sol returns, peeking over the slopes of the Wildcats and Carters.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I watched the sun quickly rise clear of the horizon. The cloud bank that Washington had generated in the last hours of the night was largely gone but a lenticular-like cloud cap still sat on her summit and stretched away to the southwest. As the increasing light returned the color green to the world around me, I began my morning ritual, making coffee.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDCCoHsxqVt5rWxEIBdCVhZYcrcbJVAggOLogPcBciN9WLOqr-mngjZni6F90x_NcCLO20gR05iIr4sqacob9-FZsaq4G4TPZUxNBrG6aAZHdXEfvNq4-swP2afkHLJGoKGr_IvCzJHvb/s1600/Washington+making+clouds+at+dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDCCoHsxqVt5rWxEIBdCVhZYcrcbJVAggOLogPcBciN9WLOqr-mngjZni6F90x_NcCLO20gR05iIr4sqacob9-FZsaq4G4TPZUxNBrG6aAZHdXEfvNq4-swP2afkHLJGoKGr_IvCzJHvb/s400/Washington+making+clouds+at+dawn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Though the bulk of of the clouds had disappeared, the summit of Mount Washington remained enshrouded.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I spent the next hour slowly breakfasting, drinking coffee, enjoying the solitude, and gazing at the world around me. From my perch I could see many peaks, including Washington, Monroe, Eisenhower, Jackson, Mousilaukee, Lafayette, Carter Dome, Pierce, and many others. I could see the dramatic cirque below Monroe and Washington called Oakes Gulf. The spiking peak of Boot Spur stood out 1,200 feet above me but 800 feet below the summit of Washington. Silhouetted in the distant east I could see some of the mountains of Maine. And all this beauty unfolded to the sound track of Cedar Waxwings, Yellow-rumped Warblers, Juncos, and White-winged Crossbills.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizvkFxUI-9_Omv6ispGvxaI0UvSue5q7H-__0A2L7VlsouzGvtzSydAxE_JPta_OkCdHsjINes84nZ18wPndkNNEF9TKf_m3xCQzzgdtN9ZtIifzC7Bt1QTrdAEB5i69vUFVAGjTkfiAz/s1600/Looking+west.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizvkFxUI-9_Omv6ispGvxaI0UvSue5q7H-__0A2L7VlsouzGvtzSydAxE_JPta_OkCdHsjINes84nZ18wPndkNNEF9TKf_m3xCQzzgdtN9ZtIifzC7Bt1QTrdAEB5i69vUFVAGjTkfiAz/s400/Looking+west.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mount Carrigain as seen from Isolation.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nWOFufrA-kvBcNu3zzL1PFyw3ll5Oufpq5HOxaAKN1eIzWjdVcwisZo5L4CJcaK1Z6oNrBj2RAdkCNvM_YXN_t6mzjaQXdsfFWyikyRABf1S07Jg_8et-9OKgRnDY8U_SgMB7YANbxRw/s1600/Spruce+in+cone.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nWOFufrA-kvBcNu3zzL1PFyw3ll5Oufpq5HOxaAKN1eIzWjdVcwisZo5L4CJcaK1Z6oNrBj2RAdkCNvM_YXN_t6mzjaQXdsfFWyikyRABf1S07Jg_8et-9OKgRnDY8U_SgMB7YANbxRw/s400/Spruce+in+cone.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Red Spruce (Picea rubens) on the summit of Isolation (Thank you Janet!). The bald knob of Isolation has enough exposure to create a small sampling of the krummholz and dwarfed spruces, including Black Spruce, that are far more common on the higher summits.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzJAdjFH8M-ZXtZ4I3oeP2yc9WU28KLntMg22FV0kluvi46cVhjGwzPCEDpXWrjz43B-p12y0AimSM7L-NH-7ys8YQN1wkI99BCLvLlEsMywPclMhyXGRXxfiTze8daKThtjHMYEPq7az/s1600/Spruce+cone.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzJAdjFH8M-ZXtZ4I3oeP2yc9WU28KLntMg22FV0kluvi46cVhjGwzPCEDpXWrjz43B-p12y0AimSM7L-NH-7ys8YQN1wkI99BCLvLlEsMywPclMhyXGRXxfiTze8daKThtjHMYEPq7az/s400/Spruce+cone.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A closer view of a Red Spruce cone. Spruce cones hang downward while Balsam Fir cones point upwards.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkW9F3cgEf86gngnFRxPeh_DcIMGsN-eNqvQnaFc9WGx_Mx9qyBIFYDZJXNFGsvDJMxWMH-JUy43MtDy1u2oY-4AiebIdtDCp8oJNUbLk28mF0dGemNscFnjdKA8oJFTZwycOtGriLGSW/s1600/Looking+south+of+east.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkW9F3cgEf86gngnFRxPeh_DcIMGsN-eNqvQnaFc9WGx_Mx9qyBIFYDZJXNFGsvDJMxWMH-JUy43MtDy1u2oY-4AiebIdtDCp8oJNUbLk28mF0dGemNscFnjdKA8oJFTZwycOtGriLGSW/s400/Looking+south+of+east.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Silhouetted against the dawn the many ridges and peaks to the east of Isolation. The conical peak dominating the right side of the view is Kearsarge North, elevation 3,268 feet. The horizon beyond is the state of Maine.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnlZIw7AvLDoTKo29MAfFVl6o-vmoTYWJeqsm2hGr2RwY49975dgBA3juj0ZD2UG5kneI1UWQZ6x6GSxnrTuYLuBI9AoyzpZ6QK65OVa4dhoahDzbZuEbE2qBY7IgYNxFWJ5rlFF6JUPy/s1600/Mountain+Cranberry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnlZIw7AvLDoTKo29MAfFVl6o-vmoTYWJeqsm2hGr2RwY49975dgBA3juj0ZD2UG5kneI1UWQZ6x6GSxnrTuYLuBI9AoyzpZ6QK65OVa4dhoahDzbZuEbE2qBY7IgYNxFWJ5rlFF6JUPy/s400/Mountain+Cranberry.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mountain Cranberry (Vaccinium vitis-idaea). A mat forming shrub of the alpine zone. Called Lingonberry in the Old World. Photographed on the summit of Mount Isolation.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1iKYM_nfNZx7hqYHuPRJ3QDQY41RH7r60CIMonxVoQP-kuywZYMm4xXa_8Z1SjVz9D5pjrTdxJ7KfYfw4VPjckgQJOKs-_FNHCLnhCDCb9undlu9NEOlExUTVJJrJaOt5GEjRp5osIeM/s1600/USGS+marker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1iKYM_nfNZx7hqYHuPRJ3QDQY41RH7r60CIMonxVoQP-kuywZYMm4xXa_8Z1SjVz9D5pjrTdxJ7KfYfw4VPjckgQJOKs-_FNHCLnhCDCb9undlu9NEOlExUTVJJrJaOt5GEjRp5osIeM/s400/USGS+marker.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">US Geological Survey marker for Mount Isolation's summit. I actually sat on this unknowingly during my vigil for the dawn.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P-oxA0KF1RNCFaPIUZTdJHKthyxGpM7eHjVmLoyF77bZY0lgjS5JqDgCLkEQyz3SncEK1t2AIAJomVVBU5ngAEZD1DFp4FRZOmxHw9mvWks7ybxbK_I99Mmt0mU-zm-XFL3vD_sxps0Z/s1600/Oak+Gulf+Dry+River+Wilderness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P-oxA0KF1RNCFaPIUZTdJHKthyxGpM7eHjVmLoyF77bZY0lgjS5JqDgCLkEQyz3SncEK1t2AIAJomVVBU5ngAEZD1DFp4FRZOmxHw9mvWks7ybxbK_I99Mmt0mU-zm-XFL3vD_sxps0Z/s400/Oak+Gulf+Dry+River+Wilderness.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking toward Mount Washington. In the foreground the Montalban Ridge climbs towards Boot Spur. Mount Washington's summit is capped in cloud. Mount Monroe dominates the ridge of the southern Presidentials (left of center) with Mount Franklin immediately to its left. Oakes Gulf lies over Montalban Ridge and below Mount Monroe and Washington.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZky1ozcN3DIpFbF6GHN52l_dwygHf3mebl4NPDFN_Kg8CcSy5nv_0E8ZZ_519upRSm-QaWx9isCfMIuPFYys2OBc0j7An8kPXAYpd__ezVngCTf2njEHUC4KU6_Y5PaUPYl6IlRLdbAt/s1600/Jackson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZky1ozcN3DIpFbF6GHN52l_dwygHf3mebl4NPDFN_Kg8CcSy5nv_0E8ZZ_519upRSm-QaWx9isCfMIuPFYys2OBc0j7An8kPXAYpd__ezVngCTf2njEHUC4KU6_Y5PaUPYl6IlRLdbAt/s400/Jackson.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the center foreground is Mount Jackson, a slight bump in the ridge line. Beyond that, seen as a dark line of peaks, from left to right is Mount Willey, Mount Field, and Mount Tom. On the horizon behind are Mount Lincoln and Mount Lafayette.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmzYGueKh7B0zXVYt6v4czYnhNWCagCYrTr_38YJBhX0wClblrtyF6o0FZHW7Vqkg8zk9WCr_MJuCxBdeZpIl3ODx_0l4C17EO8bQfM72cwPBP7dTzo97Zbj7zat_J0SPWkh3hgEe13t8/s1600/Eisenhower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmzYGueKh7B0zXVYt6v4czYnhNWCagCYrTr_38YJBhX0wClblrtyF6o0FZHW7Vqkg8zk9WCr_MJuCxBdeZpIl3ODx_0l4C17EO8bQfM72cwPBP7dTzo97Zbj7zat_J0SPWkh3hgEe13t8/s400/Eisenhower.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mount Eisenhower as seen from Mount Isolation.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The sun was well up by the time I decided I was ready to head back out. I was not anywhere near as tired as I feared I might be, having stayed up all night. Still I had a more than 7 mile walk out to do. Footing would be considerably easier in the light of day, at least I hoped so. I was curious if I would encounter anyone on the trail. Isolation is not one of the peaks that gets a lot of traffic but it was a beautiful Saturday. The weather forecast for the next day was heavy rain, so I thought I might well encounter some fellow hikers today.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTv6QNjdU0N-o0u_nJacI8cj_cxk2-nkFcCZjOvKMGr75om4ZjdWpX8oO7u_jC6zpIVX2Qrrt9xMPGXf0x-xyf1OJRIkBsNVm0kMepTpdAOccknZUnmwgeitqwdR3nlp7Xxt0TMtNZj31/s1600/Leaving+summit.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTv6QNjdU0N-o0u_nJacI8cj_cxk2-nkFcCZjOvKMGr75om4ZjdWpX8oO7u_jC6zpIVX2Qrrt9xMPGXf0x-xyf1OJRIkBsNVm0kMepTpdAOccknZUnmwgeitqwdR3nlp7Xxt0TMtNZj31/s400/Leaving+summit.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The exit from the summit of Mount Isolation.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Much of the return trip seemed interestingly different in daylight. The areas of mud were quite familiar though, regrettably. During the night, under the artificial light of my LED headlamp, I had stepped on many "rocks" in the muddy stretches that had turned out be not rocks at all but illusions caused by the mud and dim light. Now at least I could see what really were rocks and what were not.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1ezWUFHNCE-FXyIShWusMz84LXjERSV3-OmUY99m-H_wOJF_SduFqlugxlwCxy8tUibZU7TOr7ZWpBbTKQyXP02_ViTBNZ9Ofzbys_wbT0JLHqxW02t_XaJiYltVEo0GrB_ynQAS23ZN/s1600/Bog+bridge.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1ezWUFHNCE-FXyIShWusMz84LXjERSV3-OmUY99m-H_wOJF_SduFqlugxlwCxy8tUibZU7TOr7ZWpBbTKQyXP02_ViTBNZ9Ofzbys_wbT0JLHqxW02t_XaJiYltVEo0GrB_ynQAS23ZN/s400/Bog+bridge.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A "Bog Bridge" is a log split length-wise and secured over a muddy or environmentally sensitive area. This bog bridge is fairly rotten and in need of replacement, as many were on the stretch of the Davis Path that I walked. </span></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8P2ZLMMPVKh-3nsSheDfj9q6fDgooNanj8ynIFdlLo-dARhaQFc4yg2lXz1rFppaXIPUzgE80UldADGAz-Zctfy8U2NOZt9JoSRC0uA_QkFHcN-6W43vk3PkOnWDiMYTkGUPINhjsyN7/s1600/Trail+leaving+summit+area.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8P2ZLMMPVKh-3nsSheDfj9q6fDgooNanj8ynIFdlLo-dARhaQFc4yg2lXz1rFppaXIPUzgE80UldADGAz-Zctfy8U2NOZt9JoSRC0uA_QkFHcN-6W43vk3PkOnWDiMYTkGUPINhjsyN7/s400/Trail+leaving+summit+area.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">In daylight Isolation Trail looked much more open and airy than it had seemed at night. Then it felt close and tunnel like.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5zh1pCFrsRVTvNLay6NsiCHDYkH77HB_FH-wmCK_Sh8PlUm6WJ4GMzdXW3aX0J4Rn_6xRXjPNMYEiti4-dYhNbKT3pXCdOzVR5UputJbkWo53pfnzXP31mXghTGuN6ntk9Ob2d198-wR/s1600/Fallen+log+jam.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz5zh1pCFrsRVTvNLay6NsiCHDYkH77HB_FH-wmCK_Sh8PlUm6WJ4GMzdXW3aX0J4Rn_6xRXjPNMYEiti4-dYhNbKT3pXCdOzVR5UputJbkWo53pfnzXP31mXghTGuN6ntk9Ob2d198-wR/s400/Fallen+log+jam.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trails in the wilderness need upkeep or the forest will reclaim them. This trail is far from a road and sees little traffic relatively speaking. Consequently the trail work is sporadic and sometimes lacking. This stretch is choked with fallen trees that require an axe or a chain saw to clear, but it is a long way to carry one to get there. Those who volunteer for trail maintenance are a generous and hardy lot.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzD3wiirhGnE1wAH6fm-3dC3nnR93Q3G5AZLz21ltlFQ5OO5F-hvIlx6IcbPpEhYeHfLAuN8-ncWPIDa8ZHFEeDXC68TLT5F8Mvdgw6YUDm6SNUNuH5PbwqCnHByNLNzKZNP-C2IHmTWb/s1600/Stream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzD3wiirhGnE1wAH6fm-3dC3nnR93Q3G5AZLz21ltlFQ5OO5F-hvIlx6IcbPpEhYeHfLAuN8-ncWPIDa8ZHFEeDXC68TLT5F8Mvdgw6YUDm6SNUNuH5PbwqCnHByNLNzKZNP-C2IHmTWb/s400/Stream.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the crossings of the Rocky Branch River.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMaMRD8WNZHtOp8BBp6bDqygY6Ok-rmN5p6-TLzAF8ONmsxxy8Oy-RD4rW4MvUC0EGOqyH9G_pL-3eFFjRs8awQBQlamr2E7OJOui67AzA6HWZNIC4KG6YfNYvcEIAWJYDNX3cGe8e2ze/s1600/Stream+2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMaMRD8WNZHtOp8BBp6bDqygY6Ok-rmN5p6-TLzAF8ONmsxxy8Oy-RD4rW4MvUC0EGOqyH9G_pL-3eFFjRs8awQBQlamr2E7OJOui67AzA6HWZNIC4KG6YfNYvcEIAWJYDNX3cGe8e2ze/s400/Stream+2.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Rocky Branch River where the Rocky Branch Trail meets the Isolation Trail.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As I hiked out I started to encounter the birds of the northern forest. As summer moves towards Fall, birdsong falters and the woodlands grow less musical. I did encounter a large flock of neotropical migrants, Wood Warblers of a number of species. These birds form large post-breeding feeding flocks. I spent several minutes looking through the flock to try to identify all the species present, not easy without binoculars. I also heard a Yellow-bellied Flycatcher call, surprisingly the only individual I encountered in these mountains this Summer.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHa_SBOXkmL6o3Wb7-El5UOcCnjKcJLkH432LjhSPFASA3k2ntijdnBjMRh00LX0vCbMYoS0sgsv68cseEVnSv9xZWDZ6EqiDgJgdB_a6-P8oenMklZFBXJKmDiprsPsLorsWA_4IOA5V4/s1600/Orange+shroom.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHa_SBOXkmL6o3Wb7-El5UOcCnjKcJLkH432LjhSPFASA3k2ntijdnBjMRh00LX0vCbMYoS0sgsv68cseEVnSv9xZWDZ6EqiDgJgdB_a6-P8oenMklZFBXJKmDiprsPsLorsWA_4IOA5V4/s400/Orange+shroom.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A gorgeous mushroom along the trail. I am no mycologist, that's for sure, but perhaps one in the Amanita group? If you can offer identification help please post a comment!</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbqS90UxADnw-bMnxlxgT8W27Oyz1DDoKBJvc4ASBkehiDwYuasGxXKOCYmBME5a9qeoEBFF8vlqkELNu_akNAPn1DH9sqyoU5NSOsZzyv7aXU4iZgnwdbSSWRgDSxljIR1m5dKVHODoDi/s1600/Turtle+head+flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbqS90UxADnw-bMnxlxgT8W27Oyz1DDoKBJvc4ASBkehiDwYuasGxXKOCYmBME5a9qeoEBFF8vlqkELNu_akNAPn1DH9sqyoU5NSOsZzyv7aXU4iZgnwdbSSWRgDSxljIR1m5dKVHODoDi/s400/Turtle+head+flower.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The oddly shaped flower, Turtlehead (Chelone glabra). This plant is found on stream banks and wet ground. Frankly I'm surprised I didn't find millions of these considering how wet much of my hike was!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Pcho-AmVq8XO6iu2OR_zn2YAfoqReEU-prm-sXt3cN8I05p0QdwCa-uVXw12R5bfZ7XBGDDfE2m7p-GRuAjsvCzf3Sk0u3RN9JVa7kVNFkyeIDKHTYbsfYyMFgXYUHlvfklI1jmjJmL_/s1600/Sphinx+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Pcho-AmVq8XO6iu2OR_zn2YAfoqReEU-prm-sXt3cN8I05p0QdwCa-uVXw12R5bfZ7XBGDDfE2m7p-GRuAjsvCzf3Sk0u3RN9JVa7kVNFkyeIDKHTYbsfYyMFgXYUHlvfklI1jmjJmL_/s400/Sphinx+cat.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A gorgeous Sphinx Moth caterpillar found along the way out. I believe this is Walnut Sphinx (Amorpha juglandis).</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>About halfway out I encountered my first inbound hikers, two women headed for Isolation. We spoke for a short while during which one of them said I must have made an early start to be headed out already. When I told them I had hiked during the night, skipping sleep to try and view the Perseids without success, one of the ladies spoke a very profound truth. She said, "Sometimes you can work really hard for something and it still doesn't work out." Amen to that. At least as far as the Perseids, in every other respect however, my hike had paid handsome and priceless rewards. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2no2bK9rLYyKJ8utv2NlUoLpPGb0Tqv0q9M4NV9kewXO_ge-tquqhE8F1uu0F26IgbEs7gl7UoijjKaHv01UuTWSJWdFR6vmdXzC6LJaTLHwfXvh1mbwGmycqjSDIhn2IKnMwbrbR0P-/s1600/Widow+maker+on+way+in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2no2bK9rLYyKJ8utv2NlUoLpPGb0Tqv0q9M4NV9kewXO_ge-tquqhE8F1uu0F26IgbEs7gl7UoijjKaHv01UuTWSJWdFR6vmdXzC6LJaTLHwfXvh1mbwGmycqjSDIhn2IKnMwbrbR0P-/s400/Widow+maker+on+way+in.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The widowmaker near the start of the hike seen in daylight. If anything it looks nastier by day, especially since I could see how little is keeping it from crashing the rest of the way to the ground.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I was nearly out when I encountered a man and his wife doing trail maintenance. We talked for some time as they told me about their efforts to maintain a section of the Rocky Branch Trail and about the path their lives had taken. They were retired and had always been hikers of these crystal hills. In retirement they chose to move from southern New England to the White Mountains of New Hampshire. As the man stated, "We decided to quit driving here every weekend and moved here instead." I deeply respect and appreciate the effort they and others like them make to maintain these trails on a volunteer basis. Hiking these trails is physically demanding. But it is no where near as demanding as maintaining them.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ajLOld_bEJDlLKJMA0SynnDARmXiOnanGuWbPMy2WMXoxBJJGtSNZisles-E1w9o1q5STK9T2-qlRiGM3rMFqbXtnV0hsFJF4y-9o8DPSsSMC0kn1j6UiurnglmRXXUOYQLrpPDywkEp/s1600/Spotted+forget+me+not.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ajLOld_bEJDlLKJMA0SynnDARmXiOnanGuWbPMy2WMXoxBJJGtSNZisles-E1w9o1q5STK9T2-qlRiGM3rMFqbXtnV0hsFJF4y-9o8DPSsSMC0kn1j6UiurnglmRXXUOYQLrpPDywkEp/s400/Spotted+forget+me+not.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Orange Jewelweed or Spotted-Touch-Me-Not (Impatiens capensis). Hiking the trails of the White Mounatins in Spring and Summer is always rewarded with beautiful blooms.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Saying goodbye to the trail volunteers I finished the last leg out to my car. It was now mid day. I popped open the trunk to stow my gear and get clean dry (not mud encrusted) clothes to change into. It had been a rewarding night hike that added yet another beautiful memory to my life. As I ruminated on this I shifted my gear in the trunk and saw the remaining Tuckerman's Pale Ales. They must be hot by now I thought. Touching one of the bottles I was elated to feel they were still cold from the night in the mountains. With a huge grin I popped one open and pulled a well earned hop laced swig. After all, it was 5 oclock somewhere.<br />
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Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-59187288172437260662011-08-06T14:22:00.008-04:002011-08-08T13:45:20.977-04:00Moonlight and Mad(ison)ness! Part 2<div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><span class="body">"Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.</span>" - Allen Ginsberg</blockquote></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMUbhecrok7heKcwJlhUC_W5ARqWtI6Ce7iCJZNxRnXDiPScwEkziwp9eUfw250mXijA4lExG50AyWmM-iyQAJZaGVKY1isqhyIMK_Q7XK7tzAhvdc5-_kaTwLIu8gGKbYlE5UY9lleYP/s1600/Appalachia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMUbhecrok7heKcwJlhUC_W5ARqWtI6Ce7iCJZNxRnXDiPScwEkziwp9eUfw250mXijA4lExG50AyWmM-iyQAJZaGVKY1isqhyIMK_Q7XK7tzAhvdc5-_kaTwLIu8gGKbYlE5UY9lleYP/s400/Appalachia.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Appalachia Trailhead. This trailhead is famous among those who tread the trails of the Presidential Range of the White Mountains. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The coffee was hot. More importantly it held that drug of wakefulness, caffeine. I cravenly welcomed it as the true supplicant I was. The day was getting on after the noon hour and it was getting hot. I was driving along New Hampshire Route 2 towards my next trailhead, Appalachia. It was at Appalachia that my second hike of the day would begin. I had started hiking at 11 PM the night before, and though I had taken a two or three hour nap on the summit of Garfield, I was feeling a bit drained by the 10 miles of that hike and by the lack of sleep. The next hike would also be roughly 10 miles but it would entail a more difficult hike with greater elevation gain than the last one. I knew this could be one of the toughest hiking days I would have in many years. That is not to say that hiking 20 miles in the White Mountains is a superhuman accomplishment, it surely isn't. But is is no stroll in the park either. Still, "Hope springs eternal," or "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Insert the most apropos cliche of your choice here.<br />
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When I arrived at the parking area for the Appalachia I saw it was full of cars and spillover parking was lining the road before and after the lot. This is not surprising as this is a very popular trailhead. So much for getting away from the crowds. Many Randolph Mountain Club trails can be accessed from this trailhead, which lies to the north of the northern Presidentials. The lot being still full at this hour, I also parked along the road and started to get my gear in order. The roadside was hot and dusty, and I was soon sweating just standing under the blazing sun. I reorganized my gear to go lighter on this hike. I did not need my sleeping bag, JetBoil Stove, extra food, etc. I just needed emergency gear, lots of water, and a little food. I could also get water along the way, either from the AMC Madison Springs Hut or from natural sources. I did take the rest of the wine with me though.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZMKRf7d1FxlApM4MtZgSktFc6RqzISufmwxn-_PoGpSq9GuS3o3UuyVkWglvZIbjM7velSMu8Zhc-clHIo2_hJPxMKdy5ZmnzQqR3dPWf0yG2PwA21ggxFayTb1o23yh5xorttUecJ40/s1600/Airline+Sign.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZMKRf7d1FxlApM4MtZgSktFc6RqzISufmwxn-_PoGpSq9GuS3o3UuyVkWglvZIbjM7velSMu8Zhc-clHIo2_hJPxMKdy5ZmnzQqR3dPWf0yG2PwA21ggxFayTb1o23yh5xorttUecJ40/s400/Airline+Sign.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">First decision point. I chose the Airline Trail.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>My pack shouldered, it was time to hike some more. I walked along the road as many bikers with numbers pinned on their backs pedaled past. Some organized road race was clearly underway this day. Turning into the parking area I walked passed cars with plates from many nearby states. I saw Massachusetts, Maine, Vermont, Rhode Island, New Hampshire of course, Quebec, New York, Maryland, New Jersey, and Connecticut. A popular trailhead indeed. A local police cruiser moved slowly through the parked cars. Unfortunately this lot has seen many vehicle break ins over the years since the evil-doers know the owners are a long way off hiking.<br />
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After stopping to quickly photograph the trailhead sign, I entered the verdant and moist woodlands at the feet of the White Mountains once again. At this low elevation, and in the heat of the midday sun, I was greeted by only one singing bird, a Red-eyed Vireo of course. Very shortly into this hike, if you are going to ascend Mt Adams or Mt. Madison, you must choose which trail you will start upwards upon. I should have read the guide book about the nature and lay of the trails prior to this choice but I had not. I simply referred to the map and chose the Airline Trail based on its course across the terrain. It would skirt the eastern rim of the dramatic King Ravine, formed by a spur of Mt. Adams and spur shared by Adams and Madison, once it broke above treeline. I very much wanted to experience the view from the edge of the ravine. But it would prove to be a more taxing climb than I was mentally prepared for in my already fatigued state. However had I made my choice and Airline Trail it was. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12IC5c20TiLdrkkGTwxjuEcBCHJIDCId3UTH6M59C-CuUE8tlz7Qr0IufwhH1l5YEE8D4lvrPiivNJdDDciz6T4L9bAZv0Oa7MSHp1GhIgqnaiqjp7Ighgyt39aeXPM4sc4QM1gmzosFe/s1600/Coral+fungus.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12IC5c20TiLdrkkGTwxjuEcBCHJIDCId3UTH6M59C-CuUE8tlz7Qr0IufwhH1l5YEE8D4lvrPiivNJdDDciz6T4L9bAZv0Oa7MSHp1GhIgqnaiqjp7Ighgyt39aeXPM4sc4QM1gmzosFe/s400/Coral+fungus.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A fascinating fungus of the genus Ramaria. I am no expect here. I believe it is referred to as "Coral fungus." If you can add info please post a comment.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The trail started to climb on a gentle slope but I was soon sweating heavily in the cloyingly warm humid air. My mind wandered while my legs mechanically pushed upwards. If you can still daydream while you are hiking than you are not in bad shape. It is when can't think of anything but the physical discomfort afflicting you that you are starting to get burned out. At this point I was thinking about the upper stretches of the hike, the area above treeline. The weather was excellent and the views should be spectacular. This region of the White Mountains is called the northern Presidentials. It consists of an arc of the highest summits in these crystal hills. Starting with Mount Washington as the southern anchor, these peaks fall in a crescent shaped arc with the open end being the Great Gulf, which points roughly northeast. The other peaks working along the arc away from that penultimate peak, are Clay, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison. Today's target was the terminal peak Madison, elevation just under 5,400 feet. With Jefferson, Madison was one of two peaks along this arc I had never visited.<br />
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My wandering mind was slowly recalled to the present as the trail started to increase in steepness and ruggedness. The trail bed was mainly large splintered and tumbled boulders. My already tired legs were starting to burn and I was now using my trekking poles aggressively to transfer as much effort to my arms as I could. Think of climbing a staircase for an hour or two, a staircase where each step varies in height and each tread is broken, angled every which way, and often slippery to boot. It's tough to get old. It's tougher to get old and hike 20 miles in the mountains! The first time I hiked these hills I was 23. That was some 29 years ago...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JlBCpU4lwtfltTx_lxJZiJ5K0hXKaz66VsiD77TAS2Hi8a8E0KtyUg8EEf6sKgObdHafqC8uV4FiKTMkPHjkelfxQI2BG_21R4PajTYHAOlscjmYeCZBSuJOd1kfg1Vj972agsHB3O-z/s1600/Airline+climb.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JlBCpU4lwtfltTx_lxJZiJ5K0hXKaz66VsiD77TAS2Hi8a8E0KtyUg8EEf6sKgObdHafqC8uV4FiKTMkPHjkelfxQI2BG_21R4PajTYHAOlscjmYeCZBSuJOd1kfg1Vj972agsHB3O-z/s400/Airline+climb.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Airline Trail gets steeper and rougher. At this point my joie de vivre was starting to have its feelings hurt.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Onward and Upward I plodded. I passed no one and no one passed me. My energy waned as the day grew older and I sweated heavily. I started to wonder if I was up to completing this hike after having already hiked up and down Garfield. I have long known that my expectations of what I can accomplish sometimes exceeds what I should attempt. But how does one know when too much is indeed too much? I looked at the time and decided to set temporal goals. If I did not break above treeline by a certain time I would turn back. This is what I told myself anyway. Sometimes when you perceive the end to a task, the task becomes easier, finite, more "doable." So I had given myself an out, and that made me feel better. Mentally at least.<br />
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I had been grinding upwards over the shattered bones of the mountain for almost two hours when I met my first downward bound hiker. A gentleman in his sixties, or maybe even seventies, was slowly clattering down the stony trail. I say "clattering" because the that is exactly the sound trekking pole tips striking stone makes. When he drew nigh we had a brief conversation. After saying hello he asked my intended destination and route. When I told him I was planning on summitting Madison and then hiking back out again he looked a bit dubious. I wondered if I looked that badly thrashed! He passed the judgment that if I set a good pace I might make it before dark. I didn't care if it was dark when I finished or not actually. I just wanted to finish...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7R_HzzUWXZ6lGNnlWTM8CwiUT2UVFnN04QR45rgK-kfGJ5DAmvlXEgPxUw971dA6v493A8vZ3E7fiqDeLazAsJz23l1Z7Ee3uiBDTyV4yM4g6d8N-kaiKETJQyVAjX-omATMl13kwyeM/s1600/Airline+flat+stretch+high.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7R_HzzUWXZ6lGNnlWTM8CwiUT2UVFnN04QR45rgK-kfGJ5DAmvlXEgPxUw971dA6v493A8vZ3E7fiqDeLazAsJz23l1Z7Ee3uiBDTyV4yM4g6d8N-kaiKETJQyVAjX-omATMl13kwyeM/s400/Airline+flat+stretch+high.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mercifully the trail's angle of ascent moderated and the trail bed become more friendly.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>After passing the elder hiker I soon hit a stretch of trail that was less steep and actually had dirt instead of jumbled stone for a bed. This was most welcomed by my burning legs and wounded psyche. I was now also being passed by more and more downward bound hikers. This is a sure sign the day was getting on towards evening and hikers were heading home. The more friendly stretch of trail soon failed however and I was scrambling upwards on boulders once again. As you approach the treeline on the higher peaks you usually encounter USFS signs warning of the dangers of high, exposed elevation in the Whites. Many people have died on these mountains and not many years go by without more fatalities being added to the roll call. More often however, hikers get injured and need rescuing by dedicated Search and Rescue personnel. Fatigue often plays a role in hikers getting disabled and I was mindful of my fatigued state.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOti6TRNcQwCXg-00kL3Li0to3hyevjUk2YrOU699z2IY5eZFTEO_ai3n9DWbLPJ07cbgWgw8D2i3-FPrabX-aFWi5Ku9edA4n4qi26-OaKkUOqhH5idzOCSnM8OiNihaAJq8Vi-lfnIx/s1600/Alpine+warning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOti6TRNcQwCXg-00kL3Li0to3hyevjUk2YrOU699z2IY5eZFTEO_ai3n9DWbLPJ07cbgWgw8D2i3-FPrabX-aFWi5Ku9edA4n4qi26-OaKkUOqhH5idzOCSnM8OiNihaAJq8Vi-lfnIx/s400/Alpine+warning.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Standard USFS warning of the dangers inherent on the high slopes of the White Mountains.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was when the trees along the trail's route become predominantly spruce and fir that I knew I would soon climb above treeline and be rewarded for my efforts. Words simply cannot convey what it feels like to be on a mountain trail above the line where trees no longer can survive the exposure and harsh winter clime. It is a transcendent feeling, as though you have entered the world of the gods. Why the Greeks chose Mount Olympus as the home for their deities is very clear once you have walked lofty montane slopes yourself. <br />
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Finally the trees became stunted riven shadows of their lower elevation kin. This is known as "krummholz," literally "Twisted Bent Wood." As I entered this last band of forest, which was mostly shorter than I was, the panoply of the mountains lay before me. To my right was the headwall of King Ravine, and above that, Mt. Adams. To my left, rising along the mountain spur upon which I was treading, I had my first view of my goal, the summit cone of Mt. Madison. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZQUUwjR24KD2-g61FbuDhtYD1g5zPb4GskVyLnK8Jp-r2VERFJsi5Rc3AyCm3UrOtEglm-MaM900NIT2_P2OTp8kqJjKbwBopOi3pURC4jKNWKkM5XIEFRiYviV0pIozveUSIjER7vZc/s1600/Adams+first+look.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZQUUwjR24KD2-g61FbuDhtYD1g5zPb4GskVyLnK8Jp-r2VERFJsi5Rc3AyCm3UrOtEglm-MaM900NIT2_P2OTp8kqJjKbwBopOi3pURC4jKNWKkM5XIEFRiYviV0pIozveUSIjER7vZc/s400/Adams+first+look.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Amongst the krummholz I get my first view of King Ravine and Mt Adams.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcua2qj2KkjuQiDDF1HUh6YfOg3Xqz9kWwKZdAeiCQZSn_shI0QJT75pFJPAOaQybgPxD0Gi4cB6-QN_kpm6Y-zHZEVIyZzbsJcARGPtxPrF8DzyN6mDtIYkvgGh49DuGu19OgVasfpdDq/s1600/Madison+first+look.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcua2qj2KkjuQiDDF1HUh6YfOg3Xqz9kWwKZdAeiCQZSn_shI0QJT75pFJPAOaQybgPxD0Gi4cB6-QN_kpm6Y-zHZEVIyZzbsJcARGPtxPrF8DzyN6mDtIYkvgGh49DuGu19OgVasfpdDq/s400/Madison+first+look.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And to my left, my intended target this day, the summit cone of Mt. Madison. Another mile or so of rugged trail still to go before I stand there.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The exhilaration of the moment was mixed with worrisome concern. I still had a rugged mile or more to go to the summit and I was much more fatigued than I expected to be at this point. One should never put oneself in a position to need assistance in the mountains. That is selfish and foolish. At this point in the hike I started to lack the confidence that my legs could carry me safely back out. One slip and I could be rendered disabled and needing rescue from the mountain. With advanced leg fatigue comes greatly enhanced possibility of that slip and disabling. There are rescues needed in these mountains many time each year. I had to make damn sure I would not be one of them.<br />
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As I continued along the trail I soaked in the tremendous beauty of King Ravine and the mountains around it. I also constantly worried about my legs. I had been hiking so long and for so many miles that they felt burned up and worryingly unreliable. It was time to take a serious assessment. So I scrambled off trail to the edge of the ravine and sat. While I peered into the ravine I ate a bit and decided to drink the rest of the wine I carried. So much has been made of the restorative power of red wine that I thought, why not try it? Across the ravine, perched on the far edge, I saw Crag Camp, the Randolph Mountain Club cabin. I had visited that storied shelter last year with my young friend Mark.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGT6ESebFHCSwcDzkgXGTsCMNDQtq3UQOIilE8YX7mQBe8i3RIFGC_f2xtcmGWdTxRXr2QVgR57ooDxsxVrxkenh5xxl2Id_BNULNxY0mDqnLi7zcceaisz27iqoInNY92v6nVuBsQV3Ss/s1600/Headwall+King+Ravine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGT6ESebFHCSwcDzkgXGTsCMNDQtq3UQOIilE8YX7mQBe8i3RIFGC_f2xtcmGWdTxRXr2QVgR57ooDxsxVrxkenh5xxl2Id_BNULNxY0mDqnLi7zcceaisz27iqoInNY92v6nVuBsQV3Ss/s400/Headwall+King+Ravine.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The headwall of King Ravine below Mt. Adams. Believe it or not there is a trail that ascends that headwall. I have never hiked it myself but, if the gods are willing, I shall one day.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>My break lasted about 20 minutes, and after eating, drinking the wine, and contemplating my situation, I decided I would continue upwards. I was feeling better and I knew I could take as long as I wanted to complete the hike. I had my headlamp in my pack and if I needed to I could set an easy pace, with much rest time on my way out. Daylight was not a limiting factor. So I slung my pack and stood up. That was when it hit me. I was a little dehydrated and certainly very tired. My physical state combined with the wine, not very much mind you, maybe a glass and a half, had rendered me a bit drunk! I could not believe it! Well that was an unexpected twist. Between where I was and the AMC Madison Spring Hut lay a fairly level, if rugged, bit of trail. So I drank some water and hiked-under-the-influence. I took my time knowing that I had imbibed so little wine that this should soon pass.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GzAWfiZT3moB6wFq0ztbYoSYZ9Nnu4e9o-jJJoonE79t7XAky6Slx4EC9fwcfZG2B9UONFhpG-tmDpnUd4mQ4tmOjdJmkvH1-BnJ9_TCBg35j1nhCTFv0425CM6wUKRJ6NJorw6yvcz5/s1600/Quartz+chunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GzAWfiZT3moB6wFq0ztbYoSYZ9Nnu4e9o-jJJoonE79t7XAky6Slx4EC9fwcfZG2B9UONFhpG-tmDpnUd4mQ4tmOjdJmkvH1-BnJ9_TCBg35j1nhCTFv0425CM6wUKRJ6NJorw6yvcz5/s400/Quartz+chunk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A chunk of quartz gleams in the sunlight. The cairns of Lowes Path, which I hiked last year with a friend, are topped with these white orbs and gleam in poor light like ghostly mountain beacons.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJxv2b3XudDlgfW35tUIFt54jS2CouF5DuwbiUe3CQ6NSpC9y0B56z4Xxzd1XsIMJAyKuOBdFV_01EqcKyNC_zBk-X9rf28_RDESCSrlZ6ovxnpWs8EQEMbs5RGOJp0__xo_ZLRyjeuz_/s1600/Airline+cutoff+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJxv2b3XudDlgfW35tUIFt54jS2CouF5DuwbiUe3CQ6NSpC9y0B56z4Xxzd1XsIMJAyKuOBdFV_01EqcKyNC_zBk-X9rf28_RDESCSrlZ6ovxnpWs8EQEMbs5RGOJp0__xo_ZLRyjeuz_/s400/Airline+cutoff+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I reach the trail junction that points the way the hut and the summit beyond.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOf1x003XzrhjdgmUtY0xImhym8i-QIG-CnZW2D_1WXCaVhkqqA1IRTnCXrJqYpD_Cn1R8rexiRkqC429_5AMFgpsalZBpFWhIldhbdmeNPz3AATXK85YW7bt7rxm1KrtzND7C4UEDJpX/s1600/Madison+and+hut+from+below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOf1x003XzrhjdgmUtY0xImhym8i-QIG-CnZW2D_1WXCaVhkqqA1IRTnCXrJqYpD_Cn1R8rexiRkqC429_5AMFgpsalZBpFWhIldhbdmeNPz3AATXK85YW7bt7rxm1KrtzND7C4UEDJpX/s400/Madison+and+hut+from+below.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Madison's summit cone above the Appalachian Mountain Club's Madison Spring Hut.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As I approached the hut I felt the temporary drunkenness fading. Despite this I knew I needed to "sober" up totally before the summit cone. These northern presidential summit cones are simply enormous rock piles and they require sure footing and careful foot placement to traverse safely. The hut offered me a place to take another break and to eat a bit more. The summer staff, known as "croo," also offered me the opportunity to ask whether another trail would be an easier path to take out. There has been an AMC "hut" here since 1888. It was the first high mountain hut for the AMC. The current building is new, rebuilt just last year. The site it occupies is a truly dramatic one, with Mt. Adams and Mt. Madison towering above, the montane tarn called "Star Lake" nearby, and three spectacular features on the slopes below, King Ravine, Great Gulf, and Madison Gulf.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkvj5auP9rJZzWxsmq4eX4Mc8H2I-QDpoB_cot_J7_sdWes2UB0sYXOJzTqxfvKKsaDZm3YTnAzNJrSCyEFm7jf-V4k-R2UCTVPi1GmbpPea7LE1PXW6IYlLwfG2atRh91UbwOqmFAXhP/s1600/Madison+hut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkvj5auP9rJZzWxsmq4eX4Mc8H2I-QDpoB_cot_J7_sdWes2UB0sYXOJzTqxfvKKsaDZm3YTnAzNJrSCyEFm7jf-V4k-R2UCTVPi1GmbpPea7LE1PXW6IYlLwfG2atRh91UbwOqmFAXhP/s400/Madison+hut.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The newly rebuilt Madison Spring Hut. For nearly one and a quarter centuries an AMC hut has been standing on this lofty and glorious perch.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Once at the hut I went inside and sat at one of the long communal tables in the dining area. The croo usually have fresh food and drink available for a small fee to passersby. I bought some fresh lemonade and ate some of my remaining trail food while watching the comings and goings. This break and sustenance finally swept the wine spun cobwebs from my normally addled brain and I was soon ready to carry on. However, before leaving I inquired of the croo whether an easier trail than Airline was to be had for the descent. Without hesitation they said "Valley Way" was much easier to use. This welcomed information did much to buoy my spirits. It was with a feeling of emotional rebirth that I exited the hut and started on my last climb of the trip.</span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYX_vFRs1RTLBxMgi1tvT_rm7BmU7_stFOGKEGqgU5xbPkYdt3C8r-1QZHTFwLUQWEbwI5J2uhJz5-DdGK-oR3J15kpvnuVpSxH6U8T2sD8XKE3GvcYbaDAgaFUyUupMlIEBhlzjAy5v2/s1600/Hut+from+above+with+Adams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYX_vFRs1RTLBxMgi1tvT_rm7BmU7_stFOGKEGqgU5xbPkYdt3C8r-1QZHTFwLUQWEbwI5J2uhJz5-DdGK-oR3J15kpvnuVpSxH6U8T2sD8XKE3GvcYbaDAgaFUyUupMlIEBhlzjAy5v2/s400/Hut+from+above+with+Adams.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Madison Spring Hut and Mt Adams seen from the base of Mt. Madison's summit cone. The peak in the foreground is known as JQ Adams.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5h6KX6sN7RggV8qWqG6TdlmeAVcum7R7zI7ayjJMB-tOLuwcYDtxBo9yAb3licu96BbkDRQLBirg0EeDbC-RBXBdnk3UwJHS_bkeaim95E2BzCx-SrcNSGa9LU8UL_exw2SDVkR7jWz1/s1600/Climbing+Madison+cone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5h6KX6sN7RggV8qWqG6TdlmeAVcum7R7zI7ayjJMB-tOLuwcYDtxBo9yAb3licu96BbkDRQLBirg0EeDbC-RBXBdnk3UwJHS_bkeaim95E2BzCx-SrcNSGa9LU8UL_exw2SDVkR7jWz1/s400/Climbing+Madison+cone.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking upward along the cairn marked path towards the summit.</span></td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The summit cone is a jumble of jagged boulders, some the size of cars. The official trail is marked by cairns which can be a little difficult to spot, a small pile of stones in an enormous pile of stones. I followed these cairns as best I could but mostly I concentrated on picking out my next step. It wasn't long before I was on the summit of Mt. Madison. T</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">he views were breathtaking, and they were 360 degrees. To the south stood Mt. Washington, once known as Agiocochook to the Native Americans. Between Madison and Washington lay the deep expanse of the Great Gulf Wilderness. Below the summit, along the arc of the Presidentials, lay the tarn "Star Lake" and Madison Spring Hut, and beyond that rose Mt Adams, the second highest peak in the White Mountains. To the east lay the Carter and Wildcat ranges. Northward lay the Pilot Range and Kilkenny ridge with Mt Cabot and Mt Waumbek. In every direction the eyes were rewarded with the natural splendor of northern New England. To stand on one of the summits of the Presidentials, and to fail to be deeply affected, is to be dead of spirit. </span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQwFwQ5oMN2dd4GMYKNsCnS-koO_lbbfOOtChwb9g7RleUgpUR1G6Kcb2G_Qoc9EQnHBGUpa8GbK9ERQH9TlmFmt0I4Wx9VfY84gKH8Ujj45MurHwgTTv_ee2Y60MlqmqBejQVrhTM3WPG/s1600/Wildcats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQwFwQ5oMN2dd4GMYKNsCnS-koO_lbbfOOtChwb9g7RleUgpUR1G6Kcb2G_Qoc9EQnHBGUpa8GbK9ERQH9TlmFmt0I4Wx9VfY84gKH8Ujj45MurHwgTTv_ee2Y60MlqmqBejQVrhTM3WPG/s400/Wildcats.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wildcat Mountain seen from Madison's summit. The ski trails are clearly visible, as is the base of the Mt.Washington Auto Road. To the left of Wildcat is part of the Carter Range, with Carter Notch between.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmuxmVwbXXC1mti4gChP-3btRIe1P1PU7dn-85Infl2HSngax0BIVu9I06Fcyzj5nBrNRt5SDnPQnkk2954gmuq-Kj5Ubr4m1ibMpO5ZOAtSBOiJQHUrI0IbPebxSl5W-4M8sDHUxXstN/s1600/Washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmuxmVwbXXC1mti4gChP-3btRIe1P1PU7dn-85Infl2HSngax0BIVu9I06Fcyzj5nBrNRt5SDnPQnkk2954gmuq-Kj5Ubr4m1ibMpO5ZOAtSBOiJQHUrI0IbPebxSl5W-4M8sDHUxXstN/s400/Washington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Across the Great Gulf is Agiocochook, Mt. Washington. The scar of the auto road can be seen snaking up its flank.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyhZqQMQn_Z5KI0yq_acXEPniByPo8CDaLWgqBUdFZPJd0i3592nZ_t-qZLcXWBngU_NMCTD4C7CmJnvC9z_5jUmhIOj-BOAT7VsDMnVViFViKS8Arh-N5OhgeBJHmgi-RNSjT1_H38FX/s1600/Adams+and+Star+Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyhZqQMQn_Z5KI0yq_acXEPniByPo8CDaLWgqBUdFZPJd0i3592nZ_t-qZLcXWBngU_NMCTD4C7CmJnvC9z_5jUmhIOj-BOAT7VsDMnVViFViKS8Arh-N5OhgeBJHmgi-RNSjT1_H38FX/s400/Adams+and+Star+Lake.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Adams as seen from Madison. Below is the tarn called "Star Lake". To the right of the tarn, hidden by the boulders, is Madison Spring Hut.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xIGF_fOVZ9Qq2RdVehU7i9WS9I31avwH5HLM-Jbxn9FV0p3lkqsWmvgtMRsmLMX6zyU9u9JBlsIYbWY7gF3QEqa7bi3uxlklfPmJb_K0Uegm1EdKCqp8yNZaGxh0Elz93Ow_Np9s-l_c/s1600/Howker+Ridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xIGF_fOVZ9Qq2RdVehU7i9WS9I31avwH5HLM-Jbxn9FV0p3lkqsWmvgtMRsmLMX6zyU9u9JBlsIYbWY7gF3QEqa7bi3uxlklfPmJb_K0Uegm1EdKCqp8yNZaGxh0Elz93Ow_Np9s-l_c/s400/Howker+Ridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Osgood Ridge on the southeastern spur of Madison. Across Pinkham Notch lies the Carter Range with Moria, Middle Carter, South Carter, and Carter Dome.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdk6bXY-7ztaodgZEX7yZQibXN6-Zq73rgnlUQAJRLY_VK8BLYTeR3vuGUU_Yh1_0ul_pOua6zCPLT9j1jdAStgDXganxU6u5uC1QRv0xqZhDTDDDCiuJQk7-S2QsC010lMwkVVCUTkkYy/s1600/Looking+northeast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdk6bXY-7ztaodgZEX7yZQibXN6-Zq73rgnlUQAJRLY_VK8BLYTeR3vuGUU_Yh1_0ul_pOua6zCPLT9j1jdAStgDXganxU6u5uC1QRv0xqZhDTDDDCiuJQk7-S2QsC010lMwkVVCUTkkYy/s400/Looking+northeast.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">To the northeast of Madison is the town of Gorham in the Androscoggin River Valley.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5PEzwl5dTN90ELfKtqYx1_QaWtUSMQeZoaI7O4W0K3jbEcGSBzC5spPy0brqSwDMBDEwuAYi5KaIzdHaTXix_FCz629rmJFsJgzvsi8vKOlHDa_DICedmV40n5w6eUyHZ4AOe2Piy6VW/s1600/Summit+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB5PEzwl5dTN90ELfKtqYx1_QaWtUSMQeZoaI7O4W0K3jbEcGSBzC5spPy0brqSwDMBDEwuAYi5KaIzdHaTXix_FCz629rmJFsJgzvsi8vKOlHDa_DICedmV40n5w6eUyHZ4AOe2Piy6VW/s400/Summit+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Summit Sign. To the left, in the distance is King Ravine, and beyond, way down in the valley, is New Hampshire Route 2. I still had to hike back down to that road before my boots could come off.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEige9jufKLpSuapVI4MwSDNMRQNokUGh9RKG8eZg0oFgo1eduRAur2Jg6TAmQFDOr79FPTo0D6ZJYtTVk6qrW52LgVB3gr9OS2ogscj7bITQyea3WYoP991HLxesuIai7uLpgAU-BAeqGZm/s1600/Madison+summit+area+and+Adams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEige9jufKLpSuapVI4MwSDNMRQNokUGh9RKG8eZg0oFgo1eduRAur2Jg6TAmQFDOr79FPTo0D6ZJYtTVk6qrW52LgVB3gr9OS2ogscj7bITQyea3WYoP991HLxesuIai7uLpgAU-BAeqGZm/s400/Madison+summit+area+and+Adams.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The summit area of Mt. Madison. My 42nd White Mountain 4,000 footer. 6 still to go...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lingering on summits is what you do. Once you have gained the peak, only lightning will drive you off quickly. I have been on summits with howling winter winds and very little visibility. I have even had my clothing freeze to boulders I leaned against on a winter summit. Still you linger. It is a very spiritual place to be, though I am not religious. So tarry I did. I spent roughly a half hour sitting among the rocks. I did speak with a few fellow hikers and took a few photographs for them, but being on these summits is a very personal experience. With a long mental sigh I finally gathered my gear and started on the final long leg of this hiking trip, the return to the Appalachia parking area and my car.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3wZwFsAUBKSX7aVbnUY91AViA-Qm0zF9rXaMbQ4GNFa7zoMyLyLOGMZX1c_gywa7neCTrCbljkm5j-TKnOUb17w49I5ZsbnNvYY_1T9tkGXeoryjZW3ofDPNyvoDZwQPm8oIeBn1XNWe/s1600/Madison+hut+and+King+Ravine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3wZwFsAUBKSX7aVbnUY91AViA-Qm0zF9rXaMbQ4GNFa7zoMyLyLOGMZX1c_gywa7neCTrCbljkm5j-TKnOUb17w49I5ZsbnNvYY_1T9tkGXeoryjZW3ofDPNyvoDZwQPm8oIeBn1XNWe/s400/Madison+hut+and+King+Ravine.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Heading back. Looking down on Madison Spring Hut and King Ravine beyond.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As I passed the hut several people were stretched out relaxing on an open area just north of the building. Several of them asked me to join them, ladies admittedly. I jokingly asked if they had cold beer and when they said no, I responded that couldn't stop until I reached cold beer. Actually I wasn't really joking. I quickly found the trail junction that lead me to the Valley Way trail and started down. I had a long way to go and my legs were already starting to be sore with lactic acid buildup.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtiQNAAVnE24DvjuZJFUZOQ2hvvpqKtKeGNI-1Z2BqkG3UrEk701PwaG3xuCs4TzDei8nXXoYyY4rSAHf89FE83FkbH00CG6vispdzezFfJsmHMf6SVChngZYL8ZIHHpo6nB6FGANbfZH/s1600/Starting+down+Valley+Way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtiQNAAVnE24DvjuZJFUZOQ2hvvpqKtKeGNI-1Z2BqkG3UrEk701PwaG3xuCs4TzDei8nXXoYyY4rSAHf89FE83FkbH00CG6vispdzezFfJsmHMf6SVChngZYL8ZIHHpo6nB6FGANbfZH/s400/Starting+down+Valley+Way.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The beginning of Valley Way trail.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The rest of the hike was a long slog down. My body was battered and sore. The trail was distinctly easier than Airline in that it was much more of a continuous slope instead of steep boulder strewn pitches followed by long flat pitches. Those steep boulder pitches can be deadly to tired legs and aching knees. Many an injury has happened on the descent of those steep gnarly boulder pitches. I was very thankful for the respite that was Valley Way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQRKJIKuTDTJjUpyNxAkzJ5GXKJfVwljhF7A9Q3sPr66T0LtY1RFMF_2d39c6d7Jkd3ylRmG2dtB_FqAqDbpg1Hh9Q0Dk5SzFE35xcvXRo4LJY5esThVfvDOgfD3DDs8HTFVX0sdohO_W/s1600/Going+down+Valley+Way.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQRKJIKuTDTJjUpyNxAkzJ5GXKJfVwljhF7A9Q3sPr66T0LtY1RFMF_2d39c6d7Jkd3ylRmG2dtB_FqAqDbpg1Hh9Q0Dk5SzFE35xcvXRo4LJY5esThVfvDOgfD3DDs8HTFVX0sdohO_W/s400/Going+down+Valley+Way.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The friendly road, Valley Way trail, on my way out at days end.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Though the trail was easier on my body, it still seemed overly long in my fatigued state. As I have said before, I always set a very fast pace on the last leg out. However I had hiked so many miles at that point that my feet actually hurt. This was a new experience. My knees hurting? Not unusual. My legs hurting? Ditto. My feet? Rarely. Well they hurt now. And my arms. I had been using the trekking poles so aggressively to lessen the work of my legs that that my triceps were already sore as well. And I'm a weightlifter, so they are use to work. Just not this much work, or for so very long.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZno-DebzqJ1Su8l8JikmM5sRJoiAVpeqdTzL_AClXgMTHVFJsbA4jVbvBiy3O27m2sZW-YncMrvfxUdPAWyg3YEUsHnIdMpMSnVKF1V_zMNK29h_GjLFwJWgot5Vm5HLo6n-yn9wji4Gr/s1600/Light+at+the+end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZno-DebzqJ1Su8l8JikmM5sRJoiAVpeqdTzL_AClXgMTHVFJsbA4jVbvBiy3O27m2sZW-YncMrvfxUdPAWyg3YEUsHnIdMpMSnVKF1V_zMNK29h_GjLFwJWgot5Vm5HLo6n-yn9wji4Gr/s400/Light+at+the+end.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Literally the light at the end of the tunnel. The Appalachia parking area lies ahead. The day of hiking, or two days of hiking actually, are done.</span></td></tr>
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When at long, long last I saw the end of my hike, the Appalachia trailhead, I knew I was done. Done as in hiking, and done as in physically spent. When I reached my car and took my boots off I found my feet were red and swollen. I had hiked roughly 20 miles over 20 hours and had ascended two White Mountain summits, and they being far apart from one another. By the time I reached my home in Connecticut, and my head hit the pillow, I would have been awake for nearly 38 of the last 40 hours. Yes that is a bit mad I know. But a bit of madness can sometimes be a very good thing. It had been this time, under the full moon, and on the mountains called Garfield and Madison.Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-49130188418222645812011-07-31T14:08:00.002-04:002011-08-01T00:42:14.416-04:00Moonlight and Mad(ison)ness! Part 1<blockquote>"Here's to us! There's few like us, and they're all dead!" - Douglas Campbell</blockquote><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkh-en2q0nFPYLhD_InfRYu1S1mCZNK4DCCjEBggyV5wMxzvtvxDXDlftJNWf6qH1qATbOCDEzyPlpXZ8rzpfENGJVuJyt-TBqdhyPyWv5XleswfsMCY9LUVa3eNWO3MA3HQOfXIEte5k4/s1600/Start+toward+Garfield.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkh-en2q0nFPYLhD_InfRYu1S1mCZNK4DCCjEBggyV5wMxzvtvxDXDlftJNWf6qH1qATbOCDEzyPlpXZ8rzpfENGJVuJyt-TBqdhyPyWv5XleswfsMCY9LUVa3eNWO3MA3HQOfXIEte5k4/s400/Start+toward+Garfield.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Into the night. I strike out at 11 PM along the Garfield Trail</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I arrived at the trailhead parking area at 10:45 PM. A few cars were parked here in this lonely dirt lot off a lonely dirt road in northern New Hampshire. These vehicles were no doubt owned by hikers who were likely camping at the Appalachian Mountain Club's Garfield Ridge campsite high above. It is fairly unusual for someone to start hiking at 11 PM I admit. But I have long desired to hike to a White Mountain summit under a full moon. And of course I am fairly "unusual" myself. This was the first full moon that coincided with a clear sky that I could take advantage of in many months. There was little to no wind at the trailhead and the parking area was eerily silent. Somehow human trappings often look forlorn and abandoned in the middle of the night. It took me only a few minutes to "gear up" and after a long drink of water to hydrate I headed in along the Garfield Trail. My target was the summit of Mt. Garfield, elevation 4,500 feet. There I hoped to sit under the full moon, gaze across the Pemigewasset Wilderness, drink some of the red wine I carried, maybe read a bit, and then grab a couple hours sleep on the summit before watching sunrise. Then I would retrace my hike back to my car. I planned on hiking up another peak, Mt. Madison in the Presidentials, the next day. Very little to no sleep was likely over this two day sojourn, but that was fine. It was the plan. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6eagQgakG7m-6wMdkx8OOqsF9IRM8xyX41bzHoUyx6z3fCWihwGTLkCFDmJwvvh_zZ2-HxzAUSzyTT4aL8_c7oeTjggxp_ogM1hN_COJJy2fjGrvmF5uZ7EN3O2Feg4PfsoXvT5TSm1k/s1600/Indian+Pipes.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6eagQgakG7m-6wMdkx8OOqsF9IRM8xyX41bzHoUyx6z3fCWihwGTLkCFDmJwvvh_zZ2-HxzAUSzyTT4aL8_c7oeTjggxp_ogM1hN_COJJy2fjGrvmF5uZ7EN3O2Feg4PfsoXvT5TSm1k/s400/Indian+Pipes.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Indian Pipes <i>(Monotropa uniflora)</i>. Also known as "Ghost Plant." In the light of my headlamp, under the heavy cloak of night, the plant did indeed seem ghostly, or better yet, like another of its colloquial names, a "Corpse Flower."</span><br />
<h1 class="firstHeading" id="firstHeading"><i><i></i></i></h1></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdCE8Wd4-uNPq68G-zWdmk6D0FxdYeE08PaSJh237lYvAohq9o8BldRpO5N1frHo6GYTUiyqtuSbhhDrodJ8rYeOdBITr4AK96JHE9OZEak91LknI9eZZNmHd-kePJrYK-7ivxdKh3m2m-/s1600/Moth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdCE8Wd4-uNPq68G-zWdmk6D0FxdYeE08PaSJh237lYvAohq9o8BldRpO5N1frHo6GYTUiyqtuSbhhDrodJ8rYeOdBITr4AK96JHE9OZEak91LknI9eZZNmHd-kePJrYK-7ivxdKh3m2m-/s400/Moth.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trail was full of these ghostly moths. I do not know the species, but I soon grew tired of their acquaintance as they repeatedly flew into my face.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I love to hike in the forest at night. Many of my none "woodsy" friends are amazed that I would even venture into the forest during darkness, let alone hike up a mountain. By I feel very at home in the forest, whether day or night. I would have a 5 mile hike up Mt Garfield this night and I expected to hear a number of creatures along the way. The possibilities included many small mammals, owls, Pine Martens, Fishers, Coyotes, Porcupines, Black Bears, and others. But as I strode onward and upward through the night, silence was all I encountered. Even the northerly breeze failed to penetrate the forest and its caress of the canopy was so gentle that the resulting susurrus was barely audible. In the silence and solitude I found myself wishing I had some music to listen to, maybe some Sarah Jarosz, to replace the repetitive thud of my boots on the trail. It is a rhythm I have heard for a lifetime.<br />
<br />
The forest canopy not only blocked the breeze from reaching me as I hiked, it also blocked the moonlight from illuminating my way. The trail bed was rife with roots and rocks and light to see was essential to avoid misadventure. So I wore a headlamp, the light of which cast a spooky blue-white glow wherever I looked. The only creatures that I encountered in abundance were moths. These moths, mostly ghostly white with eyes that glowed golden red in the artificial light, were attracted to my headlamp and as a result often flew directly at my face. As they came near their eyes seemed nearly demonic just before they smacked into my face, which they did over and over again. These spooky moths reminded me of J.R.R. Tolkien's vivid description of the nights in Mirkwood in his classic tale, "The Hobbit." You're welcome Tolkein fans! <br />
<br />
As I strode along, ever gaining altitude, I looked forward eagerly to climbing out above the trees and seeing Luna far above the Pemigewasset Wilderness. My thoughts had long turned inward in the silence of the night but I was twice wrenched back to awareness of the moment when my headlamp startled roosting birds. On one of these occasions a startled Thrush, either Hermit or Swainson's, exploded out of a small Hemlock a few feet from me and darted directly at my face. I ducked just in time as the bird flew over me in a panic. By that I mean the bird was panicked, not I. I was merely startled half out of my wits, and I may have used profanity as well. If you swear in the forest and no one is there to hear...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkVPIqtRwz4YSn4T-ZujZ_XVQrQMD-a4cA82DlGDJBHW6lH7xNr2IcKDfC7j1MWuoD68uZggxBfj5soQhYn0nj64CpzhMqJ24fP-DdK7MatrymHThoSKoQxTnM8rtZ8Kh_vp1aoGOgNO3/s1600/Trail+Junction+below+Garfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkVPIqtRwz4YSn4T-ZujZ_XVQrQMD-a4cA82DlGDJBHW6lH7xNr2IcKDfC7j1MWuoD68uZggxBfj5soQhYn0nj64CpzhMqJ24fP-DdK7MatrymHThoSKoQxTnM8rtZ8Kh_vp1aoGOgNO3/s400/Trail+Junction+below+Garfield.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Junction with Garfield Ridge Trail shortlty after 1:30 AM. To the right leads the trail to Garfield's summit. The moon points the way.</span></td></tr>
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It was after 1:30 AM when I reached the junction with Garfield Ridge Trail. I have hiked this trail before so I knew the summit was only a short steep stretch away now. At this point my excitement was growing. The last time I hiked to this peak it had been shrouded in clouds. I had read that the views from this peak were fantastic, but I had been unable to experience them from inside those clouds. Now I would, at night, under a full moon. Fingers and shreds of the cool breeze now were reaching me through the failing and shrinking forest, but it wasn't the cool air on my sweaty skin that gave me goosebumps, it was the anticipation of my first full moon summit<br />
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The last stretch was quickly conquered and I stepped onto the open summit of Mt. Garfield at five minutes to two in the morning. I was surprised to find several tents, bivys, and sleeping bags scattered about. I would not be alone in passing the night on the peak, but I was alone in being awake at this late, I mean early, hour. I quickly located a small nearly level area on the stone summit that overlooked the Wilderness to the south and I laid out my own sleeping bag. Then I sat down and absorbed the view. To the right lay Franconia Ridge, as black as the sky but without the stars that spattered the firmament. To the left lay the Bonds, equally as black with the exception of the slide scars of Bondcliff which were just visible if you looked slightly to the side of them. Did you know your peripheral vision is more light sensitive than your direct vision? Directly in front of me was the wilderness, a vast sea of shades of gray under the moonlight. I was elated to be where I was, when I was. I pulled some food from my pack, as well as the wine. Then I switched my headlamp off to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness while I ate and drank. Now the wind was noticeable and quite cool here on this exposed perch. I snuggled into my bag and luxuriated in the feeling of warmth the wine gave me. I quickly realized how tired I felt. It had been a long day and it was nearly 3 AM when I finally gave into my fatigue. I just did not want to stop gazing across the wilderness and the mountains under silver light of the full moon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8NK2q5oHxzRPuh7poTX76tw7evjk5Glmi5cV-N5l81ZcX0zXZEj-pXhPWjlLnfjduCc9r3mzP8__9DgIMJpc6E2Wa4k7-YRwUl1vhfBhwPznAPNHLtWu7qxCxP0Hcfyl2g5GUYE7cIYy/s1600/Profile+of+me.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8NK2q5oHxzRPuh7poTX76tw7evjk5Glmi5cV-N5l81ZcX0zXZEj-pXhPWjlLnfjduCc9r3mzP8__9DgIMJpc6E2Wa4k7-YRwUl1vhfBhwPznAPNHLtWu7qxCxP0Hcfyl2g5GUYE7cIYy/s400/Profile+of+me.bmp" width="367" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Starring out at the White Mountains and the Pemmigewasset Wilderness under a full moon from the summit of Mt. Garfield. One of the life experiences I had long desired, now and forever was mine.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfVjpAoHt2baGIokcA5gnzwf_3rBdhc_eos7ro81EL1uuOKxGIgpe80cc9LItdAeIqCLMfwhCuZeKMwS6-vEajaNHLxqWs2STkl3gnShEbsiirvHJ6qSzfeK9p_Km5PaMKbNizNfcJ7WY/s1600/Moon+over+Pemi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfVjpAoHt2baGIokcA5gnzwf_3rBdhc_eos7ro81EL1uuOKxGIgpe80cc9LItdAeIqCLMfwhCuZeKMwS6-vEajaNHLxqWs2STkl3gnShEbsiirvHJ6qSzfeK9p_Km5PaMKbNizNfcJ7WY/s400/Moon+over+Pemi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My small point-and-shoot camera could not decently capture the night scenes. Here the moon shines down on the distant peaks of Franconia Ridge.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
During the roughly two and a half hours I slept, fitfully, the wind freshened and I had to shift my backpack to form a wind break for my head. Dawn came soon. Very soon. I awoke with a start and scrambled out of my sleeping bag to take pictures of the sunrise. In the cold of morning and the fog of too little sleep, my body and brain were functioning poorly and caused me to stumble like I was intoxicated. I came rather too close to tumbling down the shear south face of the peak. The resulting adrenaline rush of this brought me fully awake.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg289iMFuH30ifYFgRHB67QeWRAidIosMpVj-WQTv-RnPSbi6ZiUixcGb23tzni4_0mxVbn1eBDl6T39vcuFGv4H2n7RCCat9xknEOVeeVuaWI99ND0obmIB-E1sPWQ3BUpcEfYbZgHSR3k/s1600/Dawn+over+the++Twins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg289iMFuH30ifYFgRHB67QeWRAidIosMpVj-WQTv-RnPSbi6ZiUixcGb23tzni4_0mxVbn1eBDl6T39vcuFGv4H2n7RCCat9xknEOVeeVuaWI99ND0obmIB-E1sPWQ3BUpcEfYbZgHSR3k/s400/Dawn+over+the++Twins.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The sun rises over the Twins. I had achieved one goal in sitting atop a White Mountain peak under a full moon, and now I achieved another in watching sunrise from a summit.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0kQPp1kGd-iyoZRNFHyTbIrkBgmADa317Xl_-vUHIM3mA3RZPoeDNBcPUrm-6hf6wSCQbgfbDBJb1hiHtOeSHoV9oyhPiWp4zHX74PwPWzR-ggAxswh6UwdwZ63eCpBCZQyuDQZQo1SL/s1600/Dawnlight+on+Fraonconia+Ridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0kQPp1kGd-iyoZRNFHyTbIrkBgmADa317Xl_-vUHIM3mA3RZPoeDNBcPUrm-6hf6wSCQbgfbDBJb1hiHtOeSHoV9oyhPiWp4zHX74PwPWzR-ggAxswh6UwdwZ63eCpBCZQyuDQZQo1SL/s400/Dawnlight+on+Fraonconia+Ridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sunrise comes to Franconia Ridge. As seen from Mt. Garfield.</span></td></tr>
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After photographing the sunrise I had started to feel deeply chilled and I retreated to my sleeping bag for warmth. While I warmed up I took some more photos of the tableau spread before me. To the west northwest the lowlands had pools of cloud/fog in the valleys. The Wilderness below was still mostly in shadow, blocked from the early sunlight by the ridge that is the "Bonds, " with its peaks, West Bond, Bond, and Bondcliff. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qrnE4LK0SctYL3JsgzbdSbFHXfOfvpu5IsGW_xPbw1oxlm-a2UlcMSIhlLs0IO-vjZYtV4ekRQLqGrzS7RdnftahPhC0JRTMYGI2rNgig023tXuh2-G0BsSgm6cR1H52D-HrZXE5Esz5/s1600/Looking+northwest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qrnE4LK0SctYL3JsgzbdSbFHXfOfvpu5IsGW_xPbw1oxlm-a2UlcMSIhlLs0IO-vjZYtV4ekRQLqGrzS7RdnftahPhC0JRTMYGI2rNgig023tXuh2-G0BsSgm6cR1H52D-HrZXE5Esz5/s400/Looking+northwest.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking to the lowlands off to the west northwest.Clouds and fog lay in the valleys.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7O5PXQfWLFceiR4zFoQshGMeiWBOZoXAa_3D0hiERw4QPDwJFIyYiT1sL_pVKpUL-TvuTUhcXDL5V9PI5DIqrzulY4v7yI5h0T1D8Qk9dvh5CVAYI_IToSJEYdLEwdFTJiAcUK0ePXg8O/s1600/Garfields+Shadow+on+Franc+Ridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7O5PXQfWLFceiR4zFoQshGMeiWBOZoXAa_3D0hiERw4QPDwJFIyYiT1sL_pVKpUL-TvuTUhcXDL5V9PI5DIqrzulY4v7yI5h0T1D8Qk9dvh5CVAYI_IToSJEYdLEwdFTJiAcUK0ePXg8O/s400/Garfields+Shadow+on+Franc+Ridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The shadow of Mt Garfield's pointed summit lies on the northern flank of Franconia Ridge.</span></td></tr>
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Once I recovered a little warmth I crawled out of my bag once again and started to make breakfast. The smell of coffee was a very welcome addition to my surroundings. While I drank the nectar of the bean I heated more water on my JetBoil for my breakfast, which would consist of freeze dried sweet and sour pork and rice. This is hardly what most people eat for breakfast, but it was absolutely delicious this day and seemed more than appropriate. I took my time eating. The glorious views that surrounded me were too arresting and wonderful to hasten from.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJb1RcIrSImsiOf7xAEbukyZq-4E94oKufM3xGLwWl75166J7lArizWctqCxGYyALCxH5P-lTqyl1PaSZwCIsqM_cA-3GAogYFs73NeK4a0L2qHfP6kcc5vzFbu4e7jkFqOK9SBt6CiOo/s1600/OwlsHead+in+Morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJb1RcIrSImsiOf7xAEbukyZq-4E94oKufM3xGLwWl75166J7lArizWctqCxGYyALCxH5P-lTqyl1PaSZwCIsqM_cA-3GAogYFs73NeK4a0L2qHfP6kcc5vzFbu4e7jkFqOK9SBt6CiOo/s400/OwlsHead+in+Morning.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Owl's Head Mountain rises in the isolation of the Pemigewasset Wilderness. I have yet to visit this peak. Soon... Very soon...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJA4U5Md4Q2PrDkMaQ6LpHvn8eS_DNrH6m-neUrGNkEwQDMwMxkXYZTDoC1134vRYOl4dZa0zAoy3oikYoHQbx1eSVWR6-zd8dxJqsQteEXCvCcMu_WoFt5uT_7G30wqnHESVB7KhhzXM/s1600/Balsam+Fir+Cones.bmp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJA4U5Md4Q2PrDkMaQ6LpHvn8eS_DNrH6m-neUrGNkEwQDMwMxkXYZTDoC1134vRYOl4dZa0zAoy3oikYoHQbx1eSVWR6-zd8dxJqsQteEXCvCcMu_WoFt5uT_7G30wqnHESVB7KhhzXM/s400/Balsam+Fir+Cones.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Balsam Fir </span><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Abies balsamea)</i> on the summit area with its characteristic upright blue-gray cones.<br />
</span></span></td></tr>
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The morning was getting on and I had a long day of hiking ahead. With regret I roused myself and organized my gear. After brief ablutions I shouldered my pack, took one last longing look at the views, and started down form the summit. I was retracing my steps of the night before but in the light of day it seemed a very different world. The early rays of sunlight picked up the morning mists that still hung in the high forest. The air was cool and clean and felt wonderful coursing through my lungs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbB95XKU464kIcXiij-60AlKYLYLGnO5khdDmZ83HvxmcVKO8swyoXGK6x2frCavme-5FmCpAZDfycxUJAeq5l-83DQlQOvlViVoHAqq9T_DBOhBOd6lZ7kwLi_YrA8CQsjWQB2ivVrSbm/s1600/Dawn+light+on+trail+below+Garfield.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbB95XKU464kIcXiij-60AlKYLYLGnO5khdDmZ83HvxmcVKO8swyoXGK6x2frCavme-5FmCpAZDfycxUJAeq5l-83DQlQOvlViVoHAqq9T_DBOhBOd6lZ7kwLi_YrA8CQsjWQB2ivVrSbm/s400/Dawn+light+on+trail+below+Garfield.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The rays of sunlight pick up the lingering morning mists.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The coniferous forest on these mountains is often dense and dark. Trying to travel through it off trail is no easy task. To do so means much toil, much sweat, and no small amount of blood. Navigation is also very difficult with the lay of the land and the densely packed trees making your direction of travel its own choice. It is wisest to stick to the established trails unless your woodland skills are well and truly developed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhvxjuq3lkMtL6XHfe7Wmg9OZuNKGJ_6S4ss_vjpcaQNs8i8kdE0qvpspFKeADhwxtC_0HzCletzUmOHywoz7yavYhCuFxPN5MGP5eolXP1prHrA9Zwh0cAob2-b6AvBRcL1X1_fMLXtF/s1600/Forest+density.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhvxjuq3lkMtL6XHfe7Wmg9OZuNKGJ_6S4ss_vjpcaQNs8i8kdE0qvpspFKeADhwxtC_0HzCletzUmOHywoz7yavYhCuFxPN5MGP5eolXP1prHrA9Zwh0cAob2-b6AvBRcL1X1_fMLXtF/s400/Forest+density.bmp" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The dense and dark forest on the upper slopes of Garfield Ridge. The lower branches of these living trees can not get sunlight in this dense cover and often die off.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Birdsong now replaced the complete silence of the night. I have long been a birder and I know all the songs and calls of the the birds of these woodlands. I now heard many Warblers singing and calling. These included (from high elevation to low elevation) Blackpoll Warblers, Yellow-rumped Warblers, Magnolia Warblers, Nashville Warblers, Blackburnian Warblers, Black-throated Green Warblers, Black-throated Blue Warblers, American Redstarts, and Ovenbirds. One of my favorite birds of these mountains is the Boreal Chickadee. I rarely fail to find them on these hikes and I heard the familiar nasal calls just below the ridge line alerting me to yet another encounter. The Boreal Chickadee is a close relative of the Black-capped Chickadee which we all know form our bird feeders at home. I managed a poor photograph with my point-and-shoot before continuing down. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaxx9OjM_Sxr2dd901FjJPUF9v6Fi5vEgdTbO2jtDYYKerQKaJCTJNp7zAwCWTfgoODGSw-SC7ELM2gT277_3soUixd4zYiaLts3msdRvMF0AZhGnfHLqmmy_HZgYCOerWLJygayMDHCx/s1600/Boreal+Chickadee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaxx9OjM_Sxr2dd901FjJPUF9v6Fi5vEgdTbO2jtDYYKerQKaJCTJNp7zAwCWTfgoODGSw-SC7ELM2gT277_3soUixd4zYiaLts3msdRvMF0AZhGnfHLqmmy_HZgYCOerWLJygayMDHCx/s400/Boreal+Chickadee.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Boreal Chickadee <i>(</i></span><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Poecile hudsonicus)</i>. This is the best I could do photographing this old friend with my little camera.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I met the first dayhikers on their way upward when I was roughly half way back to my car. I stopped and exchanged greetings and short conversations with these strangers as I encountered them. Everyone was in good spirits on this fine July day, including me. The trail wound its way down through the firs, spruces, and hemlocks, and finally reached the birches, maples, and oaks of the lower slopes. I had noticed that the few Bicknell's Thrushes I had heard calling on the upper slopes were no longer signing by this date, but their congeners the Swainson's Thrush and Hermit Thrush were still in full song. And glorious were these slvan floutists songs!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1e8tzJn3AEi3Bazb9U9WP7yqXpBGRco6BzLIbRpCNK7Rojo5MCTPJyWnkzWlpS7e-XTa2mcW6wHMH9yQjW59YVMLBGRfZlW173NumL3IfDyji3w5wkh58dMKTRP4J0mZoFEGZws3MrVDv/s1600/Sorrel+Flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1e8tzJn3AEi3Bazb9U9WP7yqXpBGRco6BzLIbRpCNK7Rojo5MCTPJyWnkzWlpS7e-XTa2mcW6wHMH9yQjW59YVMLBGRfZlW173NumL3IfDyji3w5wkh58dMKTRP4J0mZoFEGZws3MrVDv/s400/Sorrel+Flower.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Common Wood Sorrel (<i>Oxalis montana). </i>One of the many beauties of the White Mountains trails.</span><i><br />
</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Late in the morning I finally returned to my car. The parking area was now full and hopping with hikers gearing up. I threw my own gear in the car and then moved it away from the parking area to allow arriving hikers to use my spot. Then I got out again and changed my clothes and cleaned myself up a bit. After that it was time to head to my next goal, the climbing of Mt. Madison in the Presidentials. Yes it was to be a long day of hiking on very little sleep. But a glorious day, a fine day, and ultimately it would be a testing day. But I did not know that then. What I did know was that I had a bit of a drive to do to reach the Appalachia Trailhead near Randloph, New Hampshire. And somewhere along the way I needed to find more coffee...Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-52084612785819593112011-07-21T18:44:00.003-04:002011-07-24T13:51:11.372-04:00Slide Up, Spring Down<blockquote>Out through the fields and the woods <br />
And over the walls I have wended; <br />
I have climbed the hills of view <br />
And looked at the world, and descended,</blockquote><blockquote>From "Reluctance" by Robert Frost </blockquote> The air was humid and dank and clung to me like a jacket that was too small. My boots made dull thuds on the damp, fecund soil of the trail as I wended my way through the forest. I was in the woodlands that cloak the feet of Franconia Ridge in New Hampshire. It had been nearly five months since last I put boot to stone in the White Mountains. Then it had been snowshoe to snow and ice on Cannon Mountain with my young friend Mark. That frozen landscape now a memory, the woods were everywhere clad in greens and browns this early July weekend.And the air was warm, and quite humid actually. Snowflakes had been flying when Mark and I climbed Cannon, mow it was mosquitoes. I distinctly preferred the snowflakes.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFISyv7H5XNmLymgU0cBBusDsq3h8MRpX8TDAl0qOCKXX_sMPVgayP6EH9v4zALwp9IgZkJbBIf6YV6xUefXy85qvL1F8-w0aF2RZ4sOEji5tBz9e9a8dD1qTSKLJeLwa1IKfLcSE1pPy/s1600/Standing+Stone.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFISyv7H5XNmLymgU0cBBusDsq3h8MRpX8TDAl0qOCKXX_sMPVgayP6EH9v4zALwp9IgZkJbBIf6YV6xUefXy85qvL1F8-w0aF2RZ4sOEji5tBz9e9a8dD1qTSKLJeLwa1IKfLcSE1pPy/s400/Standing+Stone.bmp" width="298px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Standing Stone. Before Native Americans, before the coming of Europeans, before the birth of our country, for millennia, this boulder has stood witness in the forest on the mountain.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> The White Mountains are made of rock and stone thrust and shattered by gargantuan geologic forces. For eons since, they have been irresistibly ground and weathered by wind, water, and ice. Though appearing timeless to the casual human eye, the forests that cloak their shoulders and flanks are ephemeral by comparison. Add to that thought how fleeting are our own mortal lives. In such places we walk through a timescape that has many disparate components. In the course of this hike, I would feel as young as an infant, and as old as father time. That is how every hike should make you feel, that you are alive!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatipbM9iyNwviMlfHzI_gxKbRDJhtUZI0tcvR15d07_GQTY-U5luTp0I6W3CR3VvFr7hKBGCqHWOoQ8Ka9ipmKAAFEP_JT8hCrsJ6mMhZmfHA8Svmfr3LP_kUYKmOcAwoycAPwwMBc0kT/s1600/Stream+at+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatipbM9iyNwviMlfHzI_gxKbRDJhtUZI0tcvR15d07_GQTY-U5luTp0I6W3CR3VvFr7hKBGCqHWOoQ8Ka9ipmKAAFEP_JT8hCrsJ6mMhZmfHA8Svmfr3LP_kUYKmOcAwoycAPwwMBc0kT/s400/Stream+at+start.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shortly after leaving the parking area the trail crosses a brook. Whitehouse Brook and Cascade Brook are confluent here, but I do not know which appellation is in effect at this point.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Today I planned to hike over two 4,000 footers I had never hiked before, Mt Flume and Mt Liberty. These two peaks make up the southern end of the magnificent Franconia Ridge. This ridge runs north and south on the western border of the beautiful Pemigewasset Wilderness. The more notable peaks on this ridge are Lincoln and Lafayette. I have hiked those peaks previously, a year or so before. To the west of the ridge lies Franconia notch and Route 93, which in turn is bordered by Kinsman Ridge with its well known ski area on its northern terminus, Cannon Mountain.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhn3t_JIxfji8Uu8nypBGlI2SP3rm_lO5QWa8kA4Jzn-Q7CXT59pivhaMwWQjM7GQ8BSIoxbe1dBDQgBm_fQcOPM6jRg0b2NRJ0fXJXgJeoi0-Q-vWVTJ0PbFYN71UMZvo4nqINOX2AB4k/s1600/White+Admirals+mineraling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhn3t_JIxfji8Uu8nypBGlI2SP3rm_lO5QWa8kA4Jzn-Q7CXT59pivhaMwWQjM7GQ8BSIoxbe1dBDQgBm_fQcOPM6jRg0b2NRJ0fXJXgJeoi0-Q-vWVTJ0PbFYN71UMZvo4nqINOX2AB4k/s400/White+Admirals+mineraling.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">On the metal railings of the bridge crossing Whitehouse/Cascade Brook, were many butterflies called "White Admiral," (<i>Limenitis arthemis).</i> These delicate creatures were "mineralling," gathering minerals from the rusting metal. This mineraling of butterflies can often be seen on mud as well as on scat... ya, scat.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My chosen route would take me up the southernmost of the two peaks first, Mt. Flume, along the trail known as "Flume Slide Trail." The approach to the "slide" is mostly an easy walk in the woods. The problem with climbing mountains is, well, you have to climb. So anytime an approach trail is easy and relatively level for an extended stretch it means you will have to pay for that ease later with long steep sections of trail. Of course you should always be aware of the nature of the trail before you set out along it. The old saying "Ignorance is bliss" is often true, but not in the wilderness. In wilderness, ignorance is frequently dangerous.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWzWuYWgnmQ8sZiigZHcXbxbObpcMZAN3DsSEZvgbGhzQy6TIqZcPD4FpA0jrvmxheJo4_IHzN8kq6m7YtjDX4Sf_yUItFz5ij89Gy5u5vayPz701py0T5WUB8BsKHmDUSZuj5t58421v/s1600/Trail+below+slide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWzWuYWgnmQ8sZiigZHcXbxbObpcMZAN3DsSEZvgbGhzQy6TIqZcPD4FpA0jrvmxheJo4_IHzN8kq6m7YtjDX4Sf_yUItFz5ij89Gy5u5vayPz701py0T5WUB8BsKHmDUSZuj5t58421v/s400/Trail+below+slide.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trail approaching the beginning of the "slide" is an easy walk through the woods.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
So I was cruising along this sylvan way at a pretty good clip. The warmth and humidity had caused me to sweat freely, but my energy and strength usage was minimal. There seemed few people on this trail today, which was fine with me. I do enjoy meeting people along the way, but I also enjoy long periods of solitude. As I walked these low elevations many Red-eyed Vireos sang their slow repetitive songs. Few songbirds will continue to sing throughout hot summer days, but Red-eyed Vireos are one which will. As I approached the lower end of the slide the trail started to climb past mountain streams. These streams are fed by the slow shedding of melted snows from the previous winter augmented with rainwater that followed. These mountain streams are often quite cool to downright cold. At one point, after eating an early lunch, I rinsed my hands in the stream and they came away almost numbed by the icy water!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx69WwL2JydZmiArdRO7L2RZH_HA0Q1Ta0hX5KKdP_ojR1UFVLronpqF6amPY45s0afFkT6mLgJQh96r7CSSw_cZMSwiL8eOvzlKcwM2iyTf1WpSF7J08JVPGieW61ZIsud4GBiUZ9Mok6/s1600/Stream+with+mist.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx69WwL2JydZmiArdRO7L2RZH_HA0Q1Ta0hX5KKdP_ojR1UFVLronpqF6amPY45s0afFkT6mLgJQh96r7CSSw_cZMSwiL8eOvzlKcwM2iyTf1WpSF7J08JVPGieW61ZIsud4GBiUZ9Mok6/s400/Stream+with+mist.bmp" width="300px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The icy cold mountain stream caused the moist warm air above it to condense, resulting in a misty "smoke" along the surface. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Soon after eating lunch I reached the slide's base. The "slide" is a remaining scar of a long ago landslide that ripped through the forest on the mountain's flank. There are many of these in the White Mountains, and they are often visible from many miles away as stone colored vertical slashes rent in the green forest cloak. Some now have prominent trails that run right up them. This scar on Mt Flume is one such "slide trail." I have taken many trail photos over the years and I have found it to be nearly impossible to actually capture in photos how steep some trails are or how dangerous they can sometimes be. This slide is not the most difficult by any means, but it does offer ample opportunity to fall with potential serious injury resulting. Some hikers will not climb such slides when they hike solo. I will, I'm part Irish. That makes me hard headed and stubborn. At least that is the excuse I frequently use. Maybe it would be more accurate to say "I'm stubborn and hard-headed" and leave off the "... because I'm Irish!" bit. Maybe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJmAviJU9aQTBVDuc7brkfSNXZtPRiTCL1Us1WB_f2isJnm2sLbhli2FSQPmUzvsWOlib26Jq9TmmcnhoAGrp2MIjCrICx_7e58USwilQ1KZXSj3NPNQO5yWegXJSrjFsYm5P01G_Po8b/s1600/Slide1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJmAviJU9aQTBVDuc7brkfSNXZtPRiTCL1Us1WB_f2isJnm2sLbhli2FSQPmUzvsWOlib26Jq9TmmcnhoAGrp2MIjCrICx_7e58USwilQ1KZXSj3NPNQO5yWegXJSrjFsYm5P01G_Po8b/s400/Slide1.bmp" width="300px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking back down part of the slide. It's steeper and more slippery than it looks in photos.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As I climbed I frequently had to use hands and knees to scramble up some sections. It wasn't long before I had a few scares (and new scars) as one of my feet slipped out from under me time and again. There is an old adage when climbing, "three points of contact." That means of your two hands and two feet, at any given moment only one of the four of them should not be attached to what you are climbing. It's a good adage, frequently ignored. And not just by me. When one of your feet suddenly no longer is where you planted it, you usually get reminded what it feels like to have adrenaline shot into your bloodstream. At those moments, the usefulness of a solid hand-hold really strikes home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fEGPOa3Uq9K-wX5blMZVUD0-K1Cby5iSIIidql26q0gx2mw-w6omWEOBJQW4_k9MVmSnfu10Cla_oBLq2TU6lYM-cIeiA2xSb2gFEBDXdGMySgV9uphU4USOs0UgKPevIttwYiU1s76X/s1600/slide2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fEGPOa3Uq9K-wX5blMZVUD0-K1Cby5iSIIidql26q0gx2mw-w6omWEOBJQW4_k9MVmSnfu10Cla_oBLq2TU6lYM-cIeiA2xSb2gFEBDXdGMySgV9uphU4USOs0UgKPevIttwYiU1s76X/s400/slide2.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking up the slide. This section was a scramble. I left some of the skin on my shins on these rocks</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Along the upper end of the slide I started to hear female voices ahead of me. It wasn't long before I caught up with three pretty young ladies and their dog, Raleigh (or maybe "Rollie?" I didn't ask the spelling, so I'll go with Sir Walter - it's more romantic). The girls where concerned because Raleigh had slipped and tumbled down part of the slide a short time before. He looked fine to me when I looked him over but the girls were anxious that the event should not be repeated. Therefore they were taking their time and using a long leash on the dog and carefully picking their way upward to ensure it would not fall again. I helped them find a way around a difficult stretch and then headed on. I knew I would see them again on the ridge.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbkJk9BLVWfud5FGZmdu8sUr9sfjBpZukEY9yIZRwDP878aysLvZCDalHkR_hYKvOsGLspCPFxBivQWSWbsAwT48o16tpTH3tn-JS1pjtrAZacDo2wXnP4r7LhgEKinTTbHXDfzmt7QHN/s1600/Ridge+Trail+Junction+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbkJk9BLVWfud5FGZmdu8sUr9sfjBpZukEY9yIZRwDP878aysLvZCDalHkR_hYKvOsGLspCPFxBivQWSWbsAwT48o16tpTH3tn-JS1pjtrAZacDo2wXnP4r7LhgEKinTTbHXDfzmt7QHN/s400/Ridge+Trail+Junction+sign.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">After finally reaching the ridge line, the trail heads off toward Flume's summit.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
A hiker should always be prepared to turn back if he or she feels unable to safely finish a planned hike. As yet, I have never had to do so. However as I neared the end of the difficult and hot climb up the slide, I felt much more spent than I should have. At that point the thought of continuing the planned hike seemed daunting and I was surprised how tired I felt. This may have been the first time I have ever felt that my physical condition was so much less solid than it should been for the effort spent. It was a relief when I finally stepped onto the ridge trail and I soon recovered physically and spiritually. The thrill I always feel when about to climb above the tree line returned with vigor.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Z-XaG_dCp9ZnS5tIUdWP6PS_0jY5ZWbwTxGW0YvRXX3Y2dbu8WncDeR-AUz2du_pNvW1TBWnWFfDvSpLJVVqMtD62EhjYtUtrxaGxEzOhfPK_dhbl1P6ArecAtZFjS8a4qdbBACoQt3o/s1600/Liberty+seen+from+below+Flume+summit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Z-XaG_dCp9ZnS5tIUdWP6PS_0jY5ZWbwTxGW0YvRXX3Y2dbu8WncDeR-AUz2du_pNvW1TBWnWFfDvSpLJVVqMtD62EhjYtUtrxaGxEzOhfPK_dhbl1P6ArecAtZFjS8a4qdbBACoQt3o/s400/Liberty+seen+from+below+Flume+summit.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Liberty as seen from the trail below Flume's summit. Franconia ridge runs off northward and upward from Liberty. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_ObMqayAzSIk991q70K6BhWKFHzbG54jzwFBc3pcY31rfBMcKdmKx45wxG0YSO6H2U-E_ZE1RbNpTvszfQZwSfLx71AzDyuwuhr043NWNDoAMV7qqjnFDiWBEyzo2BmpqeCt1f9_Bohh/s1600/Looking+at+Flume+summit+from+below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_ObMqayAzSIk991q70K6BhWKFHzbG54jzwFBc3pcY31rfBMcKdmKx45wxG0YSO6H2U-E_ZE1RbNpTvszfQZwSfLx71AzDyuwuhr043NWNDoAMV7qqjnFDiWBEyzo2BmpqeCt1f9_Bohh/s400/Looking+at+Flume+summit+from+below.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Flume's summit.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
A short pleasant hike along the ridge trail found me on Mt Flume's summit. In the White Mountains, there are 48 peaks called "4,000 footers" by Appalachian Mountain Club. Many hikers set a goal to climb all 48 at least once in their lives. Mt. Flume was my personal 40th of these. Only eight more summits to complete them all. Of course I have sumitted several of the peaks that I have climbed more than once but I have not yet summitted all of the 48. My goal is to finish this year. Then I will have to start working on round two. I have no intention of stopping.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBex0LFEziaYWch-xR4raMThcbrfOp3_g0EHNTKRZfcWFnAtgStTRoCe9XH2717BqlMMJufp_FhTEeGYRaVZ2IqS22sE5iUvEXlZ2diIlPuuACodwowihOQszCyrI714K72rf76qRtMIV/s1600/Liberty+from+Flume+summit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBex0LFEziaYWch-xR4raMThcbrfOp3_g0EHNTKRZfcWFnAtgStTRoCe9XH2717BqlMMJufp_FhTEeGYRaVZ2IqS22sE5iUvEXlZ2diIlPuuACodwowihOQszCyrI714K72rf76qRtMIV/s400/Liberty+from+Flume+summit.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Liberty seen from Mt. Flume. To the left, across Franconia Notch, lies Kinsman Ridge. To the right, Franconia Ridge climbs northward.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jBL19G61-XRHRjE2EnvpWBrt4YBHM_I_x9VVTpApsc4r2XmXuEx6HDZ0lzMmyB09i77McTcAToUX2OEe5LSv1jNGWnhhJTNaw-FkjdQSqNcg9lHYtnve_emBfiG45J3QX2ooPr-SSIdv/s1600/Moosilauke+from+Flume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jBL19G61-XRHRjE2EnvpWBrt4YBHM_I_x9VVTpApsc4r2XmXuEx6HDZ0lzMmyB09i77McTcAToUX2OEe5LSv1jNGWnhhJTNaw-FkjdQSqNcg9lHYtnve_emBfiG45J3QX2ooPr-SSIdv/s400/Moosilauke+from+Flume.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Across Franconia Notch, with Rte 93 running north and south far below, Mt. Moosilauke forms the far horizon's apex. I had last climbed that beautiful mountain two years earlier with a dear friend.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
On Flume's summit I noticed an immature Common Raven was hanging around. The corvid was drinking standing water from a cavity formed by fractures in the stone. It was easy to age the bird as the plumage had brown tones (instead of the glossy black of adults) and the gape, the flesh at corner of its "mouth", was pinkish instead of the blackish color a mature bird would display. It was also easy to age due to its behavior. Adults very rarely allow such close approach by humans, nor do they show such poor landing skills as this youngster. Whenever it alighted from a short flight it looked quite new at the game, in a word, awkward. Very soon the three young ladies and Raleigh joined me on the summit.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pgAN1N91y7hsuzyWDjzifvYC7dsliGoKE_N3vEatGe3kVZxfASKqd60O0n6BeobVBI-djHL1TnGh59dCODJrA7OTGd_yP26EPTwr66u4aT3TX7m5atVkR_oocIN3_3uyj7HMsl2uxr8Y/s1600/Raven+on+Flume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pgAN1N91y7hsuzyWDjzifvYC7dsliGoKE_N3vEatGe3kVZxfASKqd60O0n6BeobVBI-djHL1TnGh59dCODJrA7OTGd_yP26EPTwr66u4aT3TX7m5atVkR_oocIN3_3uyj7HMsl2uxr8Y/s400/Raven+on+Flume.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">An immature Raven drinks water from a fracture in the stone on the summit of Flume.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3VxV7toPyMQyroUix0TAvtQCzjqm9Ep3YBIgOpihtdc7erVz1l63Rabc0aUwbou2drBTDlvIDZz_jgygXjOGr0_heL5_M1hTavps_Gz3G5ubEhJkKAn2Sn24IqsCkiHcxRAhgyeyb_9_/s1600/The+girls+and+Raliegh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3VxV7toPyMQyroUix0TAvtQCzjqm9Ep3YBIgOpihtdc7erVz1l63Rabc0aUwbou2drBTDlvIDZz_jgygXjOGr0_heL5_M1hTavps_Gz3G5ubEhJkKAn2Sn24IqsCkiHcxRAhgyeyb_9_/s400/The+girls+and+Raliegh.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Raleigh and his three lovely companions reach Flume's summit.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I spent nearly a half an hour luxuriating in the beauty that lay in all directions. To the west lay Kinsman Ridge. To the North lay the rest of Franconia Ridge. To the east lay the Pemigawssett Wilderness and many more of the White Mountains. To the south lay the gap where the Kancamagus Highway runs, the Osceolas, Mt. Tecumseh, the town of Lincoln, Loon Mountain Ski Area, and more. At my feet lay the delicate beauty of Mountain Sandwort. Literally adding spice to all this was a young hiker couple who generously shared their Trader Joe's Chipotle Mango chips with me. Though admittedly the young man wasn't too happy with his ladies choice of trail food! If only I had a nice ice cold India Pale Ale or two to wash them down with...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_ll8eYho4kjKQnFbqxfMezMAcx0UKRHI8iXjwYH0joyA0n1tNIMjWPCwi4AAUHTuf7f5pTSR_JIp40v8gmHaagcCD8aT3a7Ed04nJHKg2P9C64HZIMXZPAEafN6f3Y7XPtMkFiZG3zTF/s1600/Mounatin+Sandwort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_ll8eYho4kjKQnFbqxfMezMAcx0UKRHI8iXjwYH0joyA0n1tNIMjWPCwi4AAUHTuf7f5pTSR_JIp40v8gmHaagcCD8aT3a7Ed04nJHKg2P9C64HZIMXZPAEafN6f3Y7XPtMkFiZG3zTF/s400/Mounatin+Sandwort.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mountain Sandwort. This delicate looking montane beauty is a very hardy denizen, growing wherever a little soil has collected</span> <span style="font-size: small;">on the mountain.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I still had another summit to climb and then a hike out to do, so after a while I headed further northward on the ridge trail towards Liberty. The girls and Raleigh left a little earlier and were somewhere between the two peaks when I headed on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5kDLcDE7uEnUmGwe7cjrM_lhJRO_iu4CHRFSiWnkqsEITFe4-MW_YBtGSPNkqhdu1NyEGZ8FWE4gy6decId8NZydZdFDWPPDyI8bh8d2Uqi0CZEyS1N8pJekN1K4ZUD0G1Wpv1Q67zbT_/s1600/Trail+between+Flume+and+Liberty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5kDLcDE7uEnUmGwe7cjrM_lhJRO_iu4CHRFSiWnkqsEITFe4-MW_YBtGSPNkqhdu1NyEGZ8FWE4gy6decId8NZydZdFDWPPDyI8bh8d2Uqi0CZEyS1N8pJekN1K4ZUD0G1Wpv1Q67zbT_/s400/Trail+between+Flume+and+Liberty.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The ridge trail between Flume and Liberty drops back into the trees. North of Liberty, where I would not be hiking today, the trail climbs out of the trees for good and offers magnificent 360 degree views all the way to where it finally descends the north slope of Mount Lafayette.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
One of the common insects hikers encounter in the New Hampshire woods is the "Hover Fly." I do not know the correct name for the species and there is likely more than one species involved as well. These little guys do not bite but they do hover over the middle of the trail and create a high frequency buzz that is reminiscent of a mosquito flying near your ear. I believe the buzz may be either to attract the opposite sex or to establish territorial rights. They also sit on branches and create this high pitched buzzing. Curious little entities.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVtCHd5qTxhT1CeQ2YcHoB8jzmY9S4YKXPBoRKWiLNBwRKU2Up7RrUTQIeIZJVNAXkFphBa0F3i03XpjvvRzz-DQo1G5wZyO25f4YJENL4BdOdCM6EmDBB1zj6Iqdq7pu0hsQlDLEd79E/s1600/Hover+Fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVtCHd5qTxhT1CeQ2YcHoB8jzmY9S4YKXPBoRKWiLNBwRKU2Up7RrUTQIeIZJVNAXkFphBa0F3i03XpjvvRzz-DQo1G5wZyO25f4YJENL4BdOdCM6EmDBB1zj6Iqdq7pu0hsQlDLEd79E/s400/Hover+Fly.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A "Hover Fly" along the trail.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>It wasn't very long at all before I was approaching Mt' Liberty's summit. Just below the summit, I found the girls trying to figure out how to get Raleigh up over a particularly high boulder that formed an obstacle for Raleigh where the trail passed between two steep walls of stone. The only easy way was to pick him up and scramble up to where he could be put on top of the boulder. So that is what I did. This was the first time I have every hiked in the White Mountains carrying a dog, another life experience! The girls thanked me. Raleigh did not. All of us were soon on Liberty's crown.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefd6aEzS4jyoOsQ3Bn5vOze2OVnWnsPgv0RNtrTH0HzVDUZBvKtc3kt9f8CjtF0kgM8WpqfkYIfAMHf-vTuP9DkBsYJkF5GJCZYk0jwTLJdxncE-NSTS4NHR38wxyi4TgGSH_bmhEjSQ1/s1600/Arch+cairn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefd6aEzS4jyoOsQ3Bn5vOze2OVnWnsPgv0RNtrTH0HzVDUZBvKtc3kt9f8CjtF0kgM8WpqfkYIfAMHf-vTuP9DkBsYJkF5GJCZYk0jwTLJdxncE-NSTS4NHR38wxyi4TgGSH_bmhEjSQ1/s400/Arch+cairn.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The "arch cairn" on Mt. Liberty's summit.Many summits have small cairns that serve no purpose other than to express the joie de vivre of their creators. This one expresses that joy more artistically than most!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbJ9L3acrV3sEPRaidD8degbPkHL9qBbGXPqyENdBoCAMtfZ0ZWqSdHj5ZXoS3e-4PX0MaKzabM6sNEwKwoOUYXRwwGYkPbU19a27dWQzqu4KEZ4cOSA-qSj7QJ8wSl0sZci1CKxjVTV7/s1600/Cannon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbJ9L3acrV3sEPRaidD8degbPkHL9qBbGXPqyENdBoCAMtfZ0ZWqSdHj5ZXoS3e-4PX0MaKzabM6sNEwKwoOUYXRwwGYkPbU19a27dWQzqu4KEZ4cOSA-qSj7QJ8wSl0sZci1CKxjVTV7/s400/Cannon.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cannon Mountain, with its summit tower, lies at the north end of Kinsman Ridge. Seen from Mt. Liberty's summit. The "bumps" in the ridge line running to the left of Cannon Mountain are called "The Cannon Balls".</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRT7t1AfJHlBJlYI5XAAm4WVMh320lKsrDv4TFDWY300HJWw89HZDqvioNviFCiMiqEIZMRzV2vzTvaTAvb0aE1rDB7nf6SO4RRyAt6AraOmRpLqLhQHGc3kefM8P80uBnpJE2OMPmKn_/s1600/Kinsmans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRT7t1AfJHlBJlYI5XAAm4WVMh320lKsrDv4TFDWY300HJWw89HZDqvioNviFCiMiqEIZMRzV2vzTvaTAvb0aE1rDB7nf6SO4RRyAt6AraOmRpLqLhQHGc3kefM8P80uBnpJE2OMPmKn_/s400/Kinsmans.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kinsman Ridge as seen from Mt. Liberty. The left peak is South Kinsman and the right peak is North Kinsman.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">In the distance lies Vermont.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKs9uKsLMkltewcU4Cblpsd5LyBQnMg7LVK56JmvPJyAg5Z7T_rFdoHdxO-NV-IIuqzgtUfUz4ihYRr-Hrjy9xyCTQrzAryNQhSRnz-vd_u6q81k2bWo-QrHY7Sk5VhTykfnAnElx3dSe1/s1600/Conifer+Deciduous+treelin+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKs9uKsLMkltewcU4Cblpsd5LyBQnMg7LVK56JmvPJyAg5Z7T_rFdoHdxO-NV-IIuqzgtUfUz4ihYRr-Hrjy9xyCTQrzAryNQhSRnz-vd_u6q81k2bWo-QrHY7Sk5VhTykfnAnElx3dSe1/s400/Conifer+Deciduous+treelin+line.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking downslope. The transition line from deciduous trees on the lower slope to a mix of deciduous and conifer up higher is obvious.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYTZY2URRhvmxVjd-yOwZEY7E82iRqwNf8SaeIIfctnuEigoIFSv5X3Br6D5MzSkp7M6wWr8tjp8YttbTrnQ_TvUWAesDo0zJRd-o7fUqKOwVOkDkKd90dT6bilVVaaEy3UNCUokvcDGR/s1600/Owl%2527s+Head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYTZY2URRhvmxVjd-yOwZEY7E82iRqwNf8SaeIIfctnuEigoIFSv5X3Br6D5MzSkp7M6wWr8tjp8YttbTrnQ_TvUWAesDo0zJRd-o7fUqKOwVOkDkKd90dT6bilVVaaEy3UNCUokvcDGR/s400/Owl%2527s+Head.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking eastward into the Pemigewasset Wilderness. In the foreground is Owl's Head Mountain. Beyond are the Bonds, and on the horizon, Mount Washington rises towards the clouds.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYqtRS4KTZ-_Rc9_K3IOOPZtLE2WqD0B_tdby0dyzbZlNt_5UUVDjqehYrOY3WxNcYnpWIsblJ8bEm82nHLAR1U6MjS9pOh-y9_VDzH91HO3xO7SPzpMYu8lgtxIDRQrjXkMjbeq_KtJE/s1600/Franconia+ridge+from+Liberty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYqtRS4KTZ-_Rc9_K3IOOPZtLE2WqD0B_tdby0dyzbZlNt_5UUVDjqehYrOY3WxNcYnpWIsblJ8bEm82nHLAR1U6MjS9pOh-y9_VDzH91HO3xO7SPzpMYu8lgtxIDRQrjXkMjbeq_KtJE/s400/Franconia+ridge+from+Liberty.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Franconia Ridge running northward from Liberty.</span></td></tr>
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The day was beautiful and the views spectacular, so I was in no hurry to leave Liberty's summit. The girls had pushed on with the intent to camp at the AMC's Liberty Springs campsite, a little below the summit cone. Several species of butterfly were flitting about the summit area I was lounging on. A Canadian Tiger Swallowtail came and went. The Swallowtail's presence was objected to by a Mourning Cloak that constantly chased it whenever the Swallowtail ventured too close. Regrettably Black Flies were also present in the summit area and my ankles were particular targets of these little demons. I frequently counsel people to not assign human qualities to wildlife, but these little scourges often bring me to the point of momentary fury and certainly cause me to at least think foul language. I will admit on this occasion to vocalizing many words you wouldn't use if your mom was in earshot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGZP1rD2zfZg8qvloxW-e8yUk5Tvau1S7dAksOqk2pVYXLURpq7Xr3OsXPy3GbQFoEiakcTC-ulmZ8_ptOaySlnVxDAoZUtcLnqPL_twSS8-0m1Ar1VT-Ee-tEMmJmTPwdtE3tRtoIlBI/s1600/Mourning+Cloak.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGZP1rD2zfZg8qvloxW-e8yUk5Tvau1S7dAksOqk2pVYXLURpq7Xr3OsXPy3GbQFoEiakcTC-ulmZ8_ptOaySlnVxDAoZUtcLnqPL_twSS8-0m1Ar1VT-Ee-tEMmJmTPwdtE3tRtoIlBI/s400/Mourning+Cloak.bmp" width="300px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mourning Cloak (Nymphalis antiopa). This individual sits on its favorite perch, from which it repeatedly chased a Canadian Tiger Swallowtail.</span></td></tr>
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When it came time to press on, I retied my boots, scratched the bites on my ankles viciously, condemned every Black Fly and its relatives to eternal misery in Hades, shouldered my pack, and hiked on. I stopped to take one last set of photos before plunging back into the trees.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOcgRcQAZ52KfMHx_3rVYy8V350E5f6yg5ZWo7DwEr677JdXDkgdNpXbpwjtNkZsLH1d9nvE07qc19zR_e2cZhQz2FKsmVlprphSoK3CdxsPMVOLXUFi9lXYSeUnCTX-hF_uuQsylnr-qr/s1600/Liberty+Cone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOcgRcQAZ52KfMHx_3rVYy8V350E5f6yg5ZWo7DwEr677JdXDkgdNpXbpwjtNkZsLH1d9nvE07qc19zR_e2cZhQz2FKsmVlprphSoK3CdxsPMVOLXUFi9lXYSeUnCTX-hF_uuQsylnr-qr/s400/Liberty+Cone.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mt. Liberty's cone, seen from the north side. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I would be hiking Liberty Springs Trail back to my car in the Notch. This trail is much easier than the Slide Trail I took up to the ridge. It also passes by Liberty Springs Campsite where Raleigh and the girls were camping tonight. I have never camped with a dog in the mountains but I would think it would be fun. It wasn't long before I passed the site. The caretakers at these AMC sites all seem to have the same military surplus type tents. They are quite spacious and comfortable, which is good since the caretakers spend most of their summers in them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuBPDb3uZVNw3HpJdC2NW3S_3FFn1eHHf-hBCsiN8E-y4GcCGDspLs5FDSDHrbTqDPj8PYqDZ1RVSlgfjN5hXi3b5ye-Uju5Aayx7ymVC0_s1SkcUTojV5ItSh-oC2EQ6FelQNc6jybBR/s1600/Liberty+Spring+Trail+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuBPDb3uZVNw3HpJdC2NW3S_3FFn1eHHf-hBCsiN8E-y4GcCGDspLs5FDSDHrbTqDPj8PYqDZ1RVSlgfjN5hXi3b5ye-Uju5Aayx7ymVC0_s1SkcUTojV5ItSh-oC2EQ6FelQNc6jybBR/s400/Liberty+Spring+Trail+sign.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A pretty new trail sign at the junction with Liberty Springs Trail, my path down to the Notch.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxu_sWApBTmrM-gsgoW0m5kO3P4raopt97BiS-E9SstNSRv5nD6wG7toecTkcf-xpotunoIdmGBfv0NWTu4CkVd1-uGBegJvUTs9vwPNRdXh-zmurJMWPZ_CTgxMuxwSv-mWjy8Llwtu_S/s1600/Care+Taker+Tent+LS+campsite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxu_sWApBTmrM-gsgoW0m5kO3P4raopt97BiS-E9SstNSRv5nD6wG7toecTkcf-xpotunoIdmGBfv0NWTu4CkVd1-uGBegJvUTs9vwPNRdXh-zmurJMWPZ_CTgxMuxwSv-mWjy8Llwtu_S/s400/Care+Taker+Tent+LS+campsite.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The caretaker tent at Liberty Springs Campsite.</span></td></tr>
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The rest of the hike was uneventful. I like to set a fast pace on the last downward leg of a hike. This means I pass most other hikers. I had reached the lower stretch of the trail and only had about a mile of fairly level trail left when I encountered a solitary hiker who was also headed out. I passed him and exchanged a few friendly words as I usually do with the hikers I pass. But this time the solitary hiker clearly wanted to continue a conversation rather than just have a brief "How are you doing?". So I slowed my pace and fell in beside him. We had a pleasant conversation as we covered the last mile of the day. His name was Joe and he was from Massachusetts. I certainly enjoyed his company and I enjoyed swapping stories with him. At the parking area we shook hands and headed to our respective vehicles. I stripped off my sweaty shirt and poured clean water over my head. Popping a clean dry shirt on felt wonderful! It had been a good day, "sliding" up and "springing" down. And I got to carry a dog named Raleigh. Briefly. Though I have to admit, I enjoyed it more than he did.Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-85538040345638586572011-06-11T15:58:00.003-04:002011-06-11T22:56:09.975-04:00Openly Hidden<div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote>"One who deceives will always find those who allow themselves to be deceived." - Niccolo Machiavelli</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote>"Nothing is so difficult as not deceiving oneself" - Ludwig Wittgenstein</blockquote></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJn6s42LePRUilYjVe7kXq0NP0IgcWjuUwde3o4RRMwC3BRi7bPbjtSakKlICsz59Ck0tRIRqApyKn1f0p2m3B_kIrm3F1dhi2sorgzrBJFjNF9y2XC1zceME-5uwklMR0PkQ1yKrG2l6/s1600/Hidden+Toad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJn6s42LePRUilYjVe7kXq0NP0IgcWjuUwde3o4RRMwC3BRi7bPbjtSakKlICsz59Ck0tRIRqApyKn1f0p2m3B_kIrm3F1dhi2sorgzrBJFjNF9y2XC1zceME-5uwklMR0PkQ1yKrG2l6/s400/Hidden+Toad.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The forest floor in Nehantic State Forest, Lyme, CT.</span></td></tr>
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In both the natural world and in human behavior, deception is common and takes many forms. In human nature, it is for the most part a destructive behavior. Whether for personal gain, or for avoiding responsibility for our actions, deception is often used by one person against another. Worse yet is self-deception, our frequent and seemingly endless inability to see how our actions or decisions harm ourselves or the ones we love. It is often said that it is easy to see the mistakes of others but very difficult to see the ones we make ourselves. Personal experience makes me a believer of this, it has always been easier to see my kid's mistakes than to see my own! I'm sure they would corroborate that. Luckily I have friends that are able to remind me that I'm an idiot. It seems to me that the wisdom that comes with age is simply the result of managing to survive our own foolish behavior for much longer than we have deserved to survive. However, in the natural world, deception is often necessary for survival. Elaborate behaviors and camouflages have evolved to allow successful hunting, or more to the point of this posting, to successfully avoid being the hunted. Deceptions often follow patterns. Discern the patterns, look for the tiny flaws in the patterns of nature, and you may see what is openly hidden.<br />
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Take another look at the photo above. The pattern of the forest floor is an orderly chaos of browns and greens. There are many random shapes formed by scattered debris and surface topography. There are also many shades of brown dominating the pattern. In the lower right hand corner is one slightly darker round shape. It is an American Toad hunkered down and looking rather like a clump of dirt. I nearly missed it as I walked the forest this day, but the slightly darker color and round shape caught my eye just as I was passing it by. Here is a closer shot of the little fellow:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9i8T8nGvr36PD71Ob1Gt1x3pp4-kJ0sQD8ZLl1nP3zAHHif6ybRtgP0QNdprN9hPPxeXU_752Y1K9cL79NWTlROOYw4-KEHotrL-uwj5t3U3pfFFaZW4dE6JsJEOmVxayJG_Ylf1uy8Gv/s1600/Toad+dorsal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9i8T8nGvr36PD71Ob1Gt1x3pp4-kJ0sQD8ZLl1nP3zAHHif6ybRtgP0QNdprN9hPPxeXU_752Y1K9cL79NWTlROOYw4-KEHotrL-uwj5t3U3pfFFaZW4dE6JsJEOmVxayJG_Ylf1uy8Gv/s400/Toad+dorsal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Openly hidden. An American Toad <i>(Bufo americanus)</i> </span><span style="font-size: small;">uses colors and shapes, coupled with lack of movement, to deceive the eyes of any predators.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiG3yIb7Z9KKV2X-RNL3t-_z10AZntm6RVGmDd5LFmbX-nlmosnQZMaQIATXHxI-8GZXMxyKLfR6Rm89frCT8oxQ7p65oOoNBOa9GCbQq73rmGwKNx5DuOqgcaUVAJF3ApvkptaFfanBN/s1600/Toad+face.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiG3yIb7Z9KKV2X-RNL3t-_z10AZntm6RVGmDd5LFmbX-nlmosnQZMaQIATXHxI-8GZXMxyKLfR6Rm89frCT8oxQ7p65oOoNBOa9GCbQq73rmGwKNx5DuOqgcaUVAJF3ApvkptaFfanBN/s400/Toad+face.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A closer look at the Toad's face reveals a bit of leaf debris protruding from its mouth. This is likely the result of the Toad having just eaten something that failed to remain hidden.</span></td></tr>
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</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"></div>The term camouflage come from the French word <i>camoufler</i>, meaning disguise. Many organism have evolved visual or behavioral deceits to avoid predators. Visual camouflages can sometimes be less than optimally effective. If the toad above hops onto a paved road it will stand out quite distinctly. It will stand out even more so if it gets run over by an automobile, but at that point it will no longer be overly concerned about predators. The Gray Tree Frog below has evolved a camouflage that resembles tree bark. In this particular frog's case, its perch is not the best for blending in. At night, I have found Gray Tree Frogs on pavement a number of times, and they can be surprisingly difficult to spot on that surface in the dark even with a flashlight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4uoYqVaZ_7NSUeFYQY_l7As_VhWeVmzNTHSIhzdBO4lhAoTRL4o1WME0F1j1tptAKOvZ0Xbe3HwWyGATdBwx0RA1v1KkUMEXkscQntHPaaVre068yNKBhm03chkVGD94yroQq9JcZqH4/s1600/Gray+Tree+Frog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4uoYqVaZ_7NSUeFYQY_l7As_VhWeVmzNTHSIhzdBO4lhAoTRL4o1WME0F1j1tptAKOvZ0Xbe3HwWyGATdBwx0RA1v1KkUMEXkscQntHPaaVre068yNKBhm03chkVGD94yroQq9JcZqH4/s400/Gray+Tree+Frog.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gray Tree Frog <i>(Hyla versicolor)</i></span><span style="font-size: small;">. Photo by Hank Golet.</span></td></tr>
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Many predators that do not necessarily use camouflage to hunt will still utilize it for their own protection against other predators. This is true of many of the smaller owl species. In the photo below, an Eastern Screch Owl's pluamge pattern and plumage features (the "horns" are formed by feathers) and its choice of daytime roost site, allow it to be openly hidden.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wm8sOKjVnH0RxJMDNI9vF3O6G5vn4iJbBiOdydrQhhYXa2bAv1u_H2exvpzNpV1MsEuWHJRf-UHpD4JFs1wVSk6mhAAm16jJ-0VYjLKFf1VoTALoReBalW-xpJKYbh734HO2e5HPT_eo/s1600/Screech+Owl2-+Ely+Ferry+Rd+2-13-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wm8sOKjVnH0RxJMDNI9vF3O6G5vn4iJbBiOdydrQhhYXa2bAv1u_H2exvpzNpV1MsEuWHJRf-UHpD4JFs1wVSk6mhAAm16jJ-0VYjLKFf1VoTALoReBalW-xpJKYbh734HO2e5HPT_eo/s400/Screech+Owl2-+Ely+Ferry+Rd+2-13-11.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eastern Screech Owl <i>(Megascops asio)</i> </span><span style="font-size: small;">roosting in tree cavity. Photo by Hank Golet.</span></td></tr>
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Interestingly, some individuals of this species sport a reddish plumage. There are some trees that have reddish bark, and this individual (in the photo below) would be better served to be perched in just such a tree, but to my knowledge there seems to be no preference by these birds to do so. The fact that this reddish color is less common than the gray suggests that the red causing genes have been "selected" for survival less often than the gray genes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-ar6p3jD7HB6wGNKPGjf7jUFDbbUBVfc2vrwk0d0VnBDsJMsFuG0Y1Mm-rVXh3ExnyC_DjRisxVZ1nUk3lDENVwyr0AK1fbEWaQJGYbx7dEhi39vGpFErXd5tc1A6ptPqZFaOyNknd5q/s1600/Eastern+Screech+Owl+red++++3-9-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-ar6p3jD7HB6wGNKPGjf7jUFDbbUBVfc2vrwk0d0VnBDsJMsFuG0Y1Mm-rVXh3ExnyC_DjRisxVZ1nUk3lDENVwyr0AK1fbEWaQJGYbx7dEhi39vGpFErXd5tc1A6ptPqZFaOyNknd5q/s400/Eastern+Screech+Owl+red++++3-9-11.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eastern Screech Owl, red morph. This individual is likely the mate of the gray bird shown above as it was photographed roosting in the same cavity about a month later. Though there are red tones in the tree's bark, this bird clearly stands out more than the gray plumaged bird. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The ground nesting Whippoorwill has evolved a plumage that closely resembles the leaf strewn forest floor where it places its nest. It further enhances this camouflage through behavior. It will often sit motionless when a threat approaches, and only fly off at the last possible moment. This bird's plumage is wet and slightly darkened by rainfall.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXTtiyFB9FmT9cRHp3ecjr-F8gVg8SKWaWsJrHs5GzoQqycTeNUHKIhL7_wpt5qERF0F3Hh9kn19Hg39lqVQrmv2Z3vY8hqP-HjVgm7qKyheGvFJhpIqk96KkyB4mAMx7t20THyHYNwQ_/s1600/Whippoorwill%252C+wet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXTtiyFB9FmT9cRHp3ecjr-F8gVg8SKWaWsJrHs5GzoQqycTeNUHKIhL7_wpt5qERF0F3Hh9kn19Hg39lqVQrmv2Z3vY8hqP-HjVgm7qKyheGvFJhpIqk96KkyB4mAMx7t20THyHYNwQ_/s400/Whippoorwill%252C+wet.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whippoorwill <i>(Caprimulgus vociferus)</i>.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Plumage darkened by rain. Photo by Hank Golet.</span></td></tr>
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Here is the same bird photographed with dry plumage.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDyZfML_c8MeQeQlMZWF88NhOVSzhkIEGT-b1ov3_UhvZUcBGU5i-rR8Sd0s16gXfnPc169v5GO4H2zaozivdQPzxWkQkVYTKjglG4ftZF9wtGit836oEAPPvVheaB-L0Any_vdbv4HCX/s1600/Whipoowill+6-6-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDyZfML_c8MeQeQlMZWF88NhOVSzhkIEGT-b1ov3_UhvZUcBGU5i-rR8Sd0s16gXfnPc169v5GO4H2zaozivdQPzxWkQkVYTKjglG4ftZF9wtGit836oEAPPvVheaB-L0Any_vdbv4HCX/s400/Whipoowill+6-6-02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The same bird but dry. Photo by Hank Golet.</span></td></tr>
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Even the Whipporwill's eggs have evolved a camouflage. The white and brown pattern, as well as the indistinct nest site, make these future Whippoorwills safer from a predator's detection.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBzxnLxFW62IwJQsEKJx6-f1c8zg92ZGRCJFwbv-yBLiRRGX69BVZ5Jb8tfsfl9Es6IbnOCe4Qdi7sFR-59fMKle9yBtGqH3j5M8QWr8EhhmVv89cZslgbH0VBR4WDa1RZo946yn3qHgX7/s1600/Whippoorwill+eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBzxnLxFW62IwJQsEKJx6-f1c8zg92ZGRCJFwbv-yBLiRRGX69BVZ5Jb8tfsfl9Es6IbnOCe4Qdi7sFR-59fMKle9yBtGqH3j5M8QWr8EhhmVv89cZslgbH0VBR4WDa1RZo946yn3qHgX7/s400/Whippoorwill+eggs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whippoorwill eggs in the "nest". Photo by Hank Golet.</span></td></tr>
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In addition to the Gray Tree Frog and American Toad shown above, other amphibians have evolved visual patterns to help avoid detection. The Wood Frog in the picture below blends in nicely.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6cpnQZzIxNId-fQhob6ABUIrU56hA6yldkDa0oD_qEoDj7mXUDNZmkHNz0cr4qEnDeiP_wDgX7TT_cH8G9iWcLXUzr2VFO7yz5eIe3GvNX4pRb80LqEZBzlQhZXyaPZ8pVpNzxLwupoW/s1600/Hidden+Wood+Frog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6cpnQZzIxNId-fQhob6ABUIrU56hA6yldkDa0oD_qEoDj7mXUDNZmkHNz0cr4qEnDeiP_wDgX7TT_cH8G9iWcLXUzr2VFO7yz5eIe3GvNX4pRb80LqEZBzlQhZXyaPZ8pVpNzxLwupoW/s400/Hidden+Wood+Frog.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wood Frog <i>(Rana sylvatica)</i> </span><span style="font-size: small;">amid the leaves. Photo by Hank Golet.</span></td></tr>
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It isn't just woodland floors or tree bark that is imitated by organisms. The sands of barrier beaches are where the Piping Plover, an endangered species, has evolved to nest. The plumage color of the bird allows it to nearly disappear into its surroundings. Sadly, this camouflage plumage does not help the species avoid the loss of their nests to humans walking or driving the barrier beaches. Nor does it help them avoid the human's dogs. Piping Plover nests were once given human assistance by having metal cages placed over them to stop predation by Gulls, Night-Herons, or Crows. This unfortunately lead to raccoons and skunks learning that these cages held food, and the use of the cages had to discontinued once these scavengers associated the cages with something to eat.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3ncKmuC0ddJBm7mfYwxUYRGNAlgZd6gCUEBAR2NnjSXhMqyfrvXDitPYdpT20g_n33qOEtWjfnrO0g0vD1XhqXabq1-LfoCU6jyjCZy3QjxYeFsfM2N6iHCOMgDbBnR1j6stvaCW4nPa/s1600/piper+nesting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3ncKmuC0ddJBm7mfYwxUYRGNAlgZd6gCUEBAR2NnjSXhMqyfrvXDitPYdpT20g_n33qOEtWjfnrO0g0vD1XhqXabq1-LfoCU6jyjCZy3QjxYeFsfM2N6iHCOMgDbBnR1j6stvaCW4nPa/s400/piper+nesting.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Piping Plover <i>(Charadrius melodus)</i> </span><span style="font-size: small;">on nest.</span></td></tr>
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Deception is defined as "To cause to believe what is not true; mislead." Deception in the natural world, when used defensively, helps organisms mislead predators. It is one of the survival strategies evolution has devised. As humans, we can appreciated the intricate beauty these deceptive patterns create. But to do so, we need to first actually see these little deceivers. So the next time you are out of doors, keep you eyes peeled for those things that are indeed, openly hidden.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody></tbody></table>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-8627673459053788602011-05-09T13:31:00.004-04:002011-05-09T14:06:21.684-04:00Brown Dragon Rising<blockquote><blockquote><span class="body">"The mind is everything. What you think you become." - Buddha</span></blockquote></blockquote><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b style="font-weight: 400;">Brown Dragon, Indian Turnip, Devil's-ear, Swamp turnip, Bog onion, Wake Robin, Lords-and-ladies. These</b></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;">are just some of the appellations that have adorned the plant which we now simply call, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, <em>Arisaema triphyllum</em>.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyO0iXssl2QS2251IEv-M4GbWap2wTanXOy6N08zANd2N_n0UyaDvHSkGS7cT16MiXSIIP5O610O7-MCbWfNZ6MMXyRG8ot0gBBqDUKtiOyT7a6y8yO0bZr2Qab9RBVP8ucj0GyANaMS_/s1600/Jack-in-the-pulpit+insitu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyO0iXssl2QS2251IEv-M4GbWap2wTanXOy6N08zANd2N_n0UyaDvHSkGS7cT16MiXSIIP5O610O7-MCbWfNZ6MMXyRG8ot0gBBqDUKtiOyT7a6y8yO0bZr2Qab9RBVP8ucj0GyANaMS_/s320/Jack-in-the-pulpit+insitu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Arisaema triphyllum. Nehantic State Forest, Lyme, CT. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial;"> I was hiking Nehantic State Forest in Lyme, Connecticut on a sunny May morning when I came across Jack-in-the-Pulpit. This plant is one of the little treasures one can find in the woodlands of New England. It is a perennial plant that grows from a corm. What is a corm? Well, if you are a birder, it's slang for a cormorant. However that's not what we're talking about here. This flower is not growing from the body of a bird buried in the forest! Though admittedly it would be fun to try and convince one of my kids that it is, but they're too old to buy that kind of stuff anymore, alas. A corm is simply a spherical tuber, or "bulb," similar to the flower bulbs many people plant around their homes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The classic structure is formed by a "spathe" enclosing a "spadix." A spathe is simply a modified leaf, or bract. A spadix is a spike infloresence, and an infloresence is simply a group of flowers arranged on a stem. The spadix has both male and females flowers. Jack-in-the-Pulpits are variable, and the specimen I photographed below is handsomely patterned. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5lpxSIPgOeSszOMjSBL43OtslQDngwEVlAZ0Ml_rVZH6oyg-J6NEun8DjSt4t2D9S6MP7I26pqjpewIwY9DQhVe02CrDMOuou5q2Md-SRtCK3RSdYtm9LXH_CCqqRyh8HNBjBjRSxw6P/s1600/Jack+exposed.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5lpxSIPgOeSszOMjSBL43OtslQDngwEVlAZ0Ml_rVZH6oyg-J6NEun8DjSt4t2D9S6MP7I26pqjpewIwY9DQhVe02CrDMOuou5q2Md-SRtCK3RSdYtm9LXH_CCqqRyh8HNBjBjRSxw6P/s320/Jack+exposed.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here a stick is used to genlty lift the spathe up to expose the spadex and the plant's colorful pattern.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>This beautiful plant contains calcium oxalate and eating any raw part of it causes a buring sensation or possibly a reaction which could interfer with breathing and thus be life-threatening. Proper preparation allows the bulb to eaten (though why you would want to destroy such a lovely thing for a snack nowadays I don't know) and Native Americans did indeed utilize it in their diet. There is a legend among the Meskwaki Indians that they spiked meat with bits of the raw plant and left the meat to be consumed by their enemies, thus disabling or killing them. I can't imagine this could have been a signifcantly successful form of warfare however. Normally enemies would be suspicious of sustenance left about by the opposition, I should think. Reportedly the root was thought to be a contraceptive as well. A dose of the dried dried herb mixed with cold water was supposed to prevent conception for a week, while two doses mixed with hot water caused permanant sterility. I can imagine the first part having a kernel of truth based in one dose of an improperly prepared herb making a woman ill. Nothing like being sick to take the edge off amourous adventures! As for permanant sterility, maybe two doses of improperly prepared herb could kill you, which would permanently lower your chances of procreation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFToUIEpExfoPAfGTb0LPtwY7x1O4kh2eB3mWZqzKlVsQlTc8S8kuJm9Ow-0hUZAt60gMhE-hc1Yw0A40kC5OCkZdVDnoK3MXoZblBr46hSdQlkB2C3f5-Zx8gzvXmDeHgUiGLWQjNrPgm/s1600/Jack+single.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFToUIEpExfoPAfGTb0LPtwY7x1O4kh2eB3mWZqzKlVsQlTc8S8kuJm9Ow-0hUZAt60gMhE-hc1Yw0A40kC5OCkZdVDnoK3MXoZblBr46hSdQlkB2C3f5-Zx8gzvXmDeHgUiGLWQjNrPgm/s320/Jack+single.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A closer view of the "Brown Dragon"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are many wonders to be found while walking through the woodlands of New England. I try to watch the ground, the trees, and the sky, all at the same time as I hike along. I realize it can make me look a bit paranoid but I don't want to miss anything. This plant is iconic to those of us who grew up in its range and chanced upon it as we walked through the woodlands of our childhood. The magical memory is still there for me whenever I encounter the Brown Dragon rising from the forest floor.Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-18322817734563691842011-01-24T22:14:00.002-05:002011-01-27T09:03:49.791-05:00Snowshoe Here<blockquote>"Having a wider heart and mind is more important than having a larger house" - Venerable Cheng Yen</blockquote>January 12th, 2011. The snow along the roadside was a good two to three feet deep. Few people were driving this back road in East Lyme Connecticut because the season's first major snowfall was just wrapping up. The people who were driving were going slowly and trying to avoid sliding off the road. Not me. When I approached the forest road that leads into Nehantic State Forest I gunned it and pointed my truck at the snow bank. With a soft but solid thud I buried my truck in the snow. Then I reached for my snowshoes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYPaXitjDhfwDnT4HN7LerJhmAhobg9qUZE4KB0TmO3Z8EwB0um_Ysc-HAlbcdVm8SiCssXwVNo4Pmr5ycrwqKIVjmRYolXBOzkV7yApUJuRlK6z3qtHBnzBb5EvEVdQVpXixWRKHeXxO/s1600/Truck+off+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYPaXitjDhfwDnT4HN7LerJhmAhobg9qUZE4KB0TmO3Z8EwB0um_Ysc-HAlbcdVm8SiCssXwVNo4Pmr5ycrwqKIVjmRYolXBOzkV7yApUJuRlK6z3qtHBnzBb5EvEVdQVpXixWRKHeXxO/s320/Truck+off+road.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Buried in the snow. My truck "parked" in a snow bank.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> It is rare to have enough snow to use snowshoes in southeastern Connecticut. During most years here I have seen snowshoe tracks on snow that was so shallow that hiking boots were more than enough to keep the walker warm and dry. Evidence that someone owned snowshoes and wanted to get some use out of them even if they were unnecessary. Understandably human of course. I also own snowshoes, but mine are designed for narrow trails on mountainous terrain more than for wide open flats. I did not ever really expect to use them in Connecticut where we are now experiencing milder and milder winters. Still that was short sighted of me. Climate change is resulting in more moisture in the atmosphere, and consequently, more significant storms. So here I was, in East Lyme Connecticut, strapping on my snowshoes that I thought I would only ever use in the mountains. Over the coming week or so I would snowshoe three different times in the unusually white forests of my home state.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmlwW4eZaITYK6diM3LnouN70rxGKYYrs5qMfiA_47ePoFCSQX3yxiV1kBvFK3-UbIw8t9Lvd3KFKepc17MnDkhBsahSZo9R0vYH_nQLmXtybiVlMWxxZcVsE32M5_Q46QttYXxzcF2Rkv/s1600/Nehatic+Forest+Road+in+white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmlwW4eZaITYK6diM3LnouN70rxGKYYrs5qMfiA_47ePoFCSQX3yxiV1kBvFK3-UbIw8t9Lvd3KFKepc17MnDkhBsahSZo9R0vYH_nQLmXtybiVlMWxxZcVsE32M5_Q46QttYXxzcF2Rkv/s320/Nehatic+Forest+Road+in+white.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The entrance to the East Lyme unit of Nehantic State Forest. In summer Cerulean Warblers can be heard here. Now a cold stillness blanketed the forest.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>As I adjusted my gear at the entrance, I once again was struck by the stillness that pervades a northeastern forest after a deep snowfall. Much like how the soft edges of an owl's feathers kill sound and allow the bird to silently approach its prey, snow that covers the forest floor and clings to trees and undergrowth also deadens sounds. The result is a silence and solitude that is more perceptual than real. But humans are creatures of perception, so the solitude felt very real to me, though I knew I was not far from roads and houses.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBk2MBUaT2YaY6QKN8QfYKOhe14dROc4kaxMuPdHs-B6VPt2w6nE3mo4uYFtiYVNBtNBiTG9Ac9Cq6J7UtTuOo_LXTY9EYCY-qvHawCK8IDb3nlh5fbUXM2JTFNwVgC9YYr6vHVlo7pwe2/s1600/I+start+in+Nehantic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBk2MBUaT2YaY6QKN8QfYKOhe14dROc4kaxMuPdHs-B6VPt2w6nE3mo4uYFtiYVNBtNBiTG9Ac9Cq6J7UtTuOo_LXTY9EYCY-qvHawCK8IDb3nlh5fbUXM2JTFNwVgC9YYr6vHVlo7pwe2/s320/I+start+in+Nehantic.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Self portrait showing snowshoe gear. Mountain trail snowshoes, trekking poles with snow baskets, gaiters. The cotton jeans are a clear indication I'm not dressed for backcountry but more for a stroll.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As I headed into the forest my snowshoes sank deeply into the soft powder. We had about 10 to 12 inches of new snow, and it was too dry and too new to really support my weight on my narrow snowshoes. That was okay with me today because I really just wanted to enjoy the forest and get a little workout to prepare for a planned 15 mile hike in the White Mountains later in the season.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4MWNpFmiuFEbKMOU9VcNmfIcGypauetWxg-zytG94Icy79ZL00_HGq5YiGBr4VOp65P13StQgU60yy1QMBLQoQgTaPz_OSsCKHoWukGhEyKO70TIl29T1fimYjgtMusjfGdWHxuJP67B/s1600/Silent+Forest.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4MWNpFmiuFEbKMOU9VcNmfIcGypauetWxg-zytG94Icy79ZL00_HGq5YiGBr4VOp65P13StQgU60yy1QMBLQoQgTaPz_OSsCKHoWukGhEyKO70TIl29T1fimYjgtMusjfGdWHxuJP67B/s320/Silent+Forest.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The snow clad forest seemed silent and bereft of life. Silent it was but bereft it was not.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> I plodded along in the snow and each time my snowshoe came up its tail threw powder on my nether region. I soon adjusted my stride and pace to eliminate that uncomfortable occurrence. There is an old saying in mountain lore, "cotton kills." It is a reference to cotton quickly absorbing moisture and losing all insulating properties. Wool on the other hand, actually increases in insulating value when it gets damp. Maybe that's why sheep have wool instead of cotton. As I was wearing cotton jeans, I did not want to end up with a cold wet butt, so I adjusted my stride accordingly.<br />
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As I walked through the deep snow, at a blistering pace of about 1 mile per hour, I listened to the forest. It seemed nearly birdless. Many of the wintering songbirds would now be clustered around feeding stations at human residences. I did hear a few though. The call of a Red-bellied Woodpecker rang distantly. I can not help but compare the stark differences in spring and summer deciduous woodland noises against the winter. So much life can be heard in the warmth and so little in the cold. That doesn't mean life isn't there, it just means much less of it is avian.<br />
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Watching the snow for tracks I saw abundant sign of the seemingly ever present Gray Squirrel. These tracks often start and end, not surprisingly, at the base of trees. I did not see or hear a squirrel during my walk, and by that, one could be forgiven for thinking they were not here. But the myriad trails of their prints spoke in silent eloquence of their numbers. At one point I found ridges poking up out of the snow like the bulging veins on a body builder's arms. These were tunnels of a small mammal, perhaps a Short-tailed Shrew or a Masked Shrew. Shrews are voracious little predators eating their own body weight or more every day, and the Short-tailed (Blarina brevicauda Say)<span class="fourteen"></span> has the unique adaptation of a neurologically toxic saliva. Yes, that would be poison spit. Not to mention it emits ultrasonic sounds for echolocation. Good thing they're not the size of a dog, they'd make a Black Bear look like Winnie the Pooh.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCPJsTP7TUTh5UR-no0F35ySeZPmpDkBSgaTyskSGQeIxRF-VsfKdArzzVC5OyS-PBOjSuy-fYc4v5wH81S3sy6DoyWgZNg52fghvfbPG_FEmIEYRk3nR73Qrv0tQ3Mx3C-TUz6psIo9J/s1600/Tunnels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCPJsTP7TUTh5UR-no0F35ySeZPmpDkBSgaTyskSGQeIxRF-VsfKdArzzVC5OyS-PBOjSuy-fYc4v5wH81S3sy6DoyWgZNg52fghvfbPG_FEmIEYRk3nR73Qrv0tQ3Mx3C-TUz6psIo9J/s320/Tunnels.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tunnels in the new snow, Short-tailed Shrew?. A little difficult to see the tunnels in this un-enhanced image.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_bnYKoCmHkkhF6m-W0ys5_wWqbpDLsVy5AdBQl-j0PtzIFEGgz5xM9E_a2ApQoHB4djP61NrQBVoxKDFnzdC8_SIoPMgnxNvVwLJAFm3fUqSpzCvJVYZXZHAPUlQwJNH74lNcizYGWiq/s1600/Tunnels+enahnced.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_bnYKoCmHkkhF6m-W0ys5_wWqbpDLsVy5AdBQl-j0PtzIFEGgz5xM9E_a2ApQoHB4djP61NrQBVoxKDFnzdC8_SIoPMgnxNvVwLJAFm3fUqSpzCvJVYZXZHAPUlQwJNH74lNcizYGWiq/s320/Tunnels+enahnced.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here, by enhancing the image's contrast, you can clearly see the meandering sub-surface movement of the foraging animal.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> The trees were plastered with the wind driven snow. Each species of tree seemed to take on the snow in accordance with the texture of its bark. Birches and Beeches grabbed the snow in solid blankets while Ashes and stately Tulip Trees only held the snow in the deep grooves between their ridges. Even fallen logs were heavily blanketed in the new snow. Very soon this snow would fall or be blown off, indeed as I walked I was occasionally showered by mini avalanches as this process was already underway.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEito6GZzyT3LDymK2txm1I-GfGQYmAfUfpW8SEuqHa1JU4GcBl_NbLTj9EbA9WPG2W5AqOyXoSkQGec15sTjHA5Bv0mYmqLPdKgY76csyyd46tRQbln9IS40uVGe-L6l1qvCM4r-FFGi76e/s1600/Tulip+Tree.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEito6GZzyT3LDymK2txm1I-GfGQYmAfUfpW8SEuqHa1JU4GcBl_NbLTj9EbA9WPG2W5AqOyXoSkQGec15sTjHA5Bv0mYmqLPdKgY76csyyd46tRQbln9IS40uVGe-L6l1qvCM4r-FFGi76e/s320/Tulip+Tree.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The bark of the Tulip Tree (Liriodendron tulipifera), or Yellow Polar, held the snow in the recess while the ridges were mostly scoured clean.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvV7NGy19AJlu0qi7h6FPDkkS1607zuiub6DwVDFxQKcAuan3ivAvXUMzB8Vubo2AeSuaO66DBcdVdhYXn1Ts3dTZ6TGCu2Z-yCb9pVNJKp8Bkx6hyphenhyphen5Bp4Zmi6gFgNpsWFjhg3zsJ9BQM/s1600/Blanketed+log.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvV7NGy19AJlu0qi7h6FPDkkS1607zuiub6DwVDFxQKcAuan3ivAvXUMzB8Vubo2AeSuaO66DBcdVdhYXn1Ts3dTZ6TGCu2Z-yCb9pVNJKp8Bkx6hyphenhyphen5Bp4Zmi6gFgNpsWFjhg3zsJ9BQM/s320/Blanketed+log.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Simple winter beauty.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The light was fading and the snow hadn't completely stopped when I finally returned to my truck. I experienced a new life first by shoveling snow while wearing snowshoes to extricate my truck. It had been a very enjoyable walk, with the benefit of physical exertion. I drove home on the still very snowy roads. I managed to only slide off the road and bounce off a snow bank once on the way.<br />
<br />
On January 17th I headed to Pleasant Valley Preserve in Lyme for another bout of Connecticut Snowshoeing. I didn't know what the trail conditions would be so I also packed my cross country skis. I figured the snowshoes would still be preferable at this point but one never knows. I timed my hike to extend into the night as the sky was clear and the waxing moon was nearing full. I love the forest at night and frequently hike in the dark.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUPp5cnbZ3IqvmfyNQdrSIf5u8HsPI4fv0lKMB7xQrA6brWUjQ8_eC-sPXWirkZ6fkR-bWrVciCVTxKjgTiAsfo0xEp2GJ5aPeNDGGZuIqSKyUjBXwxxC3rFkPggH50M1grWxKDzyICQH/s1600/PVP+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUPp5cnbZ3IqvmfyNQdrSIf5u8HsPI4fv0lKMB7xQrA6brWUjQ8_eC-sPXWirkZ6fkR-bWrVciCVTxKjgTiAsfo0xEp2GJ5aPeNDGGZuIqSKyUjBXwxxC3rFkPggH50M1grWxKDzyICQH/s320/PVP+Sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pleasant Valley Preserve sign and map in Lyme, Connecticut.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Once I parked I scoped out the snow/trail appearance and decided that indeed it snowshoes and not skis today. Once geared up, I headed in and quickly was reminded just how many seldom seen animals are present in our deciduous forests. In a small field a large brush pile has been built up, presumably for wildlife. It certainly was working. Around this pile, in the snow cover, were the tracks of Cottontail Rabbits that clearly showed the entry holes into the brush pile that the rabbits were using for shelter. These were either the tracks of the introduced Eastern Cottontail (Sylvilagus floridanus), or the greatly diminished New England Cottontail (Sylvilagus transitionalis), but I could not be sure. You can separate the species in a number of subtle ways but field researchers are now heavily relying on DNA determination in the droppings. Yup, you are what you poop. The New England Cottontail needs transitional habitat, cleared land that is reverting to dense brush. The Eastern Cottontail is able to exploit a larger variety of habitats, and thus out-competes the native New England. The State of Connecticut is doing studies to try and help the remaining populations of New England Cottontails, one of which is at Bluff Point Coastal Reserve in Groton. Some individuals of both species have been out-fitted with radio transmitters to better understand their dynamics. A rabbit with a white waistcoat and pocket watch has nothing on a bunny with a transmitter. Apologies to Lewis Carroll. In addition to the rabbit tracks, White-footed Mice tracks also abounded, not to mention the searching tracks of the Eastern Coyote (Lupis latrans).<br />
<i></i> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiX5Zy-eCNF47mNTok1ckgV9QnJc5hT9nOiiYFCParIElRcQexDcETJ3TeNccBjFwF47GAjemAFYzo2-i8FACUDmEfnHoofflG7I9UWPWKFzQNk04YTbiTnZ_WbAziHGqn_NRjv9lTuGd/s1600/Cottontail+tracks+at+pile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLiX5Zy-eCNF47mNTok1ckgV9QnJc5hT9nOiiYFCParIElRcQexDcETJ3TeNccBjFwF47GAjemAFYzo2-i8FACUDmEfnHoofflG7I9UWPWKFzQNk04YTbiTnZ_WbAziHGqn_NRjv9lTuGd/s320/Cottontail+tracks+at+pile.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cottontail tracks around brush pile and at rabbit hole entrance. White-footed Mouse tracks can be seen at upper left.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>There is a nice stand of Red Cedar in an open field on the preserve. I wanted to search for Saw-whet Owls in the stand before dark so I continued on. You need to walk under each tree and look up into it to find these diminutive little owls. I spent about a half hour doing so to no avail. I could easily have missed one of these winter visitors though, they can be tough to spot when properly tucked into the tree.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtvhPVnsaWyp7kN5u2EUqwjAG6W-e4kjxsMgfhcqCRnJlWcjeBP4IxlwsR7oZSifSJzY3aDfukZeYcSkbqwVTyD2Xav3KSRoVZ8SH51b2yoZ77edw7kHwfXntbhfHOq5uBFloTkw8XAdl/s1600/saw+whet+pine+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtvhPVnsaWyp7kN5u2EUqwjAG6W-e4kjxsMgfhcqCRnJlWcjeBP4IxlwsR7oZSifSJzY3aDfukZeYcSkbqwVTyD2Xav3KSRoVZ8SH51b2yoZ77edw7kHwfXntbhfHOq5uBFloTkw8XAdl/s320/saw+whet+pine+4.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northern Saw-whet (<span id="search" style="visibility: visible;">Aegolius acadicus)</span>. Photo by AJ Hand</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Feeling I had given it the ole college try, and by ole college try I mean a half-hearted quick look, I followed some White-tailed Deer tracks down to the Eight Mile River which borders the preserve. The river was largely frozen over and the snow, ice, and moonlight were gorgeous on this marvelous stream. A winter's stream frozen in crystal and white under a silver disc.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriR0KQiyp6I0Bh3QE3hH9f_aHMP62nAyPQ4YicZ9BC8nEXv7VQIY_PL73B5WyunQ3peWVM_d_TbfNrDGNEJpySNQfxIEM3UmAi-FW0w7a_T3_iqS-YxuQfHz7-Q_V-UECFE9A9BwXKEhy/s1600/Moon+over+Cedars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriR0KQiyp6I0Bh3QE3hH9f_aHMP62nAyPQ4YicZ9BC8nEXv7VQIY_PL73B5WyunQ3peWVM_d_TbfNrDGNEJpySNQfxIEM3UmAi-FW0w7a_T3_iqS-YxuQfHz7-Q_V-UECFE9A9BwXKEhy/s320/Moon+over+Cedars.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The nearly full moon over the Red Cedars of Pleasant Valley.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0J713o1lXOKJsjFh57tmrAKjFCPVeVNIQ_MgCcAzrZOt_5BZhqJsfa9JucIgJ3NxDR2h14dIQE9si0-Y6v091v4PBSL14Gi3T7X0K8npi9EpVtbShR0IiuiuDeFGrWRgwgV97vElgpU_V/s1600/Moon+over+Eight+Mile.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0J713o1lXOKJsjFh57tmrAKjFCPVeVNIQ_MgCcAzrZOt_5BZhqJsfa9JucIgJ3NxDR2h14dIQE9si0-Y6v091v4PBSL14Gi3T7X0K8npi9EpVtbShR0IiuiuDeFGrWRgwgV97vElgpU_V/s320/Moon+over+Eight+Mile.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The frozen Eight Mile River in the moonlight.</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The day had nearly ended and night was falling on Pleasant Valley. I love being in the forest at night, did I mention that? Now was time to just walk and enjoy. I climbed back up to the Cedar field and as I prepared to hike the forest I noticed the tracks of what I believe was a White-footed Mouse crossing the snow. White-footed Mice will cross the snow surface and then dive into the snow and tunnel. Here was clear evidence.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFhfwr4-xHMKwXGr_0hEUSdcYQ5OHoOHA3e7J9L4JAW_2KI8sDRUe3VMoIld-egAwfbgwuWw7u0gvPGsrpHD1Q9HB_vOP4My5sVVVPVDRY4iCiZ2lD-IYnHsnMnMT2v2-zVd1ttznXpEQ/s1600/Tracks+into+snow+hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFhfwr4-xHMKwXGr_0hEUSdcYQ5OHoOHA3e7J9L4JAW_2KI8sDRUe3VMoIld-egAwfbgwuWw7u0gvPGsrpHD1Q9HB_vOP4My5sVVVPVDRY4iCiZ2lD-IYnHsnMnMT2v2-zVd1ttznXpEQ/s320/Tracks+into+snow+hole.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The tracks of what was likely a White-footed Mouse end at a hole created when the Mouse decided to return to tunneling under the snow.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I had brought a headlamp with for when the daylight failed. However the nearly full moon on the snowy forest floor was more than enough light to see my way. The rest of my hike was in the silence and the dark. It was superb.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHSpXd3qmThj3xwgT_EBNVxjuYaAe8mz4DMs_2y2lVkXA2jvHNHwYvyS-YWVovkXnzvqKUFidhEJzE1FOCxtED57LTGf8SabZtGaNoIMMaDs0eewcvTfgyEyeoqrp8a2NsNUlsTawJYXy/s1600/Moon+over+PVP.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHSpXd3qmThj3xwgT_EBNVxjuYaAe8mz4DMs_2y2lVkXA2jvHNHwYvyS-YWVovkXnzvqKUFidhEJzE1FOCxtED57LTGf8SabZtGaNoIMMaDs0eewcvTfgyEyeoqrp8a2NsNUlsTawJYXy/s320/Moon+over+PVP.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Beauty, silence, cold, a nocturne most wonderful.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>January 22, 2011. It was time for a more serious walk. The weather had produced another snowfall on top of the unusually deep base here in southeastern Connecticut. But it also rained briefly during the storm. So I knew there would be a layer of crust, wet snow that had refrozen dense and hard. This meant little compression under the snowshoes. So a long hard walk was in the offing. And another night walk. This time I headed for the Lyme Unit of Nehantic State Forest. The last night hike I had done here had been during the summer and I had the sound of Flying Squirrels to accompany me throughout the walk. None of that tonight.<br />
<br />
Arriving at the forest road I found it unplowed, so dropping my truck into four-wheel drive, I plowed through to the parking area. From this small gravel (now snowy) lot I have started many a walk in the forest. Tonight I saw that someone had already been both snowshoeing and cross country skiing here. As part of my hike would be on forest trail and not just forest road, I chose snowshoes.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha0z9NFUcfZqz_KNOJVZAYPe03mjeyDELIPc6NDz1flXHXatasv4RgIIl-HW5w7Dpdc8N6DrOvppvpBWNE0eYTaKg68MNJR-J7Ol3w3PIJANXqFnms8e7Q7J_fmkUJBoNk5bmlLecyJfLi/s1600/Forest+Raod+Nehantic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha0z9NFUcfZqz_KNOJVZAYPe03mjeyDELIPc6NDz1flXHXatasv4RgIIl-HW5w7Dpdc8N6DrOvppvpBWNE0eYTaKg68MNJR-J7Ol3w3PIJANXqFnms8e7Q7J_fmkUJBoNk5bmlLecyJfLi/s320/Forest+Raod+Nehantic.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Someone had beaten me to it. I was not the first to snowshoe the forest road.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>This was to be a roughly three and one half mile jaunt. Once again the night was still and beautiful. The moon was now passed full and would not rise till I was done. So I had my headlamp with me, but as usual I would resist using it till the last possible moment. As I traversed this now very familiar hike, I was struck by the plethora of tracks in the snow. Distantly a pair of Barred Owls called. First the deep "Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-you-all," of the male, then shortly after the higher pitch of an answering female. I have never failed to hear these wonderful birds in Nehantic at night, though oddly I have not succeeded in seeing them here. I have seen a Chuck-wills-widow in this forest, a very uncommon night bird from the south, related to a Whippoorwill, but I just haven't laid eyes on the common Barred Owl in this forest. Life is chance, is it not? <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPn7F9STxDeg5QiIeGNWHwO7u5DYL7mox4tC6nvkZAntlmu_9AblUlykv9602x-uUiCYrL2CVRLqbgz15BL2cDr2fjN6T5RkSC2l3q1zIS2QS7GAA8Gs6IrosviqYvsqe9oLdMgQY6A9UW/s1600/barred+barebrach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPn7F9STxDeg5QiIeGNWHwO7u5DYL7mox4tC6nvkZAntlmu_9AblUlykv9602x-uUiCYrL2CVRLqbgz15BL2cDr2fjN6T5RkSC2l3q1zIS2QS7GAA8Gs6IrosviqYvsqe9oLdMgQY6A9UW/s320/barred+barebrach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Barred Owl (Strix Varia) in Connecticut. By AJ Hand 2002</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As I cruised along my mind wandered, as it usually does on long hikes, though this wasn't <i>really</i> a long hike. However tonight I kept being brought up short by tracks in the snow. Gray Squirrel, White-footed Mouse, shrew tunnels, White-tailed Deer, Coyote, Red Fox, human, and dog. The forest floor spoke of many passages while the silence suggested otherwise. Silent does not mean empty, clearly. At one point a pack of Coyotes howled and yipped briefly, and yet again I felt the thrill of hearing these wild carnivorans.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-EA9ENJ0HBdNowO1b33Jz9qoIXLR97jsonle17RWrkZaouhqTsndMQGhz7n9B_0pIl6sPkBcWNqmFW-l9ah-4ZF92M1TmiY7PdArFxPbXZKDc0ayf_ulMsuF-ZpPlpYMzv60xuaysvuh/s1600/W-t+Mouse+tracks+with+tail.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-EA9ENJ0HBdNowO1b33Jz9qoIXLR97jsonle17RWrkZaouhqTsndMQGhz7n9B_0pIl6sPkBcWNqmFW-l9ah-4ZF92M1TmiY7PdArFxPbXZKDc0ayf_ulMsuF-ZpPlpYMzv60xuaysvuh/s320/W-t+Mouse+tracks+with+tail.bmp" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trail of a White-footed Mouse showing tail prints as well.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtwWsLy1pt5ubUD_Au19hlhwmm6YqLet7LEU0KY46POa98Rp725ZNHcTe85SQkGg1wZwmJC5K6F7YY76nINe4QQF5NTcPhmOdeGGpYxh4ZUI1vrLXOx_8ZrGC7WHqyPAStlnMrT5TESYN/s1600/W-t+Mouse+track+with+tail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtwWsLy1pt5ubUD_Au19hlhwmm6YqLet7LEU0KY46POa98Rp725ZNHcTe85SQkGg1wZwmJC5K6F7YY76nINe4QQF5NTcPhmOdeGGpYxh4ZUI1vrLXOx_8ZrGC7WHqyPAStlnMrT5TESYN/s320/W-t+Mouse+track+with+tail.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A closer look</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsP4kdWpM6VKFX8nW3MOMtHX-Lm8mdH9FEKM-jRDqxrvxjAwZK4t8u5M1ZJSA2ip9At3pkvWBbK8rCpeIfD3aALyL6bqBws_l76lBHdVE4EwBRcFECWRPVzT3J5ix5iMMV_iLbJpXWC3jO/s1600/Fox+tracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsP4kdWpM6VKFX8nW3MOMtHX-Lm8mdH9FEKM-jRDqxrvxjAwZK4t8u5M1ZJSA2ip9At3pkvWBbK8rCpeIfD3aALyL6bqBws_l76lBHdVE4EwBRcFECWRPVzT3J5ix5iMMV_iLbJpXWC3jO/s320/Fox+tracks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The tale of the tracks. Old showshoe prints overlaid by new snow and then cross country skis on top. To the right is the straight track of a Red Fox.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxNiuvcwRsiRbJX80drdgT29-c1rBZxxeOiQo5JmQqZcOT1sJYwEkj2rQ5TQTRS9BLIlCBnWffznTSP6vu852WGHess9etCqK1g-rYB4c_md42x9IYvr3sgdBOLU7_er_jcFdkxqnLsW-/s1600/Tunnels+and+Gray+Squirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxNiuvcwRsiRbJX80drdgT29-c1rBZxxeOiQo5JmQqZcOT1sJYwEkj2rQ5TQTRS9BLIlCBnWffznTSP6vu852WGHess9etCqK1g-rYB4c_md42x9IYvr3sgdBOLU7_er_jcFdkxqnLsW-/s320/Tunnels+and+Gray+Squirrel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tunnels, probably shrew, Short-tailed most likely but possibly Masked? Gray Squirrel jumping through.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The night was getting very cold as I hiked, nothing better illustrated this than the energy bar in my pack being frozen solid when I stopped to eat it. It was the better part of two and a half hours when I finally returned to the parking area. One more exquisite night hike in a forest. As I paused before stripping off gear, I looked at the night sky. My breath turned to silver mist that swirled and twisted upward like a dissipating spirit. The stars shone intensely bright and clear with shreds of wispy clouds stretched between. How bereft of romance, how dead to the beauty of the world, how soulless must a person be, to be able to look at the night sky bespeckled with the countless points of light from our galaxy on a still winter's night, and not be left in awe?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-40946588891804679762011-01-09T11:45:00.006-05:002011-01-09T15:04:45.390-05:00Tweed Wolf, The Eastern CoyoteMany years ago... Across a grassy meadow on the Kaibab Plateau in Arizona, a single hunter loped. I watched this carnivoran from a distance through my spotting scope, and momentarily I thought I was watching a fox. Then I realized the solitary predator was a coyote. I was on the north rim of the Grand Canyon, and I was watching my first western coyote while a sky blue Mountain Bluebird watched me in turn from a nearby perch. Why did I momentarily mistake this creature for a fox? Because it was noticeably smaller and daintier than the coyotes I was familiar with in my native New England. But why would this be?<br />
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<blockquote><div align="center"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;">"The idea of wilderness needs no defense. It only needs more defenders." Edward Abbey</span></b></div></blockquote><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh762iOB_xDdCbRZeWS0vtcDUN2w0KGXFvuJPjpdvrU3-AmXIKKohHbYV2YYOE_xrxmd3PnbiGApDxqh50dzyvqeO3CsXPTv5kg20wLlyXmLxO4vWiTuJoOSBw4UxkMMVKUF-RUU0fzkBQF/s1600/WetsernCoyotesJZNM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh762iOB_xDdCbRZeWS0vtcDUN2w0KGXFvuJPjpdvrU3-AmXIKKohHbYV2YYOE_xrxmd3PnbiGApDxqh50dzyvqeO3CsXPTv5kg20wLlyXmLxO4vWiTuJoOSBw4UxkMMVKUF-RUU0fzkBQF/s320/WetsernCoyotesJZNM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Western Coyote (Canis latrans) Photographed by Jim Zipp in New Mexico</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47im4n5WJ9sdnVE4kmwxEkeVy-Zj4ikY1FPV9QTufqMeKp4ujAmp6gU1arX-DzaDNlPDjBF1x85sSESAgwfW6ZBC6Noaze-5Wr6y5Ob1Sn16DuX7YaqyVHWfa8-RJIO8_y8R0VJxV9qIn/s1600/Coyote_Fusco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47im4n5WJ9sdnVE4kmwxEkeVy-Zj4ikY1FPV9QTufqMeKp4ujAmp6gU1arX-DzaDNlPDjBF1x85sSESAgwfW6ZBC6Noaze-5Wr6y5Ob1Sn16DuX7YaqyVHWfa8-RJIO8_y8R0VJxV9qIn/s320/Coyote_Fusco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eastern Coyote In Connecticut by Paul Fusco</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><i>Canis latrans.</i> Eastern Coyote. "Tweed Wolf." Now common in New England, this icon of the wild is a relatively new arrival here. There are many people still living who were born before the Coyote came to New England. Before Europeans came to settle northeastern North America, the landscape of the region was mostly forested. This was not the habitat of the Coyote, a species that had evolved to prey on small mammals in the open grasslands and deserts of the west. The forested landscape of New England was the habitat of the White-tailed Deer and the Moose, and it was the home of the Wolf. Wolves once roamed virtually all of what is now the lower 48 states and nearly all of North America. Generally speaking, two species of North American wolf were historically recognized, the Red Wolf (<i>canus rufus</i>) of the southern and southeast United States, and the Gray Wolf (<i>Canus lupus</i>) in the west and northeast. It was long recognized however that the wolves in New England and southeastern Canada were smaller than the Gray Wolves of the west. These eastern wolves were considered a subspecies of Gray Wolf, and as such they were identified as <i>canis lupus lycaon</i>. Now the genetic evidence strongly suggests otherwise, that the eastern "Gray" wolves are a separate species, the Great Lakes Wolf (<i>Canis lycaon</i>.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fMVJcoLokLONKmbEvKyrVnrqFPKXMPkfgobA9H9XG_3J84IfYO_ZvPq7VZRQDf176t6V95IvotUr-_esWZMnOSrRa7Xulk7IjCsHCIvnrk3R7ZyTmkUeooFr8kynpTqe-f08RHsFyfQR/s1600/Great+Lakes+Wolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fMVJcoLokLONKmbEvKyrVnrqFPKXMPkfgobA9H9XG_3J84IfYO_ZvPq7VZRQDf176t6V95IvotUr-_esWZMnOSrRa7Xulk7IjCsHCIvnrk3R7ZyTmkUeooFr8kynpTqe-f08RHsFyfQR/s320/Great+Lakes+Wolf.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Great Lakes Wolf (Canis lycaon) USFW Photo</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>A predator's evolutionary course and success is based on the prey it hunts. In the northeast, the Great Lakes Wolf evolved to hunt the White-tailed Deer (<span id="main" style="visibility: visible;"><span id="search" style="visibility: visible;"><i>Odocoileus virginianus</i>). This was a species of the eastern deciduous forest. North of the White-tailed Deer's range, where the larger ungulate the Moose (Alces alces) dominated in coniferous forests, the Great Lakes Wolf range ended and it was replaced by the larger Gray Wolf. The Great Lakes Wolf is not large enough to hunt Moose efficiently. Its head and jaw are too small and lack the musculature to bite and hang onto the larger more powerful ungulate. This predator prey size relationship acts as a biological barrier against a predator species' range expansion. The predator can not expand into areas where reliable prey doesn't exist. So before Europeans came to America, The Great Lakes Wolf roamed the northeast, the Coyote loped across the southwest, the Red Wolf hunted the southeast, and the Gray Wolf howled throughout the west and the far north. The distribution of these carnivorans was determined by prey, habitat, and biological barriers in a natural balance.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXw-NtHJd0zwQVt0SXLXfp5CnosbR_3T-mfglg0Q-B5srRmUR5azLQUgWijfNUcy4Sc8eKh1EZ-ilcT1Bqz6LbNWe45DsnQ5NgiNhKEoN_ZWO8KoRUdxMJG8UkZ7QyLwzk_03Uvydf81g5/s1600/WTDeer2_Fusco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXw-NtHJd0zwQVt0SXLXfp5CnosbR_3T-mfglg0Q-B5srRmUR5azLQUgWijfNUcy4Sc8eKh1EZ-ilcT1Bqz6LbNWe45DsnQ5NgiNhKEoN_ZWO8KoRUdxMJG8UkZ7QyLwzk_03Uvydf81g5/s320/WTDeer2_Fusco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">White-tailed Deer (<i>Odocoileus virginianus</i>) Prey of the Great Lakes Wolf. Photo by Paul Fusco</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROnLeMJg_hBBW3dh-kV3Rw3wVaRdOpBvipN-PkaGb_ILm3D-svDO0Y7V66loDbCUSLiwFKZA1f1hfre0HPHlBbtm_ULVpcSS0pE0BpVV6eZ7dJbZwSm8Og51caFUQDWCVSBhWUhQOXmCi/s1600/MOOS00219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiROnLeMJg_hBBW3dh-kV3Rw3wVaRdOpBvipN-PkaGb_ILm3D-svDO0Y7V66loDbCUSLiwFKZA1f1hfre0HPHlBbtm_ULVpcSS0pE0BpVV6eZ7dJbZwSm8Og51caFUQDWCVSBhWUhQOXmCi/s320/MOOS00219.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Moose (<i>Alces alces</i>) One of the primary prey species of the Gray Wolf in eastern North America. Photo by Jim Zipp</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>With the coming of Europeans came great and sweeping changes in the landscape and fauna of the northeast. The forest was felled and replaced by agriculture and grasslands. The wolf was feared and reviled and hunted relentlessly. Eventually no wolves were left alive in the northeast. The numbers of Moose fell as well, and the species' range withdrew northward. The predator prey balance was destroyed and the faunal diversity of New England plummeted. The wolves were gone. The predators that remained, Black Bears in small numbers in rugged mountain retreats, Gray Foxes in declining numbers, adaptive Red Foxes in increasing numbers, and Bobcats in small numbers, were no threat to White-tailed Deer that remained. The ecosystem of the northeast was forever altered.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMIzMUZDUUcuKhZFqb-4-9lc-QRXhQ_y7p44U-VipSpjN-UrfP4y3w95R_tbEw0tE4LNpdYj0LBmiiD7x36PtKa_GFP-2U9u9uZfX1GzS8XF9gjTq7IzuKOJPZnOnq-IJuFDG91iYlTwf/s1600/Bobcat1_Fusco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMIzMUZDUUcuKhZFqb-4-9lc-QRXhQ_y7p44U-VipSpjN-UrfP4y3w95R_tbEw0tE4LNpdYj0LBmiiD7x36PtKa_GFP-2U9u9uZfX1GzS8XF9gjTq7IzuKOJPZnOnq-IJuFDG91iYlTwf/s320/Bobcat1_Fusco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bobcat (Lynx rufus) in Connecticut. Photo by Paul Fusco.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The anthropogenic changes wrought on the northeast by the early Europeans were not to last unchanged either however. The open grasslands and agricultural lands slowly gave way to reforestation as farming and herding dwindled as major components of human land use. With the patchwork reforestation, and without a predator of ungulates, the White-tailed Deer flourished and expanded farther north than it had historically existed. Where once Moose fled before Gary Wolf packs, now White-tailed Deer existed untroubled by hungry carnivorans and soon the Deer population was larger than ever. The northeast was ripe for a large predator. But which one could exploit this open niche? By the twentieth century, wolves were greatly diminished or extirpated from much of their former ranges across North America. Not only had the wolves been been subjected to an organized slaughter by man, they had also starved as their prey dwindled. The survival of the Gray Wolf requires large numbers of Bison, Elk, Black-tailed Deer, Moose, and other large ungulates. These species's numbers also crashed as the new "Americans" moved westward. But one North American carnivoran could succeed in the now fractured and battered ecosystems of North America. The stage was set for the great success of the Coyote.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fenWYOUIDOymYqXOLC_H7vRZXZqe-ZTquWdk6Y1TblQ-7taTMCMyjcODCR_sECFQpVQyyWeYxJhgZk5qDv4wFNQwvL11QsKJuxIF1fZr7knKgVTgDyA4xGcJ1N-TJk_2VTX_Xtr2-XQE/s1600/Coyote+CT+JZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fenWYOUIDOymYqXOLC_H7vRZXZqe-ZTquWdk6Y1TblQ-7taTMCMyjcODCR_sECFQpVQyyWeYxJhgZk5qDv4wFNQwvL11QsKJuxIF1fZr7knKgVTgDyA4xGcJ1N-TJk_2VTX_Xtr2-XQE/s320/Coyote+CT+JZ.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Coyote in Connecticut. Photo by Jim Zipp </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> The combination of an altered landscape and the removal of the Wolf allowed the Coyote to expand its range. The Coyote preys primarily on smaller mammals than the Wolf. While large wolves do eat small mammals as well, the species can not survive without large prey animals. The wolf packs were gone, and Coyotes, though persecuted by man as well, moved in. The expansion was rapid. In the late 1800's and early 1900's the species reached Ontario west of the Great Lakes and then continued to rapidly expand eastward north of the lakes. It is believed that the expansion north of the lakes was pioneered by just a few individuals. While this northern route was being pushed rapidly eastward through Ontario, a slower expansion was also occurring south of the Great Lakes in the United States. This was partly due to a greater density of human occupation south of the lakes but there was a more ecologically significant factor in the disparate rates of expansion. The rapidity of the expansion along the northern route was greatly aided by a key factor, the Great Lakes Wolf. This species still existed north of the lakes and the pioneering Coyotes came into contact with them. One result of this contact was crucial to the Coyotes rapid success in the northeast, hybridization. But why should this happen now, why didn't it happen where Coyotes and Gray Wolves were sympatric in the west?<br />
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Recent genetic research is painting a clearer taxonomic picture of the canid species in North America. It is now believed that the Great Lakes Wolf and the Red Wolf may be more closely related genetically to the Coyote than to the Gray Wolf. Where the Gray Wolf and Coyote both existed, there appears to have been no successful hybridization. Hybridization often occurs where closely related species exist in contact with one another and one of the species occurs in small numbers while the other species occurs in larger numbers. An example birders will readily recognize is the decline of the scarce Golden-winged Warbler (<i>Vermivora chrysoptera</i>) as it hybridizes with the more numerous Blue-winged Warbler (<i>Vermivora cyanoptera</i>.) But this interbreeding does not seem to happen with Gray Wolves and Coyotes. The reintroduction of Gray Wolves to Yellowstone National Park and the slow natural repopulation of Gray Wolves in the northern Rockies in Idaho and Montana has not led to hybridization but rather seems to highlight the genetic and phenological differences between the species. The story was different with the contact of the few Coyotes among the Great Lakes Wolves in Ontario. Successful hybridization did occur. One result of this was a larger, more powerful Coyote, the Eastern Coyote. A "Tweed Wolf." This new form of Coyote came with new skills and advantages that were to prove very useful in the anthropogenic landscape of the northeast.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEituQ4MBNGH7jh4uScbWUk1B81BIoX20Bo_F_R7__i7FR7A7XDnai9IlGg1vdeOaf5qzQm4AiA1QRruIj5j2-RyndX0B1CYGVgjmQkHai_hF6sEMY6THbU0GQchIBAMMaxm9NhKRbA9mIsL/s1600/YS08+wolf+and+coyote+102_9222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEituQ4MBNGH7jh4uScbWUk1B81BIoX20Bo_F_R7__i7FR7A7XDnai9IlGg1vdeOaf5qzQm4AiA1QRruIj5j2-RyndX0B1CYGVgjmQkHai_hF6sEMY6THbU0GQchIBAMMaxm9NhKRbA9mIsL/s320/YS08+wolf+and+coyote+102_9222.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wolf and Coyote in Yellowstone National Park. Photo from the blog Ecobirder.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The Coyote evolved to hunt small mammals in semi-arid and desert habitat. It did not hunt ungulates and it did not enter forests. It's head and the musculature of its jaw were not up to tackling White-tailed Deer. But with the hybridization with Great Lakes Wolf, the Eastern Coyote now is larger, shows sexual dimorphism (males are larger than females), and has proportionally larger and stronger jaws. This new jaw size and strength allows the Eastern Coyote to grasp a White-tailed Deer and hang on while the ungulate fights for its life. New behaviors were exhibited by the hybrid as well, it acted more wolf-like and readily entered the reforested habitat of the northeast. This northern hybrid expansion to the east far out-paced the southern route below the Great lakes, which was being carried out by essentially unaltered Western Coyotes. Eastern Coyotes reached Quebec in 1945, New Brunswick, Canada, in 1958, and Maine in 1970. It continued to expand eastward and then southward eventually wrapping around the Great Lakes and heading back southwestward. This expansion met up with the non-hybrid Western Coyotes moving slowly eastward forming a contact zone in western New York and Pennsylvania. The void had been filled, a large carnivoran had resettled the northeast.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnLnnOUmhH7cCfwXBJRuwtI0m2oOSyoBgTH3GH4qsa_Yi3xX_H3pp2LaJ1AnFdMqI8vbNtanilt1JQJ_x5Gcch7sgb1L7XmBLUCiYvYgPHw0RRdrjOQJ9s5F2r-Bf9TRdUhr5ZeF3BoKCp/s1600/clip_image002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnLnnOUmhH7cCfwXBJRuwtI0m2oOSyoBgTH3GH4qsa_Yi3xX_H3pp2LaJ1AnFdMqI8vbNtanilt1JQJ_x5Gcch7sgb1L7XmBLUCiYvYgPHw0RRdrjOQJ9s5F2r-Bf9TRdUhr5ZeF3BoKCp/s320/clip_image002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eastern Coyote in Guilford, CT. Photo by Bob Gundersen.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
There remains a distinct fear and loathing of Wolves and Coyotes in some people. This is despite the fact that our most loved pet is the domestic dog (<i>Canis familiaris</i>), which is the descendant of domesticated Wolves. When the Eastern Coyote showed up in the northeast, people recognized they were bigger and acted differently than Western Coyotes. They called them "Coydogs," assuming these Coyotes had hybridized with domestic dogs. Genetic research has proven this to be untrue. While dogs and Coyotes can interbreed, the resulting hybrid has behavioral and biological disadvantages that create an evolutionary dead end. These hybrids (shown by genetic research to be extraordinarily rare) do not reproduce successful young in the wild. It was also thought that it might have been phenological plasticity that caused the larger Coyotes. Phenological plasticity is when an organism develops in different ways in different areas based on environmental conditions, such as Blue Jays being larger in the northern part of their range. Now we know it isn't "Coydogs", it isn't phenological plasticity, it is the Wolf within.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5x4XjkHnBMGuZxpcRk_eywSfVbUqSm2f-1QnccXmbNG2XD_G2yIX6xIFRKj2REt_qrXwApOuNQ-i1TaFhdwGQFgOQfcZ5_9UXxu4xU3hgY5P3rqQGE-cncBqXj-uJhV1ONQd9iEiX4Z0Q/s1600/Coyote+Face+JZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5x4XjkHnBMGuZxpcRk_eywSfVbUqSm2f-1QnccXmbNG2XD_G2yIX6xIFRKj2REt_qrXwApOuNQ-i1TaFhdwGQFgOQfcZ5_9UXxu4xU3hgY5P3rqQGE-cncBqXj-uJhV1ONQd9iEiX4Z0Q/s320/Coyote+Face+JZ.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Coyote. Photo by Jim Zipp.</span></td></tr>
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It is paramount that we strive to understand the natural world. Despite what some would have us believe, our survival depends on a healthy functioning environment. I also believe that our natural world has worth beyond any price. The howling of the Wolf once struck fear in us, and there are many who still would kill all the Wolves and Coyotes. This hatred of Wolves and Coyotes seems in some ways primal, and is certainly in no way rational in today's world. Why do humans see such malevolence in these predators, these progenitors of our dearest companions? Is it that some see in the Wolf all that is deplorable in our own nature? I don't know the answer. But I do know that the howling of Wolves and Coyotes is a most welcomed sound to me personally, and if these voices were no longer to be heard in the wilds of North America, it would be an incalculable loss.<br />
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<blockquote>"If the wolf is to survive, the wolf haters must be outnumbered. They must be outshouted, out financed, and out voted." L. David Mech</blockquote><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSTi5f-hz1Vr1P5r7YS_33sCyRZdai7Ri6E4jyCk9ZCX2MBCLiuqoATVx42qXnPskxpLh-hOZ9DhRIeE3aZyL9yummuQIFDsp0ddTG492okpdVeQtRljQ1t78arMpU0eZQh-gMVSWNpW_/s1600/Coyote+Howling+CT+JZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSTi5f-hz1Vr1P5r7YS_33sCyRZdai7Ri6E4jyCk9ZCX2MBCLiuqoATVx42qXnPskxpLh-hOZ9DhRIeE3aZyL9yummuQIFDsp0ddTG492okpdVeQtRljQ1t78arMpU0eZQh-gMVSWNpW_/s320/Coyote+Howling+CT+JZ.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Truly the call of the wild. Coyote in Connecticut. Photo by Jim Zipp.</span></td></tr>
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References used in preparing for this entry include:<br />
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"Rapid Adaptive Evolution of Northeastern Coyotes via Hybridization with Wolves" Keys, Curtis, Kitchman. 2009.<br />
<br />
"The Cranial Evidence for Hybridization in New England Canis" Lawrence and Bossert. 1969.<br />
<br />
"Hybridization Among Three Native North American Canis Species in a Region of Natural Sympatry" Hailer and Leonard. 2008.<br />
<br />
"Genetic Nature of Eastern Wolves: Past, Present, and Future" Kyle, Johnson, Patterson, Wilson, Shami, Grewal, and White. 2005.<br />
<br />
"Legacy Lost: Genetic Variability and Population Size of Extirpated US Grey Wolves (Canis lupus)" Leonard, Vila, and Wayne. 2004.<br />
<br />
"Widespread Occurrence of a Domestic Dog mitochondrial DNA haplotype in Southeastern US Coyotes" Adams, Leonard, and Waits. 2002.Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-32657194637802913602010-12-05T21:37:00.005-05:002011-01-09T22:07:07.199-05:00An Old Freak, Much Laughter, and Cold Mist. Day 2<blockquote>"The opposite of courage in our society is not cowardice, it is conformity." - Rollo May</blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY9-eVeomo-prMYN7UdAxukKKCms6IpeTFc-4CNTNhY2oOeYKmv6Yma8TKJG1iai3CDzImSaZw0KJswEAIzyTgkRevzDYQR63_XofKFEmbEHEMhn4COhh4HE__MOZ52h3iYHMxT8W8y6V/s1600/Garfield+Trail+early.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY9-eVeomo-prMYN7UdAxukKKCms6IpeTFc-4CNTNhY2oOeYKmv6Yma8TKJG1iai3CDzImSaZw0KJswEAIzyTgkRevzDYQR63_XofKFEmbEHEMhn4COhh4HE__MOZ52h3iYHMxT8W8y6V/s320/Garfield+Trail+early.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Garfield Trail at low elevation. An easy stroll through deciduous forest</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> The clouds were darkening and the light was failing as the afternoon was surrendering to evening. I truly felt the need to push onward on my trek to the Garfield Ridge Campsite high above me.The lower stretches of the Garfield Trail are fairly flat and rock free and allow for easy and fast hiking. Still, I had a 45 pound pack on my back, and this was the second 4,000 footer ascent of the day. So I was not feeling particularly strong and I did not want to run out of daylight before I reached the AMC campsite. As the day wound down many day hikers who had spent a beautiful October day in the White Mountains were now returning to their cars to head home. I stopped and spoke with each group of hikers I met. They all were curious about my destination. There is a sense of community among hikers that makes for easy conversation and a feeling of camaraderie. Most of the people I spoke with remarked that I had a way to go still to reach the Garfield Ridge Campsite, at least those who actually knew of its existence. The deciduous forest on the lower flank of Garfield Ridge was coloring up with the yellows and reds of the advancing autumn but the rich green of the summer still dominated.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15i0VQvC1wmFR4UQ5_KzVMNiFub2WHPrDaCoOcoLkD12iSBDc_Id2AB3NhACxkeok7b78CgVenhyphenhyphenu9ul8yE708UXv0utOr8BKvorc3FGGkfGpkNxyvFzsnrOeC0XnSJ89LcQNUEhf5jjm/s1600/Stream+crossing+on+Garfield+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15i0VQvC1wmFR4UQ5_KzVMNiFub2WHPrDaCoOcoLkD12iSBDc_Id2AB3NhACxkeok7b78CgVenhyphenhyphenu9ul8yE708UXv0utOr8BKvorc3FGGkfGpkNxyvFzsnrOeC0XnSJ89LcQNUEhf5jjm/s320/Stream+crossing+on+Garfield+Trail.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Garfield Trail crosses Spruce Brook</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> The hip belt of my pack kept slowly slipping lower as I went. I have fairly narrow hips and I have to cinch the belt very tight to try and keep it where it will bear weight properly. I could feel the skin under the belt chafing uncomfortably and I was sweating with the effort of the hike. I came to the crossing of Spruce Brook and gratefully splashed the cool mountain water on my face and neck. The simple comfort of the water rinsing the sweat and grime off my skin felt like high luxury. I repeated these ablutions over and over, not wanting the sensual pleasure and feeling of cleanliness to end. But rain was threatening and I had a ridge to climb, so slipping my hands into the straps of my trekking poles I walked on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPgDhKO3fptqDxGtQHBDZq94XvLRh0F1tXGG5yAoGr0OcuupvF21hyphenhyphenKWykMTD81F9ppGCetbji3zHNeddKf3U3VjxlC9nCh7hm4ptgeFd21glieLE2nmEy9TRXsax5Fj5SdNcJm6rBLcS/s1600/Grafield+Trail+climbs+early.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPgDhKO3fptqDxGtQHBDZq94XvLRh0F1tXGG5yAoGr0OcuupvF21hyphenhyphenKWykMTD81F9ppGCetbji3zHNeddKf3U3VjxlC9nCh7hm4ptgeFd21glieLE2nmEy9TRXsax5Fj5SdNcJm6rBLcS/s320/Grafield+Trail+climbs+early.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Early on the Garfield Trail. Easy slope and footing.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> When you are hiking the White Mountain trails you adjust your stride and pace to the footing offered up to you. Early on the Garfield Trail the trail bed is an easy slope with few rocks, allowing long strides and a fast pace. I took advantage of this to make good time. My mind often wanders far afield when I don't have to concentrate on my footing. As I strode along my thoughts flew to the people and events of my life, as music wound throughout the landscape of my daydreams. It is as if I was on two journeys, one physical and one spiritual, both winding and both long. Meeting a few more hikers leaving the forest interrupted both journeys. One man, with a tan that was too deep and bronzed to look like the honest burnished skin of an outdoorsman, who was also wearing the paratrooper type boots that only someone who had never been a paratrooper would buy, complained what an awful trail this was to hike. Thinking to myself that I could not agree with such a judgment, I replied "Oh yes?" "Yes!" was his emphatic reply, he assured me he had hiked all over the Whites and this was one of the worst trails he had ever hiked. I laughed to myself but politely bid him a good finish to his hike and I continued on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhomjvkCW_uXGyS0CR0PTfuRZfsG8imFwoUHl9i_bjK9un92v9Ej2QArKMeTWfhoMVg_K_-JlJETbRKYCPIEQLacJ7Dklx583LXi3tgzTZpg8I1oCDx0yNLZEQ831YrMJj00PaMlMsLctH/s1600/Transition+to+firs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhomjvkCW_uXGyS0CR0PTfuRZfsG8imFwoUHl9i_bjK9un92v9Ej2QArKMeTWfhoMVg_K_-JlJETbRKYCPIEQLacJ7Dklx583LXi3tgzTZpg8I1oCDx0yNLZEQ831YrMJj00PaMlMsLctH/s320/Transition+to+firs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Garfield Trail reaches the transition from deciduous to coniferous</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Thoughts of the bronzy paratrooper hiker soon faded. The trail was entering the transition where the near total dominance of deciduous trees was giving way to more and more firs. The trail itself was getting more studded with rock and stone and a fine light rain was now falling. If the rain became steady I was in for an uncomfortable finish to my hike. And no hiker wants to establish a camp in the rain if he or she can avoid it. The growing worry that nightfall and rainfall would find me before I found the campsite spurred me on at the fastest pace I could manage. My breathe was hard and deep, the sweat flowed liberally, my hips burned from the pack, and my legs felt heavy. Perversely, I felt as alive as I possibly could.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeT3f84C8_v9Rvjpbf5Ql2qW7NOfLZYO3Q0tfQcdBT9CchMNuje9Gnl6svJtPYOpOxeKTZsDCHChS5E80kPLM5WdPLIS5lHoT5LFuLqsUt_473K2tPGYAUKIBtVYx3MBULWYtMsQ6T1eT8/s1600/Boreal+spruces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeT3f84C8_v9Rvjpbf5Ql2qW7NOfLZYO3Q0tfQcdBT9CchMNuje9Gnl6svJtPYOpOxeKTZsDCHChS5E80kPLM5WdPLIS5lHoT5LFuLqsUt_473K2tPGYAUKIBtVYx3MBULWYtMsQ6T1eT8/s320/Boreal+spruces.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Spruce Forest of the higher elevations</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The rain sputtered and failed. The light continued to wane however. My steps were no longer precise and fatigue was my constant companion, causing me to stumble a bit and stub my feet on the rocks that protruded from the trail bed like broken teeth. I started to look off the trail for possible spots to camp in case I could not make the campsite before dark. It is surprising how lonely the mountains can feel at the gloaming when you are alone. I pride myself on presenting a confident and reassuring face to others when things are going poorly, to help them feel more optimistic themselves. That doesn't work on yourself however. It's harder to buck up your own spirits. I was thinking that very soon I would need to break out the headlamp when I finally reached the trail junction that would take me to the campsite. The relief was very welcome.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwA6B0sp8atx8ibpZzcaD71sVhCmK6KeyQzyh4QEBNAKZRbjK2N3Wqrhl22vs4K96-62hkRF9_v8kFLAdLOE0yGZSyAewHs2djwqd8qhPLHBrfWzwmQHNAaqmo5qXzJuILd0Oecu0LKA6o/s1600/Garfield+Trail+Junction+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwA6B0sp8atx8ibpZzcaD71sVhCmK6KeyQzyh4QEBNAKZRbjK2N3Wqrhl22vs4K96-62hkRF9_v8kFLAdLOE0yGZSyAewHs2djwqd8qhPLHBrfWzwmQHNAaqmo5qXzJuILd0Oecu0LKA6o/s320/Garfield+Trail+Junction+sign.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trail junction that heralded the end of the long day was nigh. A welcomed sight indeed</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Here I turned eastward and downward. Garfield loomed above me in the gloaming, but I would visit that peak on the morn. Now all I wanted was to get this pack off my back and set up camp. The trail dropped very steeply and I had to take it very slowly. Fatigue is a deadly enemy on steep rocky trails, and descending these with a heavy pack is damnably hard on knees. After a painful descent of some fifteen to twenty minutes I reached the spur trail that leads to the campsite. I had smelled woodsmoke for some time, and as I reached the campsite I saw several hikers gathered around a nice fire. These AMC campsites have caretakers during the summer season and I soon found him. He told what tent platforms were still available and after exchanging a few words I set off to find the wooden deck that would be my home for the night.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My one man tent was soon erected and preparations for dinner were underway.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sF5TGhCVyDTFcpe8xfhTwjX4y9VyeTHJDkj9M9rQsUwYtUPDkBTYc9LqY4j6rfySpMb7KR_L7j0u3hdTJ2K-VS5FNkhCfJ1d17k415p51ZdFeZkdC17Hz9_lDUfXZA57HRqQLi_J4EGn/s1600/Friends+Tents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sF5TGhCVyDTFcpe8xfhTwjX4y9VyeTHJDkj9M9rQsUwYtUPDkBTYc9LqY4j6rfySpMb7KR_L7j0u3hdTJ2K-VS5FNkhCfJ1d17k415p51ZdFeZkdC17Hz9_lDUfXZA57HRqQLi_J4EGn/s320/Friends+Tents.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The tents of my neighbors for the night on companion to my tent platform.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As I set up camp I had the opportunity to meet the other hikers who were using the tent platform next to mine. They were four young men in their late twenties. We soon had a conversation underway and in an act of immeasurable generosity one of the fine young gentlemen shared some red wine with me. Clearly they were some of the finest examples of humanity. When my tent was complete and I had eaten a simple fare, I joined the others around the fire. Soon we were sharing hiking war stories and laughing. About a dozen of us spent a pleasant hour dodging campfire smoke and talking in the night. I am of the opinion that standing around a fire in the mountains at night sharing good drink and telling tales could make the fastest of friends of the deepest of enemies. Ah , would that it were, would that it were... After this most enjoyable commune, I crawled into my tent and into my sleeping bag. The night was cold and damp. My bag was dry and warm. To sleep, perchance to dream.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfaWlVRScB8soI8-szIHprtT7sWwOQsSX4BPzFPsMEuYwfXuGXvnfYdXzC3Zcae3GbwQj26ACnlCXbg9QhXTp_Q3a1MIsXjr1UTBYADB1ePhX8SXfkdZUcX8YvRpPczrkRL293Q7krYQqU/s1600/Caretaker+tent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfaWlVRScB8soI8-szIHprtT7sWwOQsSX4BPzFPsMEuYwfXuGXvnfYdXzC3Zcae3GbwQj26ACnlCXbg9QhXTp_Q3a1MIsXjr1UTBYADB1ePhX8SXfkdZUcX8YvRpPczrkRL293Q7krYQqU/s320/Caretaker+tent.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The caretaker's tent at Garfield Ridge Campsite.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>During the night I had seen the ghostly glow of moonlight through my tent. But daylight revealed that a cold mist had settled on the mountain, just a few hundred feet above us. There would be no views to be had today alas. After preparing to hike up to the summit of Garfield, I headed out. Many of my fellow travelers were up and about as well. The gathering splintered back into the disparate groups that had arrived separately last night, heading off in different directions with different goals. First I stopped at the natural spring below the campsite and then I followed several hikers up the trail back to the Garfield Ridge Trail.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyeap13qL_rnlwXEBuTmhqgEh2fPudxOEgzlT5QwYN3N8Vh4fMphRqqV_Oeu2iVPpG6n6s_RdsT2hROdfrz_LvT_oNIMIVEtTr8sZX7n6y2L5tGPDLNq76deqlotDADhlDh0iKjJUjlM38/s1600/Spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyeap13qL_rnlwXEBuTmhqgEh2fPudxOEgzlT5QwYN3N8Vh4fMphRqqV_Oeu2iVPpG6n6s_RdsT2hROdfrz_LvT_oNIMIVEtTr8sZX7n6y2L5tGPDLNq76deqlotDADhlDh0iKjJUjlM38/s320/Spring.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The spring below the campsite.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwnb4Qt8l4hom6BB82l5XuzrvZywoKUmog7x9O_4lvKLbgLirGHi2VXw_1xFYHq3txJuobX581wlGVv6Xyhs2hZQ3vhKv0BQIek2fjltR-kvh5TurLD5Sgut0aEIWlMX6TRj9HwQdHuiQ/s1600/Looking+toward+Galehead+in+morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwnb4Qt8l4hom6BB82l5XuzrvZywoKUmog7x9O_4lvKLbgLirGHi2VXw_1xFYHq3txJuobX581wlGVv6Xyhs2hZQ3vhKv0BQIek2fjltR-kvh5TurLD5Sgut0aEIWlMX6TRj9HwQdHuiQ/s320/Looking+toward+Galehead+in+morning.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking eastward toward Galehead Mountain and the Twins. The clouds loom just above Galehead but have encased the Twins.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOVqLQ2GG8wo173CAu2Put1yo1ihz62EQfjPqBE5PntJjVbQ0suncHMigE1ltGNTY4ziVcQoK8AzKc-W5WtJwdu5TLpgcRtleEIVIL1bNxYtNZJaDRegD6x1slcyJn6cpxHodpp1jDjaU/s1600/Trail+up+from+campsite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOVqLQ2GG8wo173CAu2Put1yo1ihz62EQfjPqBE5PntJjVbQ0suncHMigE1ltGNTY4ziVcQoK8AzKc-W5WtJwdu5TLpgcRtleEIVIL1bNxYtNZJaDRegD6x1slcyJn6cpxHodpp1jDjaU/s320/Trail+up+from+campsite.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The steep climb back up to Garfield Ridge Trail.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I had left my camp set up and was now just carrying a light daypack. This was a blessed relief. Still the steep climb up to the ridge trail soon had me huffing and sweating. It wasn't long before I reached the ridge trail however, and I continued onward towards the summit of Mount Garfield. The low hanging clouds soon enveloped me as I climbed. No one else was headed to the summit this morning. Mount Garfield has spectacular views of the Pemigewasset Wilderness, or so I have read. There would be no views today. Being in the clouds is like being inside a cold and clammy cotton ball. It was into this cold mist that I scaled upwards to the summit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLiu-cvsaDSgVQk1xfPPojAUt9NEIUaiWp1FhlZkp9ZRMA0-xNE8tYs9DELzLR-G2wub1JGS2kBNzkHiIAarTx7xxhXjydtnDbYswwfRf43BrU9nJ2kjU7M08O8XggzbfT72jVM6l9Zzh/s1600/Ascending+Garfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLiu-cvsaDSgVQk1xfPPojAUt9NEIUaiWp1FhlZkp9ZRMA0-xNE8tYs9DELzLR-G2wub1JGS2kBNzkHiIAarTx7xxhXjydtnDbYswwfRf43BrU9nJ2kjU7M08O8XggzbfT72jVM6l9Zzh/s320/Ascending+Garfield.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Into the mist. The scramble up to the summit of Garfield.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The summit of Mount Garfield used to have a fire observation tower. The concrete foundation still remains. Once on the summit I felt truly alone. Lost in a cold mist on a lonely peak. In all directions a cold white fog robbed me of the spectacular views of the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Yet in this cold mist, on this lonely peak, I felt the warmth of another goal achieved, another life experience had, another victory over myself. It is all too easy to take the easy way in life, never setting goals, never challenging oneself, never doing, never being. I was very glad to have made the effort. I could not see the view, but I knew it was out there, and I knew if I never passed this way again, I had passed this way once. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHck22FFFDQ17OG46Nlnq0dTGmLB__mrALYLwTQlZWhJROlHFn2BYM1DZ1dFXE6YTo9EfZjS26p00TvlyicQoM-jwHsCcAFqXCUyDZDeNZNDHhYObpp6a4-VMF0MKuUBrQ9uBXdplvfKAD/s1600/Garfield+summit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHck22FFFDQ17OG46Nlnq0dTGmLB__mrALYLwTQlZWhJROlHFn2BYM1DZ1dFXE6YTo9EfZjS26p00TvlyicQoM-jwHsCcAFqXCUyDZDeNZNDHhYObpp6a4-VMF0MKuUBrQ9uBXdplvfKAD/s320/Garfield+summit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The old tower foundation on Garfield summit.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5LJF-c_tunto_K5aVcWLXUsz5Wgrod_noPCnHEhp6OcEzUBjNKL7PJ7X6q-_W8Y57VO5P4zh0jCsMVqgJaxfw1xliFI5ch7rGNH5FyQSdj7e8dwoiicLJ5Iu8_zKWYkx7XGUzlSPJBvZ/s1600/Summit+view+looking+ESE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5LJF-c_tunto_K5aVcWLXUsz5Wgrod_noPCnHEhp6OcEzUBjNKL7PJ7X6q-_W8Y57VO5P4zh0jCsMVqgJaxfw1xliFI5ch7rGNH5FyQSdj7e8dwoiicLJ5Iu8_zKWYkx7XGUzlSPJBvZ/s320/Summit+view+looking+ESE.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">On Garfield Summit, in the clouds.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHvWEohvjMOSkfG1aWrirYZCl74h1krYbvLMp8-LHh444sEDipVUTyuN3RmOWg0FpZ2mlY7E9kFQhJlzpAWOeQ4gdwxYVkKSHWFEWgvcyQUuPYvVVAkJm8VAafBR545eXK1ZHK2tq2M2l/s1600/Summit+view+looking+ssw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHvWEohvjMOSkfG1aWrirYZCl74h1krYbvLMp8-LHh444sEDipVUTyuN3RmOWg0FpZ2mlY7E9kFQhJlzpAWOeQ4gdwxYVkKSHWFEWgvcyQUuPYvVVAkJm8VAafBR545eXK1ZHK2tq2M2l/s320/Summit+view+looking+ssw.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A cold mist hugs the summit</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>After spending a half hour on the summit it was time to head back and break camp. The return hike to the campsite was uneventful. There was no lifting of the clouds and the day seemed to grow darker rather than brighter. When I arrived back at the campsite all the campers had left. The caretaker was alone. I spoke with him for a while and learned he was originally from Connecticut as well. He was on his last day as caretaker and would be hiking out later, his tour of duty up for another year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoMmXdkf50ZUSQp__sMBvq9DuQtWI1EghUU20FxjxKEsFLt20_76cm4iZ2NMHm-RI8oUadLm-HOPs3L0MMUf1rqUFe9vPkf_rEiz2JvVVX3b0EgQ0dRDAQXd0IVhyphenhyphenu0xEovTtqIjWyF5w/s1600/Shelter+at+Garfield+Campsite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoMmXdkf50ZUSQp__sMBvq9DuQtWI1EghUU20FxjxKEsFLt20_76cm4iZ2NMHm-RI8oUadLm-HOPs3L0MMUf1rqUFe9vPkf_rEiz2JvVVX3b0EgQ0dRDAQXd0IVhyphenhyphenu0xEovTtqIjWyF5w/s320/Shelter+at+Garfield+Campsite.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The night's campers were gone. A through hiker stops briefly at the shelter at Garfield Ridge Campsite.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> He had the latest weather forecast as well and told me heavy rain was headed into the region. So my trip was to end sooner than originally planned. I was disappointed that my long hike was cut short. But in life you have to make choices. If the most difficult choice I had to make this day was to keep hiking in the mountains in the rain or to head back the comfort of my Connecticut home, than I was more fortunate than many. It had been a good trip. I had climbed the Old Freak, met new fiends, laughed in the night, and stood on a mountain peak in a cold mist. Life could be worse, much worse.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sEvjDsTy5cNTShKAai5h_rrnvJxZpDyboWNe4yYXCyl5EoTSuXEVS8ziKCEJpQI8gEDcPprO0gd-S49nj0XEo3junst7OGmwoKlEiC4SfCZD5zBvSx7Gt_c0MIkg-eCbdTnc06dCPqjB/s1600/Garfield+Trail+headed+down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sEvjDsTy5cNTShKAai5h_rrnvJxZpDyboWNe4yYXCyl5EoTSuXEVS8ziKCEJpQI8gEDcPprO0gd-S49nj0XEo3junst7OGmwoKlEiC4SfCZD5zBvSx7Gt_c0MIkg-eCbdTnc06dCPqjB/s320/Garfield+Trail+headed+down.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trail out. In the mist.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-63859991098437014332010-10-11T20:44:00.021-04:002010-10-14T12:56:01.755-04:00An Old Freak, Much Laughter, and Cold Mist. Day 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><blockquote>"Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not words.Trust movement." Alfred Adler</blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMNZcC_MPTFlmo6-w5g7hY-5dl6WThK_Aa2Iz9kWqODE0dZD6iQhEBhNXbH_8drLr4PBiqWTi8xQarETySVDgverA6zP28rLAWVDYmNaaycy8r4d342TMPLQ51EWZDBf-WuokE0mGG9xo/s1600/Cannon+from+Franconia+Ridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMNZcC_MPTFlmo6-w5g7hY-5dl6WThK_Aa2Iz9kWqODE0dZD6iQhEBhNXbH_8drLr4PBiqWTi8xQarETySVDgverA6zP28rLAWVDYmNaaycy8r4d342TMPLQ51EWZDBf-WuokE0mGG9xo/s320/Cannon+from+Franconia+Ridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The "Freak," Cannon Mountain in New Hampshire's White Mountains. Seen from Franconia Ridge.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
I had visited the old Freak before, with my youngest daughter. Now I was back to climb it. The Freak is an obscure old name for a peak much better known now as Cannon Mountain, one of the White Mountains of New Hampshire and home to a famous ski area. My daughter and I visited the summit via the tramway that runs from the base of the mountain's north slope. I was on my own this time, taking an opportunity to hike new peaks and spend some time thinking. I am not one who likes to sit on a couch and self reflect. I need to put boots on and miles behind me to think long and clearly. This trip was an ambitious one, my plan was to hike seven mountains over three days. I would be carrying a heavy pack and camping at high elevation for two nights. Reality would fall short of my expectations, but that is the way of life at times.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjeha9zthgSO1ZFyMhcPxtJHvYeIm58_4sSvXRyE71mIPYOM5FtsNRw2CsWTmeNoYSIdiVhc2SMXxYR02XUKGQjj-XVZ1NoTXlFRBlcuxiy9op1me7uzQApu5ID1FIpwEHEcTZ7_yyDto/s1600/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjeha9zthgSO1ZFyMhcPxtJHvYeIm58_4sSvXRyE71mIPYOM5FtsNRw2CsWTmeNoYSIdiVhc2SMXxYR02XUKGQjj-XVZ1NoTXlFRBlcuxiy9op1me7uzQApu5ID1FIpwEHEcTZ7_yyDto/s320/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+Sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The start of Kinsman Ridge Trail at the Cannon Mountain Tramway parking area. Ah, there's nothing a little tape can't fix!</span></div><br />
The weather forecast was questionable for this trip, but I pulled the trigger and went for it anyway. As I stood next to my truck at the Kinsman Ridge Trailhead and scanned the sky, it certainly didn't look promising. The sky looked deeply troubled. Shreds of white clouds ran up and over the peaks like strips of torn silk pulled across the top of a chair, while a roiling blanket of leaden cloud loomed heavily above all. This hike was intended to be a quick up and down before I drove around to the real hike, up Garfield Trail and on to the mountains called The Bonds in the Pemigewasset Wilderness. So, with rain gear in a daypack, I headed up Kinsman Ridge.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYjoblLIILscS2EPQj6o0kPCqkKGWVFxtLVgI0N0MBscPdcINyy3euU7_BqjtqOX82Uv-jZhdCDe7z7yCUEu0O1xlDk_MMiNejhktXIruKztlXBhL4hpfuI5aPi2L9nzTD5OxpW54Hc8-L/s1600/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+north+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwYCj__4UTHKjLznv-VOwHu1Gwb6hjFeebCxMZPhlb8EvTQzzPNzzHbi1-qB7d5TPxRx9et6gfks_m-26wPGKDRNaEcHB_ywcYdXQmKtRYoKd34uOKIr-YN-MuqPggokldyFamZTVmR5b/s1600/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+north+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwYCj__4UTHKjLznv-VOwHu1Gwb6hjFeebCxMZPhlb8EvTQzzPNzzHbi1-qB7d5TPxRx9et6gfks_m-26wPGKDRNaEcHB_ywcYdXQmKtRYoKd34uOKIr-YN-MuqPggokldyFamZTVmR5b/s320/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+north+start.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">The Kinsman Ridge Trail's northern terminus is very heavily water eroded.</div><br />
Just as I started, two sunbeams broke through the clouds, and like theatrical stage lights, they ran across Franconia Notch and partway up the flank of Franconia Ridge before being sliced off by the racing clouds. A good omen I hoped. The trail's start was deeply water eroded and looked more like a gulley than a trail. Still, hiking up a mountain is much like living. Whatever the trail, the only way forward is to put one boot higher than the last. It is in this repetitive motion that, when hiking alone, I can lose myself in my thoughts. This trip was one I needed for just that purpose. So as I climbed, I thought of many things. The forest along the trail at low elevation was heavily populated with birch and hemlock. The hemlocks here in New Hampshire are not yet devastated by the Hemlock Woolly Adelgid which was introduced into North America accidentally. The adelgid is an insect that sucks the sap of tender hemlock shoots, and appears to inject a toxin that ultimately desiccates and kills the hemlock off. Here on Cannon's feet the hemlocks are spectacular, and a healthy dark green.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUoBdq8736aRU96x9zQFcCRVC856YaEja2DeYm_6GxPrmBOv4YKFjrgfABNjZE4Qr2MSU2NsDb-Iq1AT_134VfuKq-8cqVogR06mMWcmfge411if7Sj_8G6Q83nFFAWxPHFGSbsQfFwLY/s1600/Echo+Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIhIGjVEMQK7WV5Md4Ia8xwk0x03hRtki9Vx6TBigWRM-KryLS41H7swWO2OmAvbuOrLEztencEEpy5YYgozBq2LDaubEY9bNWmj8frPxCuMrweORb5guawr_wmZHqDe5ADJO_ctu27HF/s1600/Echo+Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIhIGjVEMQK7WV5Md4Ia8xwk0x03hRtki9Vx6TBigWRM-KryLS41H7swWO2OmAvbuOrLEztencEEpy5YYgozBq2LDaubEY9bNWmj8frPxCuMrweORb5guawr_wmZHqDe5ADJO_ctu27HF/s320/Echo+Lake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">Echo Lake below the north slope of Cannon Mountain.</div><br />
Winter Wrens, one of my favorite birds found along the trails, were in force on the lower trail and popped out often to "chup chup" at me while bobbing up and down. It was warm and humid along this lower section and I was sweating with the effort of gaining elevation. I am physically in decent shape, but mountain hiking always makes me feel as if I should be a whole lot stronger. The electric hum of the tramway could be heard starting up every 15 minutes as the cars traveled up and down, filled with tourist who would be unlikely to ever climb the old Freak on foot. This mountain is the former home of one of North America's most iconic natural formations. "The Old Man of the Mountain," the rock formation that jutted out over Profile Lake in Fanconia Notch, and which now graces the New Hampshire quarter dollar coin, (and the profile is still the background for the state's license plates) fell in the night in early May, 2003. Once forming a rugged profile of a man's face when seen from the northern end of the notch, the boulders that made up this visage now lie among the talus at the cliff's foot. The night he fell, two rock climbers who were sleeping nearby heard the rumbling death of the Old Man, though they did not know the momentous event that rumbling heralded. The trail I was taking would swing out over the cliffs above the Old Man's former place.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3DiybJ6vOctdXvPwioDmzsEQ-XzAKiU5juGHtahLmOldV9ZAOGoaUylBKLw3IM50BwUT0RHG0P7xQYldLqhskpUwIfxaRCLOkCcb5kU6lp-GKp39O-74IlqNK7pS7wm6ZL-yX9-nO6IEm/s1600/Rte+93+below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3DiybJ6vOctdXvPwioDmzsEQ-XzAKiU5juGHtahLmOldV9ZAOGoaUylBKLw3IM50BwUT0RHG0P7xQYldLqhskpUwIfxaRCLOkCcb5kU6lp-GKp39O-74IlqNK7pS7wm6ZL-yX9-nO6IEm/s320/Rte+93+below.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Route 93 in Franconia Notch.</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8j88adjLftcjYN9b44kYUvC5ZcKU1XVohhv9tHuK1ZLuvVqxxUNIzqt-fqEdZlTF52S4RPtpMgsVLF-qYy8YHATFCVZsYuBLjHifGuU8HTGEpkBV4YjkIkCeP3aWhBo9-GYrUpOelTVl/s1600/Ledges+above+the+Old+Man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8j88adjLftcjYN9b44kYUvC5ZcKU1XVohhv9tHuK1ZLuvVqxxUNIzqt-fqEdZlTF52S4RPtpMgsVLF-qYy8YHATFCVZsYuBLjHifGuU8HTGEpkBV4YjkIkCeP3aWhBo9-GYrUpOelTVl/s320/Ledges+above+the+Old+Man.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">The ledges in the foreground are above the former Old Man of the Mountain's home. Across the notch are Mount Lafayette and Mount Lincoln.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was not long before I reached the area above Cannon Cliff where the Old Man once lived. As I had climbed, the clouds had unexpectedly faltered and failed. Now blue sky largely domed Franconia Notch. Across the notch stood the ridge with Mt. Lafayette and Mt. Lincoln dominant among its peaks. Many hikers would be walking along that ridge as I gazed at it. Below me, at the bottom of the notch, a gray ribbon snaked north and south, route 93. The weak but persistent growl of cars, motorcycles, buses, and trucks reached all the way to my lofty perch. Behind me the herd of tram tourists would be ambling from the tram landing to the summit building and back again. I was certainly not lost in the wilderness here. Still the natural wonders around me held me on those ledges for longer than I planned to be there. It was with thoughts of the miles I needed to put under my boots before nightfall that I finally shook off my procrastination and I headed up towards the Freak's summit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicIBbBsMrLk5XH7KDBjdc1KQdp1uEemDGGgh2GwcNSNDSLLhhJsTllYoT5bzHKYw0jV877L7Y_pcSMZLfAGnjtUaE72V2iks5JhjFKLYb7qGav712ABNsFZ6Ds2uqGfsbpXuuYyAJ6cbJ/s1600/The+summit+tower+from+the+ledges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rhaWIe_awc9wtqZ4QJSSLTw5l5ztNNsiiRDn0YXpjEBnCH7FkQ2uHw-LrUWIO_1Ur1rXLldssADfWV5lyPo87ARg9PlrQ36-BKC6VuvDA-3F92mvvylW57Up9WiYD49qFqcCT9cNqd7o/s1600/The+summit+tower+from+the+ledges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rhaWIe_awc9wtqZ4QJSSLTw5l5ztNNsiiRDn0YXpjEBnCH7FkQ2uHw-LrUWIO_1Ur1rXLldssADfWV5lyPo87ARg9PlrQ36-BKC6VuvDA-3F92mvvylW57Up9WiYD49qFqcCT9cNqd7o/s320/The+summit+tower+from+the+ledges.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">The summit tower of Cannon seen from the ledges above the Old Man's former site.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trail had gotten busier as the morning passed. Now I was frequently passing day hikers and dogs. Dogs on the White Mountain trails are becoming more and more common. And it isn't just big breeds either. There are some remarkably short canine legs scrambling along the rugged tracks. Just below the summit of Cannon, the ridge trail I was walking meets up with the tourist path that leads from the tram landing. It is at this confluence that hikers and tourists intermingle on the stretch to the summit tower. One group in muddy boots and using trekking poles, and the other in gleaming sneakers or open sandals and carrying pocket books and video cameras. The hiking etiquette of letting faster hikers pass is absent in the tourist crowd, and I had to be patient as the people ahead of me ambled along with strides that fell far short of my expectations. Still, even glaciers end up getting somewhere, eventually. I took every opportunity to pass that I could. The tourists were generally very amicable, and smiled at me as I went by. However, there was one group of older people wearing motorcycle paraphernalia that looked somewhat offended at being passed. Ironic, I thought. At last I reached the summit tower and ran up the crampon pocked wooden stairs. The wind was cold on my sweaty back and I was feeling the passage of time acutely now, so my sojourn was brief. A few pictures and I was headed down with as quick a pace as I could sustain. The old Freak was my 36th White Mountain 4,000 footer summit. 12 more to go to complete my goal of hiking over all 48. If I live that long of course.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj620y5-3wLfzvS7SaiouEOt2eiWP-4Bqwol13uFjhabUW5Rhf0ogL8iNhT-Ff0VygS6VWB-kSxAYEsOBHYpYy2kL1ui4GQzkm9JwnAwPZBcrXp_oB9l5DixrlSiK-PYh2C62Qn61SEgdHN/s1600/Franconia+Ridge+from+Cannon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj620y5-3wLfzvS7SaiouEOt2eiWP-4Bqwol13uFjhabUW5Rhf0ogL8iNhT-Ff0VygS6VWB-kSxAYEsOBHYpYy2kL1ui4GQzkm9JwnAwPZBcrXp_oB9l5DixrlSiK-PYh2C62Qn61SEgdHN/s320/Franconia+Ridge+from+Cannon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">Franconia Ridge across the notch, seen from the summit tower of Cannon. Mt Lafayette is left of center and Mt Lincoln is right of center. Looking eastward.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50t75yZre-n5KqPHFR52r6yVTlSILgbjv4GGBNGrHEJnglHfUXc6AxUJZazTnvqXejVOLE1FKHhCArmDdg-lJ8A9osSvYdf0r_jXif9d4Q7MbK92THFhEE-G3KikkVWBwaAYLU-Y9910l/s1600/Kinsman+Ridge+from+Cannon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTKR3nh_TdoeZ4PuSpe5gAQM-XWg_ncLSYo8NfdewEUx9sG0FgRbGcq-Vv_1defcglgXtnNFJxGbi9HZ6n4DXG2D1gWIWiKTmrpfdXUcg22DHoowOnGXrJWJ6qasgP40RjM7NAaONG5c7/s1600/Kinsman+Ridge+from+Cannon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTKR3nh_TdoeZ4PuSpe5gAQM-XWg_ncLSYo8NfdewEUx9sG0FgRbGcq-Vv_1defcglgXtnNFJxGbi9HZ6n4DXG2D1gWIWiKTmrpfdXUcg22DHoowOnGXrJWJ6qasgP40RjM7NAaONG5c7/s320/Kinsman+Ridge+from+Cannon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">Kinsman Ridge south of Cannon. North Kinsman is right of center and South Kinsman is center. When my young friend Mark and I hiked those peaks in March they were clad in snow in ice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The return to the parking lot where my truck awaited was routine. One stride after another, one thought after another. The miles passed and the thoughts passed. Thoughts and miles are much the same. We travel through each to reach the next. Maybe we find ourselves somewhere better, maybe not. I believe we are free to choose the trails we walk, whether through the mountains or through life. Often we deny, especially to ourselves, that we do actually choose the direction our lives go. Too often we use words such as "I had no choice," to relieve ourselves of the admission that yes we did, or we fail to see our lives as our own to live but rather see our life's disappointments as the result of other people's failings. It is easier to accept that fate can not be affected by our choices, that we are on some sort of course whose path we can not alter, than to make the hard decisions to make our lives better, happier, more fulfilled, more purposeful. Often we chase the wrong things in life, and then blame others when we find ourselves unhappy with our lot. Life can be difficult, trust me I know. But life can be wonderful as well. You just have to choose the right path. It's okay to make mistakes, you'll learn more about life and yourself from your mistakes than you will from any triumphs. When you come to a fork on a trail, you need to open a map. When you come to a choice in your life, you need to open your eyes, your mind, and your heart. If all else fails, and you have kids younger than 20, just ask them. They'll know the answers to all your problems. After twenty they start to get stupider, like their parents.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8r-8R_tgaqF90CCz4PgpzhPgN6OcbEFsudEv-MOnDgHjj6-Zc28XZ4xpbSO1v0dpzn4vZTZoImLMlTZJOJ9i2jPltOBE7CS74-dF9Ol5DgHCvfHc_yD0jO1j4ZW4ngY-nPuB-wpRhmiq/s1600/Garfield+from+Lafayette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8r-8R_tgaqF90CCz4PgpzhPgN6OcbEFsudEv-MOnDgHjj6-Zc28XZ4xpbSO1v0dpzn4vZTZoImLMlTZJOJ9i2jPltOBE7CS74-dF9Ol5DgHCvfHc_yD0jO1j4ZW4ngY-nPuB-wpRhmiq/s320/Garfield+from+Lafayette.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">Mount Garfield rises from Garfield Ridge. Seen from the summit of Mt. Lafayette on Franconia Ridge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was time to continue my journey. After a quick lunch by my truck, I drove northeast to my next trailhead. I would be hiking up Garfield Ridge by using Garfield Trail, just west of the Gale River. I would be camping at 4,000 feet at the Appalachian Mountain Club's Garfield Ridge Camp Site, just below Mount Garfield's summit. I took a few minutes to organize my pack and then shouldered the forty-five pounds that would be my home, food, and safety in the mountains. I met a hiker and his dog at the trailhead who had just finished a long trek in the Pemigewasset Wilderness and were awaiting a ride out. We talked a while and then I headed in. Do you ever notice how some people say they headed "out" when going into the wild lands? I don't see it that way. For me the wild lands are where we came from and where I choose to return to, a landscape of peace and beauty, a place of simple but wonderful truths, and a place of harsh realities. It is a place to find out who we are, or who we can be. For me, when I pass into the shadows of the trees, I am coming in. When it is time to return to the world of steel, concrete, and glass, Then I am heading "out."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Garfield Trail is a wonderful and relatively easy mountain trail. It starts by passing through a stand of old hemlocks and pines. Here the heady scents of these noble trees greeted me. As I walked I soon spotted a Garter Snake by the trailside. The Garter Snakes here in the Whites are called Maritime Garters, a race of the Eastern Garter Snake. I decided to catch it and photograph it, but wearing a forty-five pound pack and catching a nimble reptile are not symbiotic human endeavors. I figured the only way to catch this guy was to do it quickly and clumsily, and let the snake have every opportunity to bite me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEVd0eHnvvd0LWCEPKVJhSP52_OnwC6D1TvPHIFGv4dfRShEvr9C79vcJJtGqlwKf8FQY5ivKNdLOUXq7RmFqmlVDjbZ-is8_7Z8txdWKCQ2veVgbZLWnsi037IhoC0D8P_yRV_VOaqq5/s1600/Garter+in+hand.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxVX-4r3-6fBwbw9VUMrO_rsJ71YmO76hTKVu3FcE6tCPVa8P0X7McZfOHkh7beVq2_5O4mSb8ijCw8Yp5gB6FUiWjhSNDgazH4e5cGTu4OkutuY09EUbcLGmEB-yUPmp7dv_9Xy00oIE/s1600/Garter+in+hand.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxVX-4r3-6fBwbw9VUMrO_rsJ71YmO76hTKVu3FcE6tCPVa8P0X7McZfOHkh7beVq2_5O4mSb8ijCw8Yp5gB6FUiWjhSNDgazH4e5cGTu4OkutuY09EUbcLGmEB-yUPmp7dv_9Xy00oIE/s320/Garter+in+hand.bmp" width="239" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace; text-align: center;">Maritime Garter Snake.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, burdened by my pack and moving like those films of the astronauts walking clumsily on the moon, I stooped and grabbed the snake by the tail. Promptly, and predictably, it bit me. Just the once though, and it quickly let go. Having introduced ourselves, we did a little photography. While I was taking pictures, an older couple stopped (ya older than me) and asked me if it was a Ribbon Snake. The next few minutes were spent in a pleasant conversation about identifying snakes and about what birds they saw in the mountains. The snake had little to add to the conversation, and frankly I felt it could have made a better effort. The couple then headed out to the parking area and I released the snake and continued along the trail. The sky, what little I could see through the canopy of dark green, was darkening and clouding up again. It was time to walk fast. The trip up the Garfield Trail would be a race against nightfall. It would also be a walk with many meetings along the way. I didn't know it then, but the night ahead held much laughter with newly met friends, and the morning would find me climbing into in a cold and lonely mist. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-3228305708621483392010-09-23T21:36:00.008-04:002011-08-03T10:49:51.520-04:00Acting Swiftly<blockquote>"There were many grebes, making spreading wakes in the water as they swam, and I was counting them and wondering why they never were mentioned in the Bible. I decided that those people were not naturalists."<br />
Ernest Hemingway writing of the Sea of Galilee in the <u>Green Hills of Africa</u>.</blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCVD9cOtxl0z3lr7HI_1YShQcGD7EZR-1MFkgkLlnt1ODM0x6HmZBjm0gSW2PURan7YWxjqyIXAca77srnSpRoXst1UVJ2J3YtS44w0c4hqY5uMfg5F5cAnYtnruyeREPiOW7UOTmX5Yd/s1600/CRW_9700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCVD9cOtxl0z3lr7HI_1YShQcGD7EZR-1MFkgkLlnt1ODM0x6HmZBjm0gSW2PURan7YWxjqyIXAca77srnSpRoXst1UVJ2J3YtS44w0c4hqY5uMfg5F5cAnYtnruyeREPiOW7UOTmX5Yd/s400/CRW_9700.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> The ability of birds to fly has always captivated the human imagination. In our dreams we soar over the landscape with the ease and freedom that by day, we envy in the birds. Vividly can I remember the days when I was a distance runner. On a good day I would glide nearly effortlessly over the countryside. I can no longer do this alas, but the joy of sprinting through the trees and the feeling of physical power was as addicting as anything I have ever experienced. I was confined to the surface of the earth however, any vertical movement I accomplished was dictated by the terrain I crossed. How must it feel to be free of such restriction? To be able to move in any direction, limited only by the speed of thought? I can only dream how it must feel. But Swifts, paragons of flight, need not dream such freedom. They live it.<br />
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Every Spring, here in northeast, the Chimney Swifts (<i>Chaetura pelagica</i>) return from their South American home. Briefly, from April to September, we are graced with these aerial masters. The spend nearly all their waking moments on the wing, landing only to roost or nest. They are creatures of the air, and indeed seem to be all wing. Their short, stubby tails and cigar shaped bodies, are eclipsed by long and elegantly curved wings. It is as if the Swifts fly on feathered sabers. To human eyes, which work in very complex ways with our brains, an optical illusion occurs when viewing flying Swifts. We sometimes perceive the wings acting opposite of one another, one being up and the other being down at any given moment, even though they aren't. An oddity created through their evolution and ours.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7Xf28aLUmFEUUIb3wzSt16I012jh7tqnW-Bc0dSkpMgyrMLoufHt-14duVPvvFo5Ix3da2ntQHDUDUS1TAbpBkm1pZ5Q9kGFj-e5vz935RLpiiBQ2_TaIMViO3zFoT4pjV2ZjLCxO1Xv/s400/Swift+dorsal.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="236" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Long saber-like wings extend well passed the end of the Swift's stubby tail at roost. Note the tail feather's webbing stops short of the end of the shaft, creating "spines" that help the swift perch on vertical surfaces.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7Xf28aLUmFEUUIb3wzSt16I012jh7tqnW-Bc0dSkpMgyrMLoufHt-14duVPvvFo5Ix3da2ntQHDUDUS1TAbpBkm1pZ5Q9kGFj-e5vz935RLpiiBQ2_TaIMViO3zFoT4pjV2ZjLCxO1Xv/s1600/Swift+dorsal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>Swifts feed on the wing, drink on the wing, bathe on the wing, are believed to engage in play on the wing, and may even mate on the wing. They appear to have no ability to walk or hop on horizontal surfaces, and rarely perch on a branch. They land (or "cling" more appropriately) on vertical surfaces, and can crawl upwards or sideways. They are very social, roosting in large numbers. And according to Swift rehabilitator Jayne Amico, they are one of the very few avian species to respond positively to being petted. Swifts inhabit our towns and cities, flying over us as we go to work, mow our lawns, go shopping, sit at an open air concert, or any of the myriad of activities that make up our earth-bound lives. Yet the average person knows little or nothing of these winged maestros. Indeed, most birders know little of them as well.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9B93w0_829H4QnMBfxrhi8ILLFymBbP-RLZRU1NF6CJ8qhMe-lJdsoAo-wEsI40n62TTOrLZcdhTRecvdd9Pw4uDa_vUOguABpOd5GhvhqxUn6peLI4ZvH-9uJIPtDVPv3YISi-E2NYV/s400/Jayne+holds+Swift.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="395" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jayne Amico holds one of the Swifts in her care.</span></td></tr>
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During the breeding season they are found throughout most of the eastern United States, spilling into southern Canada. They evolved to nest and roost in vertical fractures of cliffs, caves, or the hollow carcasses of old growth trees. As mankind altered the landscape by felling the trees and building massive brick and mortar chimneys, the Swifts adapted and moved to these artificial trees, or to large open buildings. Swifts are extraordinarily social, roosting intimately in large groups.They nest as single pairs, but will sometimes tolerate non-nesters roosting in the same chimney. This has led to the erroneous belief that they nest colonially.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimduI0Ml7CUUvHaDBq7m4A8uWePB49EKe-_PsPb6l-EmrhoPK4ozRjKbBlLYSjqISmaOzUBjej4yK-Y-yS-hVo7RJkIf2XrtbtcovmTBe3dK3vizO0s2KNW1ZsXxbeucRT7hcdfEBclyoh/s400/swift+in+chimney.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chimny Swift. Photo by Jayne Amico</span></td></tr>
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Within a couple of weeks of their arrival on the breeding grounds, they begin courting or pair bonding behavior. They fly in small groups of a half dozen or less, frequently in sets of three. It may be two males following a single female. It is during these "trio" flights that they display some of their most amazing flying skills, darting at high speed through trees, between buildings, or soaring high into the air. When two Swifts are flying in an apparent bonding flight, the trailing bird will sometimes snap its wings upwards and hold them stiffly still, forming a V shape. This is called "vee-ing", and it is done first by the trailing bird and then often by the the leading bird. Swifts have been observed flying very close together while vee-ing and even appear to be briefly copulating.<br />
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Swifts build their nests from small twigs grasped in their feet and broken from trees as they fly. Both birds in the pair do this. These twigs are then cemented in place at the nest site with the bird's sticky saliva, which is produced from a gland that enlarges during the nest building season.<br />
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They seem to favor the most sheltered and darkest location in a nesting structure. The eggs are laid when the nest is about half constructed, and construction continues during incubation. Construction completes before the eggs hatch. On average, it takes between two and three weeks to complete the nest.<br />
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The average clutch is about four eggs, which are white and semi-glossy.The incubation of the eggs is done by both parents and takes about 19 days. The chicks are altricial at hatching, naked and helpless. Amazingly, their feet develop quickly and they may be able to grasp the wall of their nest site as soon as one day after hatching. The chicks gain mass quickly and reach adult mass after about three weeks.<br />
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Feather tracts appear as dark spots under the pink skin at around four days and the feathers erupt through the skin at about one week. The eyes open around week two and fledging occurs at about thirty days. At around nineteen or twenty days, the nestlings leave the net and cling to the nest site wall. While clinging to the walls they spend much of their time exercising their wings. This builds up the flight muscles. Both parents feed the young. There sometimes are "helpers" that assist in the incubating of eggs, and the brooding and feeding of nestlings. It appears these helpers are young adult Swifts, or at least non-breeders.<br />
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Once fledged, the young may continue to roost with the adults or join them at communal roosts. The adults no longer feed the fledged young, who are now already masterful fliers. The number of Swifts in a roost can sometimes be very large. The following video is of the closely related Vaux's Swift (<i>Chaetura vauxi</i>), going to roost in Portland, Oregon, but the tornadic roosting flight behavior is the same for Chimney Swift.<br />
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These roosts grow as the nesting season ends. When the cool, stable atmosphere of beautiful Fall days come, the Swifts begin their long migration south. Little is known of their behavior on the wintering grounds, in the skies above South America. We in the northeast can only await their return the following April or May.<br />
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While they are nesting here in the northeast however, things sometimes go wrong. This is where rehabilitators such as Jayne Amico play a role. Swift nests can be dislodged by heavy rains and fall into people's homes. Or worse, they can be "swept" out by chimney sweeps cleaning chimneys. When this happens, they are sometimes taken to rehabilitators. All too often sadly, the dislodged Swifts are simply put in situations they can not possibly survive. The Swifts in Jayne's care are the lucky ones. She has mastered rearing and releasing these unfortunate individuals, or healing those that have suffered injury. It is far from an easy task, and no one should undertake it who isn't trained and immensely dedicated. I have had the good fortune to witness Jayne in action with Swifts, and I have come to admire her skill, dedication, and love for the birds she handles. I do not think I have ever witnessed the degree of professional knowledge and child-like affection that Jayne exhibits in ministering to her flock. Sorry, I couldn't resist the phrase. The following are a few pictures I took at The Mount Vernon Songbird Sanctuary last July when I visited with my daughter Janet and her friend Emily.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQMmARV8enx4gpgLdmI2MjZCWrJy0vPfVZ_0-jXXcJAi9IvvWqsrPdB2zevgQMo0lNcFtOVKe-sKayLPoLdnxcGl_HQ8MUrN6k6JdjTlkSNj9kFNI-5Awi90v2sgeDXz4gyw7nY2rGGl4/s1600/Nestlings+at+Sanctuary.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQMmARV8enx4gpgLdmI2MjZCWrJy0vPfVZ_0-jXXcJAi9IvvWqsrPdB2zevgQMo0lNcFtOVKe-sKayLPoLdnxcGl_HQ8MUrN6k6JdjTlkSNj9kFNI-5Awi90v2sgeDXz4gyw7nY2rGGl4/s400/Nestlings+at+Sanctuary.bmp" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nestlings in special care at the Sanctuary</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52Cdv4S_TSQueDOJmH-h6C4-tWOy7uNHQSjXWNDoFPm2hVVaOeB3Yd7YOT2ZcG4fbAObM8R-6PVKvAXM25QdB0JVuDjwTvWhIWRzpw0aETOqhs510WJa6uUXiRByaioXNyKME09FQkeYm/s400/Most+Swifts+in+Chimney,+Jayne+feeds.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jayne feeds her Swifts in the purpose built feeding "chimney" at the Mount Vernon Songbird Sanctuary.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52Cdv4S_TSQueDOJmH-h6C4-tWOy7uNHQSjXWNDoFPm2hVVaOeB3Yd7YOT2ZcG4fbAObM8R-6PVKvAXM25QdB0JVuDjwTvWhIWRzpw0aETOqhs510WJa6uUXiRByaioXNyKME09FQkeYm/s1600/Most+Swifts+in+Chimney,+Jayne+feeds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggglCSgATn3EVhlIxgTqou3x5cQDoFSv7kR7MwRFUWcZLQoJVbMUPocvg8QlK_rSIb-nL_oNvfqci7QcfauqRXXI5Oo4wwCDMtqm9BkAnLOrlhZBHJe-WLdsGpitiOLxQh3-8o6y-8HyYf/s400/4+Swifts+on+Sanctuary+wall.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Four of the Swifts perched on the vertical walls of the enclosure.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZbgK4Tv9RHnQc3Fyc87I8jBG3cLgbJ1JF20HGeG2Vdzdyh0W2C_1bGJxLKTlyQ3frPrUnTYsltf6Qto5YsJP7DIlA5yC-IthWn70Txl165ugux-YeVLPof6NDrB8rKwD2kPNj8Dc0mgm/s400/Emily+and+Janet+in+Swift+Enclosure.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emily and Janet observe Jayne caring for her wards.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZbgK4Tv9RHnQc3Fyc87I8jBG3cLgbJ1JF20HGeG2Vdzdyh0W2C_1bGJxLKTlyQ3frPrUnTYsltf6Qto5YsJP7DIlA5yC-IthWn70Txl165ugux-YeVLPof6NDrB8rKwD2kPNj8Dc0mgm/s1600/Emily+and+Janet+in+Swift+Enclosure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LNl62gMw8tuVbGY2BhSr5i6uG3os6luD8YDOhiIHYKPVKWuLRsVAkgN89dpq2aBz0nW2F2ro9IffH20Y1PZNti0qPulYt3pq_fFbXLS2-N6U_U2KsrrkQ8mXDwOFgkfhZnSlk3BDYZhY/s400/Jayne+hand+feeds.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="300" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes it is necessary to hand feed individual Swifts that do not adapt quickly to the foreign process of taking food from a human.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LNl62gMw8tuVbGY2BhSr5i6uG3os6luD8YDOhiIHYKPVKWuLRsVAkgN89dpq2aBz0nW2F2ro9IffH20Y1PZNti0qPulYt3pq_fFbXLS2-N6U_U2KsrrkQ8mXDwOFgkfhZnSlk3BDYZhY/s1600/Jayne+hand+feeds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>Swifts, like many of the bird species in our world, are declining in numbers. There are few or no new chimneys being built that they can use for nesting. Additionally, many existing chimneys are being capped to keep the birds out. To my mind, many people love seeing wildlife, as long as it isn't on their property. The loss of these magnificent aerialists is deeply regrettable. In watching Swifts fly, we are able to witness what perfection evolution can achieve. What a dreary place the skies over our cities will be when they are no longer sliced by the Swift's feathered sabers.<br />
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To learn more about Swifts and what you can do to help protect them, visit ChimneySwift.org at:<br />
<a href="http://www.chimneyswifts.org/">http://www.chimneyswifts.org/</a>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-34061766717853580252010-09-20T20:03:00.050-04:002010-09-21T08:31:59.807-04:00Rattle and Kink<blockquote>"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts." Rachel Carson</blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw48F-7LHVL99QaRuQ_42IY3WJUHvpFv50ughQKKXGTQ9XzhnAqUT1iRzmd5KauzW_RSTdJBA7InH0WlTC9RWhLo7LhTu02Evu6WQHDz8ZC0US_ru8VtbzSXgll8u6rDNXTkrUgn9eaEb/s1600/Black+Rat+Snake+Head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAPpRKn5pbnXDJiicpfXoxCXPsGC4b7NmpMwefD_md4e6ui0mKbSytEOYYQLQd5MvvOWKx_cttRve-Crmj9Il7RPSlM6vJgIILc7a26bZ7reLZapR9zdxw-yB9pyKcESX3v8GXN3guFsZ/s1600/Black+Rat+Snake+Head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAPpRKn5pbnXDJiicpfXoxCXPsGC4b7NmpMwefD_md4e6ui0mKbSytEOYYQLQd5MvvOWKx_cttRve-Crmj9Il7RPSlM6vJgIILc7a26bZ7reLZapR9zdxw-yB9pyKcESX3v8GXN3guFsZ/s400/Black+Rat+Snake+Head.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black Rat Snake (Elaphe obsoleta obsoleta)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> The heat of a mid September sun was firmly clamped on the Walden Preserve in Salem, Connecticut. It was mid day and it was quite warm for the date. I had been feeling a bit beaten down by life recently, and not without good reason. I had also been ridiculously busy. The prior weekend I had taken my daughter and her friend Emily camping on Selden Island on the Connecticut River in Lyme. In order to do that, I had rebuilt a canoe the week before, designed and built a boat rack for my pickup truck (which I finished at 12:30 am the night before the trip), organized all the gear needed, loaded all the gear and three boats in the truck, paddled all the gear to Selden Island, set up camp, cooked all the girls meals, broke camp down afterward, loaded all the gear back into the canoe, paddled the gear laden canoe upriver to the boat launch (while the girls flitted by in agile kayaks), Loaded the truck back up, drove home, and unpacked, cleaned, and put away all the gear at home. All this after working a full work week. Admittedly I love doing things for kids, but it had been a tough week. So today, with my daughter spending the day with her friend Rachel, I knew my psychological state was low and needed an immersion in the woods. So here I was, looking for Black Rat Snakes. That was why I was here at mid day, to increase my chances of finding these inky serpents soaking up the warmth of the sun.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">New England Aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae). One of the beauties of Walden Preserve.</span></td></tr>
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I had been walking the meadows and forest of the preserve for an hour or so, and I had been looking under rocks and logs for snakes of any sort, while singing Mark Knopfler songs to myself. This is the sort of behavior that can guarantee odd looks from passersby and the suspicious attention of law enforcement officials. This endeavor allowed me time to think about my trials and tribulations and to lose them in the forest, at least temporarily. However, my log and rock flipping would prove fruitless this day, well serpent-less anyway. I did unearth numerous Red-backed Salamanders, which I had to remove before replacing the rocks and logs, to avoid turning them into ex-salamanders. So, tiring of flipping things over, and liberally covered with the fecund earth of the forest floor, I decided instead to start walking hard and fast for the exercise. It wasn’t long before I was sweating liberally as well. It was at this point that I spotted a Black Rat Snake draped across a fallen log off the side of the trail. These beautiful black snakes are usually fairly slow and approachable. So slowing to a casual walk, I approached the snake with the expectation of simply picking it up. Apparently this individual fancied itself a track star however, and shot off at a pace that took me totally by surprise. Not one to be outdone, I sprinted after it. The snake was in its element and shot down a steep slope while winding through a maze of saplings and brush. As I ran through the undergrowth after it, and by “ran” I mean stumbled clumsily, I lunged repeatedly at its fast disappearing tail. Just when I thought it was mine, it was gone. I stood there, heart pounding, breathing hard, beaten in a race through the woods by a creature which had exactly no legs. Oh the indignation of it all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiaZIbSS4O_XxLM44BHqlxNcuTxvUzsp2INrZGdoEmOWJPC1FZHx5JeGHtmUsV-cPutniy0DRt_kaqeCq-07yWcCuELGzdmk6YjMbZKX0Tzb0T8AvP4Ef_f4FPcICKDV6S_0aXhld8iY9I/s400/Green+Darner.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Green Darner (Anax junius) Female. A common fall migrant dragonfly hawking prey over the meadows.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiaZIbSS4O_XxLM44BHqlxNcuTxvUzsp2INrZGdoEmOWJPC1FZHx5JeGHtmUsV-cPutniy0DRt_kaqeCq-07yWcCuELGzdmk6YjMbZKX0Tzb0T8AvP4Ef_f4FPcICKDV6S_0aXhld8iY9I/s1600/Green+Darner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Accepting inglorious defeat, I continued on. I then happened upon a colleague from work who was walking with his two sons. They were admiring the recent gnawings of beavers on the local flora. I spent a few minutes talking with them and learning about air-soft guns and ferrets from the two boys. I think every boy should have air-soft guns and ferrets. Surely nothing could ever go wrong in a household with air-soft guns and ferrets? Well time was pushing on, as it is wont to do, so I said adieu and walked on. I was heading back to the parking area when I noticed a long black stick on the path ahead. It was an odd looking stick, it looked quite like another Black Rat Snake! A few years ago, my friend Hank Golet had sent me a picture of a Black Rat Snake he found in Old Lyme, which was doing an odd defensive/camouflage posture. It can only be described as “kinked.” I personally had never seen any of the numerous Black Rat Snakes I had come across do this, till today. There was this guy on the path ahead of me, and he was “kinked.” It was a nice sized adult, right around 5 feet in length, maybe an inch or two short of that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPZNVd1FZIuLzfnE8kcyw0hj2M1c05f0WXKxLvSVf0V3xQ8SQpF_vJsnrHsGIBlKF2d8xDJ5YCxp-eQbwjRu56eJPo2KiNMd8z1KaxFOZXsrDCTgBE-Hi2RbchTx5dNDuTZy3xlOUNW9X/s1600/Kinked+Rat+Snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPZNVd1FZIuLzfnE8kcyw0hj2M1c05f0WXKxLvSVf0V3xQ8SQpF_vJsnrHsGIBlKF2d8xDJ5YCxp-eQbwjRu56eJPo2KiNMd8z1KaxFOZXsrDCTgBE-Hi2RbchTx5dNDuTZy3xlOUNW9X/s1600/Kinked+Rat+Snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPZNVd1FZIuLzfnE8kcyw0hj2M1c05f0WXKxLvSVf0V3xQ8SQpF_vJsnrHsGIBlKF2d8xDJ5YCxp-eQbwjRu56eJPo2KiNMd8z1KaxFOZXsrDCTgBE-Hi2RbchTx5dNDuTZy3xlOUNW9X/s400/Kinked+Rat+Snake.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPZNVd1FZIuLzfnE8kcyw0hj2M1c05f0WXKxLvSVf0V3xQ8SQpF_vJsnrHsGIBlKF2d8xDJ5YCxp-eQbwjRu56eJPo2KiNMd8z1KaxFOZXsrDCTgBE-Hi2RbchTx5dNDuTZy3xlOUNW9X/s1600/Kinked+Rat+Snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Odd "kinked" behavior of Black Rat Snake.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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Prepared for another possible dash, I approached the snake. This one however, remained motionless in its odd posture. I reached down, and as my hand approached the snake, the tail started to rattle among the leaf litter. This is another defensive bluff that several snakes perform, attempting to appear a Rattlesnake. Being just bright enough to know the difference, I was undeterred. I picked up the long ribbon of muscle that was the snake and felt its strength as it wrapped itself around my hand. The serpent made no attempt to bite me. Indeed, as I have experienced with Black Rat Snakes before, holding the snake’s head required just the lightest pressure. This species is generally quite easy and pleasant to handle. If I had relaxed my grip on a Northern Water Snake this much I would have been bitten in a heart-beat. Less than a heart-beat, actually. I draped the snake over my arm and as it wrapped itself tightly around my forearm, I felt the tail tip continue to vibrate against my skin, an odd feeling indeed.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeLRtUL5FXMsQAwUB63Iavw7Y6BWzAVSYgc00FqhDt6jzF0YPTKRY0LsF5VIXlf4NxAvQ1C0pBs3zV38Cv2IZDkAaKOI7GsmA_JTqZlJSfuwtoFdkMC8Q12YKBtwyP5UmQkiH3v-nHIAf/s400/Rat+Snake+coiled+on+ground.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Black Rat Snake often offers little resistance to being held. My grip is very light. Try this relaxed soft touch with a Northern Water Snake and it will hurt your feelings!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeLRtUL5FXMsQAwUB63Iavw7Y6BWzAVSYgc00FqhDt6jzF0YPTKRY0LsF5VIXlf4NxAvQ1C0pBs3zV38Cv2IZDkAaKOI7GsmA_JTqZlJSfuwtoFdkMC8Q12YKBtwyP5UmQkiH3v-nHIAf/s1600/Rat+Snake+coiled+on+ground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqmgoSVo-fQmm47vErje4TzFtkBmsXnDk7qjKujsJCFW1Pn0wWpzaccfYQfMEbYsHhUmCRmZi6ncO78NN7hFiZ8geYQd-P4Ek8oW_dAadnjQnEGuiYJpgdAbNf6CC6CGiuC5NNFmTXvXD/s400/Snake+on+arm.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The snake was still doing the false rattle with its tail while it was on my arm.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqmgoSVo-fQmm47vErje4TzFtkBmsXnDk7qjKujsJCFW1Pn0wWpzaccfYQfMEbYsHhUmCRmZi6ncO78NN7hFiZ8geYQd-P4Ek8oW_dAadnjQnEGuiYJpgdAbNf6CC6CGiuC5NNFmTXvXD/s1600/Snake+on+arm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div> The snake’s black tongue flicked in and out rapidly as it assessed its predicament. Contrary to popular belief, a snake’s tongue does not detect smells. The tongue is used to drag minute airborne particles to an organ in the roof of the snake’s mouth, called a “vomeronasal” organ, or "Jacobson's organ." This organ does the “smelling” and the tongue simply acts to bring the olfactory evidence to it. Much like how mammal’s use lungs to drag air to their olfactory organs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEXcOezdjmVCrysEENfkjagry6Qi0gO2z0L83-W4Bfn8WoYX7witU-czdmY7l3tgl7ZEJigBQ2lTG4st_XNsv9nErHVjOim4GE22nUMYL9MbR1ax6yNZiPiDV_3bW4fY6MIkfHKdItFOS/s400/Tongue+out.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gathering data on its environment. The snakes tongue drags air particles to an organ in the roof of its mouth.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEXcOezdjmVCrysEENfkjagry6Qi0gO2z0L83-W4Bfn8WoYX7witU-czdmY7l3tgl7ZEJigBQ2lTG4st_XNsv9nErHVjOim4GE22nUMYL9MbR1ax6yNZiPiDV_3bW4fY6MIkfHKdItFOS/s1600/Tongue+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObA8Llzy3NDDNlcd-GIYg1VXtypWWaquSCHMp160k-PgE_j2FO9FW1IFgfx8FRSN_jlivWttA-GxCMvlNBLYbOZi2E5Ic_RafWE4sCg207Jam4G6_mMsTE2COBGyJbDrXUkI5U19vPAHv/s400/Snake+face.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="380" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The scales around the snake's mouth have evolved to allow at least partial extension of the tongue without having to open the mouth.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObA8Llzy3NDDNlcd-GIYg1VXtypWWaquSCHMp160k-PgE_j2FO9FW1IFgfx8FRSN_jlivWttA-GxCMvlNBLYbOZi2E5Ic_RafWE4sCg207Jam4G6_mMsTE2COBGyJbDrXUkI5U19vPAHv/s1600/Snake+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><br />
I took a few minutes to photograph this denizen of the southern New England woodlands, and to appreciate its simple yet elegant beauty. I never tire of the silken feel of a large snake's skin. When I released it, it moved purposely, but not hurriedly, off into a trail side bush. It showed none of the speed of the previous snake that had left me in its dust. I wonder if that one has some Black Racer in it? I'd feel better if that were true! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-evXRvNdJbsWJmK3HJHbmOMR_ZVGCm9fLmfUfs9wiAYnR_kqwQAAZVAwVLby4yGS1h2Fds1zlzWDUDo5bNh4n-18WsO3RBRdTGwKWbvGCqfILYF8wJ5_kJwZD2n29Qy-Pe7WWVXMb4hV/s400/Freedom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Freedom. The Black Rat Snake heads for the hills.</span></td></tr>
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It was time to head home. I had solved none of my worldly problems. But I was refreshed by my time in the woods. Feeling the snake constrict on my arm was like feeling the handshake of an old and dear friend. And of course, I now knew more about air-soft guns and ferrets. I wonder which of these I should get first? <br />
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To learn which snakes are present in southern New England, and some salient facts, download the Connecticut DEP publication "Snakes in Connecticut," at: <br />
<a href="http://www.ct.gov/dep/lib/dep/wildlife/pdf_files/nongame/snkwebview.pdf">http://www.ct.gov/dep/lib/dep/wildlife/pdf_files/nongame/snkwebview.pdf</a>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-25448035513960077022010-08-18T12:38:00.007-04:002010-08-26T13:08:48.930-04:00Pinched, Bitten, and Smeared<blockquote>"I love fools' experiments. I am always making them." -Charles Darwin</blockquote>"Uh, Dad, I thought you said they wouldn't bite?" "Ya, they try once in a while, but it doesn't amount to much." That was my reply to my daughter's question about whether the Northern Ring-necked Snake she was holding would bite. I was a few yards away turning stones over in Pachaug State Forest in Voluntown, Connecticut, looking for more snakes. I had found a Ring-necked Snake, and my daughter Janet and her friend Matt had been holding it and photographing it while I looked for more. "Well this one is doing a pretty good job of biting!" was her reply to my assurance not to worry. I stood up and turned around to see. Sure enough, that little so-and-so was doing his species proud.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_8ddZEpO8JQWA-fzaCj8zn5-Hrue0gXuzgB-sL5_HhJLkUXrW-gC7j6HATyWcVzo8h4WR5o-ow_c6t8IZj75rEV1gxAJJ-DtPNIJhZFle7S0Er58Nieg-ykLhCX5SVeDSfDS0JVhfLw3/s1600/Rong-neck+bites+Janet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_8ddZEpO8JQWA-fzaCj8zn5-Hrue0gXuzgB-sL5_HhJLkUXrW-gC7j6HATyWcVzo8h4WR5o-ow_c6t8IZj75rEV1gxAJJ-DtPNIJhZFle7S0Er58Nieg-ykLhCX5SVeDSfDS0JVhfLw3/s320/Rong-neck+bites+Janet.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ring-necked Snake biting Janet's Hand</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>"Well don't worry about it. It won't even leave a mark." This was placating I know. Actually it did leave a mark, and it bit Matt as well. Son of a gun. It didn't bite me, and I caught it. You'd think justice would have been served and it would have taken revenge on the guy who caught it. Oh well, life is seldom fair.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRq10wD-KZ8JDBsdI-n6GMpt9cVnqf0skk0xjcV9czcQJvP3GW-B6WgUruZcxUeR2FFuXv2jnqyCJ9KFmYJMBeDbGoN13sK6wowGODTXiPfrTVvQ9AutH87tB-tvGKu_czt5HxsJrU-nlm/s1600/Ring-neck+in+my+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRq10wD-KZ8JDBsdI-n6GMpt9cVnqf0skk0xjcV9czcQJvP3GW-B6WgUruZcxUeR2FFuXv2jnqyCJ9KFmYJMBeDbGoN13sK6wowGODTXiPfrTVvQ9AutH87tB-tvGKu_czt5HxsJrU-nlm/s320/Ring-neck+in+my+hand.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Northern Ring-necked Snake (Diadophis punctatus edwardsii)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4AXUJPyPKTwwJryCeEfcOmo4TizCsjCApdEyhUt46IfIZmFY6B8Kcnl9xS2SU-OBHHnTn-9jQZpF_CtQ7Re8NpqFLr_DMm2EM8v0zQpmRMiwdYHrE2Mrl-VCLf-8vLJpKKThWNC7OXxc/s1600/Matt+with+Ring-neck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4AXUJPyPKTwwJryCeEfcOmo4TizCsjCApdEyhUt46IfIZmFY6B8Kcnl9xS2SU-OBHHnTn-9jQZpF_CtQ7Re8NpqFLr_DMm2EM8v0zQpmRMiwdYHrE2Mrl-VCLf-8vLJpKKThWNC7OXxc/s320/Matt+with+Ring-neck.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Matt holds a Ring-necked Snake.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was a rainy Monday in August. Matt, Janet and I, were out looking for snakes and whatever else we could turn up. Matt loves snakes. And frogs. And Salamanders. And Lizards. Just to mention a few critters. Well so do I. Janet is game for almost anything. She may not get the thrill Matt and I get from finding snakes but she enjoys the woods and whatever it has to offer. Today we were getting wet and muddy while we explored, and we were getting smellier by the snake. Many snakes excrete a nasty smelling musk which they smear on an attacker, or a 12 year old, or a 51 year old who thinks he's 12. They also smear other unpleasant things on you as well, use your imagination, you'll get there. I know. Pretty disgusting. If you were picked up by a creature hundreds of times your size, you would do something similar. I know I would.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpbdvPXFAa2Haze_SiRL-Ol93urI-6bxZEDPmaEkrI-1nuw6QmG5RO2PpSPl0qe_lwFw4YPHpFjda2mU4mua-na_cJm7wwg_YzL3YBLcIy1fcZeiuhrbO_GLmj29mMpHC5twzVgutjusw/s1600/Ring-neck+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpbdvPXFAa2Haze_SiRL-Ol93urI-6bxZEDPmaEkrI-1nuw6QmG5RO2PpSPl0qe_lwFw4YPHpFjda2mU4mua-na_cJm7wwg_YzL3YBLcIy1fcZeiuhrbO_GLmj29mMpHC5twzVgutjusw/s320/Ring-neck+head.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Why they are called Ring-necked Snake is pretty apparent.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
This is a beautiful animal, the Northern Ring-necked Snake. Growing to only about 14 inches on average, the record length is about double that, 28 inches. They are usually found under rocks, logs, or leaf litter. It is easy to see why they are so named, a beautiful cream colored ring crosses the snake's neck dorsally. The belly is a rich yellow with a hint of orange. They usually don't bite people. Usually. These gorgeous little snakes eat salamanders, small frogs, other snakes, or even earthworms. Today both Janet and Matt would leave this snake with little bite marks on their hands. I'm pretty sure they felt they were little badges of courage actually. I was not bitten, did I mention that?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkOYN2tuWWutCa9afRhy6MbOK7YENdKiBUK56BG8zEcXSVxZW91viH3HUxqu3BF9EF3T631CYeJ5hUnFidhRRq6J1u0qURjVkJGkndaPVlO_D590_TbrGj8VTFvHDgwETk0uo0uGd6nj8/s1600/Matt+and+Janet+with+snakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkOYN2tuWWutCa9afRhy6MbOK7YENdKiBUK56BG8zEcXSVxZW91viH3HUxqu3BF9EF3T631CYeJ5hUnFidhRRq6J1u0qURjVkJGkndaPVlO_D590_TbrGj8VTFvHDgwETk0uo0uGd6nj8/s320/Matt+and+Janet+with+snakes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Matt with Garter Snake and Janet with Ring-necked Snake. Okay the Ring-necked is still attached by the mouth to Janet's hand. So it is sort of holding her actually.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>My turning over rocks soon resulted in finding a small Eastern Garter Snake. This is certainly the most familiar snake to people in the northeast. They are the snake everyone finds in their yard at some point. I'm being judgmental here but I don't find them as attractive as the Ring-necked Snake. Still they are a snake, and therefore they are beautiful to me, and Matt. Janet was interested but not as impressed admittedly. Garter Snakes don't really bite either. They certainly can put on an impressively aggressive defensive act however. When they do bite, which happens sometimes admittedly, they can hang on tenaciously, like that Ring-necked Snake that was still attached to Janet's hand. I realized my credibility was running a bit low on this point, but Matt did not hesitate to take the snake from me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFA-opez203bgCnTZOqBae2uemimfL0JX4ds1qjLUTtJM9uphR9fASHd4Gkfz-PPwchKu5_pPHJn0YXYQvi2bZ1T4jVuTFg9jlCmJiJG_EhwOdgQ7UDl2drIQ3Ja9v5xuKjIal3ODoxe9P/s1600/Garter+in+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFA-opez203bgCnTZOqBae2uemimfL0JX4ds1qjLUTtJM9uphR9fASHd4Gkfz-PPwchKu5_pPHJn0YXYQvi2bZ1T4jVuTFg9jlCmJiJG_EhwOdgQ7UDl2drIQ3Ja9v5xuKjIal3ODoxe9P/s320/Garter+in+hand.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eastern Garter Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis sirtalis)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Eastern Garter Snakes are very common in many habitats. They grow to about two feet but have been found as long as 49 inches. The ones we found in Pachaug were small. They eat almost anything smaller than themselves but prefer mostly aquatic stuff, salamanders (I know! Salamanders just have it tough out there), frogs, and small fish. The second Garter Snake I found was about to shed its skin. When a snake sheds its skin it also sheds the specially adapted scales that cover its eyes. These scales turn a milky blue as the snake approaches shedding, or molting. If you find a snakeskin, look at the head, you'll see these eye scales are present on the shed snakeskin rather than holes where the eyes are. The photo below clearly shows these milky eye scales on this soon to shed snake.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxl4w_DAF8ocE_TWLpYn4DqI6pc8Ci3VlSetSkJAhMpLqFvfYCOJQJWjnd5AsoRr31_NbenEdWV9Fx1myStPLa9mADQ9ROGer2uSwJQCZT9q3J5fgwJzJM8W1CDwDrnWCrgciUNrWE-FVf/s1600/Garter+Eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxl4w_DAF8ocE_TWLpYn4DqI6pc8Ci3VlSetSkJAhMpLqFvfYCOJQJWjnd5AsoRr31_NbenEdWV9Fx1myStPLa9mADQ9ROGer2uSwJQCZT9q3J5fgwJzJM8W1CDwDrnWCrgciUNrWE-FVf/s320/Garter+Eye.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The eye scale turns a milky blue prior to the snake shedding its skin.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The rain had pretty much stopped by now. Matt, Janet, and I decided to move on and explore other spots in the forest. We stopped at a forest stream with a large pool behind a man made dike. We poked around to see what we could find. One of the first things we turned up was a Crayfish. I don't know a great deal about Crayfish I must admit. There are about 350 to 400 species in the United States. Many are endangered due to habitat loss or degradation. They are also preyed upon by many species such as otters, raccoons, turtles, fishes, Rails, Herons, and of course, man. I scooped this one up using my bug net. The kids had to have the little guy pinch a stick (see the photo), but of course I had to have it pinch me. It grabbed my offered finger and hung on with amazing strength. I did want to have the kids see it didn't really hurt. I didn't, really. However, I think my "It won't... " credibility was still weak with the kids at that point.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQHSUDzwTRuxGgKDo59cpuLwCCWzyl-eJBbvHYJ1J-MsL41gISjzLSY4itcbD38XAKvQ9iQULOrd5LhGeRa4iOjwnvjBeuFQShVTZQBs_IabtR0OvZuWXzoQdjOOd9x6T5pThz9AKohxY/s1600/Crayfish+with+stick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQHSUDzwTRuxGgKDo59cpuLwCCWzyl-eJBbvHYJ1J-MsL41gISjzLSY4itcbD38XAKvQ9iQULOrd5LhGeRa4iOjwnvjBeuFQShVTZQBs_IabtR0OvZuWXzoQdjOOd9x6T5pThz9AKohxY/s320/Crayfish+with+stick.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Crayfish with stick supplied by Matt and Janet</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxkZg3IC8jYY6ennV66oo2pRtgKXGKkm51g7g5eb0go4zQiYJKB1lXyEeBhZObarlk0wufW5vfotf4JCrFaKUcCPxfd6q9Zk9cec5PBnHSkX9fAh1AfvodgZvRmp5vz79p6tay8HZjiea/s1600/Matt+with+frog+and+Janet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxkZg3IC8jYY6ennV66oo2pRtgKXGKkm51g7g5eb0go4zQiYJKB1lXyEeBhZObarlk0wufW5vfotf4JCrFaKUcCPxfd6q9Zk9cec5PBnHSkX9fAh1AfvodgZvRmp5vz79p6tay8HZjiea/s320/Matt+with+frog+and+Janet.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Matt and Janet examine a Bull Frog</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Matt quickly spotted something else in the water. He asked me what it was and I told him it was a dragonfly larva. I reached in and scooped it into my hand to show them. Specifically, it was a larva of the family Aeshnidae, or the Darners. These are the largest and fastest of the dragonflies in the northeast. The name "Darner" comes from the erroneous beliefs of people based on the long abdomen of the dragonfly and the way it lays eggs by pushing them into aquatic vegetation or rotten logs. Many misconceptions exist about these wonderful insects. They do NOT sting. They do NOT sew your mouth or eyes shut (for goodness sake!) They do NOT land on you and then bite. Okay they <i>do</i> bite if you hold one <i>just</i> right so it can get a bit of your finger right up against its mouth parts, but the bite does not hurt. I have let the largest of these bite me, the Swamp Darner, and while impressive in strength for such a light weight, it didn't hurt. The larvae of dragonflys are impressive little aquatic predators with large eyes and large mouth parts. This family's larvae stalk their underwater prey, using their large eyes and mouth parts, while many other dragonfly species larvae lie in camouflaged wait to ambush prey. When a dragonfly is ready to emerge and begin its flying stage, the larva will crawl out of the water on a rock or log and the adult will break out slowly, much like a butterfly. The dried larval skins left behind, or exuviae, can be found near the water's surface on vegetation, logs, rocks, or concrete culverts.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3MHQcS5qyO42Qoshg0cOeR7b7YXOeE1kDQ5XmwWqePDCgikzZ7i88w_PERdALQmJqfceDK_fsBPTSyv_LRxz8OpagC7kTD3Qs4Bz5GP9lOe2sLlicOi1Xy6SPI9rRLIVm3NBNAGJtn07/s1600/Larva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3MHQcS5qyO42Qoshg0cOeR7b7YXOeE1kDQ5XmwWqePDCgikzZ7i88w_PERdALQmJqfceDK_fsBPTSyv_LRxz8OpagC7kTD3Qs4Bz5GP9lOe2sLlicOi1Xy6SPI9rRLIVm3NBNAGJtn07/s320/Larva.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Aeshidae, or "Darner" Dragonfly Larva</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhHQbw1i7GgVJ6SqWdq2Kfvi3fxVHjV6R5vd4npZB-qSSR0Xm7N_9jxav4HLLHrb6I2jHsan2_4vPZD_1CyvDycPD6FuqNQfZsF_SsexBZIiDEZzQYtc1mEdNvx09XovkKypuwp5GwFgz/s1600/Aeshnid+Darner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhHQbw1i7GgVJ6SqWdq2Kfvi3fxVHjV6R5vd4npZB-qSSR0Xm7N_9jxav4HLLHrb6I2jHsan2_4vPZD_1CyvDycPD6FuqNQfZsF_SsexBZIiDEZzQYtc1mEdNvx09XovkKypuwp5GwFgz/s320/Aeshnid+Darner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Adult Aeshnidae. This is a female Lance-tipped Darner. It is possible that the above Larva is that of a Fawn Darner however, based on habitat and the presence of adult Fawn Darners egg-laying nearby.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The day was getting on, and Matt had to be back in time for a birthday party for his mom and sister. While we had time, I wanted to look for more snakes before Matt needed to be home, so we moved on. We next tried a couple of spots looking for Eastern Ribbon Snakes or Northern Water Snakes. I had seen an Eastern Ribbon Snake at one nearby location a couple days before, but it had eluded my capture. We looked today to no avail, but we did manage to find Northern Water Snakes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5MzF6FmcK79O34NH-yoZIrAresTft29xbKEi-GYIB16QlTk2ME705OMYGBBOO86SnmZlhajeOTqfwFzdzWaGzh_k5yyeSJ_FZSkvv0qP4Gs1ZG1mxiRwJVdRSI9phoYiMpNI2uZm2SJm/s1600/Water+Snake+in+water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5MzF6FmcK79O34NH-yoZIrAresTft29xbKEi-GYIB16QlTk2ME705OMYGBBOO86SnmZlhajeOTqfwFzdzWaGzh_k5yyeSJ_FZSkvv0qP4Gs1ZG1mxiRwJVdRSI9phoYiMpNI2uZm2SJm/s320/Water+Snake+in+water.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Northern Water Snake (Nerodia sipedon sipedon)</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Northern Water Snakes are frequently called "Water Moccasins" or Copperheads, by the uninformed, and are then pointlessly slaughtered. They are not Water Moccasins or Cottonmouths. They are non-venomous. They do have brilliantly white mouth linings and are vigorous biters in their own defense, but only in their own defense. This is a very common snake in Connecticut and they reach between 2 and 4 feet in length when fully grown. They will bite if handled without caution, and their mouths have a bacterial component that can cause an infection in the bite wound. This may be why the Greek name <i>sipedon</i>, or "infectious," has been used for this species. Northern Water Snakes will also use a convincing bluff to defend themselves. They will flatten their heads to approximate the triangular shape that is a feature of most of the venomous North American snakes. And let me tell you, when these snakes smear musk, or "whatever" on you, it really stinks! Just ask Matt and Janet. Using my bug net to reach out in the water, I snagged this little beauty.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FR5KC8ojwRWYctakn0IJAOTucgIrDIjuhrI7FD30jRuMlBxHrmHJYwbNVwF-8KEYq-j_sXUQHqix0LJXfA1_48n9Ofxrlb6e-MTH-2LJ-GMRSz6eTwfCJjNu065011cRMOibUTrtPQvy/s1600/Dave+watersnake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FR5KC8ojwRWYctakn0IJAOTucgIrDIjuhrI7FD30jRuMlBxHrmHJYwbNVwF-8KEYq-j_sXUQHqix0LJXfA1_48n9Ofxrlb6e-MTH-2LJ-GMRSz6eTwfCJjNu065011cRMOibUTrtPQvy/s320/Dave+watersnake.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Me holding the Northern Water Snake I caught using a bug net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Matt quickly took the snake from me after I warned that it would try and bite him if he wasn't careful. I told him his mom, Karin, would be less than happy with me if I let a Water Snake nail him! Matt is a brave young man and took the snake with no qualms. After a few pics, I put the snake back on the ground and it shot off back to the water, happy to be done with me. It had repeatedly struck at my camera while I photographed it, showing its white mouth lining. Northern Water Snakes prey mainly on frogs of the genus rana, such as Green Frogs. This is a subtly beautiful snake on its dorsal side, and a dramatically beautiful snake ventrally. The belly is patterned in reddish half moons or triangles.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVchK7DrC8RYFFQpjA9C5YbwA5HWRKrNq0q_2wEiSJ7ofOZkjC_ErXtOWZhauIu_DzUzpDPdaNtG1VPVJ-94pfWrPuC1TSkljeLig_8857dyYD8WkbZBqIwhE8fozQ5P3o_aKDiWeBWzJf/s1600/Watersnake+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVchK7DrC8RYFFQpjA9C5YbwA5HWRKrNq0q_2wEiSJ7ofOZkjC_ErXtOWZhauIu_DzUzpDPdaNtG1VPVJ-94pfWrPuC1TSkljeLig_8857dyYD8WkbZBqIwhE8fozQ5P3o_aKDiWeBWzJf/s320/Watersnake+head.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Northern Water Snake</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNNOXtHbcljUTXc13a_cjn9isdBLICAIfO-sTSalNgJlVjc-ivr2i3ICUKRO5dt9eRHO4nES3RoLSrOO8ltxX31MYUIRvXnWtV10uTzib88YdH_KzKC-c8nL6JCAR0aI5h97w15uB8BED/s1600/Watresnake+dorsal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNNOXtHbcljUTXc13a_cjn9isdBLICAIfO-sTSalNgJlVjc-ivr2i3ICUKRO5dt9eRHO4nES3RoLSrOO8ltxX31MYUIRvXnWtV10uTzib88YdH_KzKC-c8nL6JCAR0aI5h97w15uB8BED/s320/Watresnake+dorsal.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dorsal view. Northern Water Snakes can be varied in color dorsally, this one is rather darkish. Take a good look, this is NOT a Cottonmouth or Copperhead! It is non-venomous but it is a "biter."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_i0F_nKY4uCcSEbp4EhM4HzfGTzbpfMmlW5Obh18M0q_w8va7XF0SrMyZP8HflrEjsxBGR_ZrNK5vg0lPDdDllkw_iETnr4e6XrQd44mzr3ZttpndEVp90hJIYX2D9JpHLgvIPRi4hMy/s1600/Watersnake+head+flatten.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_i0F_nKY4uCcSEbp4EhM4HzfGTzbpfMmlW5Obh18M0q_w8va7XF0SrMyZP8HflrEjsxBGR_ZrNK5vg0lPDdDllkw_iETnr4e6XrQd44mzr3ZttpndEVp90hJIYX2D9JpHLgvIPRi4hMy/s320/Watersnake+head+flatten.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trying to make you <i>think</i> it is venomous, a Northern Water Snake flattens its head. This is a defensive bluff however.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrsyNaPIcHMUPrCthwjKAdu6aH__mdKR7aLBGf0xEQNgE0-pQc5glI947jBkvffX9dfGE5QggKwubhnT8GyHH1pKOFxtYBSBADtxJqdSoZ7RnAli_O2ypSuNGAa84VvfsJ98JFYWLTpgdp/s1600/Water+Belly.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrsyNaPIcHMUPrCthwjKAdu6aH__mdKR7aLBGf0xEQNgE0-pQc5glI947jBkvffX9dfGE5QggKwubhnT8GyHH1pKOFxtYBSBADtxJqdSoZ7RnAli_O2ypSuNGAa84VvfsJ98JFYWLTpgdp/s320/Water+Belly.png" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The beauty of the Northern Water Snake's belly</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Having been pinched (me), bitten (Matt and Janet), and smeared (all of us), we called it a day. Dirty, wet, and smelly, we all headed off for a bite of our own. It had been a fun day despite the rainy start. The kids and I had found some pretty cool critters during our time in the forest. I love being able to share with children my love of the natural world, and Matt and Janet had clearly enjoyed themselves. I look forward to the next time I can be pinched, or bitten, or smeared! You should give it a shot too, it won't hurt. Well not too badly at least... it is worth it... really!Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-47300062697343189312010-08-15T19:09:00.004-04:002010-08-15T21:32:46.486-04:00Walk the Dark Sky<blockquote>The Great Man is He Who Does Not Lose His Child's-Heart. - Mencius</blockquote>One dollar. The fee for parking at Lowe's Store and hiking Lowe's path. When Lowe's Path was first built in the 1870s, a nominal fee was charged for hikers who wanted to use it to ascend Mount Adams in the Presidential range of the White Mountains. Over 130 years later, on June 25th of 2010, I paid a nominal fee so my young friend Mark and I could do just that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4SiLapXwEY5dDLpi9xUOO2UZ-y6SoBST4QNNf3pKb4GEtSXeuwWjog017IIfl6fvqO5fRRO14uNJNTGv6v6gZ5DFPQDxYNNhaTwd2K2jH74ZuyrjeFRL7VyRXpOEtduAht1d04iil2_tK/s1600/Lowes+Path.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4SiLapXwEY5dDLpi9xUOO2UZ-y6SoBST4QNNf3pKb4GEtSXeuwWjog017IIfl6fvqO5fRRO14uNJNTGv6v6gZ5DFPQDxYNNhaTwd2K2jH74ZuyrjeFRL7VyRXpOEtduAht1d04iil2_tK/s320/Lowes+Path.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Starting Lowe's Path to Mount Adams</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3UYKQAyLYOUTPhp8mRPVrKqW3X5KYWo6gY9k5E8fpmEQ-VaY1xF_nsrXcDoU1hWh__m_DUNGRQ4qfFauRQcj6WPpXd-DNUqXj8jM6783ybkwzSPQucvqQDyvJF1mUQpQf77BbXCIV2S8l/s1600/Alpine+warning.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3UYKQAyLYOUTPhp8mRPVrKqW3X5KYWo6gY9k5E8fpmEQ-VaY1xF_nsrXcDoU1hWh__m_DUNGRQ4qfFauRQcj6WPpXd-DNUqXj8jM6783ybkwzSPQucvqQDyvJF1mUQpQf77BbXCIV2S8l/s320/Alpine+warning.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking above treeline in the Presidentials has its risks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mark and I have had bad luck on weather forecasts on our trips. So far, nearly every trip we planned saw a change in the forecast for the worse at the last minute. This trip had been the same. Our original plan had been to hike up to Gray Knob Cabin and spend the night and then climb Mount Adams and Mount Madison the following day. Now, with the morrow's forecast looking damp and in the clouds, we decided to climb the peaks this afternoon and evening. It would mean Mark's first night hike in the White Mountains.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYtdQBwnzeSQu2DBeiFZwd09sxWLSyIJhFzX6pkk_1CON6vv2GBeEvujnr5ggehWapIlv5eiC4emgglPHlkQ8PjM6kBUFt0fG8k7vqOQo8P_sp1TUTlJ89SUoWyFPIkQtVSi5XtZJt-ty/s1600/Mark+Trail+Head.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYtdQBwnzeSQu2DBeiFZwd09sxWLSyIJhFzX6pkk_1CON6vv2GBeEvujnr5ggehWapIlv5eiC4emgglPHlkQ8PjM6kBUFt0fG8k7vqOQo8P_sp1TUTlJ89SUoWyFPIkQtVSi5XtZJt-ty/s320/Mark+Trail+Head.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark at the Trail Head</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lowe's Path starts in the Town of Randolph, New Hampshire, which lies on the north side of the Presidentials. Most of the trails leading up these northern slopes are maintained by the venerable and respected Randolph Mountain Club (RMC). This organization also operates and maintains several mountain shelters with colorful and history laden names. These shelters include "The Log Cabin," "The Perch," "Crag Camp," and "Gray Knob." Lowe's Path would take us past two of these, The Log Cabin and Gray Knob. We would be spending the night at Gray Knob after our hike.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGs7Vo1RLcPEIW19UjZdusDhpubkUtE9kn8JzsvL4-E_bPN_r57kFQg_Wx8JWRbm9twAV9QJmKReAR0ce-Bd-yhjtPThjNq9QlbrREz5uG4-UrzEj0Y07z8dRbkLrXfBeeV6BMd6cnPX_/s1600/Hot+and+buggy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGs7Vo1RLcPEIW19UjZdusDhpubkUtE9kn8JzsvL4-E_bPN_r57kFQg_Wx8JWRbm9twAV9QJmKReAR0ce-Bd-yhjtPThjNq9QlbrREz5uG4-UrzEj0Y07z8dRbkLrXfBeeV6BMd6cnPX_/s320/Hot+and+buggy.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trip up started hot and buggy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It didn't take us long to realize the lower section of Lowe's Path was going to be hot and buggy this day. Everyone has heard of "Black Flies." Here in Connecticut we refer to them as "Gnats." Actually, Black Flies, as I understand it, is an appellation used for a number of Gnat species. Regardless of taxonomy, these little creatures are evil. Okay they're not evil, that's anthropomorphizing I admit. They just seem evil. They plagued Mark and me as we trudged up the lower slopes in the dank still air of a hot June day. I knew once we broke above treeline we would have a deliciously cool breeze, but till then we would be sweating buckets and feeding swarms of small black vampires. This made the lower hike less than usually pleasant, but the expectation of relief was kindled when we reached RMC's Log Cabin. Roughly two and a half miles up from the trailhead, we finally reached the Log Cabin and climbed in for a much anticipated break.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1fzqInDGlReaEmiFqIV0xHvtSXehG29SsJ3SdHbMLt5g7uwO7gSUR577sccqbNSpW3VtcL39HJsRNdos_lZPF2upNc59I2-C3uoP2Z0RP7Tb439iTjs3lY2fE3J6FvH7e_Kgyk-7Z60A/s1600/LogCabin+side.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1fzqInDGlReaEmiFqIV0xHvtSXehG29SsJ3SdHbMLt5g7uwO7gSUR577sccqbNSpW3VtcL39HJsRNdos_lZPF2upNc59I2-C3uoP2Z0RP7Tb439iTjs3lY2fE3J6FvH7e_Kgyk-7Z60A/s320/LogCabin+side.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RMC's Log Cabin. Our first milestone on the hike up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We dropped our packs and relaxed for a bit. Mark can sleep anywhere, anytime. I envy that. While he power napped, I sat on the porch and ruminated. This was the fourth hike he and I had done together. He had impressed me on each one of those hikes. In some ways he was a better hiker than I was, but I had the advantage of experience and doggedness. It was the same the few times we had gone running together, he was undoubtedly faster than me but I could keep going longer than he could. I thought of these things on the porch of the Log Cabin, and I thought how much this young man had come to mean to me. He had become like a second son to me. His company was as enjoyable to me as the company of my own son, Ian. Well time was passing, it was already almost 5pm and we had quite a lot of hiking still to do, so I rousted Mark and we continued onward and upward.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5uYlYsWiVkVaHKuTVdB0hojFrxbaOVbxTpwq3KcVJ6q7yADa6yQ3aQjUzKUpOvb65eQMpIZIKDQE12IK8ulaGzBPR_o6gC6Km9H3PaAC8NhKFBXB8mTSe_G2HiituykfoqM0zYP2f8oH/s1600/Looking+Northwest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5uYlYsWiVkVaHKuTVdB0hojFrxbaOVbxTpwq3KcVJ6q7yADa6yQ3aQjUzKUpOvb65eQMpIZIKDQE12IK8ulaGzBPR_o6gC6Km9H3PaAC8NhKFBXB8mTSe_G2HiituykfoqM0zYP2f8oH/s320/Looking+Northwest.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first views on the way up</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Until we finally reached Gray Knob Cabin, our hike had been a long, muggy, buggy, walk upwards. Just before we reached Gray Knob the forest transitioned from mixed hardwood and spruce to mainly spruce. Gray Knob Cabin is situated at treeline on a northwest pointing spur of Mount Adams. It is run by a caretaker and hikers can stay on a first come first served basis. Hikers must bring their own food and should bring a sleeping bag. Pads and sleeping space are provided. Mark and I went inside and met the caretaker before dumping the gear we would not be taking up to the peaks. We also informed the caretaker that we would be hiking into the night and asked if it would be okay to return late. He told us it was fine but to be quiet and respectful of the other hikers who would undoubtedly be asleep then. He also looked a tad concerned about our being on the mountain in the dark. That was understandable, hiking above treeline in the dark does have its risks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVw88iN8gShThmON_tPDryA33wlI040csdrsDaw4us83wzc0RfTNFFGxihU8a-rn64Rmwe8ssdyVXZuXuriJfQF8XWl8LkimmEwuoAwS9Cn5RbQ7p-DeYAkR-2g2zSBBzrg-uS_9aE1U6/s1600/Approaching+Gray+Knob.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVw88iN8gShThmON_tPDryA33wlI040csdrsDaw4us83wzc0RfTNFFGxihU8a-rn64Rmwe8ssdyVXZuXuriJfQF8XWl8LkimmEwuoAwS9Cn5RbQ7p-DeYAkR-2g2zSBBzrg-uS_9aE1U6/s320/Approaching+Gray+Knob.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Gray Knob Cabin. Mount Jefferson is the peak behind Mark.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jwRliMRmikndDnjXl2sLUsS0UUB3SOIimgecBVT9opC8M5lvdPMnM0V6EnqCFM7SZfL83zGMPMoVSiWa8NUxIzPO4jhYz1-1fnJeJ5HkGtiJz9l5J7H-nmfBCl-4rshITTiITKFKaqTj/s1600/Loft+at+Gray+Knob+stairwell.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jwRliMRmikndDnjXl2sLUsS0UUB3SOIimgecBVT9opC8M5lvdPMnM0V6EnqCFM7SZfL83zGMPMoVSiWa8NUxIzPO4jhYz1-1fnJeJ5HkGtiJz9l5J7H-nmfBCl-4rshITTiITKFKaqTj/s320/Loft+at+Gray+Knob+stairwell.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We stake out our sleeping spots in the loft</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Having dropped our sleeping gear and food, we headed out and up. As Lowe's Path ascends the spur above Gray Knob Cabin, the cabin is lost to view pretty much immediately and you really get the feel of being high and remote. I love that feeling, and starting upwards so late in the day meant we would have the slopes nearly to ourselves, another plus.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqBDC15T-7S_SX63z1mowQjyurz7Lycwin7aXrgMFrcx9yRqjOpYB9jasTBoXGSApe9j_iGAY-wy12sVHfnwLxFUsaTCc3h6SYNH1P9GSJoQQOfvkqCDw779_ndP88ueV3vOwo51MjvrG/s1600/Heading+for+Adams.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqBDC15T-7S_SX63z1mowQjyurz7Lycwin7aXrgMFrcx9yRqjOpYB9jasTBoXGSApe9j_iGAY-wy12sVHfnwLxFUsaTCc3h6SYNH1P9GSJoQQOfvkqCDw779_ndP88ueV3vOwo51MjvrG/s320/Heading+for+Adams.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Starting up from Gary Knob. The cabin is just below the knob behind Mark.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYca614NhA_S2FiA9hiBMjnFaQv7CnSGcREOW1wbFq6f9DhKS6bwGjcN2NUUZlzASTE8UMGZmm8mNRcjfIpU0nn_irRqHEQljVK_LWZScqZzch6zYFrR7iw8rTApU8LGDM6SW5j6voPHW/s1600/Jefferson+and+Castle+Ridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYca614NhA_S2FiA9hiBMjnFaQv7CnSGcREOW1wbFq6f9DhKS6bwGjcN2NUUZlzASTE8UMGZmm8mNRcjfIpU0nn_irRqHEQljVK_LWZScqZzch6zYFrR7iw8rTApU8LGDM6SW5j6voPHW/s320/Jefferson+and+Castle+Ridge.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across Castle Ravine, Mount Jefferson and Castle Ridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The weather forecast for today had been for clear skies with clouds coming in the next day. Well the clouds were already here and looked threatening. I had hoped to hike under a nearly full moon tonight, now I was concerned about rain. Still we were prepared, and I hoped we could make the summit of Adams before dark. My original plan to also hike over to Mount Madison was looking unlikely at this point. I didn't mind getting back to Gray Knob at 10 or 11pm, but 1 or 2 am would be pushing hiking etiquette waaaaay past what the other hikers would think acceptable. So we pushed on for Adams and would have to do Madison on another day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQsiiSYcXQLkI2K04Zasl1hk_60JrjIZZwVuEfVPvvjO3-bYHIpRdGALDb3zIajh2cByW-vUF_NrOT_0n9o9kJTuhtDJBu7upy8L8uv6l2DADdgmCqlrodPaq5vyDm6lxynoggg3kg-AY/s1600/Approaching+gloom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQsiiSYcXQLkI2K04Zasl1hk_60JrjIZZwVuEfVPvvjO3-bYHIpRdGALDb3zIajh2cByW-vUF_NrOT_0n9o9kJTuhtDJBu7upy8L8uv6l2DADdgmCqlrodPaq5vyDm6lxynoggg3kg-AY/s320/Approaching+gloom.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching gloom. Looking northwest.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I have talked about cairns in previous posts. They are piles of stones used above treeline to mark trails and help hikers avoid getting lost in bad weather with poor visibility. Lowe's Path above treeline is also marked with cairns. The cairns here also had the added feature of large chunks of white quartz used as toppers. These white stones can actually seem to glow at night. This is an amazing thing to see, and very comforting as well since cairns can simply disappear into the gathering darkness of nightfall. Yet again do I tip my hat to the cairn builders.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-F7C3rJAyi2qLuegB6d-BIZCO64osFauf9x9du5zGbOfXvFbPj5MQfnHt-tevtVmR29t5n-NtAUEPCz8csaqEOLKclcbx5OnEg0_9bK0a-0BJ_Nq-XMm4xlDbAwbFzzK05hPz-zt-JFHE/s1600/Mark+on+cairn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-F7C3rJAyi2qLuegB6d-BIZCO64osFauf9x9du5zGbOfXvFbPj5MQfnHt-tevtVmR29t5n-NtAUEPCz8csaqEOLKclcbx5OnEg0_9bK0a-0BJ_Nq-XMm4xlDbAwbFzzK05hPz-zt-JFHE/s320/Mark+on+cairn.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark leans against quartz topped cairn</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhafWzlASn-tSoRGCeGblAxtsTVfP1iHP-mLTquUe71YecpIp-Wj-H4fBqOO9Gpd3h4jrZGk7AU0p0ETM7i1MSVI-tY904FWe5QArO2AP28wJyLWgfpGsLPBn1VzuRGmXc_1fY6irmMYuI7/s1600/Trail+from+Gary+Knob.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhafWzlASn-tSoRGCeGblAxtsTVfP1iHP-mLTquUe71YecpIp-Wj-H4fBqOO9Gpd3h4jrZGk7AU0p0ETM7i1MSVI-tY904FWe5QArO2AP28wJyLWgfpGsLPBn1VzuRGmXc_1fY6irmMYuI7/s320/Trail+from+Gary+Knob.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail looking back. The cairns are topped with quartz.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjRKfwPR1jE5yBhwHm7-Z7aYCfu_nvGvRN1V3M8rebz7yNRVlDVGsmC9PRaPtQm8i7VZkDAWO3Qh2hPWZxr5YIOoD_6WZVGxkd5Uhfn9HGiOdwrFOwfi6sqRCmWbzCRxhEMcUFXFo6OzH/s1600/Lowes+Path+below+Adams.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjRKfwPR1jE5yBhwHm7-Z7aYCfu_nvGvRN1V3M8rebz7yNRVlDVGsmC9PRaPtQm8i7VZkDAWO3Qh2hPWZxr5YIOoD_6WZVGxkd5Uhfn9HGiOdwrFOwfi6sqRCmWbzCRxhEMcUFXFo6OzH/s320/Lowes+Path+below+Adams.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lowe's Path approaching Mount Adams. Again notice the quartz topped cairns. These would appear to glow during the gloaming.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The light was failing and the clouds threatened. I really wanted to make the summit before darkness robbed Mark and me of the spectacular views afforded by Adam's summit. I don't know if there is a more spectacular view in the White Mountains than the one from that frost riven pinnacle. The trail leading there is an easy one on which to sprain or break an ankle, however, with much rock hopping to do. And the summit cone is a splintered pile of boulders that offer ample opportunity for injury, so haste must be balanced with careful foot placement. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNNYA0Kghl75ltucXLM4S1F5Lr1ujHKwuC8nCkvsseGRDj0Qay2ojkx8hiuJ-KIzIB63-H4ESsZHlSET844W_-vho_fGFa38PZQSwvic-a3Q2AzkzCRsrqUJa6uhHvHvzbAQuIuVvaMdB/s1600/Looking+Southwest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNNYA0Kghl75ltucXLM4S1F5Lr1ujHKwuC8nCkvsseGRDj0Qay2ojkx8hiuJ-KIzIB63-H4ESsZHlSET844W_-vho_fGFa38PZQSwvic-a3Q2AzkzCRsrqUJa6uhHvHvzbAQuIuVvaMdB/s320/Looking+Southwest.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the distance Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Just below the summit cone of Adams, Lowe's Path crosses the major Presidential trail called Gulfside Trail. This intersection of several trails is famously called "Thunderstorm Junction." It is not called that for no reason, this is one place you do not want to be when lightning sears the heavens. At Thunderstorm Junction, a huge cairn has been built. I call this the "Mother Cairn." We stopped at the junction for a brief rest and snack. We were on the homestretch now and looked to beat nightfall to the summit!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXrE_fTrjI485yjkZkVtYerx4iJ56ctigMI1_qJ2W5mCiMXw3PcKR_RgUWaUcRWT82q44BYoITBKKd0koa4onz6MajuEEamqfWbEtuWNfmYkRdjhHrtx0-eHuAMzlKBJ4o0JTJyqlSBA9/s1600/Dave+at+Gulfside+trail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXrE_fTrjI485yjkZkVtYerx4iJ56ctigMI1_qJ2W5mCiMXw3PcKR_RgUWaUcRWT82q44BYoITBKKd0koa4onz6MajuEEamqfWbEtuWNfmYkRdjhHrtx0-eHuAMzlKBJ4o0JTJyqlSBA9/s320/Dave+at+Gulfside+trail.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing next to the Gulfside Trail sign at Thunderstorm Junction.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlz4UokVB-WwySgA2kblgbhekT18E9geJ0pM4jezJBUl8zq443qr47rWJ4rVxnLQTECv89YhyphenhyphenNLTa33pHTiEoEiLOQwZH6ByhN_jp2-cfKoOoFvDJOmFbd8etjcDvCOg-QRM0bnYdxzD5M/s1600/Mark+mugging.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlz4UokVB-WwySgA2kblgbhekT18E9geJ0pM4jezJBUl8zq443qr47rWJ4rVxnLQTECv89YhyphenhyphenNLTa33pHTiEoEiLOQwZH6ByhN_jp2-cfKoOoFvDJOmFbd8etjcDvCOg-QRM0bnYdxzD5M/s320/Mark+mugging.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Budding Thespian?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8K4yCmNZeJ8GBt9qoLX6Zp3e2uFsa3cioXOeUCv4fu41UtAjOpzS10yAUdjnIja9cjFOxV88cNXJ_VEnp8D8ryHev2lWE0HR9n1oK20VANmfoNOLZlwRVUly730eXzDJ46YR3Pnuixxn6/s1600/Mother+Cairn+and+Mark.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8K4yCmNZeJ8GBt9qoLX6Zp3e2uFsa3cioXOeUCv4fu41UtAjOpzS10yAUdjnIja9cjFOxV88cNXJ_VEnp8D8ryHev2lWE0HR9n1oK20VANmfoNOLZlwRVUly730eXzDJ46YR3Pnuixxn6/s320/Mother+Cairn+and+Mark.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and the "Mother Cairn" at Thunderstorm Junction</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Break over, we headed for the summit. The summit cone is a pile of massive boulders as I said and Mark and I took slightly different paths to the top. Once there however we both marveled at the views. It was the gloaming, that time that is neither day nor night. But what light remained illuminated the glory of the Whites, particularly Mount Washington across the Great Gulf, Mount Madison to our east, and Mount Jefferson to our southwest. I can not describe the feeling of being on that pinnacle in the gathering darkness. I am not religious, but that experience was spiritual. It seemed as if we stood at the top of the world and looked down on it falling away in all directions. There is a religious society that actually considers Mount Adams to be sacred, and that some sort of divine event happened on its summit. I don't subscribe to that myself, but surely we should treat such special places as cathedrals of our natural world, and preserve them for eternity. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nQlDUTsNJLdP6fAFHw0HRLbMdNnKrqK_4GGUaJhF2wSpPcYPw6KzSilKKNVAUCuudIR0xyfMzMAjutlzfpUmVMdUoVgxVhwihVAW5ckKwWbT7TQOQaYxitsdZhF1QyOvcvhVEFaKrC7Q/s1600/Mark+goes+for+summit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nQlDUTsNJLdP6fAFHw0HRLbMdNnKrqK_4GGUaJhF2wSpPcYPw6KzSilKKNVAUCuudIR0xyfMzMAjutlzfpUmVMdUoVgxVhwihVAW5ckKwWbT7TQOQaYxitsdZhF1QyOvcvhVEFaKrC7Q/s320/Mark+goes+for+summit.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark goes for the summit of Adams</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavBXta8qlcy980F857rODb9vfKT68F6IVP5GQqZi4gKnGHu0zZEQuDr6Kztr5dObHhbDT6sh4bSBesAw-_TGL-hCySIpDFlveSop4eDdvI7I8GuQJ0mWPJBwCc9UadxeOR1Bp93msex10/s1600/Washington+Jefferson+and+Great+Gulf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavBXta8qlcy980F857rODb9vfKT68F6IVP5GQqZi4gKnGHu0zZEQuDr6Kztr5dObHhbDT6sh4bSBesAw-_TGL-hCySIpDFlveSop4eDdvI7I8GuQJ0mWPJBwCc9UadxeOR1Bp93msex10/s320/Washington+Jefferson+and+Great+Gulf.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the summit of Mount Adams. Mount Washington stands above the Great Gulf Wilderness and Mount Jefferson lies across Jefferson Ravine.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWXmRXtTRuMo_yjTOw7VOfLBOgLQG1t1OEcTXT1tnZn2I7RuGW-weG0L_NWvqijxnZ_0RSPaq6h23o9s8VIoe8qHYWIM5KLCsM8TSLhg62FPn4BXuERfxR8tIVtt3asdHTP9gGm_iueNm/s1600/Mark+and+Dave+onAdams+summit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWXmRXtTRuMo_yjTOw7VOfLBOgLQG1t1OEcTXT1tnZn2I7RuGW-weG0L_NWvqijxnZ_0RSPaq6h23o9s8VIoe8qHYWIM5KLCsM8TSLhg62FPn4BXuERfxR8tIVtt3asdHTP9gGm_iueNm/s320/Mark+and+Dave+onAdams+summit.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and me on Adams summit</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEO9ttauZSpP_w0NVHqo2rt5fgALLwojZYMjcupo4FpQc9KT31tZEXLQMtKUn28404Uytkn4hcjQuCXekn3QTFUlj6vjISIHfcucNJ8GDInJYfmzklmMRhJew4dEPJiKUSvNk3D972Gjtc/s1600/Mark+looking+at+Madison.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEO9ttauZSpP_w0NVHqo2rt5fgALLwojZYMjcupo4FpQc9KT31tZEXLQMtKUn28404Uytkn4hcjQuCXekn3QTFUlj6vjISIHfcucNJ8GDInJYfmzklmMRhJew4dEPJiKUSvNk3D972Gjtc/s320/Mark+looking+at+Madison.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark looks out at Mount Madison. Below in the col is Star Lake and the AMC's Madison Spring Hut. In the distance to the left of Madison lies the town of Gorham.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht73NQ1lHTk6v2Am62ijZS_zRP7hH11CcTclspi-de4yEZ2Xo1IWi9SWwixhDSDLZeuiwECGWfBXg6-wDIrBD4ePMzpboEfDsPQR6nJqOZZUPFC5TJylVuRq3x1Ng_7cDrm2fXoVrYdJCB/s1600/Mt+W+Auto+road+and+Wildcat+Mountain.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht73NQ1lHTk6v2Am62ijZS_zRP7hH11CcTclspi-de4yEZ2Xo1IWi9SWwixhDSDLZeuiwECGWfBXg6-wDIrBD4ePMzpboEfDsPQR6nJqOZZUPFC5TJylVuRq3x1Ng_7cDrm2fXoVrYdJCB/s320/Mt+W+Auto+road+and+Wildcat+Mountain.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Washington autoroad snakes upwards on Mount Washington. Center left is Wildcat Mountain with its ski slopes visible in the failing light.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We stayed and soaked in the grandeur as long as I dared. I did not want to descend the summit cone in complete darkness. My promise to Mark's mom to bring him home safely still rang in my head. The velvet silence of night fell as we slowly made our way back to Gray Knob Cabin. I was amazed at how long we could still see as our eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was not until almost 9:30pm that we finally put headlamps on. By the time we reached the cabin it was 10pm. We had eaten a simple dinner on Adams summit but we took time to heat up some dessert before ending our day. We did this outside the cabin to avoid disturbing the hikers who had already called it a night. I had Mark call his mom to tell her we had made it safely down and then he went inside to sleep. I talked to his mom for a while and soaked in the beauty of the night with the mountain above. It had been another great day of hiking with this young friend of mine. We had walked the dark sky. Tomorrow we would go over to RMC's Crag Camp cabin to see it and say hello to the caretaker there who we had met earlier on the trail up from Randolph. After that we would head back home to Connecticut, but not before stopping at Woodstock Station for food and Pemi Pale Ale. Some things are sacred indeed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJqJKzLKI82v7YzJS_4nzSznGP9XKckdVjnlaSLMlECgGKnNHqLvtKMfNKu20zzMkeGSUvLCxgR0UrMimTIEGkUtsNDvvFOwEKNCSmV-X_YGQ9JEdRH0fUvolYSl9DVZalqYWUsDZn6Ct/s1600/Mark+on+way+back+to+Gray+Knob.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJqJKzLKI82v7YzJS_4nzSznGP9XKckdVjnlaSLMlECgGKnNHqLvtKMfNKu20zzMkeGSUvLCxgR0UrMimTIEGkUtsNDvvFOwEKNCSmV-X_YGQ9JEdRH0fUvolYSl9DVZalqYWUsDZn6Ct/s320/Mark+on+way+back+to+Gray+Knob.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We head back down in the dark.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYu4uNZfMAjKawR6WApgWaFxiW9K8G7_i9p_vC6DQJwm8RfGhbXml8R4S5YorvrnO5pkNBcB2ejgj3900Uk7c2Ep_MsQSMUHQkIeCO9ElLgmyD4ObgTlnkwgPtRXGax7mrVnBrQFOrOxNa/s1600/Adams+at+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYu4uNZfMAjKawR6WApgWaFxiW9K8G7_i9p_vC6DQJwm8RfGhbXml8R4S5YorvrnO5pkNBcB2ejgj3900Uk7c2Ep_MsQSMUHQkIeCO9ElLgmyD4ObgTlnkwgPtRXGax7mrVnBrQFOrOxNa/s320/Adams+at+night.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Adams in the night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-15673741286608817412010-08-01T09:00:00.001-04:002010-08-05T14:56:10.657-04:00In the Shadow of the Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<blockquote><span class="body">A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way. - Mark Twain</span></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_7Qe4Fd1qgay_Me_JJKGAb_dl0qApCV-O55RdgJ7nfsPIawcVtlXBtMlXZlZFvu2gWOsotOKi7PtFnGuCBhiZjHzd7pHl-8Mz77kyB08LT8CoSKkHFA2l8a4wJKgVaoBPrs741t9kbeT/s1600/Wildcat+A+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_7Qe4Fd1qgay_Me_JJKGAb_dl0qApCV-O55RdgJ7nfsPIawcVtlXBtMlXZlZFvu2gWOsotOKi7PtFnGuCBhiZjHzd7pHl-8Mz77kyB08LT8CoSKkHFA2l8a4wJKgVaoBPrs741t9kbeT/s320/Wildcat+A+start.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and me finally ready to head for the Cat.</td></tr>
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May 7, 2010. Nineteen Mile Brook Trail trailhead. Mark and I were gearing up for a hike up to Carter Notch Hut and then to climb Wildcat Mountain. Something was missing however, Mark had forgotten his gaiters. You have to have gaiters if you are going to hike in the snow, and even though it was May we were going to be hiking in snow. Gaiters wrap around your lower leg and boot to stop snow from getting into your boots. If you get snow in your boots, your feet get wet. Wet feet in the cold can be very bad for your comfort and potentially your life. More likely however is your wet foot getting rubbed raw by your boot, and if you have never hiked mountain terrain with your feet blistering, consider yourself fortunate. So we went back to the AMC's Pinkham Notch Visitor Center to buy gaiters for Mark. It happens. I once went birding and forgot my binoculars. Okay, more than once, hard to believe but there it is. I guess I'll also add that I forgot to bring Nuttah MD with us this time. Well she was with us in spirit at least, providing inspiration.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZum9zucn1Co3X5XHzh-lm-jA__88CY0ptVoZPflRSTJaEbbsv9rh31GVfBogwpM_RXLyW8VB7JzbWqdw6d_LCgc3Vv3i8a95zMXKnmdRi3EiP4xCFbEry6sNtXzkEn_LG6B_JUurWpE4/s1600/Nineteen+Mile+Brook+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZum9zucn1Co3X5XHzh-lm-jA__88CY0ptVoZPflRSTJaEbbsv9rh31GVfBogwpM_RXLyW8VB7JzbWqdw6d_LCgc3Vv3i8a95zMXKnmdRi3EiP4xCFbEry6sNtXzkEn_LG6B_JUurWpE4/s320/Nineteen+Mile+Brook+Trail.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nineteen Mile Brook Trail</td></tr>
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We would be hiking up Nineteen Mile Brook Trail and staying at the AMC's Carter Notch hut for the night. The original weather forecast of fine weather for days had gone sour and our plan to climb Wildcat Mountain the next day had to be modified to doing it today. So we would hike our gear to the hut, sign in with the caretaker, dump gear there to lighten our load, and climb to the summits in the afternoon. Wildcat Mountain has two summits that count as 4,000 footers, Wildcat A and Wildcat D. It also has a well known ski area. So off we went with Nineteen Mile Brook roaring and pounding with snow melt water.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoqcgG1HUx-KzAOufhHFNPWrbki0myXHJcuC_uZ_-FTV4mAZY13uY6axHmISJfWqnaS-7M-nxE36z2CpE4U48q-7gwi8nMdn6VI9JdohUEmRLXYBGwg_UL611Ik3pbuyiVR4POssVONwq/s1600/Nineteen+Mile+Brook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoqcgG1HUx-KzAOufhHFNPWrbki0myXHJcuC_uZ_-FTV4mAZY13uY6axHmISJfWqnaS-7M-nxE36z2CpE4U48q-7gwi8nMdn6VI9JdohUEmRLXYBGwg_UL611Ik3pbuyiVR4POssVONwq/s320/Nineteen+Mile+Brook.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nineteen Mile Brook was more an angry river with the recent snow melt.</td></tr>
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We were hiking during that awkward time of year in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, when Spring is happening down low but Winter has not yet surrendered up high. So we were a bit over dressed on the low section and started sweating with the effort and weight of our packs. We had over night gear as well as snow hiking gear such as snowshoes. At the trailhead we heard a few returning warblers singing, such as Northern Parula, but on top the snow would still be 3 to 5 feet deep. These little feathered marvels had traveled all the way from the tropics to be here, and we drove up from Connecticut to briefly share the trailhead with them by the side of NH Routte 16. On the other side of Route 16, Mt. Washington and the northern Presidentials rose above us, but today we headed east, into the shadow of the Cat.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShPbse_jsnXO1yQ3mIiB1Eiupcpce0HyubJMWHto3xslFiDioz3Qhjq1H3qFjKDJvZCRrMgvlm6Zl4_jqddef9SZlDxAl7YA8zkGRnruxds8EQSIsETLUpqfTpCCsAc8BX8A10iF-cW4A/s1600/Mark+on+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShPbse_jsnXO1yQ3mIiB1Eiupcpce0HyubJMWHto3xslFiDioz3Qhjq1H3qFjKDJvZCRrMgvlm6Zl4_jqddef9SZlDxAl7YA8zkGRnruxds8EQSIsETLUpqfTpCCsAc8BX8A10iF-cW4A/s320/Mark+on+bridge.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the brook</td></tr>
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Nineteen Mile Brook Trail is an easy hike as far as White Mountain trails go. Still it was pretty warm, and we were overdressed, so we worked up a good sweat anyway. I had last walked this trail more than twenty years earlier, with my friends Mike and Cindy. Then we were headed out from hiking the Carter Range, which was now on our left hand as Mark and I climbed. On that hike down with Mike and Cindy I managed to stumble and do a complete somersault with a full pack. I had gotten a bit scraped up and almost slid into the brook, but I came up laughing. I still have to laugh when I think about it now.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbzyufocHMqpv1ywNnTTlEY2US_bqos9gCnpQI58ALilkAC2fG0JfRBqfqocPi02fd2lEq-n-7iPoKOGB28qL-ZFFbS7b8BZFENoZt9wwCcE4EFLc_OjzzWC3Dh0CW6Tdb88GotpPKvbO/s1600/Mark+at+Wildcat+trail+junction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbzyufocHMqpv1ywNnTTlEY2US_bqos9gCnpQI58ALilkAC2fG0JfRBqfqocPi02fd2lEq-n-7iPoKOGB28qL-ZFFbS7b8BZFENoZt9wwCcE4EFLc_OjzzWC3Dh0CW6Tdb88GotpPKvbO/s320/Mark+at+Wildcat+trail+junction.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We reach the junction with Wildcat Ridge Trail</td></tr>
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I need to explain about "monorail," rotten monorail more to the point. Okay, so it snows in the mountains, you probably aren't surprised to hear that. It snows a lot. That snow gets pretty deep right? Winter hikers walk over that deep fresh snow, usually wearing snowshoes. When they do this they compact the snow on the trail, resulting in a sunken but hardened path. Now this compacted snow is still pretty deep, 3 feet or often more. So hikers keep traveling over this compacted trail all winter and it gets a harder and harder crust. Then Spring comes and snow starts to melt. But the compacted snow on the trail melts more slowly. So as the snow on the sides of the trail sinks and disappears, the hardened trail snow does so much more slowly. This results in the trail turning from a sunken path to a raised path above the surrounding snow. Hikers now have to walk this elevated snow hump, and we call it "monorail", like the elevated track of an actual monorail. So good so far, but all snow melts eventually, and it also melts from underneath. Melt water running underneath the monorail attacks it and the warmth of the earth also eats away at the monorail's underbelly. So the monorail gets weak, and then we refer to it as "rotten." When a hiker is walking along rotten monorail he will break through on some strides and his leg can fall in right to the hip. This sudden unwelcome "how-do-you-do" obviously stops you dead and sucks energy and the joie de vive right out of you. This event is called "post-holing", for obvious reasons. Hikers don't enjoy rotten monorail or post-holing. On the upper stretches of Nineteen Mile Brook Trail we ran into rotten monorail and Mark and I post-holed again and again. New experience for Mark, old one for me. There would be more to come later on the ridge climb.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZr-IOVxfuY6Q6BjyMIgaQTzMh4H8pK5FkjLyxJI6wIID5f11nlUgvo4K8D1wGy8u7ReOQppr3vjDp-xHEroCWdbgP9JQK77HBnxJa9MzpqIltRjZFzjHK5aaHOl8epR16n5Nay3Jz3URi/s1600/Pond+on+way++up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZr-IOVxfuY6Q6BjyMIgaQTzMh4H8pK5FkjLyxJI6wIID5f11nlUgvo4K8D1wGy8u7ReOQppr3vjDp-xHEroCWdbgP9JQK77HBnxJa9MzpqIltRjZFzjHK5aaHOl8epR16n5Nay3Jz3URi/s320/Pond+on+way++up.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Carter Lakes lie in Carter Notch in the shadow of the Cat.</td></tr>
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So we slogged and post-holed our way to the junction with Wildcat Ridge Trail. We would be taking Wildcat Ridge Trail upwards to the peaks, but first we needed to go to Carter Notch Hut and sign in and drop our extra gear. We dropped down towards the Carter Lakes of Carter Notch and the hut. The hut was on the far side of the lakes from where we were. The Carter Lakes are gorgeous crystal clear mountain pools. Wildcat Mountain rises nearly vertically for 1,000 feet on the south side of the lakes and the impressive Carter Dome rises on the north. Bounding the lakes on the east is an amazing wall of huge boulders, appropriately called the "Rampart." It looks just like a massive fortress wall right out of Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings." The Rampart was formed by massive rock avalanches from both Carter Dome and Wildcat Mountain. It is an imposing and memorable sight that reminds us mere humans of the power and forces our world unleashes from time to time. It must have sounded like the apocalypse when that slide happened.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ-2vj1W6U8BvCxHFynn8PXjzn2L4Z7Mf6aROkC_d18MvXMQwU-kGKilQG0ejl6w6moYy7gPxE6Els_BdVO839KLOWwwfIDI6XpM65IHeBW0bzPDlnsFuv8LvdV4Dyq_vFgPnlOKby9UR/s1600/Slide+at+pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJ-2vj1W6U8BvCxHFynn8PXjzn2L4Z7Mf6aROkC_d18MvXMQwU-kGKilQG0ejl6w6moYy7gPxE6Els_BdVO839KLOWwwfIDI6XpM65IHeBW0bzPDlnsFuv8LvdV4Dyq_vFgPnlOKby9UR/s320/Slide+at+pond.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Rampart" on the far side of the Carter Lakes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRaapPGae_m6MVpnwWKZcrUCvn8LQCw-0JPkADy2bEOQ_B65s8iBIIdulMcvv9fYdEn3QP6PWtKqhK0kDDe-WHyZeZJKln_AqTn_DN_y3Bz9Yr-OjFpRzV2px-yJhfpQHMJLfaWsKDbemR/s1600/End+of+Carter+range.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRaapPGae_m6MVpnwWKZcrUCvn8LQCw-0JPkADy2bEOQ_B65s8iBIIdulMcvv9fYdEn3QP6PWtKqhK0kDDe-WHyZeZJKln_AqTn_DN_y3Bz9Yr-OjFpRzV2px-yJhfpQHMJLfaWsKDbemR/s320/End+of+Carter+range.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking south in Carter Notch. The base of Carter Dome. The large bowl right of center is where the stone that now forms the "Rampart" split and fell. The top the northern end of the "Rampart" is visible above the tree tops.</td></tr>
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After Mark and I took a few moments to drink in the magnificence of our surroundings, we followed the trail that circled the lake to get to Carter Notch Hut. In winter, some of the Appalachian Mountain Club huts are open on a caretaker basis. Winter hikers can stay at these huts but they must supply their own food and cook stove. They also should bring a sleeping bag and pad even though there are bunks available. Carter Notch hut is one of these huts, and the caretaker in residence during our visit was Heidi. I know, I know, Heidi in the mountains, how ironic. I didn't bring it up. I figured I wouldn't be the first to do so and spared her another comment about it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzD9Hjx6OmRUxm5mF4PKthEQ_rkllRxzb8VEGPV1C2KgIQ5ztFh-BmviEFaPq2blgWBIML8hFYjBHYhAWaHvyX_4XJmD4-jwrRO81upaqqBKunDHhIsLlsWSB9BXZ1z5a_8EPZadYH2MQ/s1600/Entry+to+Carter+Hut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzD9Hjx6OmRUxm5mF4PKthEQ_rkllRxzb8VEGPV1C2KgIQ5ztFh-BmviEFaPq2blgWBIML8hFYjBHYhAWaHvyX_4XJmD4-jwrRO81upaqqBKunDHhIsLlsWSB9BXZ1z5a_8EPZadYH2MQ/s320/Entry+to+Carter+Hut.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter Notch Hut</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mark and I introduced ourselves to Heidi and we chatted for a few minutes. We told her we were going up Wildcat Ridge Trail and were going to try for both Wildcat A and Wildcat D peaks that afternoon. It's good to let the caretaker know your plans in case something goes amiss, it never hurts to have more people aware for safety's sake. I should explain what a caretaker is I suppose. During the summer season all the AMC huts are fully crewed (hut crew call themselves "croo"), usually with young men and women. They run the hut, generally entertain a bit, and cook wonderful back country breakfasts and dinners for guests. They also partake in mountain rescues from time to time, these are not just any kids but are fine examples of young adults. During the off season, the caretaker huts have a single individual who watches over the hut and any winter hikers who wish to stay. This can be a lonely thing as you can imagine. Many nights see no one stay. It is not for the faint of heart, who need to be near civilization and other humans. Many nights are spent with no other company than the dark and the winter wind. And of course, your imagination. It reminds my of that line from "The Hobbit," when Beorn says to the dwarfs, "Heed no nightly noises." Ya, good luck with that! The "nightly noises" Beorn was warning about outside his house at night would have killed the dwarfs by the way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06Et_EZMIyclX5SFm2MAbIpFBThrbyumBbYChb2BxHi2eMCkh2RkYeOHPLzmO4y0FzDcu6dRQ22j6_qrwV3Vnt22l6DBsx20m0w_1ztRKO334yMhvfn-nfixCNWH7fFKIreJp4YSnkyhU/s1600/Bunkhouse+and+Mark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06Et_EZMIyclX5SFm2MAbIpFBThrbyumBbYChb2BxHi2eMCkh2RkYeOHPLzmO4y0FzDcu6dRQ22j6_qrwV3Vnt22l6DBsx20m0w_1ztRKO334yMhvfn-nfixCNWH7fFKIreJp4YSnkyhU/s320/Bunkhouse+and+Mark.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark on bunk house porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
After our brief chat with Heidi, Mark and I headed over to the newly rebuilt bunk houses to drop gear before the hike up. We were very impressed with the lovely new bunk houses and bunks at Carter Notch. Being both teenagers at heart, Mark literally and me virtually, we both chose top bunks for night. We ridded ourselves of all the gear from our packs except for the things we would take onto the Cat.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovV6T1cPenTNrufZ_Mksbml9iblL-hCK53fPToiz9DQeLQnPfPGyVk-Mb8xUZoky6BrNGEsAwRIMgWMdBuiaxmWtQ63WK5_1D-e5DBqvbZs5in5okPPZfI_Uh2vceFKr09e7gFd44_Oli/s1600/Bunkroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovV6T1cPenTNrufZ_Mksbml9iblL-hCK53fPToiz9DQeLQnPfPGyVk-Mb8xUZoky6BrNGEsAwRIMgWMdBuiaxmWtQ63WK5_1D-e5DBqvbZs5in5okPPZfI_Uh2vceFKr09e7gFd44_Oli/s320/Bunkroom.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brand new bunk house and bunks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosJdz38MnYkmZdIe30qhWVqiiNyJ548mpzSgkcmGsWLHQZN2GXUOIVqzjTkqj9Kwt36KilLK_sAL9Pj8HZENgRkoNxyxB0Nn-WUL1ZJGBlLRepmWQlNXHhj_DxNXAKZwCXsyhwa3gWZ2M/s1600/Helipad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosJdz38MnYkmZdIe30qhWVqiiNyJ548mpzSgkcmGsWLHQZN2GXUOIVqzjTkqj9Kwt36KilLK_sAL9Pj8HZENgRkoNxyxB0Nn-WUL1ZJGBlLRepmWQlNXHhj_DxNXAKZwCXsyhwa3gWZ2M/s320/Helipad.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is no easy way to re-provision the AMC huts. So heavy loads are brought in by helicopter. At Carter Notch Hut there is no where to land a helicopter. So a helipad has been built on the top of the bunk house. The helipad is only inches wider than the helicopter's landing runners. The chopper pilot has to be good, has to be very good indeed!</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Once ready, we headed back around the lake to the junction with Wildcat Ridge Trail. It was getting on in the afternoon and we would have to make good time to get both peaks. As we headed up the trail however it didn't take long to realize we would not be making good time. Very early in the ascent we hit rotten monorail. Worse yet, the top of the monorail was eaten away at an angle. So the footing was treacherous and crumbly. Finding good footing as we climbed took time, too much time, and post-holing was not an infrequent event. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuqvz1cjz4bXhnyBlgsWlPDnmHyYKfOgSq-gG9GgTH6o_7qPEzmbRobon0qllHL-kPJIvsPPH3Y-yKHCxzXjv6XjRKBJSUN1Q6H-uwumQZKTAsxqB4RzYcnpLihR51r6QsaoPzYWfSTiv/s1600/Looking+up+Wildcat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuqvz1cjz4bXhnyBlgsWlPDnmHyYKfOgSq-gG9GgTH6o_7qPEzmbRobon0qllHL-kPJIvsPPH3Y-yKHCxzXjv6XjRKBJSUN1Q6H-uwumQZKTAsxqB4RzYcnpLihR51r6QsaoPzYWfSTiv/s320/Looking+up+Wildcat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectacular view above the Carter Lakes</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBy2GgfJlBBtVbhkJ3qlBcIg9gUxU9FJ6aXbAOUOqWIYSFCLx52BuE9j1LLnFp2R3hpg3tZcf82CfMR_8lF6OuJwYZSNulkqc7NbetWLiHodthkdz3Xn9nrKJd-OByZTC2TfMlZfa2fxCI/s1600/Mark+postholing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBy2GgfJlBBtVbhkJ3qlBcIg9gUxU9FJ6aXbAOUOqWIYSFCLx52BuE9j1LLnFp2R3hpg3tZcf82CfMR_8lF6OuJwYZSNulkqc7NbetWLiHodthkdz3Xn9nrKJd-OByZTC2TfMlZfa2fxCI/s320/Mark+postholing.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark post-holes right up to the hip. Not fun, and not making for fast hiking.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The monorail was very slippery in some areas as well. At one point I was standing still and talking over my shoulder to Mark when both feet shot out from under me. I fell off the monorail and landed hard on my side with my poles underneath. The poles were bent and so was my pride. Still I had to laugh, and moan a little too. Mark was concerned and quickly asked if I was okay. Certainly I had new bruises and pains I didn't have a few moments ago, but I was materially unhurt. I bent my poles back as best I could and kept going. The depth of the snow on this north facing slope was still 3 to 4 feet, making finding the trail more difficult. As we climbed higher, the snow bed was still intact and the monorail disappeared into a deep sheet of steeply angled hard snow across the Cats northern slope. No one had been on this trail recently, so there were no tracks to follow, and the height of the snow above the trail bed put our heads into the lower branches of the spruces that would normally have been over our heads. A few times we headed off the wrong way and had to backtrack to find the right way. Another danger in the mountains in winter is "spruce traps." A spruce trap is formed around the base of a tree or boulder in deep snow. The spruce or boulder will often warm the deep snow around it and melt it below the snows surface. This can lead to a large void around the tree or bolder that is invisible to anyone passing by until they step on the void's thin crust. The hiker (or skier) then breaks through and often is tumbled in head first, trapping them with their arms at their side. People die in spruce traps every winter somewhere in the US. I warned Mark about these traps and we found a few that were already opening up in the warming weather. We post-holed constantly but steered clear of any potential spruce traps.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIrU4ijiCvI4qaY1cCpwCD5RGlduhYWcK_X51oyJBvmPWzpTibgksuQkFXg6bSZV7xMDckJz4Za8oWXPFYH_uUU35udZEG2zTDG89120kDdqe3VH27AIcWtO4tSndoHPTNhQLymYHaLx8/s1600/Spruce+Trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIrU4ijiCvI4qaY1cCpwCD5RGlduhYWcK_X51oyJBvmPWzpTibgksuQkFXg6bSZV7xMDckJz4Za8oWXPFYH_uUU35udZEG2zTDG89120kDdqe3VH27AIcWtO4tSndoHPTNhQLymYHaLx8/s320/Spruce+Trap.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A spruce trap open up in the warming weather</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosEOEphwYNetrivHDxSfmteGd6wrmdL2ry_Up4j8bMjnsk9OZx5E-alq6IGhXxmqsXR_WCIxWLJFWWZ5e5nJNML1J_gsiFthh7xZVZzvI0t7l3H9i1All54EhIZJdcZ-u00mEPvyrEHul/s1600/Mark+at+Spruce+Trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosEOEphwYNetrivHDxSfmteGd6wrmdL2ry_Up4j8bMjnsk9OZx5E-alq6IGhXxmqsXR_WCIxWLJFWWZ5e5nJNML1J_gsiFthh7xZVZzvI0t7l3H9i1All54EhIZJdcZ-u00mEPvyrEHul/s320/Mark+at+Spruce+Trap.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark inspects a spruce trap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The angled snow cover we were hiking on had been softening and refreezing in the Spring thaw and was very slick. I was concerned for my young friend's safety, it would be easy to slip and shoot off into the broken and jagged spruce branches that adorn every trunk in the dark forest. So I started to kick foot holds in the snow's crust to reduce the chance of either of us slipping off and falling down slope into spruce "punjis". This further slowed our pace and tired me out considerably. Despite this precaution we both managed a few falls between frequent post-holes before we finally crested the ridge top.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__5zFtBfahjYOdGa6fiqbPzgnOIHzBEwgMaTXKIUGb3dXHWBSVlH7J5rWjYsl6p-YmgWHqJ9LmTZoMoul7MiYUapPvLfANG0jOZXFLgdVgzxaees08QTjJPWknKpig_eB-HaKQQNYxqCE/s1600/Mark+goes+down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__5zFtBfahjYOdGa6fiqbPzgnOIHzBEwgMaTXKIUGb3dXHWBSVlH7J5rWjYsl6p-YmgWHqJ9LmTZoMoul7MiYUapPvLfANG0jOZXFLgdVgzxaees08QTjJPWknKpig_eB-HaKQQNYxqCE/s320/Mark+goes+down.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pose all too often taken. Mark after a fall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Much later than I had planned, we reached the top of Wildcat Ridge. Below us lay the Notch and the AMC hut nestled along the Carter Lakes. The Rampart was even more impressive seen from a thousand feet above. The mass of it was striking from on high. To our north lay the peak called Carter Dome. We took time to enjoy the views that unfolded before us, and to soak in the accomplishment of what had been the most difficult snow/monorail/post-holing I had ever encountered in the Whites. I was thoroughly beaten up and tired out. We would get the Cat's A peak today but I had no desire to slog the ridge all the way to the D peak this late in the afternoon and have to head down this slippery slope in the dark. So after hanging out for awhile and gazing at the beauty of Carter Notch and surroundings, during which Mark called his parents on my cell phone, we headed back down the ridge trail to the hut. Going down is always faster than going up, but you still have to be careful. Even more so since falling on the descent is usually worse than falling on the ascent. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__nCIegUOLZYuyb10E95GHQodqZPJ3M6d_HNgxxPHuJo-XIVw-P7-qRuPmCWWm3mc8FKn0PyWOMrVvDkF1ADCOGj8dffGK2dJpWbcs1ysYtjYjIgfWIrVYliZHmYSLw78IGphN8MnO4RX/s1600/In+the+shadow+of+the+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__nCIegUOLZYuyb10E95GHQodqZPJ3M6d_HNgxxPHuJo-XIVw-P7-qRuPmCWWm3mc8FKn0PyWOMrVvDkF1ADCOGj8dffGK2dJpWbcs1ysYtjYjIgfWIrVYliZHmYSLw78IGphN8MnO4RX/s320/In+the+shadow+of+the+cat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the shadow of the Cat. Carter Notch Hut and Carter Lakes seen from Wildcat Ridge. The Rampart is the broad mass of boulders to the right of the lakes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYVPS6EPhHSqa5wsLo2A_HwaKTRnHY-rc0NIPoImzwC9v1uy7NN4mVKu_cGf05bdQH8YmaY5J-fuPSq3ARFpded-TAg8zlIw4dDe3HJYPXm1kvDiut6iaS6doUBoug-msbo9DnyYxEI3n/s1600/Carter+Dome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYVPS6EPhHSqa5wsLo2A_HwaKTRnHY-rc0NIPoImzwC9v1uy7NN4mVKu_cGf05bdQH8YmaY5J-fuPSq3ARFpded-TAg8zlIw4dDe3HJYPXm1kvDiut6iaS6doUBoug-msbo9DnyYxEI3n/s320/Carter+Dome.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter Dome lies across the notch.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8UaLveVA75yN_rC2OQgqUAo639AzUmWz7H6PWjoaYDCVNtjvMRr2LLMri1iZ2tMgUMkeGc6muVIYzdeloTYE_QwuvY-nfd96AfgZFuNEz0l4RgRXWAsMXuh5I3MAtaaX8vKIG8voGzm3/s1600/Looking+down+Carter+Notch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8UaLveVA75yN_rC2OQgqUAo639AzUmWz7H6PWjoaYDCVNtjvMRr2LLMri1iZ2tMgUMkeGc6muVIYzdeloTYE_QwuvY-nfd96AfgZFuNEz0l4RgRXWAsMXuh5I3MAtaaX8vKIG8voGzm3/s320/Looking+down+Carter+Notch.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down Carter Notch towards Nineteen Mile Brook</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uiekTn3Scr1n1Gz6QOFRewb1p3T-m4_Q3zQUxsC_ym3-VItf-WmDQzKQZ4yOp2-4hGjkbU0sRwQFEdsuyLrmdX6zPQDjvcwn9If4w5uHdLFBuTf_fOXQ8LZLbsylZU-fn_KwvCpszp2M/s1600/Mark+and+me+on+Wildcat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uiekTn3Scr1n1Gz6QOFRewb1p3T-m4_Q3zQUxsC_ym3-VItf-WmDQzKQZ4yOp2-4hGjkbU0sRwQFEdsuyLrmdX6zPQDjvcwn9If4w5uHdLFBuTf_fOXQ8LZLbsylZU-fn_KwvCpszp2M/s320/Mark+and+me+on+Wildcat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and me on Wildcat Ridge</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKX3gyy2aRCnxaPHqvspEjbTxaqAiVSGx-YJ-sg0D0nlG8F7qVrmHUnTuekFRQQPhlhzq4JzHKc2mSUM3kkmXgasc1NR2MZFlm4ZMAFNHcVaXPNupOihVGtU-988LhqMiZfxVGD6Nfn2j/s1600/Looking+east.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKX3gyy2aRCnxaPHqvspEjbTxaqAiVSGx-YJ-sg0D0nlG8F7qVrmHUnTuekFRQQPhlhzq4JzHKc2mSUM3kkmXgasc1NR2MZFlm4ZMAFNHcVaXPNupOihVGtU-988LhqMiZfxVGD6Nfn2j/s320/Looking+east.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking eastward. Maine lies in the distance.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Tired and bruised, we finally found our way back to the hut at dusk. We first went to the bunkhouse and dropped our packs. Then we gathered up our stove and food and headed over to the hut to make dinner. If you have ever eaten freeze dried trail dinners, you know they are not high cuisine. Their quality is immensely improved after a long hard hike however. Mark's mom had given me a new JetBoil stove for my birthday, so we christened it making dinner that night. The juxtaposition of my little backpacking stove next to the massive cast iron stove of the hut was comical. By the way, that hut stove came all the way up the notch in pieces on the back of superhuman porters who carried it all the way up from the trailhead on Route 16 many years ago. A mind boggling accomplishment that was beyond my mere mortal strength to perform!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNM6LhEIihNJGYsHHTpzqP4Q2yKy9MS7Vzz581E5Be-s6v8hNrpQT2OuHPspPi3EuCAzOFAAv9QXHMivg-tFiNVH4Bqyyac1HuEz5BrlHKKYi0kyzygf5SZmtckVSJlSxqNj7vXN7lnj5/s1600/Stove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNM6LhEIihNJGYsHHTpzqP4Q2yKy9MS7Vzz581E5Be-s6v8hNrpQT2OuHPspPi3EuCAzOFAAv9QXHMivg-tFiNVH4Bqyyac1HuEz5BrlHKKYi0kyzygf5SZmtckVSJlSxqNj7vXN7lnj5/s320/Stove.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hut's stove. This massive cast iron beast came up the notch on the back of men. Supermen surely.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCxC2fU6U11Ntm1HIWvuXHR4SjA_HCKJUceZig2Q_VrywolZ52gRlziM8RO_SXvmb0ZacqJx_6CBH5qtQCCFpiTJXwbgoJoPZcAvYk8RDKGIApiU8ylVDaBDW_08_jdmYOIvI4LL10t2k/s1600/Stove+and+jetboil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCxC2fU6U11Ntm1HIWvuXHR4SjA_HCKJUceZig2Q_VrywolZ52gRlziM8RO_SXvmb0ZacqJx_6CBH5qtQCCFpiTJXwbgoJoPZcAvYk8RDKGIApiU8ylVDaBDW_08_jdmYOIvI4LL10t2k/s320/Stove+and+jetboil.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My JetBoil on the counter (with the little orange legs) is dwarfed by the hut's stove. The white bins below the counter are for food. This keeps food out of the bunk house. This is a black bear precaution.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUE6e7pvuGfDuypgqzBrzC18G_uKrb77jzTapzZ4v289tOeVm0wKhDaEqwkgStA5QvxNCmZ9YDsw8884T08Kcma6U2eW3K3b33vG-Despf697TmZE9LeyF1qpQ3jXRdZueShsq4mbeFZ1u/s1600/Poptart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUE6e7pvuGfDuypgqzBrzC18G_uKrb77jzTapzZ4v289tOeVm0wKhDaEqwkgStA5QvxNCmZ9YDsw8884T08Kcma6U2eW3K3b33vG-Despf697TmZE9LeyF1qpQ3jXRdZueShsq4mbeFZ1u/s320/Poptart.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark eats a found treasure, a Poptart left at the hut by a Boy Scout Troop while he waits for dinner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After dinner we talked for some time with Heidi. It turned out she grew up just a few miles from our homes in Connecticut. It's a small world indeed. Mark clearly enjoyed the chance to learn from Heidi and to share his experiences with her. I was very happy he was enjoying himself so much. That is why I bring him on these hikes, and of course because he's fun to have around too. A bit later I told Mark he needed to make an entry in the huts journal. These books have been around for pretty much as long as the huts have and hikers have been recording comments and observations in them for decades. I knew Mark's mom would want Mark to add his voice to the hut's history. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRA95r8Z2WXTYoKmM3oV7Gu_I-rO-0gKr8GkpepUNqwOQpy6BJg5tcOp6MNEc3NQ7sWaAZRkOY8frCpLg4hpDKAOarqgl5sgVp-VB6Ui7o_e1mR9dB4mVI_sufBj6ROncdXnfTIqKCZuS/s1600/Journal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRA95r8Z2WXTYoKmM3oV7Gu_I-rO-0gKr8GkpepUNqwOQpy6BJg5tcOp6MNEc3NQ7sWaAZRkOY8frCpLg4hpDKAOarqgl5sgVp-VB6Ui7o_e1mR9dB4mVI_sufBj6ROncdXnfTIqKCZuS/s320/Journal.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and I add comments to the huts journal. A shelf in the hut holds dozens of filled journals from the past.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> After dinner we called it a night and headed back to the bunkhouse. We stopped at the huts "facilities" on the way. You may have wondered about the "facilities." They consist of a rather large outhouse that actually has running water in the sinks in summer and toilets over composting pits. In the mountains, this amounts to luxury.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8I2G2I7Mk2WA_DUoSDBN-fS90NDszO_NtmuhUD6XHpB3BME_QakDS9d1wsXkEtlXb6mhpP-a_P_VOsgLwKR0g4_XRf4sYxHHcSTPBERDHzQ_rr6nV-LJSkj9jXGtzYNorJzctvon119C/s1600/Outhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8I2G2I7Mk2WA_DUoSDBN-fS90NDszO_NtmuhUD6XHpB3BME_QakDS9d1wsXkEtlXb6mhpP-a_P_VOsgLwKR0g4_XRf4sYxHHcSTPBERDHzQ_rr6nV-LJSkj9jXGtzYNorJzctvon119C/s320/Outhouse.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outhouse is above the bunk house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We settled in for the night in our respective top bunks. When we turned our headlamps off we experienced the total darkness of the mountains. I love it. So heeding no nightly noises, we slept the night away. Morning found fog and rain pounding the bunk house. The temp outside was 34 degrees. The decision to climb the ridge yesterday afternoon was a good one clearly. We headed over to the hut to make breakfast and hang out till a break in the heavy rain hopefully occurred. We found Heidi getting ready to hike out to meet a friend who would be hiking back in with her later in the day. We said our goodbyes and Mark and I had the hut to ourselves for a leisurely breakfast.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv32Gsp7pYPGzOBhqXQhGZHbvuJeRYIEADKYPjhicTA74e_H0HQwngbZZ8vmpTpNZ8E9pB8RSse_lHtP3wYQChhTwr89gEZx1J_YOShEL358l9CCiMPCIGK0yB2XWDPdctAWn8tQc3OCSl/s1600/Tables+in+hut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv32Gsp7pYPGzOBhqXQhGZHbvuJeRYIEADKYPjhicTA74e_H0HQwngbZZ8vmpTpNZ8E9pB8RSse_lHtP3wYQChhTwr89gEZx1J_YOShEL358l9CCiMPCIGK0yB2XWDPdctAWn8tQc3OCSl/s320/Tables+in+hut.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The breakfast table.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Eventually the rain lessened. So in fog and moderate rain, Mark and I said goodbye to Carter Notch and headed down. The hike out was unremarkable but wet and muddy once below the remaining monorail. Hiking in the rain and mud made for a seemingly long trip out but we finally reached the trailhead and gratefully climbed into the shelter of my truck. Off we went for quick showers at the AMC Pinkham Notch Visitors Center and then do the long drive home to Connecticut. Mark had another peak on his resume and he had his first hut experience. Once again I had enjoyed his company and his hiking toughness. It had been a fun couple of days in the shadow of the Cat.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-20800643545135546632010-07-24T15:39:00.003-04:002010-07-25T09:00:02.908-04:00Visiting Kin<blockquote><i>"If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is keep walking."</i> - Buddhist Proverb</blockquote>March 27, 2010. It had been two weeks since my young friend Mark had climbed his first White Mountain in New Hampshire. Now we were back again. This time we had a 10 mile hike planned that would take us over two more 4,000 footers, North Kinsman and South Kinsman. I had planned the hike to be at least 10 miles for a reason. Mark is a Boy Scout and he is working on his hiking badge. This entails doing several 10 and 20 mile hikes, most of which he has done with the troop and his mom, an excellent hiker in her own right. She and I had discussed presenting a 10 mile hike to Mark's hiking badge leader Dwight, and he had agreed to allowing a mountain hike with me to count towards Mark's badge. It certainly was going to be a more difficult 10 miler than anything the Boy Scout Troop did in Connecticut, as Mark and I would feel thoroughly beaten up when the day ended. But I mean that in a good way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLkM134s1aq40Uj6gSEn7IIj4_1R1KPOmz81U2_WwB2h-cNU9Eb0XISRTnKe7MJ_9jXkZJ7vHRemE3ISRC-EpNh09QwhHs_-hqveMmEpp9crvBdueQ1MeeQAx8eibg8359pzcbzBGynv5/s1600/Nuttah+MD+and+Mark+at+Trailhead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLkM134s1aq40Uj6gSEn7IIj4_1R1KPOmz81U2_WwB2h-cNU9Eb0XISRTnKe7MJ_9jXkZJ7vHRemE3ISRC-EpNh09QwhHs_-hqveMmEpp9crvBdueQ1MeeQAx8eibg8359pzcbzBGynv5/s320/Nuttah+MD+and+Mark+at+Trailhead.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and Nuttah MD at trailhead sign in Franconia Notch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The day was cold but clear and the wind was light. It was going to be a gorgeous day. We would be hiking from Lafayette Place Camp Ground up to Lonesome Lake, and then on to Kinsman Ridge and the two peaks that dominated the ridge, North and South Kinsman. Franconia Notch is formed by Kinsman Ridge on the west and Franconia Ridge on the east, and is split by Route 93 going north and south. It is one of the most scenic and heavily visited areas of the White Mountains.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaEB4MrX143EBqX2Ru-jzoICCAvKSxze0BsSal3kaxFTKTgJiWMNX5wqB2__YXXZKDH34gsU-EJzGdLasFJ4wrWtPqrF9dQkp3apUmaM-QQaKLYs_JiqC9l1kNykUi9wdTNTXFJ3FC0hW/s1600/Beginning+of+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaEB4MrX143EBqX2Ru-jzoICCAvKSxze0BsSal3kaxFTKTgJiWMNX5wqB2__YXXZKDH34gsU-EJzGdLasFJ4wrWtPqrF9dQkp3apUmaM-QQaKLYs_JiqC9l1kNykUi9wdTNTXFJ3FC0hW/s320/Beginning+of+Trail.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail to Lonesome Lake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mark and I geared up in the parking lot and soon were on our way. The trail leading up to Lonesome Lake was fairly easy and the lower part was mostly snow free. Still we carried microspikes, crampons, and snowshoes. The traction would come in very handy further on. Lonesome Lake sits high above the floor of the notch and the Appalachian Mountain Club has one of their huts there. It is one of the most scenic spots for a hut and one of the most accessible, so it gets many visitors during the year. We had planned to stay there ourselves but no space was available, more on that later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpEDtV-AdZ0NnR59pIc7ijf2z6MK5UdfvhNsg3uu0ssnDeEkOcgpvn2260tXDofh9H8u_v-nZqhcQeNoyIC1kH0sp0KSlbAUEc50w6BLOwFoCXTOTEoXUmv5n6yBA0Gq59IDsaIKWSzPe/s1600/Trail+sign+Thin+Ice+Warning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpEDtV-AdZ0NnR59pIc7ijf2z6MK5UdfvhNsg3uu0ssnDeEkOcgpvn2260tXDofh9H8u_v-nZqhcQeNoyIC1kH0sp0KSlbAUEc50w6BLOwFoCXTOTEoXUmv5n6yBA0Gq59IDsaIKWSzPe/s320/Trail+sign+Thin+Ice+Warning.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail and warning sign at Lonesome Lake. Footprints across the frozen lake showed someone had ignored the warning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We soon reached Lonesome Lake and started to circle it westwards. The lake is girdled with a trail that has several outlets heading up or down. This is a popular way to climb either the Kinsmans or to climb Cannon Mountain, known for its ski area and as the former location of the Old Man of the Mountain. The Old Man had always been the very symbol of the Granite State until it plummeted into the notch on May 3, 2003. The loss of this icon still haunts those of us who have gazed on it and believed it would long outlive our children and their children's children. It just goes to show that you are never promised tomorrow and that all things must pass.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBev_JyZfqcLn-xvwpXjL1u9O19H8AJ-YPeNFS2yYdvNok_SBP_-_SNfuW7ONOgaeIhwm3X6O76BXnO1t3UtDFTNjJ4jV1OYsxImKt_lEjpFhb5PKQsDiXssC-9tWCUz4irymVaKP__uC7/s1600/Outflow+from+Lonesome+Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBev_JyZfqcLn-xvwpXjL1u9O19H8AJ-YPeNFS2yYdvNok_SBP_-_SNfuW7ONOgaeIhwm3X6O76BXnO1t3UtDFTNjJ4jV1OYsxImKt_lEjpFhb5PKQsDiXssC-9tWCUz4irymVaKP__uC7/s320/Outflow+from+Lonesome+Lake.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outlet stream at south end of Lonesome Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rHoGSwNbIHH_XfmrSmGJ687x0HWQe1UGuMMUppaSgYH1f6af3OSTjJUK8EcjcGfjW2x-AaYb9ZHUD2gNXNPfJVf3gllifIIdqDaQ6NlxwEJEkI6ETXU_URDMFwjMxD9H9evJz2AOjs7D/s1600/Kinsmans+over+Lonesome+Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rHoGSwNbIHH_XfmrSmGJ687x0HWQe1UGuMMUppaSgYH1f6af3OSTjJUK8EcjcGfjW2x-AaYb9ZHUD2gNXNPfJVf3gllifIIdqDaQ6NlxwEJEkI6ETXU_URDMFwjMxD9H9evJz2AOjs7D/s320/Kinsmans+over+Lonesome+Lake.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kinsmans and Kinsmans Ridge loom over Lonesome Lake</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
This trail around the lake would take us to the hut and to the trail we would be taking up to the ridge, Fishin' Jimmy Trail. This trail with the easy name would prove to be less than easy on the body with a very steep and challenging section as it approached the ridge. But for now we stopped at the hut and took a break before the push upwards.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2zJbYI5TE7d-7OKNy6Im9f12ZdKG0bclNh-pVSjMigdbhVBtpN2rEFYAUHkCMG1AR-qbyMmtRd_zI7laEsGtOhEWCc4m9oW3-i1ZkGBNKGH_mijSMW3Uw_kEqWzmzZsRNdrhge3eUS01/s1600/Taking+break+at+Lonesome+Lake+Hut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2zJbYI5TE7d-7OKNy6Im9f12ZdKG0bclNh-pVSjMigdbhVBtpN2rEFYAUHkCMG1AR-qbyMmtRd_zI7laEsGtOhEWCc4m9oW3-i1ZkGBNKGH_mijSMW3Uw_kEqWzmzZsRNdrhge3eUS01/s320/Taking+break+at+Lonesome+Lake+Hut.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark takes a break at Lonesome Lake Hut.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8z4yoYLtzzzuhyphenhyphens2PnSeIEWi21xNK8U26j-mY3vSaU3Y5lwevXXg-rUAzsiowDhZKtLacfNFW7e-c_aaeNTnrDztoPQxoxMWz9OVW__OVFahGPJUPGx3sT6UdQzDP1BUiN3z_6f95lqI/s1600/Mark+at+Lonesome+Lake+with+Franconia+Ridge+Behind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8z4yoYLtzzzuhyphenhyphens2PnSeIEWi21xNK8U26j-mY3vSaU3Y5lwevXXg-rUAzsiowDhZKtLacfNFW7e-c_aaeNTnrDztoPQxoxMWz9OVW__OVFahGPJUPGx3sT6UdQzDP1BUiN3z_6f95lqI/s320/Mark+at+Lonesome+Lake+with+Franconia+Ridge+Behind.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and a frozen Lonesome Lake. Franconia Ridge lies across the notch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When we had finished taking a breather, we slung packs and headed out on Fishin' Jimmy Trail. This trail would turn out be quite a slog with many undulations followed by a steep and very icy pitch up to Kinsman Ridge. I had my crampons on and Mark was using my microspikes. Without these traction tools we would never have made it safely to the top. Mark is a solid hiker but by the time we had finished Fishin' Jimmy Trail he had developed something of an animosity towards it and I couldn't blame him. Steeper than a staircase and treacherously icy, the trail had taken a toll on us when we finally reached the Junction with Kinsman Ridge Trail. Kinsman Ridge Trail runs the length of the ridge but we would only be taking it far as South Kinsman summit and then back again. But before we did that, it was time for lunch. Fishin' Jimmy Trail had taken a couple of hard hours to cover so we headed off on a little detour to Kinsman Pond and shelter. Kinsman Pond lies below North Kinsman and would be a lovely place to stop for lunch.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMwe5xPXckyAiB6ULw-xPSt0Z7z7AinKhAxvtZAG2HjZtsscDA0FU9IS9SNnLkNT3zICqUvCRo0I_Bnb-zvBTbigiEr-CToI13WVWV4ZVQTGS2TRmuu2TpsPV2J4YhAGRJumV9vHX6T-y/s1600/Fishin+Jimmy+Trail+easy+part.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMwe5xPXckyAiB6ULw-xPSt0Z7z7AinKhAxvtZAG2HjZtsscDA0FU9IS9SNnLkNT3zICqUvCRo0I_Bnb-zvBTbigiEr-CToI13WVWV4ZVQTGS2TRmuu2TpsPV2J4YhAGRJumV9vHX6T-y/s320/Fishin+Jimmy+Trail+easy+part.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early section of Fishin' Jimmy Trail. This benign section gives little warning to the steep and icy sections ahead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKke9177Q67XGKpvLHafEylOOovim6H5ncd55p8CguY3wMPJVmDkACGEKxfJMCDJ2EpTbCEXB3RisAv62f-Mtx8IPjzfj4T2GE3RnltJvAOejU9DIZxBwvMtHp7lUB-MR2CBC8sXD-g1Ci/s1600/Mark+at+Kinsman+Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKke9177Q67XGKpvLHafEylOOovim6H5ncd55p8CguY3wMPJVmDkACGEKxfJMCDJ2EpTbCEXB3RisAv62f-Mtx8IPjzfj4T2GE3RnltJvAOejU9DIZxBwvMtHp7lUB-MR2CBC8sXD-g1Ci/s320/Mark+at+Kinsman+Pond.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Kinsman Pond. North Kinsman rises in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZL0DWA9PmOP750g2RMLkcbsMBrXKgvBvNCUcXgPMMeawbuKtFNWws3jELKTjrR9OARng4yQ7aRY02qYWmglwOx51HgUM-E2n1AT2cIiGC_QNc6Qu58fjW1dNexC_37StyQwjZLRNgLzko/s1600/Making+lunch+at+Kinsman+Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZL0DWA9PmOP750g2RMLkcbsMBrXKgvBvNCUcXgPMMeawbuKtFNWws3jELKTjrR9OARng4yQ7aRY02qYWmglwOx51HgUM-E2n1AT2cIiGC_QNc6Qu58fjW1dNexC_37StyQwjZLRNgLzko/s320/Making+lunch+at+Kinsman+Pond.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark prepares lunch at Kinsman Pond </td></tr>
</tbody></table> Kinsman Pond shelter is an AMC open cabin. There are many such shelters in the White Mountains. Some are available by reservation in season, such as the AMC huts, and some are by first come first serve availability. The Kinsman Pond shelter has recently been rebuilt and we found some backpacks inside which indicated there were already a few hikers that had dumped gear here and headed out for the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMOQy-hSRJ8wpLEVRa2-L594AorRqltKI3FhXGDGfUcMcUqpqlN6Gqp-m06KI-aT_QQFEdYOKx9vC4SQLlApMJj_EHjh-iX3kWK6fPeUEC2lov9XuyM6YFJ6F4JaBPzrHCEonnAR32o64/s1600/Kinsman+Pond+Shelter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMOQy-hSRJ8wpLEVRa2-L594AorRqltKI3FhXGDGfUcMcUqpqlN6Gqp-m06KI-aT_QQFEdYOKx9vC4SQLlApMJj_EHjh-iX3kWK6fPeUEC2lov9XuyM6YFJ6F4JaBPzrHCEonnAR32o64/s320/Kinsman+Pond+Shelter.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kinsman Pond Shelter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After a simple lunch of pepperoni sandwiches and trail mix, we headed back to the juncture with Kinsman Ridge Trail. The snow was now about 3 to 4 feet deep on the trail and the sign and any visible tree blazes were all just a little above the snow cover.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYk-7hoDfSKErqCz8ws0W5zA4vnZMmzV34DxutrvhfrfIIsJLioczg2sUf9PeVavpo51DJaEszEdwVSlDFI_Mlj2FpnClOORxi8v4aA1RjnzLDWZaroGDuHveUf9yqLX2ZhG3dAoIQ1T6/s1600/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+Junction+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYk-7hoDfSKErqCz8ws0W5zA4vnZMmzV34DxutrvhfrfIIsJLioczg2sUf9PeVavpo51DJaEszEdwVSlDFI_Mlj2FpnClOORxi8v4aA1RjnzLDWZaroGDuHveUf9yqLX2ZhG3dAoIQ1T6/s320/Kinsman+Ridge+Trail+Junction+sign.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kinsman Ridge Trail Junction sign.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Glad to be done with the outward journey on Fishin' Jimmy Trail we headed up Kinsman Ridge Trail. Earlier, when we had reached Kinsman Pond, Mark had assumed we were nearly at the top of the ridge. When North Kinsman came into view over the pond he asked, with clear concern in his voice, if we had to go up on "that." I told him that we would be climbing to the highest point on Kinsman Ridge, so anything above us now had to be climbed. He wasn't too pleased to hear it and when we started on the climb up Kinsman Ridge Trail he started to occasionally grumble about "this stupid trail." Mark is 14 and a remarkable hiker for his age, but many hikes in the Whites can seem like climbing uneven stairs for hours with the weight of a pack on your back. Mark wasn't the first, nor will he be the last, hiker to grumble a bit! After what seemed a long time, but wasn't, we reached the summit of North Kinsman at 4,293 feet and saw the glory of Franconia Ridge to the east.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3RKeCmAPcrawgTD2i1xy0RgL4-Y1YhyphenhyphenLvxAxSSAz7mfm5Amz04Ck963rtCgn9Z00DOzn66iaWwbzVX1W3a1vnjxmCUoy1p0R_uac3PFZZ67KNEBcHFkqFbN8tJvhUVYG_pTdMpILIoLW/s1600/Mar+and+I+on+North+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3RKeCmAPcrawgTD2i1xy0RgL4-Y1YhyphenhyphenLvxAxSSAz7mfm5Amz04Ck963rtCgn9Z00DOzn66iaWwbzVX1W3a1vnjxmCUoy1p0R_uac3PFZZ67KNEBcHFkqFbN8tJvhUVYG_pTdMpILIoLW/s320/Mar+and+I+on+North+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark and I on North Kinsman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgPlo1-aqWorYQb67p8Bvek6Px7fMp3KamXIAdLErknb_jy4zeIfWWEqp4XouSgMIWzf3lo73B5We8iGTM7jB1Cfb86IIkebXXs0qa-Wet3DHJO4T4ffqyzzclnCMVg1OKCYUuu8CdlB5z/s1600/Franconia+Ridge+from+North+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgPlo1-aqWorYQb67p8Bvek6Px7fMp3KamXIAdLErknb_jy4zeIfWWEqp4XouSgMIWzf3lo73B5We8iGTM7jB1Cfb86IIkebXXs0qa-Wet3DHJO4T4ffqyzzclnCMVg1OKCYUuu8CdlB5z/s320/Franconia+Ridge+from+North+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Franconia Ridge from North Kinsman. Mt Lafayette is left of center and Mt. Lincoln is right of center. The white gash in the foreground is Lonesome Lake. Rte 93 lies very far below in the notch.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFzZFbWu4aMpLgXzXEgJwHjnjMbEC5Q7phRJnT6fvcTG3VsD6_nWcBwEuGL_qBDYeGnSzj_GrOY-Xo27VgQ__PE0ucTo_aWHgRJkYvSZpvim3Epn7eoE8osLqe2WaN_gRFU9NWxcfsCH1/s1600/Cannon+Mt+from+North+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFzZFbWu4aMpLgXzXEgJwHjnjMbEC5Q7phRJnT6fvcTG3VsD6_nWcBwEuGL_qBDYeGnSzj_GrOY-Xo27VgQ__PE0ucTo_aWHgRJkYvSZpvim3Epn7eoE8osLqe2WaN_gRFU9NWxcfsCH1/s320/Cannon+Mt+from+North+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cannon Mountain at left as seen from North Kinsman. Mt Lafayette is the white peak on the right.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When we had reached the summit of North Kinsman I was tired. But I'm part Irish and very stubborn and had every desire to continue on to South Kinsman before turning back. I was a little concerned for Mark however and I decided to give him an "out". So I asked him if he wanted to skip South Kinsman this time and head back. He told me no he wanted to go on as planned. I then asked again and said I was tired myself and didn't mind turning back at all to give him another chance to save face as it were. He responded in his classic monotone, "Frankly Mr Pro, I don't believe that. We are finishing the hike." I had to laugh but once again the young man had impressed me and made me proud of him. It would not be the last time. So on we went to South Kinsman. The weather was gorgeous so we took advantage and dumped some of our gear along side the trail to lighten our load. I kept some emergency gear with me for safety and because Mark's mom had once again invoked the need for me to bring Mark and all his body parts back safely. We were soon on the summit of South Kinsman at 4,358 feet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRX5ozy64EyMfXO0eXXzJiJ_M0tAYp6Q73qXfzRMERNjR3rfYK1U2_Eh8m9CyedQdnE7LxoNGaf1ZaDZ1TIo-I3A5VLI4IrGL-txGFuWmGxpUOQvDwNY3MBu3mwV1hJRqggp3XMYmUsvBb/s1600/Mark+and+I+on+South+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRX5ozy64EyMfXO0eXXzJiJ_M0tAYp6Q73qXfzRMERNjR3rfYK1U2_Eh8m9CyedQdnE7LxoNGaf1ZaDZ1TIo-I3A5VLI4IrGL-txGFuWmGxpUOQvDwNY3MBu3mwV1hJRqggp3XMYmUsvBb/s320/Mark+and+I+on+South+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On South Kinsman</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ShHgYHOJKxjJbsj-R_59Ts1_zZxQtu0BFV8LuUipKmESBojhmR2J_DIC_9cqjeQ6JUrkIY1uF8xkimdw8TmeznOtnNYLiuUHQq9nYX8AmlbPrYrdjk4s5V5W0nE1aULMxxfL6oAzUYDX/s1600/North+Kinsman+from+South+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ShHgYHOJKxjJbsj-R_59Ts1_zZxQtu0BFV8LuUipKmESBojhmR2J_DIC_9cqjeQ6JUrkIY1uF8xkimdw8TmeznOtnNYLiuUHQq9nYX8AmlbPrYrdjk4s5V5W0nE1aULMxxfL6oAzUYDX/s320/North+Kinsman+from+South+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Kinsman seen from South Kinsman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZE6pGcnEq75icUweieod3jqAQvAXL-_NGZh0jTgUx8q6mmVW1CLzJz2sxS5WF9ZS2RXWFFeTy1gaP7UTmrgdT0TGdpXZI6MWNKPjIvn6iny32VofYMxlyXs2vqzRrySHCSTwfAuOSUgnt/s1600/Mt+Flume+from+South+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZE6pGcnEq75icUweieod3jqAQvAXL-_NGZh0jTgUx8q6mmVW1CLzJz2sxS5WF9ZS2RXWFFeTy1gaP7UTmrgdT0TGdpXZI6MWNKPjIvn6iny32VofYMxlyXs2vqzRrySHCSTwfAuOSUgnt/s320/Mt+Flume+from+South+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking southeast. The white scar is Mt. Flume</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDcBem4YERopvC95EJ3oTFg2W2YB-Eom9eHQ70Ck3QE0lwTd1bANx6kHWDDiRspY7nN_i6Y1EuUlVEZ0jtOlnfJSvl1uSL9UGjlyJwJ2tPFu7vp5Js-BN1fOK13fpvW8ze7yu9fUJrCfw/s1600/Mt.+Moosilauke+from+South+Kinsman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDcBem4YERopvC95EJ3oTFg2W2YB-Eom9eHQ70Ck3QE0lwTd1bANx6kHWDDiRspY7nN_i6Y1EuUlVEZ0jtOlnfJSvl1uSL9UGjlyJwJ2tPFu7vp5Js-BN1fOK13fpvW8ze7yu9fUJrCfw/s320/Mt.+Moosilauke+from+South+Kinsman.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Moosilauke as seen from South Kinsman. Mark's mom and I had climbed that peak the year before. I had to point out to Mark that his mom had been higher in the Whites than he had to that point. Never miss an opportunity to mess with a kid's head!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCOBveeZk85qaZiqvMPE1RMPHHDWdhKlrTRazQOjyzbnhwq5yXufX0ILKXBukgiewDc5aJlUCLdeprF8f5Sd0F2R8bNK_dLrl_kzIYsu912AyTIyZUO3RNvDKEslDg0Z176VTroskC3uA/s1600/Loon+Mt+Lincoln+in+distane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCOBveeZk85qaZiqvMPE1RMPHHDWdhKlrTRazQOjyzbnhwq5yXufX0ILKXBukgiewDc5aJlUCLdeprF8f5Sd0F2R8bNK_dLrl_kzIYsu912AyTIyZUO3RNvDKEslDg0Z176VTroskC3uA/s320/Loon+Mt+Lincoln+in+distane.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The white lines at center are the ski trails of Loon Mountain in Lincoln NH. The peaks in the distance are the Osceolas and the Tripyramids.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We had bagged two more 4,000 footers and it was time to head back. We would be retracing our step. Both of us were tired but it always gives you a boost when you know you are heading back. We re-crossed North Kinsman and grabbed our gear then headed down to the junction with Fishin' Jimmy Trail. Mark took advantage of his nylon snow pants and slid down on his butt whenever he could. Fishin' Jimmy was no fun going in the easy direction either and many injuries occur when heading downhill, so it was a real pleasure to finally reach Lonesome Lake hut once again. When we reached the hut we could clearly hear some of the people partying inside who were to stay that evening. It's unusual for the hut to be full in March and I wondered why it was today.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6M0d9doma3o9jcZuGjpjyyC6M0rSYPU3a9jU9oJY96oaWuEB7aY9MDwSEv7a8ipIoNbm9JxEcAYuDAUyyTlicZNycReXncw9Th9HuH6Poow_m-Wry6ni5Kd02RkRjFaS6mxCn3f006Pz/s1600/Lonesome+Lake+Hut+cabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6M0d9doma3o9jcZuGjpjyyC6M0rSYPU3a9jU9oJY96oaWuEB7aY9MDwSEv7a8ipIoNbm9JxEcAYuDAUyyTlicZNycReXncw9Th9HuH6Poow_m-Wry6ni5Kd02RkRjFaS6mxCn3f006Pz/s320/Lonesome+Lake+Hut+cabin.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entry to the main cabin at Lonesome Lake Hut</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMv7dOKYYSJhSBNiJLZlDeIPRA8MwVspdZWXR7EOc3JXvcbl8JK_3cQ-miuS6zBvqM8WSDUCg3C-N_Od-wBpdasCqntnO5k8Ho6uccJX-6grjZumQRGgWtbqjmhWXJtG13adk9qMB1N6FS/s1600/Lonesome+Lake+Hut+bunk+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMv7dOKYYSJhSBNiJLZlDeIPRA8MwVspdZWXR7EOc3JXvcbl8JK_3cQ-miuS6zBvqM8WSDUCg3C-N_Od-wBpdasCqntnO5k8Ho6uccJX-6grjZumQRGgWtbqjmhWXJtG13adk9qMB1N6FS/s320/Lonesome+Lake+Hut+bunk+house.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The front of the Lonesome Lake Hut. This porch has a spectacular view of Lonesome Lake and Franconia Ridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We took another rest and food break at the lake before heading down. When we were outward bound from the lake we started to run into hikers headed for the cabin and they told us why the cabin was full that night. It seems a bunch of friends reserve the cabin each March for a formal "Thanksgiving" meal and dance! The men carry full suits in their packs and the women bring dresses and high heels! On top of that, they each also hike up some part of the meal in their pack. One guy had 12 roasted turkeys in his pack and one girl had a full birthday cake and bottles of wine! It makes you feel good about people when you hear things like that. The revelers we ran into seemed a bit impressed with Mark when they realized the hike he had just done and very graciously invited us to turn around and join them at the party in the hut. Unfortunately we had a long drive home still to do and we were a bit under-dressed for the occasion anyway (I hadn't brought my heels) so we had to decline. We would be stopping at the Woodstock Inn for dinner and microbrew on the drive south so there was that consolation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipzYnrylLzZQX_fMtNlpfRJ0x7sbZaUbmLF4LaW2Vkcxc0VQNOES9Em_OINTZfNEjv4RKYI4jYUwrcEr7ZG4vhYzCH2ZzjCbZgcynrfrKyd7pF24pEODD5fDcStjP3GnbqDY3PbqJbCfeO/s1600/Dinner+at+Woodstock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipzYnrylLzZQX_fMtNlpfRJ0x7sbZaUbmLF4LaW2Vkcxc0VQNOES9Em_OINTZfNEjv4RKYI4jYUwrcEr7ZG4vhYzCH2ZzjCbZgcynrfrKyd7pF24pEODD5fDcStjP3GnbqDY3PbqJbCfeO/s320/Dinner+at+Woodstock.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dinner at Woodstock Inn and Station before the long ride home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We reached the trailhead tired but happy. We both had two new 4,000 footers under our belts. The sun had set and the moon was over Franconia Ridge. Mark also had another 10 mile hike done towards his hiking badge. It was a real pleasure to dine at the Woodstock Inn that night. It was a real pleasure just to sit actually, and to drink a well earned Pemi Pale Ale. It had been another great day in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I have had many of those in my time and hope to have many more. And I hope Mark does as well.Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-38890287104064817072010-07-23T22:03:00.004-04:002010-07-25T09:10:34.805-04:00Piercing Wind<div class="MsoNormal"><i>“What a child doesn't receive he can seldom later give.”</i> - P.D. James<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-QvymwmuJebX6Tp0mFrkbW6mm1DKI6QKybUcIV5i8iKoRt-SJ5mVW5LZ0NT1wCWTBQZw8-imZwul9C9bJUy6P92fstP6fw1pQ0x8eZYegSul0kOqZKKnKiTt4VtwhKwpMH31_RQnZRifP/s1600/NMD+at+Start+of+Pierce+hike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-QvymwmuJebX6Tp0mFrkbW6mm1DKI6QKybUcIV5i8iKoRt-SJ5mVW5LZ0NT1wCWTBQZw8-imZwul9C9bJUy6P92fstP6fw1pQ0x8eZYegSul0kOqZKKnKiTt4VtwhKwpMH31_RQnZRifP/s320/NMD+at+Start+of+Pierce+hike.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nuttah MD is ready to hike!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mark’s eyes were big as he took in the dramatic views as we drove through Crawford Notch in <st1:state w:st="on">New Hampshire</st1:state>’s <st1:place w:st="on">White Mountains</st1:place>. It was March 13, 2010. This was the first time he had seen the Whites, and I was gratified to see he was impressed. This was to be the first time Mark would hike in the Whites and the first time he would climb a mountain. He would also be doing his first mountain hike during winter. He’s a brave kid but it was probably more likely a blind trust in me that made him so willing to take on winter in the Whites, after all, unprepared hikers have perished doing so. I must admit I was nervous on how this 14 year-old young man would do on the snowy slopes and I was very anxious about whether he would enjoy it or not. I very much hoped that it would be an experience he would want to repeat, and not just with me. I was hoping it might become part of his world, and that it would be something he would do with his friends later in his life, maybe even with his own children someday. I once heard someone say how important it is to leave footprints in a child’s life, and I felt very fortunate to have the chance to leave some in Mark’s life. Of course it wasn’t just doing something for Mark that brought us here together, it was also doing something with Mark. I rather enjoy his company you see.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkW-M3aaMp_opeguvAE7B8d8LwY5ZWwn8-ICW2MVkn1OTr75o4USTjKJS-3iNF28W2KS2WZWSjsoMOZnNsy1BLhadXMUXwSf90PMOIQEZEw2Z_1PdNGwPFjHVVqRfOqyVhi1ulZZcR1Ts/s1600/Mark+at+start+of+Pierce+hike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkW-M3aaMp_opeguvAE7B8d8LwY5ZWwn8-ICW2MVkn1OTr75o4USTjKJS-3iNF28W2KS2WZWSjsoMOZnNsy1BLhadXMUXwSf90PMOIQEZEw2Z_1PdNGwPFjHVVqRfOqyVhi1ulZZcR1Ts/s320/Mark+at+start+of+Pierce+hike.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark at trailhead. That sign is actually 5 feet high.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The weather today was typical of winter in the Whites, cold, gray, and windy. Windy to the tune of hurricane force gusts on the summits. Today we would be ascending <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Pierce</st1:placename> and hopefully <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Eisenhower</st1:placename></st1:place>. The temperature on the summits would be in the low twentys to the high teens, not so bad in itself but the wind would make things a tad more uncomfortable. As we climbed out of the car at the trailhead parking lot the wind combined with the gray skies to create a very forlorn atmosphere. Mentally shaking off that false impression of gloom, I popped the trunk open and we started to gear up for the hike.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQMZD2uStP8yo6JYeTg9CsbbiSOjr_OvfR7ykOXQ3346fgHdNl4pIytmWzxSPSBuxsCBfch-SzbKKq4G9t7NSjAxcUmT5Fm_jTh58OyDLhQqeDjuNcD-195Tkim8TSSaOihOfxsYzt1tqd/s1600/Traction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQMZD2uStP8yo6JYeTg9CsbbiSOjr_OvfR7ykOXQ3346fgHdNl4pIytmWzxSPSBuxsCBfch-SzbKKq4G9t7NSjAxcUmT5Fm_jTh58OyDLhQqeDjuNcD-195Tkim8TSSaOihOfxsYzt1tqd/s320/Traction.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traction: Crampons top; Microspikes bottom</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you are going to go up into the <st1:place w:st="on">White Mountains</st1:place> in winter you need to know what you are doing, or bad things can happen. I had promised his mom that I would bring him and all his body parts back safely and I was going to make sure that happened. Our gear included snowshoes, crampons, microspikes, trekking poles, emergency gear, maps and compass, food and water, and extra clothing. We wore a mixture of high-tech garb designed for proper winter protection. In the world of winter outdoor survival there is an old saying, “Cotton kills.” Cotton gets soaking wet easily by sweat and doesn’t dry quickly so it loses its insulating capacity and quickly saps the heat from the wearer. So no cotton for us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were soon ready to head out along the Crawford Path that would takes us over <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Pierce</st1:placename> and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Eisenhower</st1:placename></st1:place>. Shouldering our daypacks we started up and the snow beneath our boots crunched sharply in the cold air. One advantage to hiking these trails in winter is that the deep snow, 3 to 5 feet in this case, covers rocks and uneven features along the trail and makes what I call a “snow ramp.” As long as you are not the first to hike over fresh snow, called “breaking trail,” the packed snow ramp makes the trail easier going. Inevitably when you start out on these hikes wearing microspikes, crampons,or snowshoes on your feet, you soon have to stop and re-adjust the traction gear for snugness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJ-X7RQLp40do6iLIYsc8_3Bkc_1WltHjiJmZxdXuZw3SJlqJIWsBnidBBXXbUZEdlRk8dNb-IRChGIVMRkiETpVMsoXCfItuSyl7p12sacjilbx4UnPA7j7y6wcAqrdnfFcWpZ6DriB5/s1600/Gear+adjust+Mark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJ-X7RQLp40do6iLIYsc8_3Bkc_1WltHjiJmZxdXuZw3SJlqJIWsBnidBBXXbUZEdlRk8dNb-IRChGIVMRkiETpVMsoXCfItuSyl7p12sacjilbx4UnPA7j7y6wcAqrdnfFcWpZ6DriB5/s320/Gear+adjust+Mark.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark adjusts gear soon after starting up</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAjpaP7hvnepyWss57RSMlAmL1jd_TszbmpaV449D98-lki_lw2wZzJNGRoJeVZR18kAsMRyq9CJXiWlQXvqTm-nxDWlatKLcnAI7qFSgeAC7Xo8Mbu2ClVGNBCY5PUgdBjHKsIRE65h1/s1600/Crawford+Path+low.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAjpaP7hvnepyWss57RSMlAmL1jd_TszbmpaV449D98-lki_lw2wZzJNGRoJeVZR18kAsMRyq9CJXiWlQXvqTm-nxDWlatKLcnAI7qFSgeAC7Xo8Mbu2ClVGNBCY5PUgdBjHKsIRE65h1/s320/Crawford+Path+low.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crawford Path snowramp</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we climbed the lower slopes of the southern Presidentials, we passed through an impressive winter landscape with heavy snow adorning the fir trees, making everything look like a Christmas postcard. The air was cold but we soon heated up from exertion and we could hear the wind moaning through the tree tops but couldn’t really feel its relief since the trees blocked it from reaching us. I was constantly wondering how my young friend was doing and how he was feeling about this long climb. I have been doing this for years but this was Mark’s first time. I knew the views we would be treated to when we broke out above treeline would make it all worthwhile but Mark was yet to experience this, so I worried he was thinking this slogging uphill in the dead of winter wearing heavy gear was less than a treat. We came to a spruce that had been blown down across the trail and then buried in heavy snow. The result was in essence a short tunnel that the trail passed through. We both thought this very cool until as I was taking Mark’s picture when he passed underneath it, he banged his head on the sharp end of one of the spruce’s branches. Clenching his teeth he rubbed his head and answered he was fine to my query. Tough kid that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-a3-2vPQOMoUrBkFbwFFtfeUvN8R2eqNmSAuAoiXWMmtuh9udfxZWMj_kgmVBl2HbOLRYjgkHAujRPEhZOkbpKZe4Bt3lJ-UQoOBmElHzYVqcXJ4OPmErUVIhWcjorSuOMZ2qrDrynr44/s1600/Mark+emerges+from+tunnel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-a3-2vPQOMoUrBkFbwFFtfeUvN8R2eqNmSAuAoiXWMmtuh9udfxZWMj_kgmVBl2HbOLRYjgkHAujRPEhZOkbpKZe4Bt3lJ-UQoOBmElHzYVqcXJ4OPmErUVIhWcjorSuOMZ2qrDrynr44/s320/Mark+emerges+from+tunnel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark emerges from blowdown tunnel</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before long we came to the junction with the trail named Mizpah Cutoff. This trail leads up to the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Mizpah Spring Hut. I thought this a good place to stop and take a break. The trail sign poked comically out of the snow at ankle level since the snow pack was about four feet deep on the trail. We still had a long way to go on our hike and I told Mark of one of my old techniques for avoiding feeling the trek ahead was almost over only to find out there was still a long hard way to go still. That trick is to always tell yourself there is a long way to go, never allow yourself to feel you are almost there. That way when you do reach your destination it comes as a pleasant surprise that you are there already. This doesn’t always work however, as I’m sure you already guessed!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJ4edBXcQjqrdlAgKzWNHqbjaPSQ6nyzvHZnkhPWrXuUh6PxYwGdp4VV0ni0o9gt0z355OwuPTkuKeWN63XoaAaXEsmTG2iqgqrYFgRJIV7YQFjYwINEotTZmPIolqRa316PBM2pe0QRW/s1600/Mizpah+Cutoff+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJ4edBXcQjqrdlAgKzWNHqbjaPSQ6nyzvHZnkhPWrXuUh6PxYwGdp4VV0ni0o9gt0z355OwuPTkuKeWN63XoaAaXEsmTG2iqgqrYFgRJIV7YQFjYwINEotTZmPIolqRa316PBM2pe0QRW/s320/Mizpah+Cutoff+sign.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mizpah Cutoff Junction Sign. Almost buried by snow depth</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finishing our break we slung packs again and headed upwards along the Crawford Path. As we walked the snow ramp upwards we talked of this and that. In taking Mark on this trip, I not only wanted to share the experience and share his company, I wanted to start to build his knowledge and experience of mountain hiking. There are few more important things you can do for someone you care about than building their confidence in themselves. Far too many times in my life I have seen how people can try to shake the confidence of the people they supposedly care about to gain greater influence over them. That is no way to treat anyone, much less someone you care about. It is my hope that in taking Mark hiking in the Whites and learning how to survive these long hard treks in a harsh environ, Mark’s confidence in himself will be strengthened and will help him face the challenges of life ahead. And as I said before, I just enjoy his company, so admittedly I’m not being totally selfless here!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJl7MO2SdQruRqZA69aOw6FzgiwMtoT1u-nzUun0AR0ewiamckSiehvPzCRo-e6mhkBF_HXJDLIyriFZ_XEMRfOe2zWGytfKgtREB2Wkfk5UzO7QBPsinqrWemtQi6MWjKBpLnD0b0BTo/s1600/Mark+at+treeline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJl7MO2SdQruRqZA69aOw6FzgiwMtoT1u-nzUun0AR0ewiamckSiehvPzCRo-e6mhkBF_HXJDLIyriFZ_XEMRfOe2zWGytfKgtREB2Wkfk5UzO7QBPsinqrWemtQi6MWjKBpLnD0b0BTo/s320/Mark+at+treeline.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We reach Treeline</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Treeline in the mountains is the elevation where the combination of wind and cold temperature result in such a brief growing season that trees can not establish a foothold. This elevation varies depending on the mountain and the weather patterns. For the mountain hiker, reaching treeline is both an achievement and a glorious gift. When you break out above treeline the world suddenly explodes into the distance. While hiking among the thick spruces the boundaries of your horizons are measured in a few feet. When you step into the open above treeline, your horizons suddenly leap out for many, many miles. So sudden is this that it hits you viscerally and some people can actually experience vertigo at the sudden experience of being very high with the world falling away from them. For me it is one of the greatest thrills in life, and I was very curious how it would strike Mark. The look on his face and the exclamation “Wow” he made was very gratifying for me, maybe he would fall in love with mountain hiking after all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1YnSJ-ChVuUC_x8MByiofOpmdc6jftT9TiMKu4b9cg_irfKkNsRWtaF-nLcvgFWrAGclplSGteTkrJga7Q1zenLsOkdLkQJWybW03B_Tfkg4LddBG1lcO8n9iLLX9mUFyum9KtT3vh21/s1600/Looking+west.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1YnSJ-ChVuUC_x8MByiofOpmdc6jftT9TiMKu4b9cg_irfKkNsRWtaF-nLcvgFWrAGclplSGteTkrJga7Q1zenLsOkdLkQJWybW03B_Tfkg4LddBG1lcO8n9iLLX9mUFyum9KtT3vh21/s320/Looking+west.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking west. The Bonds and the Twins dominate the horizon.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGIbvJ_cJiXNcPVqM1kBU3cOrKLb33a4LSfgeTtwGX1p9gSgU5z3oSmVU_7Skdy6IUM02ukckUym5jRuuMWTTPdCPlFg2wz-fGjcqpeYSP75YSsyIHGwing7HoV6SuSrZNqA6r4eLJzMm/s1600/View+to+Vermont.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGIbvJ_cJiXNcPVqM1kBU3cOrKLb33a4LSfgeTtwGX1p9gSgU5z3oSmVU_7Skdy6IUM02ukckUym5jRuuMWTTPdCPlFg2wz-fGjcqpeYSP75YSsyIHGwing7HoV6SuSrZNqA6r4eLJzMm/s320/View+to+Vermont.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vermont in the far distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where we now stood we were still sheltered from the wind by the ridge ahead of us. But a few forceful swirls were reaching us and the sound of the wind ahead was impressive. We stopped for a few photos and to put more clothing on in anticipation of cresting the ridge and facing the wind’s fury. Now prepared, we continued onward. When we did crest the ridge the wind was blowing a steady 30 mph and gusting to easily 50 mph or more. It would get worse when we approached the summit. The ridge we were on still had some scrub on it and the snow had made the trail difficult to discern. There were many tracks wandering about but we could see Mt Pierce’s summit looming ahead so we headed in its general direction and made our own path. As we hiked along we descended briefly into a fold in the mountains side and were once again sheltered from the wind. It was the home stretch now for Mt Pierce’s summit.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPd3iWi7LsNiDAqlPW8c-H-oIdLERUNeZn1Rw4Mn-kKx_hiRDY_8tU2NehjBXP91Cy50XJ17aDOIx6MlHLGrXGnooJW-HY01QjPGK6q2cqb-TSgxAaX5vzr694C3Dl2kjd0g1ithhEVzNV/s1600/Washington+comes+in+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPd3iWi7LsNiDAqlPW8c-H-oIdLERUNeZn1Rw4Mn-kKx_hiRDY_8tU2NehjBXP91Cy50XJ17aDOIx6MlHLGrXGnooJW-HY01QjPGK6q2cqb-TSgxAaX5vzr694C3Dl2kjd0g1ithhEVzNV/s320/Washington+comes+in+view.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pierce summit comes into view with a snow clad Washington behind</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">We found a track broken out by other hikers before us and we silently thanked them for making our way easier. Following this track we soon climbed to the big broad summit of Pierce. It was here we really felt just how strong the winds were. A steady 50 mph was frequently ratcheted up to gusts exceeding 70 mph. Often we were buffeted and knocked sideways, stumbling several feet in an unexpected direction before regaining control. Well, Mark was getting a proper introduction to winter in the Whites, that was certain. <st1:place w:st="on">Mount Washington</st1:place> loomed to the east, dazzlingly white and majestic, to the northeast the rest of the Presidentials were strung out ahead of us. Westward we could see well into <st1:state w:st="on">Vermont</st1:state> and to our west as well stood Franconia Ridge with <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Lafayette</st1:placename></st1:place> standing proud. Eisenhower stood before and above us about a mile and a half away but I knew we would not be visiting that summit today. The winds would certainly be even worse there. Earlier we had run into other hikers who had tried getting to Eisenhower’s summit. They told us they had been forced to crawl on hands and knees because of the ferocious winds and had turned back short of the top. I might have tried it on my own but it would have been irresponsible to take Mark into that level of risk, and of course I had promised Mark’s mom Mary that I would bring him (and all of his body parts, she was very specific about that) home safely. Lenticular clouds were also starting to form above the peaks and foul weather seemed in the offing, so Eisenhower would have to wait for another day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzyO1b6t2lmQ5yhXNu1-st4OcXe65ayNkTRO01bXgKW8uTLFd9n1Dd7DMaXLAKUUoN9iw8HVcdc0DbnSxHLXfy2ttSlNfSeyLWu1iWHSoIbG829VUQk-TBbINUCybI2-f9nz7OPz45iG3b/s1600/Mark+in+the+wind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzyO1b6t2lmQ5yhXNu1-st4OcXe65ayNkTRO01bXgKW8uTLFd9n1Dd7DMaXLAKUUoN9iw8HVcdc0DbnSxHLXfy2ttSlNfSeyLWu1iWHSoIbG829VUQk-TBbINUCybI2-f9nz7OPz45iG3b/s320/Mark+in+the+wind.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark leans into hurricane force gusts just below Pierce's summit</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0cX8rmQIDZtxeLgfaOaveqetTKzM5CFO3rPmE8YI_mvQ25VRy_5t5yK5_ORu3ZCfj3waATEYgfsoxnenIWXzT-UtoIseaMqVYN5rpYrOWAATtd6jcKs45iUSh9qjSI16nDHlxLM_2lqe/s1600/Washington+and+presis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0cX8rmQIDZtxeLgfaOaveqetTKzM5CFO3rPmE8YI_mvQ25VRy_5t5yK5_ORu3ZCfj3waATEYgfsoxnenIWXzT-UtoIseaMqVYN5rpYrOWAATtd6jcKs45iUSh9qjSI16nDHlxLM_2lqe/s320/Washington+and+presis.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Washington and the southern Presidentials seen from summit of Pierce</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjah0Qb8grhtBX684S2L9CPf9I7_iKEiPLfcz-F8_s_ulhRyTG2HEQmUtwHvPgaDjqfXQSORhuSI1TIf034h3GsKJGSwlCmuXWCysCK-UxtIAFiJJd5aMaxrZgOCGxbdt_yS0C5A_kjxoFF/s1600/Mark+and+the+Presis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjah0Qb8grhtBX684S2L9CPf9I7_iKEiPLfcz-F8_s_ulhRyTG2HEQmUtwHvPgaDjqfXQSORhuSI1TIf034h3GsKJGSwlCmuXWCysCK-UxtIAFiJJd5aMaxrZgOCGxbdt_yS0C5A_kjxoFF/s320/Mark+and+the+Presis.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark summits his first 4,000 ft White Mountain, Mt Pierce summit</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">After taking a few pictures we headed back along Crawford Path, or at least somewhere in its general vicinity since the snow had obliterated any obvious signs of the trail. Mark had his first 4,000 footer under his belt but I wanted to show him more of the Whites. When we had descended all the way back to the junction with Mizpah Cutoff we stopped for lunch. I proposed to Mark that we head up Mizpah Cutoff and visit the Mizpah Spring hut on the flank of Pierce. It was closed for winter but he had not yet seen one of these wonderful mountain cabins. So we would have lunch here then head on up. I have always taken very simple food when I hike. Trail mix, energy bars, fruit, chocolate, etc. Simple high calorie stuff, and today was no exception. Certainly I brought nothing even resembling prepared food. This was not Mark’s expectation of lunch however. When I pulled the bag of trail mix and granola bars out of my pack he looked ruefully at the contents and dryly remarked, “So no lunch, huh?” That is when it hit me that any future hikes with the lad would have to have a better menu.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PgZUycJjL7tu9ajLHi_nd40cc0l8pPWqZzJTQKFDpBmF0wt9T-tu021pcF95YrJ4ja6D7Q3eAuy8zg5yfyb4JETmPvn20zTkrBVREWHD5FgygVU1F5QwfeGQjLpEk9Yfos7M5WhcVXQn/s1600/Gray+Jay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PgZUycJjL7tu9ajLHi_nd40cc0l8pPWqZzJTQKFDpBmF0wt9T-tu021pcF95YrJ4ja6D7Q3eAuy8zg5yfyb4JETmPvn20zTkrBVREWHD5FgygVU1F5QwfeGQjLpEk9Yfos7M5WhcVXQn/s320/Gray+Jay.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark wasn't thrilled by my lunch menu but a Gray Jay seems well satisfied</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">After what was a disappointing lunch for Mark, though he did get to feed a Gray Jay some nuts, we headed up Mizpah Cutoff. At first we had a clear track to follow but soon it became evident that the many previous hikers had been wandering about trying to find the trail. So, there was no trail to follow and the snow was covered with a myriad of confused tracks leading in all directions. We went along in the general direction of the hut, but after much wandering about among thick spruces, we had not found it and the daylight would soon be failing. It was time to head back down, but I had to go slowly trying to stay on course. At one point I had to resort to getting on my hands and knees to closely study the snow for my previous crampon marks so we could exit the way we had come up. I was a little anxious about getting too sidetracked and having to hike out in the dark, not something I fear doing but it does make injury more likely. We eventually found our way back to the Crawford Path and headed down the well trodden snow ramp on “cruise control.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz94u5KA6h3Q2qLdsOhEzzsFsA2t2l1d0In3xyJkepxDpaCs0waiSbv-AMxthHlB2_81dBjMILWE-wuTXqavvTXY6qcSUhtXXkuZmESAB5mdLTu8_TMbFa3ubtuS3hW51f020FuLkNgWbU/s1600/Bushwacking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz94u5KA6h3Q2qLdsOhEzzsFsA2t2l1d0In3xyJkepxDpaCs0waiSbv-AMxthHlB2_81dBjMILWE-wuTXqavvTXY6qcSUhtXXkuZmESAB5mdLTu8_TMbFa3ubtuS3hW51f020FuLkNgWbU/s320/Bushwacking.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bushwacking on the search for Mizpah Hut</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEYJGlXhDXIS0Gu5O_2u1v5oY-eIknUJXYF1B5KSnQRrKtsQO9Zpzjed3IugQ5oKtP2pBp34-t0m5ARpfnNeHNnnJ1ujotI5PSut1jdcihweTAni0Hp2kZdnhCdDOKiH1gcRikN9lt8DJ/s1600/Lenticular+clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEYJGlXhDXIS0Gu5O_2u1v5oY-eIknUJXYF1B5KSnQRrKtsQO9Zpzjed3IugQ5oKtP2pBp34-t0m5ARpfnNeHNnnJ1ujotI5PSut1jdcihweTAni0Hp2kZdnhCdDOKiH1gcRikN9lt8DJ/s320/Lenticular+clouds.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lenticular clouds form over the mountains</td></tr>
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</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">It had been a day of firsts for Mark and it had been a good day all the way around. Mark had enjoyed the hike and felt the accomplishment as I had hoped. I had truly enjoyed doing this for him and with him. It looked very much like he would want to do this again, which made me feel very happy indeed. He had done very well and had out-hiked many adults I have hiked with before. I was impressed with him I was definitely proud of him. It was getting late and the light was fading fast as we neared the trail’s end. Before the long drive home, we would be dining at Moat Mountain Brewery in <st1:place w:st="on">North Conway</st1:place>, as I had done with his mom the year before. Warmth, a comfortable chair, and good food awaited both of us, not to mention the excellent ale that awaited me. Mark will have to wait a few years before celebrating a <st1:place w:st="on">White Mountain</st1:place> hike with Iron Mike’s Pale Ale, but I don't think that bothers him right now. It had been a good trip, and I would be bringing Mark and all his body parts home safely as promised, with a bunch of good memories to boot.</span>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-34053425352015836262010-02-02T19:03:00.007-05:002010-02-03T00:03:10.801-05:00In Our Nature<i>Who do we become</i><br />
<i>Without knowing where</i><br />
<i>We started from</i><br />
<br />
From "Silent House" by the Dixie Chicks<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIT-USc68hoJDwjuds4pnut67B04P5r4lCmSeSX8h_YsVaYiA7piyCZNNMgKfaQ6A4PGkgM2IuvKcS-2X08FVouJqWzbHdUB20kLTQWdjtSopl6AKXJBhyphenhyphenw6LG7QquvApW7tMBqvXVZIcv/s1600-h/Fractures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIT-USc68hoJDwjuds4pnut67B04P5r4lCmSeSX8h_YsVaYiA7piyCZNNMgKfaQ6A4PGkgM2IuvKcS-2X08FVouJqWzbHdUB20kLTQWdjtSopl6AKXJBhyphenhyphenw6LG7QquvApW7tMBqvXVZIcv/s320/Fractures.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Fractures and splinters in the bones of the earth </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A hollow sound reverberated and a slight shudder ran up my leg as my boot struck the frost riddled ground. This was my third hike at Westwoodsin Guilford, Connecticut and I had just started down the Orange Trail. The feeling in my leg and the hollow thud both filled me with a feeling of belonging and connectedness. This feeling is an old friend of mine, I have had it as long as I can remember. As I walked through the forest and breathed in the cool January air, I reflected on what it means to me to immerse myself in nature. I am not a religious person, yet every hike, every time I kayak, every mountain I climb, every wildlife encounter, is spiritual for me. This essay is about our own nature, and how we embrace it to our great joy, or spurn it to the diminishing of our being.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpAD6Uyb7wwaxkxEsmFJRJbZJtu_i1LyGhX8p2Ps4WfuD9OdIB638IkdVhjGrsKDklEYWgat-xJmtuTxjQx6D4LQ5eeSPO_IFTCHDttXzaYGceIutB0sNrFxfl2OedaYUtyhq5deo8Or4/s1600-h/MeWashington81982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpAD6Uyb7wwaxkxEsmFJRJbZJtu_i1LyGhX8p2Ps4WfuD9OdIB638IkdVhjGrsKDklEYWgat-xJmtuTxjQx6D4LQ5eeSPO_IFTCHDttXzaYGceIutB0sNrFxfl2OedaYUtyhq5deo8Or4/s320/MeWashington81982.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Me climbing Mt. Washington in 1982</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As long as can remember I have sought the out-of-doors. It was, and still is, my refuge from life's slings and arrows, as well as simply being the best place to be. I vividly remember lying on a grassy hillside, when I was 12 or 13 years old, on a cool March day and nestling down where the chilling breeze couldn't reach me but the sun's warm rays could gently bake me. The feeling of well being this wonderful experience created in me is still fresh in my memory these many years later. It is that feeling of well being that I still seek in the woods today. Nowadays I tend to spend a little less time lying in the sun and more time hiking vigorously along trails. Time is bit more precious to me now and I love the feeling of blood coursing through me and the thump-th-thump of my heart pumping hard. As I walk along I love to run my hands across the bark of trees or the lichen painted surface of stone. It is as sensual to me as the feel of a lover's face, and indeed it has been a lifelong love affair for me. The aromas of the forests also fill me with a feeling of being at home and at peace. The smell of damp earth never fails to awaken a very primitive feeling of serenity in me. Sometimes I just have to stop and breathe in the rich smells that hang in the sylvan air. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7WecKHX6JBs0Ua-Sr6JujuJOmM9Yf6Wh3qKIwagScl6Th2A9jfgp7l9QPEaSH69AArdFf8yMMnR2ArguPhab2W7TQCwqxhubYFPZq_lr91LWC6UKu9Sx7GBupiO1aSaZsgAkEUoYDB4M/s1600-h/ButterflyonTurksCap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7WecKHX6JBs0Ua-Sr6JujuJOmM9Yf6Wh3qKIwagScl6Th2A9jfgp7l9QPEaSH69AArdFf8yMMnR2ArguPhab2W7TQCwqxhubYFPZq_lr91LWC6UKu9Sx7GBupiO1aSaZsgAkEUoYDB4M/s320/ButterflyonTurksCap.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Spicebush Swallowtail on Turks-cap Lilly</div><br />
All things of natural beauty are captivating and exciting for me. I do appreciate those works of man that have a certain inherent beauty, such as a beautifully designed bridge. But the bridge will never be as beautiful to me as the gorge it spans. Last summer I was hunting dragonflies to photograph in Pachaug State Forest in Voluntown, Connecticut when I came across a Spicebush Swallowtail butterfly taking nectar from a Turk's-cap Lilly. The perfect beauty of the image stopped me in my tracks. It is little discoveries such as this that fill me with wonder and awe at what has come to be on this planet or ours. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuMyu7F2VcdfZCYcruziYRpRY1b7XSKI6pSmcYEOX3d2Sf-WNLIOAdjldJlkuqsU_98nYJD2I6YXLu1qDfFDrgtzOO8AA1tuggL-wYLDGRBWbgnIs2fvKkkrt7sjq5YES2X6lzUuEeM2U/s1600-h/ChineyPondBaxter71990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuMyu7F2VcdfZCYcruziYRpRY1b7XSKI6pSmcYEOX3d2Sf-WNLIOAdjldJlkuqsU_98nYJD2I6YXLu1qDfFDrgtzOO8AA1tuggL-wYLDGRBWbgnIs2fvKkkrt7sjq5YES2X6lzUuEeM2U/s320/ChineyPondBaxter71990.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Chimney Pond with the famous "Knife Edge" behind. Baxter State Park, Maine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I grew to an adult, I started to travel to see the wonders that lay out there beyond my home state of Connecticut. I discovered the lure of hiking in the mountains when I was in my twenties. What I did not expect to find was the friendliness of those kindred souls on the montane trails. It seemed to me that nearly every person you encountered broke out a hearty smile when they passed you. There was something about hiking in the mountains that made these people happy to encounter other hikers and more than willing to take time to meet other hikers. You will very rarely find people smiling at you as they pass you in a supermarket as I'm sure you are aware, and try and stop to introduce yourself to someone in the produce aisle. Odds are you will be met with a a wary eye! Yet this shared experience of being on a mountain side made people more friendly, more optimistic, happier somehow. This despite the obvious physical demands that such hiking requires and the fatigue it creates. This is simply because hiking is healthy for body and mind. The benefit we reap from spending time in the natural world can not be denied.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDWkEAg5yJ9gr7V9274cg8DKz_xjXdY5jeGWIwxlJ46eSpZa5QgTqAg7AEPUKGlkWwCseqFw1tumX4IVkjbg_fpssyuRT3QMl_PGCI3dkqCZWUBlhMBBsy423-1IQlFiRaiQ61NOubHWuc/s1600-h/KnifeEdge71990a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDWkEAg5yJ9gr7V9274cg8DKz_xjXdY5jeGWIwxlJ46eSpZa5QgTqAg7AEPUKGlkWwCseqFw1tumX4IVkjbg_fpssyuRT3QMl_PGCI3dkqCZWUBlhMBBsy423-1IQlFiRaiQ61NOubHWuc/s320/KnifeEdge71990a.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The "Knife Edge" Trail</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So what is it that makes people feel better when they are outdoors? I believe it is being true to our nature. When we are outdoors we are where we came from, where we started from. We are all creatures of this planet, just as are the birds, the insects, and all the fascinating creatures that share this world with us. However it seems to me that somehow we are losing our way. We as a species seem to think we are above nature, that we have mastered it and are somehow disconnected from it. This is surely dangerous folly if you ask me. Without our natural world, we are little more than passengers on a vessel that can only support us for a very finite time. We seem to have forgotten where we started from. This is a failing with dire consequences for us. But all hope is not yet lost. I have always said that you never fail until you stop trying. I have tried to set an example of respect for our world for my children to see. Our children become us, so we should live our lives as we hope our children will live theirs. It does not matter what you say to children, it matters what they see you do. Remember they are always watching and see far more than we like to think they see.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxQ3p0PScv9hCzmhC4Dv-dWN2YjraMDGIX1LI3dhdezGZrnVGR1kNcrDCMO7Tal8f9MC6AZaluUr97jTg0XFWSRBJAlEHlwslOM9lItNJmpUhT0ztyyHY2rGG90zmfTA63wqw_Csm9w2V/s1600-h/IanKarlyMeMtWilliard81990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxQ3p0PScv9hCzmhC4Dv-dWN2YjraMDGIX1LI3dhdezGZrnVGR1kNcrDCMO7Tal8f9MC6AZaluUr97jTg0XFWSRBJAlEHlwslOM9lItNJmpUhT0ztyyHY2rGG90zmfTA63wqw_Csm9w2V/s320/IanKarlyMeMtWilliard81990.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My son Ian, daughter Karly, and me on Mt. Willard, New Hampshire. 1990 </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">In spending much of my life outside, I eventually fell under the spell of birds. Birds have long intrigued human beings. Their ability to fly was pure magic to us and filled us with wonder. Surely these were creatures in some way favored by the gods. To have such a freedom bestowed upon them! For me, birds are the perfect embodiment of natural beauty. Their songs fill our world with the sweetest and sometimes unearthly music. The exquisite sound of a Wood Thrush singing can not be described. I am arrested in my tracks by the first Wood Thrush song each spring as surely as if a mythological siren had enchanted me. Yet the color of the Wood Thrush is a subtle reddish brown, to blend with the forest it haunts. I have never been greatly impressed with "enhanced" beauty and I am much more attracted to a women who uses very little make-up than to one that treats her face as an art project! Some of the most beautiful things, or women, that I have ever seen are subtle in their "plumage."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8ByjrT6ieouJaMSKyw0L5U_kl_X5I9WV5xN9jvx8eRICE5I6y_AKaX0ajNdfyNyDR2625gxWX4NgnErMUvVg7__M9FBZhT1FDAp82CPcBpgMSrzGP6d1y1iHYP_DkyoMal4RAR9fs9Bc/s1600-h/WilsonSnipe1Man695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8ByjrT6ieouJaMSKyw0L5U_kl_X5I9WV5xN9jvx8eRICE5I6y_AKaX0ajNdfyNyDR2625gxWX4NgnErMUvVg7__M9FBZhT1FDAp82CPcBpgMSrzGP6d1y1iHYP_DkyoMal4RAR9fs9Bc/s320/WilsonSnipe1Man695.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The subtle beauty of a Wilson's Snipe...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal7f87CLDBKxlbysH-aJy1B1tut1Ho2OypQ66mRE1sXkUtBCivW2lo9AL55fOHSMU3kKuJ93jXQ16EtyaW9xco-RX_tw0GiLm0hJfKTRgdo8xxY-J5W46fUEA1__vLZboM1KdGjkQm0dP/s1600-h/Hackberry+Emperor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal7f87CLDBKxlbysH-aJy1B1tut1Ho2OypQ66mRE1sXkUtBCivW2lo9AL55fOHSMU3kKuJ93jXQ16EtyaW9xco-RX_tw0GiLm0hJfKTRgdo8xxY-J5W46fUEA1__vLZboM1KdGjkQm0dP/s320/Hackberry+Emperor.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and the subtle beauty of a Hackberry Emperor...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yet this does not mean I am immune to the allure of fancy dress! It can not be denied that species like Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Roseate Spoonbills, and Atlantic Puffins are truly impressive beauties in all their gaudy splendor. Of course they were hatched with it, it wasn't applied with a brush or a pad.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNnpGsup34dNjQHlucdJ-xb4QJFG8mNaVWP2GrWDwE0r5_iAVxIxK3UhaYWgLU59JM1lhw2KD9IZQLNGR5ekiEoy94Vx26fNxWpqKnxfA5Z9__cxHHVJQvPKjpOMkWEFFOsJRfYy91D8d/s1600-h/PuffinandHerring71990Machias.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNnpGsup34dNjQHlucdJ-xb4QJFG8mNaVWP2GrWDwE0r5_iAVxIxK3UhaYWgLU59JM1lhw2KD9IZQLNGR5ekiEoy94Vx26fNxWpqKnxfA5Z9__cxHHVJQvPKjpOMkWEFFOsJRfYy91D8d/s320/PuffinandHerring71990Machias.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Atlantic Puffin with food for its chicks </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> We enrich and recharge our spirits when we immerse ourselves in the beauty of our world. There are wonders to be seen every day and on every scale. From the delicate beauty of a butterfly to the massive form of a bull moose. All of these things can fill us with a joy and contentment that can not be had from staying inside and watching television or playing video games. John Muir called Yosemite Valley a cathedral. He was right. We humans can not improve on what has been wrought in the crucible of time. Still, more and more people are failing to go outdoors these days. As the song says, "Who do we become, Without knowing where, We started from?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXPl9Kw_ScICRM6hnnj0RdRk5gkmAadlDJbYeTJ4-Wq1kkyS6Ybb9fWXOc0QdeD88y1kVvC3LKeqUR8fjmq4rWduiQJx83bHnZhOwz3H-f4DTiCtZ3iFWm2g2P1n1Biijrth6bjnEcDiZ/s1600-h/Luna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXPl9Kw_ScICRM6hnnj0RdRk5gkmAadlDJbYeTJ4-Wq1kkyS6Ybb9fWXOc0QdeD88y1kVvC3LKeqUR8fjmq4rWduiQJx83bHnZhOwz3H-f4DTiCtZ3iFWm2g2P1n1Biijrth6bjnEcDiZ/s320/Luna.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The delicate beauty of a Luna Moth... </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas7zKr24z7zEcogIyq0EdSZVghxRKjmTr7ptGwSOjhMvgHa6BdmLBuGH7ldS1gr2_cqolATfwPn8SL835OPRm7CljYLXK7XFthyphenhyphenIhXla74yEsKOEG2iVAQcB7bEJsZ59fhdvqSeDjT23j/s1600-h/MooseBaxter71990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas7zKr24z7zEcogIyq0EdSZVghxRKjmTr7ptGwSOjhMvgHa6BdmLBuGH7ldS1gr2_cqolATfwPn8SL835OPRm7CljYLXK7XFthyphenhyphenIhXla74yEsKOEG2iVAQcB7bEJsZ59fhdvqSeDjT23j/s320/MooseBaxter71990.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and the powerful beauty of a Bull Moose.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Where our society goes as it strays further and further form its origins is of concern to me. I do believe that respecting nature, experiencing nature, sharing the natural world, makes us better and more civil individuals. I do not understand why there is so much negativity in our culture these days. I do not watch reality television, or at least very little. I can not stand to watch people screaming at one another and viciously denigrating each other. How is that healthy? How is that good for kids to see? Why our we abrogating the responsibility of role modeling to television? Years ago I was paddling my canoe across Jordan Pond in Acadia National Park in Maine. The pond was crystal clear and you could see stones on the bottom 40 feet down like they were two feet away. As I marveled at the purity of the water, a Common Loon swam by underneath me. The bird was at least twenty feet down and the sight was fabulous. I truly felt a thrill and I can not tell you how marvelous that experience was for me, a life gift indeed. I have never felt that way watching television or sitting at my desk at work, I can tell you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqahyKlXbmZBbIVfjjVR9wa9nW1vJiHTjOeZGJWe619mNPq5n4671GM3Y5LK2fFXidOUUKPzbrAjqZyXdA3Y7YQQCiCSAzQkBOAgwOp-_nQLt4k9bXdNwE9ZG8B2RLVuJjI8VoLZvxUUCc/s1600-h/JordanPondMaine71990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqahyKlXbmZBbIVfjjVR9wa9nW1vJiHTjOeZGJWe619mNPq5n4671GM3Y5LK2fFXidOUUKPzbrAjqZyXdA3Y7YQQCiCSAzQkBOAgwOp-_nQLt4k9bXdNwE9ZG8B2RLVuJjI8VoLZvxUUCc/s320/JordanPondMaine71990.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Jordan Pond, Acadia National Park, Maine</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmeMxItlfkysXMG83-4jR-Jdtu19qY7DDpHArWtgE4oihP2eexj_Js0U_YU7Tg0bQFoR8n_1FZMemcISneZCadLdXw769x-rtcDCl-0ZSWSJI9iVb-DcaRfDHBZAd09k-_yAMyYNVWwBvy/s1600-h/Maine+Rainbow+71990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmeMxItlfkysXMG83-4jR-Jdtu19qY7DDpHArWtgE4oihP2eexj_Js0U_YU7Tg0bQFoR8n_1FZMemcISneZCadLdXw769x-rtcDCl-0ZSWSJI9iVb-DcaRfDHBZAd09k-_yAMyYNVWwBvy/s320/Maine+Rainbow+71990.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Rainbow on the coast of Maine </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Life has had many up and downs for me. Through all the triumphs and defeats, my love of nature has remained constant. My feeling of connectedness and belonging has only grown stronger. That feeling of my hiking boot striking frost heaved ground on that Westwoods trail said "welcome home Dave" to me. It made me smile, it eased some pain. We never know where our lives will take us, but we must never let life allow us to forget where we started from. And we must never allow ourselves to disrespect the world we depend upon and that holds such indescribable and irreplaceable marvels. I'm not as young as I used to be, my mind often tells me to do things that my body can't deliver on any more, despite being a pretty darn fit guy for a 51 year old. Happily my love of the natural world, and my connectedness to it, remains hale and healthy. As I have said before, life should be a shared experience. And it should be spent outdoors. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QJ-xhiL0SkGOxCMVNurFLS9Fh6MjCo2UkgYsd8M2F-Ktk_aGx_UYg50QLIsfNewHhy7PLFPNqm4gT5ys8vW7OFBflt4v_N3xA7tjpcelCk0LcxmMoGOrje4DnX2k41iPTo5hxnhcFMWl/s1600-h/Me+in+Canoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QJ-xhiL0SkGOxCMVNurFLS9Fh6MjCo2UkgYsd8M2F-Ktk_aGx_UYg50QLIsfNewHhy7PLFPNqm4gT5ys8vW7OFBflt4v_N3xA7tjpcelCk0LcxmMoGOrje4DnX2k41iPTo5hxnhcFMWl/s320/Me+in+Canoe.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">On Wordens Pond in southern Rhode Island, 2009. Thank you Mary.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbatRY4MJLs8FqVWRz9SBnMgJDp9dOvQGVcTlepQoBZZdv6b8RweD0br8up_hILzRD1AHbiPmkF10BAzOk5XJqC5pY6r1UUCWDyzooy4wTm61-jNIeu1WZgYAmXI4OkVWbOBxGr24envu/s1600-h/Sunset1152010CT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbatRY4MJLs8FqVWRz9SBnMgJDp9dOvQGVcTlepQoBZZdv6b8RweD0br8up_hILzRD1AHbiPmkF10BAzOk5XJqC5pY6r1UUCWDyzooy4wTm61-jNIeu1WZgYAmXI4OkVWbOBxGr24envu/s320/Sunset1152010CT.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sunset on my 51st birthday, January 2010. Norwich, Connecticut. A nice present shared with my daughter.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-74887283428129116362010-01-30T14:54:00.028-05:002010-02-01T18:50:02.846-05:00Ice Sculptures<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Wake up, put your shoes on,</span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Take a breath of the northern air</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">And rub those eyes,</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Genuflect beneath the starry skies,</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Before you climb the mountain,</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The foothills must appear</span><br /><br />From "Smile" by the Jayhawks<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBxJmp_VQss5c6stHN_2EbQbiXjbDZarMoQnh_JlJcJow8bX48F8q0znJe5fBwv7aZ3WfxCqFUO06Y2oHFyvPcIiVMG1oY3pom5UYlYRpDEUBjlj05Mvlka5ejkA3688ByPMgPt1r9IJK/s1600-h/Ice+Crystals+on+brook.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432624208797802946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBxJmp_VQss5c6stHN_2EbQbiXjbDZarMoQnh_JlJcJow8bX48F8q0znJe5fBwv7aZ3WfxCqFUO06Y2oHFyvPcIiVMG1oY3pom5UYlYRpDEUBjlj05Mvlka5ejkA3688ByPMgPt1r9IJK/s400/Ice+Crystals+on+brook.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Crystals formed in the thin ice sheet on a brook in Westwoods Preserve</p><p class="MsoNormal">It was my third of four trips to Westwoods Preserve in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Guilford</st1:city> <st1:state st="on">Connecticut</st1:state></st1:place>. I was hiking with a beautiful young lady named Jasmine. She clearly wasn’t happy about it however. I wasn’t the man she started the hike with you see, and I had only met her two hours ago. Still walking with a beautiful companion is better than walking alone if you ask me. How did we briefly become hiking partners? Well let me start earlier in the season.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It is part of human nature to think that we must travel far to find interesting and wonderful places. Sometimes that is actually true. Sometimes it isn’t. A good friend of mine, Mike, told me in late November of a preserved open space in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Guilford</st1:city> <st1:state st="on">Connecticut</st1:state></st1:place> named Westwoods. His evocative description spoke of caves, ledges, boulders, brooks, and challenging terrain. I was instantly intrigued and resolved to explore this place as soon as possible.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjho2gD1J4NkIPbD6v83BQfsvgdHBXLUy-KByKWP9ka6EICQoUdF197ZM79UGZitHngLcJYGHuMipzOpQpvEay2XeyJbxGQCLOfL9p-De449Nw0zhwUJu6gVxK_flsdldpV6lwk7T4BjyqG/s1600-h/Orange+Trail+enters+rubble.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432626281406454898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjho2gD1J4NkIPbD6v83BQfsvgdHBXLUy-KByKWP9ka6EICQoUdF197ZM79UGZitHngLcJYGHuMipzOpQpvEay2XeyJbxGQCLOfL9p-De449Nw0zhwUJu6gVxK_flsdldpV6lwk7T4BjyqG/s400/Orange+Trail+enters+rubble.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Orange Trail enters rubble</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">On December 11<sup>th</sup> I got my chance. I had a few hours to spare and drove down to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Guilford</st1:city></st1:place>. The trail system at Westwoods is nearly 40 miles long. It is blazed with a well thought out system of shapes and colors. A map is essential and they can be obtained at several locations in the area. One such location is the excellent farm store on Route 1 run by Bishop’s Orchard. I obtained a map at the store, as well as some delicious produce for after the hike, and I drove to the nearby <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Peddlers Road</st1:address></st1:street> trailhead. All my visits would start at this easily reached trailhead.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKOBlvHk7xorFn6POLq_F7LLQ0xygBpTzDp5xAiwJLuRioDYb9zmgPU_Dmst4px3N7KMOWkjjQEv1pK-c4HVLEEQfPpwQGn3nZl0Lnhqscul_uRH-3RxhUdhVx5A4ati1EjaepLiqak_y/s1600-h/Blazes.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 284px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432627546861190914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKOBlvHk7xorFn6POLq_F7LLQ0xygBpTzDp5xAiwJLuRioDYb9zmgPU_Dmst4px3N7KMOWkjjQEv1pK-c4HVLEEQfPpwQGn3nZl0Lnhqscul_uRH-3RxhUdhVx5A4ati1EjaepLiqak_y/s400/Blazes.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Blazes. The system used in Westwoods is well thought out and useful.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">While I did not have enough time for a proper hike I <span style="font-size:0;"></span>did have time to explore enough to decide if it would be a good place to bring my youngest daughter for a walk. Heading in on the white trail I soon descended to a wooded swamp where a plank walkway has been constructed. Crossing this long walkway I soon became aware the swamp was full of the sounds of American Robins and one Hermit Thrush. Most people believe Robins are the first bird of Spring when they show up on our lawns in March. The reality is many Robins are still around in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Connecticut</st1:place></st1:state> during the winter. They are found in flocks that often forage wooded swamps, fields, and cedar woodlands. It is only as nesting time approaches that we find them once again pulling worms out of our lawns.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8naN4u06qeApXuPaccDAdyzXUW2Qmj16JBPoZpi9is_ZjOdc51PFQovTfkgQ_Y2E-swp_2k7V63H4LVWZOA85Z-zFK465UPO2Ggp8H3xyR8kzhNIi_-TrzGdWbZcj99GmOgHclzy0gOB4/s1600-h/Plank+Walk.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432628718728438978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8naN4u06qeApXuPaccDAdyzXUW2Qmj16JBPoZpi9is_ZjOdc51PFQovTfkgQ_Y2E-swp_2k7V63H4LVWZOA85Z-zFK465UPO2Ggp8H3xyR8kzhNIi_-TrzGdWbZcj99GmOgHclzy0gOB4/s400/Plank+Walk.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Plank walk through wooded swamp on White Trail<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">As I reached the far side of the plank walkway two trails split off from the white trail and all three trails headed uphill. I chose the left hand trail which was blazed as the main orange trail of the system. It took no time at all before I was immersed in a world of dramatic rock ledges that were splintered and shattered into a fascinating and tumbled landscape. I knew at once that I would be bringing my daughter here.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Two days later I did. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>Janet and her friend Rachel accompanied me on my return trip. We headed in across the now frozen wooded swamp. It is impossible for kids to pass up an opportunity to break the ice if at all possible. It probably started with Cavemen. I can picture the children of our early ancestors smashing the first ice of the season while their parents watched with pride. Well that same tableau played out in 2009 as I watched Rachel stomp the ice along side the plank walk until the requisite sound of ice shattering was achieved and we could push on.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6vW-FRlAUU-nrgpEtbEXiagy2YEeuCYTWd3xZj1gbtdqo1VLqXq6J9eJV9KfSzXE702WdsSiukTCUaf0q6fdBwOyj9QL62B5CXSz6zFn7s0O34OwusE7BbMz5djlv09sLGDfE51eqMn_/s1600-h/Rachel+Stomps+Ice.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 325px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432629721201166594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6vW-FRlAUU-nrgpEtbEXiagy2YEeuCYTWd3xZj1gbtdqo1VLqXq6J9eJV9KfSzXE702WdsSiukTCUaf0q6fdBwOyj9QL62B5CXSz6zFn7s0O34OwusE7BbMz5djlv09sLGDfE51eqMn_/s400/Rachel+Stomps+Ice.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Rachel stomps the ice. What kid could resist?</p><p class="MsoNormal">Once again the orange trail was chosen and we headed into a world perfect for the enchantment of 11 year olds, and 50 years olds as well. The Westwoods landscape has to do with rock and water, or more specifically, rock and ice. I often tell Janet that patience is a virtue and something worth having is worth waiting for. Well ice has slowly, and you could say patiently, sculpted the face of <st1:place st="on">New England</st1:place> in very dramatic ways. The varied manner of that sculpting can be seen in the landscape of Westwoods. Let’s take a look at the wonderful way ice has made this patch of New England into a great place for hikers, naturalists, and of course, children to visit.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrug2ZgD7Jdon_Ix9FqPDfpBh4EoSZ8x8VZAglWOOIMLc4Bjqh0H920npaR5QyINLI-L4LEZMrSPgU39X9yxmjf3c7edx83SZg7a2W_L6lK58ZP9Wmo9XIQAJKeMdFf31GeKo3sex77rsy/s1600-h/Ice+extrusion.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432630220715221330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrug2ZgD7Jdon_Ix9FqPDfpBh4EoSZ8x8VZAglWOOIMLc4Bjqh0H920npaR5QyINLI-L4LEZMrSPgU39X9yxmjf3c7edx83SZg7a2W_L6lK58ZP9Wmo9XIQAJKeMdFf31GeKo3sex77rsy/s400/Ice+extrusion.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Ice columns extruded from the soil. As the ice froze it expanded and "grew" into beautiful little arches protruding from the mud.</p><p class="MsoNormal">One physical law we all learned in school is that when something is warmed it expands and when something is cooled it contracts. Water plays by its own rules however. When water in its liquid state cools it contracts, following the rules, until it hits about 4 degrees Celsius. As it cools beyond 4 degrees Celsius it starts to slightly expand. Then when it reaches the freezing point and solidifies into ice it expands by nearly ten percent! This expansion is impossible to resist since water is essentially non-compressible. So if water freezes in a confined space, such as within a crack in a ledge, that confined space is forced to become larger. So water freezing in a crack in rock makes the crack grow, and repeated thawings and re-freezings eventually splits the rock. Thus is hard rock broken and reduced by the mere presence of water freezing in its cracks. This process, over many centuries, has sculpted the face of New England. So it is at Westwoods.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczJ8I8EZ8ZFhfz3LCV_-EQSIXRlqz7RckLYkm4S6rak8xEL-EzPQCtThSAp-k7ZkUOkEolUC1bmHH3RNXCNMii3edaA8pofAedVmxhr2s73x88MSRCH2sI2zpEDvcyhtdvIhuQVlxY3vZ/s1600-h/Rachel+on+the+giant+splinter.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432634555547655826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczJ8I8EZ8ZFhfz3LCV_-EQSIXRlqz7RckLYkm4S6rak8xEL-EzPQCtThSAp-k7ZkUOkEolUC1bmHH3RNXCNMii3edaA8pofAedVmxhr2s73x88MSRCH2sI2zpEDvcyhtdvIhuQVlxY3vZ/s400/Rachel+on+the+giant+splinter.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Rachel rests on a giant stone splinter that has been split from a massive boulder.</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">The splitting of huge chunks of stone off the Westwoods rock ledges has created many a tumbled field of rubble and many gigantic standing stones. Some of the results of the random arrangements thus created are impressive overhangs, caves, and odd formations. If you hike the trails of Westwoods with children be prepared for the kids to leave the trails as they are drawn to explore these intriguing environs. Face it, you will not be able to easily stop them, and you shouldn't stop them if you ask me.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAklrEAM_TfuXNO62uz5ndlZN0ENyOppWKCirFzMd9ZlPjyWqoZxULKKvhqY6R_j3A0cIucpdz94zQcdxeTKOJ8Lu9iY7r6wA_6IrswspSIAGyGsQKqFziDg1m2F4_uw3fPtNDH9nhBq6t/s1600-h/Janet+and+Rachel+under+overhang.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432637997288330242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAklrEAM_TfuXNO62uz5ndlZN0ENyOppWKCirFzMd9ZlPjyWqoZxULKKvhqY6R_j3A0cIucpdz94zQcdxeTKOJ8Lu9iY7r6wA_6IrswspSIAGyGsQKqFziDg1m2F4_uw3fPtNDH9nhBq6t/s400/Janet+and+Rachel+under+overhang.jpg" /></a></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Janet and Rachel explore an overhang</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwLDkIBF3SMJvd6RbnPXgXpVCM8DvpRPuRruWsc7alD6wB_EpjuniAGrAkewIi9rWf4lp8Qx4eNsNn_MiSWotwFFTdq6mu0k2tY9mAFKlso-tY3LqZvLSqpgMwAFczFLfnppX0LDTGfCuW/s1600-h/Rachel+and+Janet+in+a+cave.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432639754833685474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwLDkIBF3SMJvd6RbnPXgXpVCM8DvpRPuRruWsc7alD6wB_EpjuniAGrAkewIi9rWf4lp8Qx4eNsNn_MiSWotwFFTdq6mu0k2tY9mAFKlso-tY3LqZvLSqpgMwAFczFLfnppX0LDTGfCuW/s400/Rachel+and+Janet+in+a+cave.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Rachel and Janet in a cave<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">The preserve is rife with ice sculpted formations. The trail map has points of interest marked on it and all are visited by the preserve's trails. It is not a short walk to visit all the points of interest, which is just how it should be in my opinion. Not only is this a wonderful place to see sparkling examples of geology but it is a perfect place for a long vigorous hike should you be so inclined, as I am!<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhjmiuQf_lvbBReOv58ml0L-fFKAjk6XjJLCYE4rWFGB3l_jZHYOVelpDnfZ5EujS_Iy7UM89F-O9FOmv3IkqF-xYHWKMSLogmYQwJFfozMQJeG71ckIcCi_umB9Tvby8xtSgVyHhiDyrf/s1600-h/Indian+Cave.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432640739351981410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhjmiuQf_lvbBReOv58ml0L-fFKAjk6XjJLCYE4rWFGB3l_jZHYOVelpDnfZ5EujS_Iy7UM89F-O9FOmv3IkqF-xYHWKMSLogmYQwJFfozMQJeG71ckIcCi_umB9Tvby8xtSgVyHhiDyrf/s400/Indian+Cave.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">A huge overhang forming an open cave named "Indian Cave"<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">Westwoods has a great deal of water. There are brooks, streams, wetlands, a lake, and a good deal of water that travels through the fissures and fractures in the ledges. This water had been freezing as it reached the exterior of the rock and many lovely drapes of ice and icicles were festooning the woodland. One overhang we came across was draped with icicles. There was room behind this crystal sheet for the girls to climb into, which of course they did, and I was able to take cool photos of both girls inside this "ice cave." The day Janet and Rachel joined me had started cloudy and cool and had finally yielded rain. We hiked back damp but happy. At one point the Orange Trail passes through a narrow slot formed by huge slabs of stone. This section reminds me very much of something you would expect to find in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was a day full of fun, and the girls and I really enjoyed ourselves. It is one of the great joys of my life to spend time with such wonderful kids, and time spent outside only makes it better.</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq0IToDxci-SKqtCtvrAAXRRg4J_ImT8WxaOHi8W1Wa2w4FMbRnjrgb2h9KQNanJVLH5t7o5axZx7yWPpyYlyj4eUpLOAbh6RnSLZBMYbhdEuKjIKour8HYhHUe0ZIlqzWKZ6RL0BelGNT/s1600-h/Janet+in+ice+cave.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 292px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432683786147528226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq0IToDxci-SKqtCtvrAAXRRg4J_ImT8WxaOHi8W1Wa2w4FMbRnjrgb2h9KQNanJVLH5t7o5axZx7yWPpyYlyj4eUpLOAbh6RnSLZBMYbhdEuKjIKour8HYhHUe0ZIlqzWKZ6RL0BelGNT/s400/Janet+in+ice+cave.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Janet in the "ice cave"</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFksYgqhACJEjpw_kAACAH0NtiuHkeQ50NUA1EOp9MmRG-4Cc85SbDzHLXbNN4FS5tFK8vVxyRK6u6F9A-dQ4vNrrMzwqdp0_U1IEHTL1bOABX9PkPRJvnOigJ-OGnRXwyT1lWgOUrVXJk/s1600-h/Girls+in+the+slot.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432685130367412098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFksYgqhACJEjpw_kAACAH0NtiuHkeQ50NUA1EOp9MmRG-4Cc85SbDzHLXbNN4FS5tFK8vVxyRK6u6F9A-dQ4vNrrMzwqdp0_U1IEHTL1bOABX9PkPRJvnOigJ-OGnRXwyT1lWgOUrVXJk/s400/Girls+in+the+slot.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">The girls walk through 'The Slot" on the Orange Trail<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">On my third and fourth visits to Westwoods I explored much more of the trail system than I had on the previous two trips. I have not yet walked all the trails but I have yet to find a trail that is not interesting and Westwoods is fast becoming one of my favorite places to hike in Connecticut.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmc3l8XytpIXETjVRI9MuGfdqlO9sQ4_NOF29qaXLLJ2L86uSSA5CWg-KU_Oj71FtOtExJo0X7ddooqcYhCX1dsVdbxW6u0rHDQ5qGKAhrMHLmNbtk0gANczde8oHSYQRweyYa9xI66s_4/s1600-h/Solitary+Erratic.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432894191897571442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmc3l8XytpIXETjVRI9MuGfdqlO9sQ4_NOF29qaXLLJ2L86uSSA5CWg-KU_Oj71FtOtExJo0X7ddooqcYhCX1dsVdbxW6u0rHDQ5qGKAhrMHLmNbtk0gANczde8oHSYQRweyYa9xI66s_4/s400/Solitary+Erratic.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Solitary Glacial Erratic along Violet Trail<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">Along the White Trail, east of Lost Lake, are another reminder of the sculpting ice has wrought, glacial erratics left behind during the last ice age. There are many erratics on the preserve but two near Lost Lake are of particular interest to me. One of these is a nearly perfectly round boulder looking like an enormous cannonball. This erratic must have been tumbled and ground very evenly within the glacial ice sheet to be so nearly round.<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKif-Cq_RfCFL3Qk5rlBfck1B9Vph9hpWO2E7fDLEb8IDEIE6futamQPN2K8hyphenhyphenIuXO0nesrpZMXsGrtA6WhoUIXNcY_QClk6W1VYEMuXoJhh0tVWo8P1te9WDYcJIeIR1mX8OkvmhkIQXU/s1600-h/Cannonball+erratic.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432687256608436434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKif-Cq_RfCFL3Qk5rlBfck1B9Vph9hpWO2E7fDLEb8IDEIE6futamQPN2K8hyphenhyphenIuXO0nesrpZMXsGrtA6WhoUIXNcY_QClk6W1VYEMuXoJhh0tVWo8P1te9WDYcJIeIR1mX8OkvmhkIQXU/s400/Cannonball+erratic.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">The glacial erratic I dubbed "The Cannonball" is just east of Lost Lake<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">Another glacial erratic in this area called "Carved Rock Sculptures" on the trail map is probably the most interesting one I've seen in some time. It is split in two halves and has a Red Cedar growing between the cloven halves. On first appearance it seems as if the cedar has split the stone, but this is surely an illusion. What has in all probability happened is the repeated freezing of water in a fracture in the erratic. This eventually split it asunder. Then a Red Cedar seed germinated between the two halves, grew to a mature tree, and now is a remarkable spectacle. One well worth seeing for yourself.</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUCcSfT1rKCktuMu3CX12VqahyQA34cD2HOun054LlBMsHLUHXE9ewZtV-pvzXE7Hpe6fd5DtcyFC_-yc0ErPJWCs7M1daHLvrvHvz66Iz3LdPQI7nj2Bx1Ciamsuk-S07Qkv5bF3ZUCU/s1600-h/Split+erratic+with+cedar.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432689172672842258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUCcSfT1rKCktuMu3CX12VqahyQA34cD2HOun054LlBMsHLUHXE9ewZtV-pvzXE7Hpe6fd5DtcyFC_-yc0ErPJWCs7M1daHLvrvHvz66Iz3LdPQI7nj2Bx1Ciamsuk-S07Qkv5bF3ZUCU/s400/Split+erratic+with+cedar.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">A Red Cedar grows in an ice cleaved erratic. The stone split long before the tree came along. Isn't this just the coolest thing to come across in the woods?</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9AZwWhU-s35O56TxqIwXYD9lB0pcPfnsnUUHfMBsFd10_7RFTu0VhpoGteiKwcv41vi9KNr1c5Gl5WlG1kq36T2fUB9l4HBHNbLwVus0-HObZJrOQbb6KMCQcXcKocaBez4-dFmc2lQi/s1600-h/Lost+Lake+viewed+form+the+overlook+on+the+White+Trail.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432697047561559698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9AZwWhU-s35O56TxqIwXYD9lB0pcPfnsnUUHfMBsFd10_7RFTu0VhpoGteiKwcv41vi9KNr1c5Gl5WlG1kq36T2fUB9l4HBHNbLwVus0-HObZJrOQbb6KMCQcXcKocaBez4-dFmc2lQi/s400/Lost+Lake+viewed+form+the+overlook+on+the+White+Trail.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Lost Lake viewed from the overlook on the White Trail</span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">I guess it's time to return to the question of how Jasmine and I came to hike together on the Westwoods trails. Well on my third visit I parked at the Peddlers Road trailhead and started to get my gear together. As I was prepping, another vehicle pulled up and out piled a gentleman and his two dogs. I love dogs and so went over and talked to the man whose name was Mark. He told me he ran the trails nearly every day and with the dogs. After a pleasant talk we headed off in different directions into the preserve. A couple of miles of hiking later, as I was leaving the Lost Lake overlook and heading back north, I ran into another couple walking the trails. They had a dog of their own but they also had one of Mark's beautiful dogs which seemed to have joined them. When they saw me approaching they assumed the dog to be mine. I quickly explained who the dog really belonged to and tried to figure out which direction Mark's dog had come from to try and guess where Mark might now be on the trails. I was torn between leaving the Lab with the couple on the chance it would re-find Mark on its own, and taking the dog back with me to the parking area. At first I started to walk away and let the dog go on its way, but my conscience stopped me and told me I would never be happy with myself if I didn't make absolutely certain Mark and his dog were reunited. So, quickly turning around and rejoining the couple, I borrowed a leash from them and took possession of the lost dog. She was not happy to be tethered to me and she balked as I coaxed her along the trail. It was a gorgeous dog and very even tempered, but it knew I was not its master. Still she obeyed, albeit reluctantly and with many a look back where last she saw her master.<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDzzvZa_hGGP-qD3ibfZFVV0dB71mG6z6y1v-9a7h4NKjNbHPJp2pPE_2ufSakU4adqRZrR9u-tuT1MFNc-X7xWaPOiaC9BnS669tWPswzYFC7FP7HTYy-hYQymE9N2gvIK2rE0UNM0M4/s1600-h/Yellow+Trail+with+Jasmine.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432894194212978882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDzzvZa_hGGP-qD3ibfZFVV0dB71mG6z6y1v-9a7h4NKjNbHPJp2pPE_2ufSakU4adqRZrR9u-tuT1MFNc-X7xWaPOiaC9BnS669tWPswzYFC7FP7HTYy-hYQymE9N2gvIK2rE0UNM0M4/s400/Yellow+Trail+with+Jasmine.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">More dramatic ledge and rubble along Yellow Trail. Jasmine and I head back northward<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">It was a difficult return walk with a reluctant Jasmine, of course the dog was Jasmine, but eventually we reached the parking area and after a short wait Mark returned with his other dog. He thanked me for bringing Jasmine back. She had missed him on the White Trail when he went up along a ridge to do pushups (well what do you know, another fitness nut like myself!). She must have thought he had continued along the trail they had so often taken together and she had run ahead only to bump into the nice couple with their own dog. She then attached herself to them, not knowing where her master had gone. Mark eventually also bumped onto the couple and they told him I had Jasmine in tow and would wait with his dog at his car for his return. Mark told me he would have been in deep water with his wife and daughter had he returned without Jasmine. You know, Jasmine would probably have found Mark on her own. But I could not risk it. I did what I knew was right. It made me feel good about myself. That is the best way to know if you have made the right choice in life. That good feeling that fills you with an inner peace and happiness about the choice you made. I would have always wondered if that dog had found her way home if I hadn't taken her in hand. I had to make sure she was reunited with her owner. I'm very glad I made that choice.<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MIeOLcXerUTDQVGW6KaACeTLOMBpAHuPKJlzseq6_I-337nbw1GdgQ8wJelkjyxUtuvqwK8fs1KvxFI33qpa4_qLZMq57ah96h6hZBzPtzMfeQ8Mh_RvYfLDal146CG7Ha3qQ9iRjoyR/s1600-h/Jasmine.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432696111587540818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MIeOLcXerUTDQVGW6KaACeTLOMBpAHuPKJlzseq6_I-337nbw1GdgQ8wJelkjyxUtuvqwK8fs1KvxFI33qpa4_qLZMq57ah96h6hZBzPtzMfeQ8Mh_RvYfLDal146CG7Ha3qQ9iRjoyR/s400/Jasmine.jpg" /></a> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal">Jasmine</p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">So in the words of the Jayhawks, "Wake up, put your shoes on, Take a breath of the northern air, And rub those eyes," and head out for a walk in the woods. I bet it will make you smile.<span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline"></span> Janet, Rachel, Jasmine, and the ice sculpted rock of Westwoods certainly made me smile, more than once.<br /></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left" class="MsoNormal">If you want to visit the Westwoods Preserve, follow this link for directions and map info; <a href="http://www.westwoodstrails.org/">http://www.westwoodstrails.org/</a></p><br /><i></i><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><span style="font-family:';font-size:12;"></span>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-71645730667690981562010-01-13T20:18:00.013-05:002011-05-08T06:01:31.745-04:00Carved in Stone<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">It is only in appearance that time is a river. It is rather a vast landscape and it is the eye of the beholder that moves.</span> - Thornton Wilder.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The passage of time can be seen. It can be touched. It can be heard. It can even be climbed upon. In November, at the Audubon Society of Rhode Island’s George B. Parker Woodland, my dear friend Mary, her children Mark and Rachel, my daughter Janet, and I went for a hike through a small patch of the landscape of time. On a beautifully cool autumn day we walked the woodland trails that wind through the fingerprints time has left behind in Coventry, Rhode Island. The Parker Woodland is an 860 acre property consisting of magnificent old forest, reverting fields, whispering brooks, strange and mysterious rock cairns, enormous glacial erratics, stonewalls, and forlorn stone foundations. In this lovely forest, the passage of time can be seen, touched, heard, and even climbed upon.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSLCwH1pfwlWKMBj1N4iDq9zhtzgzQDbcF2lXkSlaGHdhS6hIGQifLovA1s1W_q_Wd2lxDM7lZUjl_kjqVizEbuFjqU4Mi39nlIMKDPaC4qcnIuYDAtmXkLYsawbuFgw6csEHX1yAhOOl/s1600-h/Entry+Point.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426401943273075266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSLCwH1pfwlWKMBj1N4iDq9zhtzgzQDbcF2lXkSlaGHdhS6hIGQifLovA1s1W_q_Wd2lxDM7lZUjl_kjqVizEbuFjqU4Mi39nlIMKDPaC4qcnIuYDAtmXkLYsawbuFgw6csEHX1yAhOOl/s400/Entry+Point.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The entry to the trail system.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We arrived at one of two parking areas along Maple Valley Road that allow access to the trail system. We chose the parking area near the nature center, a converted barn, and headed out on the Orange Trail. As we entered the forest, the perfume of red cedars greeted us. Mingled with this was the earthy smell every forest yields up to the autumn visitor. This smell of damp earth, moss, and decaying leaves is a sort of welcoming home to me. It never fails to awaken a swirling veil of emotions in me. It is at such times I can almost believe in reincarnation. Surely I have passed through here many times over the canvas of history. Or is it simply an instinctual memory? A murky reminder of where we came from, where we once belonged, where I still belong. Does it matter? Not really. All that matters is that I come back as often as I can. This day I once again wandered through the trees with a good friend and with three beautiful children. Is there a sweeter sound than the laughter of children intertwining with the song of a forest stream? If so, I’ve never heard it.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxR6U1n4U2CLrjNLBFY5z55bREwYgO5CGzOwOTUDiSphFp_8CGQj8ewOEP7j0Lji1CRQ3V4NokGno_wJc1MzbqJoiu2jMzRQ4wJjHFdx3FtAuVkX9tRjzNvT3KpyKfE3pFfcyCbhgCmnHn/s1600-h/Mary+Mark+Rachel+heading+in.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426401937890543314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxR6U1n4U2CLrjNLBFY5z55bREwYgO5CGzOwOTUDiSphFp_8CGQj8ewOEP7j0Lji1CRQ3V4NokGno_wJc1MzbqJoiu2jMzRQ4wJjHFdx3FtAuVkX9tRjzNvT3KpyKfE3pFfcyCbhgCmnHn/s400/Mary+Mark+Rachel+heading+in.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Mark, Mary, and Rachel on the blue trail</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Orange Trail soon yields to the Coventry Loop of the Blue Trail. This loop is about three miles long and wanders through hardwoods and over many outcroppings of bedrock. Rock is what our planet is made of, its bones so-to-speak. There are precious few places in New England where you are not constantly reminded of this fact. We turned right and soon entered a stretch of the woodland that is sprinkled with strange stone cairns. A cairn is a pile of stones built by human beings.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEMzuVheAa1t6Oo7xflT_froYmn4V-2RJM3q9a0GrwmC3bOEhGADU1kXRg8h-DCVmToydEBVpaiOWYYHwW247quT1DdHLb32c_hYaVzLLEH9aSjL5Supuz5RJJ0KKPsk5idNYitQme-M9/s1600-h/The+cairns.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426403516435866482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEMzuVheAa1t6Oo7xflT_froYmn4V-2RJM3q9a0GrwmC3bOEhGADU1kXRg8h-DCVmToydEBVpaiOWYYHwW247quT1DdHLb32c_hYaVzLLEH9aSjL5Supuz5RJJ0KKPsk5idNYitQme-M9/s400/The+cairns.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The mysterious cairns of Parker Woodland<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cairns can take many forms and serve many purposes. Some were built as future points along an intended stonewall. Others were loose piles of stones dumped in the process of clearing pasture land or cropland. Some are still being erected as trail markers. Yet others were erected as ceremonial or spiritual monuments by Native Americans. Each of these types of cairns can be recognized by their structure and their surroundings. It is believed that these particular cairns were Native American in origin. This seems likely correct to me.<br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9W9nFPFQOQ1JqmVSkv3sAOR528vd_pa7D_JdkAZnmNS4Dfa2RmVf0tpXkJ8iN1NOD1wMCPE5BxmLsbbGKq3VKxcrOBy-J_xTqkenD8qKFGKleAlRbcHiycBo0MBTo7w5cF33nSi6xEks/s1600-h/A+cairn.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426403523991896930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9W9nFPFQOQ1JqmVSkv3sAOR528vd_pa7D_JdkAZnmNS4Dfa2RmVf0tpXkJ8iN1NOD1wMCPE5BxmLsbbGKq3VKxcrOBy-J_xTqkenD8qKFGKleAlRbcHiycBo0MBTo7w5cF33nSi6xEks/s400/A+cairn.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">A tall and carefully constructed cairn. This structure suggests Native American origin.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They are carefully constructed and sprinkled about the forest in a way that is not found in cairns constructed for the other purposes I mentioned earlier. Looking at these mute sentinels I imagined the strong hands that built them and the purpose in the eyes of those people so long ago. Now time has passed and many changes have been wrought on our world, but these small monuments to a different era still stand witness on the landscape.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1VTkM1KmgWqv9_gWsWte54Z0uOgC9jQZq8WaDXpYB8u0GSV0x386IxvXdVyqGBdUUTQm3kaOSsGN-pa5XJvgfTYdhCPYi9T-Iypiz2qRUUNrL32GWkiyIUrydTkwS5-lFNSKYBLjckY4/s1600-h/Rachel+climbs+a+ledge.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426405926536887170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1VTkM1KmgWqv9_gWsWte54Z0uOgC9jQZq8WaDXpYB8u0GSV0x386IxvXdVyqGBdUUTQm3kaOSsGN-pa5XJvgfTYdhCPYi9T-Iypiz2qRUUNrL32GWkiyIUrydTkwS5-lFNSKYBLjckY4/s400/Rachel+climbs+a+ledge.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 283px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Rachel climbs a ledge along the trail, and mugs for the camera!<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We continued along the Blue Trail leaving the cairns behind. The Blue Trail then started to parallel Turkey Meadow Brook. This evocatively named watercourse, like all its brethren, is a liquid ribbon of time. The cut in the landscape and the rounded stones in its bed were visible reminders of the long ages that this brook has existed. Slowly carving its bed and tumbling and grinding rock, the very substance of the earth, into the smooth rounded stones the kids now hopped across. Nothing attracts children more than a stream. I think no child can enter a forest that holds a stream and re-emerge without dirty wet clothing and shoes. And that is how it should be if you ask me. This day was no different. Mark, Rachel, and Janet all crossed and re-crossed the stream intent on exploring the environ of the watercourse. Their exploration was only briefly interrupted by the sound of Mary’s laughter as she and I stood and watched them move along the stream. It is in shared experiences that we give our children the gift of time. Here among the trees and along the banks of a sparkling brook we shared wonderful moments with the children.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MSTx4sP6TV0CcivKmSN_FjMsJgLqBS4HkUQrytAeHlT2YcXDbEts4GokE8GSqtnn3icMnLAhX9AdP6URD0Ig0cruw3C8kb-wjc9syp-hSqYPcfHwI5GbHVri5nhoT1N9HXkX67kWpu0x/s1600-h/Kids+on+the+brook.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426405933447907874" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MSTx4sP6TV0CcivKmSN_FjMsJgLqBS4HkUQrytAeHlT2YcXDbEts4GokE8GSqtnn3icMnLAhX9AdP6URD0Ig0cruw3C8kb-wjc9syp-hSqYPcfHwI5GbHVri5nhoT1N9HXkX67kWpu0x/s400/Kids+on+the+brook.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Mark, Janet, and Rachel rock hop Turkey Meadow Brook<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A bridge across Turkey Meadow Brook marked the point that the trail was joined by the path from the second parking area. This bridge was new in construction and sported woven metal cables that anchored it to the banks of the brook. These cables clearly were for times when the brook flooded and the water level would rise and push against the bridge and threaten to dislodge it. If you have ever waded across a stream, you know the amazing power of even slowly flowing water. If you have waded across a fast moving stream, you know the feeling that your legs are moments away from being yanked out from under you.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgig_pwlWeTjGla2NpJwv8tHF3XWsp-wdtvf4lDvga3rpHjjwSZVX5qhBu_KxySJ2OWNlzpXdT3ER54etw3exwylGiuPAsbyhHgG1_3WsyOkTvysmZcjmjC9weZzHNUlgjZFhxW5lYdKc4i/s1600-h/Mary+inspects+the+bridge.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br />
</a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Mary inspects the new Bridge over Turkey Meadow Brook<br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI8V2LjkHN7t5ETcVYVD_w4ZpoKs_f45d9YkJJqu51Z8c0x9Zvh_qjX-F-XIjjdT9Tqxhwz3uVo2IQZm_tcxIZ2DNwVW6lZL7wHGTWJi4YyAOyeyQqKr0B1co1HSxpknVMIoTR1t4QOC1/s1600-h/The+bridge.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426407518122585586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI8V2LjkHN7t5ETcVYVD_w4ZpoKs_f45d9YkJJqu51Z8c0x9Zvh_qjX-F-XIjjdT9Tqxhwz3uVo2IQZm_tcxIZ2DNwVW6lZL7wHGTWJi4YyAOyeyQqKr0B1co1HSxpknVMIoTR1t4QOC1/s400/The+bridge.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">A closer look at the cable anchoring system for the bridge<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we left the new bridge behind, we soon came across the carcass of a previous bridge. It was broken and twisted as it lay where it had fetched up along the brook’s banks after some previous flood wrenched it from its home.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikG09cyS_8nmooRKb5EDk70k0umPVuQitHiqSwyAtbXSNScA-Ane1r74XpvhAojZYmM02pzAx15CK7ut8qhvz-ARp4vZW7D_OjmgL8QIi36gjYlQaG-I_94vqvmJflN_s4nkaGQVg2zINC/s1600-h/Old+Bridge+Carcass.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426407525367347090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikG09cyS_8nmooRKb5EDk70k0umPVuQitHiqSwyAtbXSNScA-Ane1r74XpvhAojZYmM02pzAx15CK7ut8qhvz-ARp4vZW7D_OjmgL8QIi36gjYlQaG-I_94vqvmJflN_s4nkaGQVg2zINC/s400/Old+Bridge+Carcass.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Here, downstream of the new bridge, lies the old bridge's remains.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A forest road crossed our path as we continued along. This road was little more than a sunken track through the forest. How many wagon wheels and hooves had passed this way so long ago, carving this sunken bed? Just as water had carved out the bed of Turkey Meadow Brook over time, this road had been carved out by the flow of humans and horses. This forest road is called Biscuit Hill Road. There is a legend that claims the road got its name during the Revolutionary War when a wagon headed to the campsite of French General Rochambeau’s troops overturned and spilled biscuits over the hillside. A quaint story, I do hope it’s true.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Where Biscuit Hill Road and the Blue Trail intersect, not far from Maple Valley Road, there is the barren foundation of an old sawmill. The sawmill was in operation from the 1760s until 1875 and was owned by African Americans. The mill is long gone and the stream is no longer diverted as it once was to turn the wheel that drove the mill’s saw. But the stones of the foundation remain, an impressive work of our forebears indeed. The kids climbed down into the deep pit that remains. Many hours of hard toil had occurred here, the sound and smell of the mill must have been a landmark for the community. Now a silent skeleton remained, silent but for the sound of the children exploring this relic of time long past. Watching Mark, Rachel, and Janet I imagined how much time I would have spent here if it had been part of the landscape of my childhood.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5c-lKLxoq5ca0Y6FA07gG3Un2OdQGsN054LfbHEOxFGkld-Y32oiSXke4OxgVTG8nuIMtErlgezSK1vdEmTNil7s0VMC_3jk0CI0kva4LlKt4fiRHUbx6trxA9BV-1_4tz30Wf7oIbQu/s1600-h/The+Saw+Mill" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426409147280876322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5c-lKLxoq5ca0Y6FA07gG3Un2OdQGsN054LfbHEOxFGkld-Y32oiSXke4OxgVTG8nuIMtErlgezSK1vdEmTNil7s0VMC_3jk0CI0kva4LlKt4fiRHUbx6trxA9BV-1_4tz30Wf7oIbQu/s400/The+Saw+Mill%27s+Foundation.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The gang inspects the foundation of the old saw mill</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The day was passing and we continued on along the trail. Walking along Mary and I talked of many things. At one point our conversation went to hiking barefoot. When we had climbed Mt. Moosilauke the previous May, we had passed a hiker climbing barefoot. Somehow that memory came up and we were talking about it now. Rachel overheard the conversation and decided she was going to walk barefoot now. It was quite chilly for such a thing but Mary and I believe in letting kids experience things without too tight a leash. So off came Rachel’s shoes and she soldiered on for the rest of the day feeling the earth and rock against her bare feet. She’s a tough one, just like her mom.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvcQ0uUT383NcTTdruYiw2mNTr0sGJF2N3fb8HzAXyCDGIHPTLPKtnooLZgX_vVunnpXR8ZosSAfGHDvq6h2kRdjpH2tlcF7eq4KDjSZLsD0uTOMYR3oFostr5muJRMMaRJN2sAsCZDi6/s1600-h/Janet+and+Rachel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426412164351396498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvcQ0uUT383NcTTdruYiw2mNTr0sGJF2N3fb8HzAXyCDGIHPTLPKtnooLZgX_vVunnpXR8ZosSAfGHDvq6h2kRdjpH2tlcF7eq4KDjSZLsD0uTOMYR3oFostr5muJRMMaRJN2sAsCZDi6/s400/Janet+and+Rachel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 364px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Rachel takes the challenge and hikes bare foot</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thousands of years ago ice covered New England. The massive Laurentide Ice Sheet marked the last Ice Age when New England was covered by a blanket of crushing ice that slowly ground the surface of the earth as it crept southward. Huge chunks of rock were splintered free from the earth’s crust and caught up in the ice. These were slowly tumbled and ground against one another and the underlying rock the ice slid over. When the ice finally retreated, these boulders were dropped wherever they were, often many miles from where they were shorn from the earth. Now they stand scattered about looking out of place like stones tossed by some legendary giant. These boulders are called “Glacial Erratics.” We came across one such erratic sitting where it had fallen many thousands of years ago. It towered over us. There was only one thing to do. Climb it.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2iv9_jFWy7Sq66nNGEhM71YMeilJj3tXcXF1jBeUEpXx1bNql9t3tpJBAc5r5fS58SOJyIw0Gi0V2B__wsvHq13iGSvDqv0PNNKMz6L8J5PorHOJsVev0dfo1vypdOZWuoSNdK5p6tPN/s1600-h/The+erratic.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426410634738803394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2iv9_jFWy7Sq66nNGEhM71YMeilJj3tXcXF1jBeUEpXx1bNql9t3tpJBAc5r5fS58SOJyIw0Gi0V2B__wsvHq13iGSvDqv0PNNKMz6L8J5PorHOJsVev0dfo1vypdOZWuoSNdK5p6tPN/s400/The+erratic.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The three kids and the glacial erratic<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I gave Mark a boost up on its lower sloping edge and Rachel soon followed. Noticing a small log lying nearby I recognized it for what it was, a make-shift ladder that had been employed by some former adventurer to gain access to the top of the erratic. Putting the log in place I soon scrambled up and helped Janet to climb on as well while Mary prepared to take pictures. It wasn’t long before the kids came up with the idea to do “YMCA” for the picture. Through the randomness of events, the Village People and a boulder dropped 20,000 year ago in southern New England met on the landscape of time. Fact is stranger than fiction.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwdMasI5DjP6W9NqSlgUOrBvtPlrHzNcg-b4Yet0l5nwIPoORyWbOmVqXPEikqSM35P07lUXC0IpSQoT0UXX3jZgV2T1B76ZdEHNNaC992DqqGo35vMkVbuyh48PuQlGme_bpXJX6gGaV/s1600-h/YMCA.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426410639187177970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwdMasI5DjP6W9NqSlgUOrBvtPlrHzNcg-b4Yet0l5nwIPoORyWbOmVqXPEikqSM35P07lUXC0IpSQoT0UXX3jZgV2T1B76ZdEHNNaC992DqqGo35vMkVbuyh48PuQlGme_bpXJX6gGaV/s400/YMCA.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The Village People meet the glacial erratic! Mark really needs to work on his "M"<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After Mary took a few pictures, I helped her to climb up and I slid off to take more pictures. As I looked up at Mary and the kids I couldn’t help but reflect that there could be no more vivid reminder of how brief our time on this planet is than the massive chunk of rock in front of me that has rested there for two hundred centuries. Our life spans are little more than a finger snap by comparison.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcP-yEmZclQkGRGPEoDOsFa0X6ZHxW_bi5IeOQixG4Rq6qXvlMv3hpsL3wF0VljRBlMI2HKhgV0BdNASvXge_o0jW5iPepBrQ0BrPdSzF7DQzSwHzITVEXbsyFF-exqgiQQlsk-oEJFbSC/s1600-h/The+gang+on+the+erratic.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426412171594359394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcP-yEmZclQkGRGPEoDOsFa0X6ZHxW_bi5IeOQixG4Rq6qXvlMv3hpsL3wF0VljRBlMI2HKhgV0BdNASvXge_o0jW5iPepBrQ0BrPdSzF7DQzSwHzITVEXbsyFF-exqgiQQlsk-oEJFbSC/s400/The+gang+on+the+erratic.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The gang atop the erratic. That is no small stone!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Leaving the erratic behind, and with the day slowly fading, we pushed on. Rachel had put her shoes back on to climb the boulder but now they were off again. There were many more reminders of the passage of time on the woodland’s landscape. We found another erratic which had been split by thousands of years of water freezing in cracks and slowly splitting the giant into two halves. As the kids scrambled around it, I couldn’t resist a joke. So I told the kids I could tell how long the boulder had been there. They looked at me expectantly as I walked up to the surface of the erratic and caressed it as if I was somehow magically extracting information about its past by simply feeling it. I then proclaimed it to have been standing there for 20,000 years. Mark asked how I could tell. I responded with a smirk that I had read that the Laurentide Ice Sheet melted that long ago so the boulder must have been dumped then. This admission, after my theatrical conjuring performance, brought looks from the kids (especially Janet) that clearly said, “Very funny wise guy!” and a laugh from Mary. I do love messing with kids’ minds. After all, they are always messing with ours, aren’t they?</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgon4Jye0AUQBCV9eJrtji-cusFbAODPTpOsTRD6dvuGZEdtfn-X64PcSXR2EzAwq2X-egChyR8NxVtRgcAhRTYpbMzta0UeVXtb7tg_xDh3lfs_ftADVoAtGsgSmmX71TMGNHN0iZsWFKx/s1600-h/Mark+hides.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426412172007415330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgon4Jye0AUQBCV9eJrtji-cusFbAODPTpOsTRD6dvuGZEdtfn-X64PcSXR2EzAwq2X-egChyR8NxVtRgcAhRTYpbMzta0UeVXtb7tg_xDh3lfs_ftADVoAtGsgSmmX71TMGNHN0iZsWFKx/s400/Mark+hides.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Mark, master of disguise</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was time to head home. We picked up the pace and soon found our way back to the car. We had only walked about half of the Parker Woodland’s trails, if that. But it had been a wonderful hike. Sharing time with children is one of the great joys of life. Sharing such a special part of the New England’s natural world with Mary and the kids was one of the highlights of the autumn for me.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVy2s0z5SyGmZegD7b6F6bDvaEoHPRglXvZI0zniPSaHCPXkzvuTtzfWEZ1WXf2vAkVYKpVg1H6t9Oj9999cd6rxu1x-suur4OlB3XrEt_TgzR8euGLu3W-IDkBGIScmQsCpI2uBxVHZOS/s1600-h/Old+farm+foundation.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426414181477857730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVy2s0z5SyGmZegD7b6F6bDvaEoHPRglXvZI0zniPSaHCPXkzvuTtzfWEZ1WXf2vAkVYKpVg1H6t9Oj9999cd6rxu1x-suur4OlB3XrEt_TgzR8euGLu3W-IDkBGIScmQsCpI2uBxVHZOS/s400/Old+farm+foundation.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">One of several old stone foundations on the preserve</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zCQS_vrePf6L20p_nI3Sy-skW6EB29s9ErOVkhkCl8Iqz00e8nOKVB_lcdaSQa8Ql6ZEUQ0kjPxrXehZdXGwevJqTjEJVXxprzpHb8J1TH9ggSyjr7NO29ji4IxLBeXfvLYKmEO81Wsj/s1600-h/Wolf+tree.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426414194928342338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zCQS_vrePf6L20p_nI3Sy-skW6EB29s9ErOVkhkCl8Iqz00e8nOKVB_lcdaSQa8Ql6ZEUQ0kjPxrXehZdXGwevJqTjEJVXxprzpHb8J1TH9ggSyjr7NO29ji4IxLBeXfvLYKmEO81Wsj/s400/Wolf+tree.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">A "Wolf Tree" or "Pasture Tree." This tree was left uncut by the early farmers, probably to provide shade for pastoral animals.<br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaBYLZPR2C73cNPfFmkicC_8uOXTJZEwdKgmw9iEMBnE-CI1RU3iD2bwut-95gYU1rbxTS8mJppPeGFbSjOpKx2iTmS5SB4xssc-LhpJ9eATrVvx6HA8H82lDWARk5LOKINbX9RuHDQHr/s1600-h/Mark+and+Mary+on+way+out.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426414185075465154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaBYLZPR2C73cNPfFmkicC_8uOXTJZEwdKgmw9iEMBnE-CI1RU3iD2bwut-95gYU1rbxTS8mJppPeGFbSjOpKx2iTmS5SB4xssc-LhpJ9eATrVvx6HA8H82lDWARk5LOKINbX9RuHDQHr/s400/Mark+and+Mary+on+way+out.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The day fades and our walk through Rhode Island's Parker Woodland comes to an end</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are many gifts we can give our children, but none is as precious as the gift of our time. Our lives pass quickly, especially in comparison to such things as glacial erratics. We can chose to use our time wisely, to live life and to experience the world we live in, or we can fritter it away doing things like closeting ourselves indoors sitting in front of a television. I hope you will choose to get up and go out. Take your kids or your nieces and nephews and go outside. Or go for a hike with friends, or far better, the person you love. Life should be a shared experience. Life should be spent outdoors. I doubt when your life is in its twilight you will think back fondly of all the time you sat in the dark watching sitcoms. But you may just smile when you remember a sight such as a very brave young lady walking barefoot on stony trails through the woods of Rhode Island on a chilly November day. I know I will.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_5m3VL-IDnuu5K-50KmT-yC8Mz_KwmzDEUhg_PvSgRJN9r0ds3vaoQke4AvdtymojvFl2twVkrN3kk3SSPeMzyuBeA33SRQ30eW8xC3zAS7tMkVtIAS_0VhdL01i-mJlYHIUyaYGar8f/s1600-h/A+brave+girl" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426414201109992642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_5m3VL-IDnuu5K-50KmT-yC8Mz_KwmzDEUhg_PvSgRJN9r0ds3vaoQke4AvdtymojvFl2twVkrN3kk3SSPeMzyuBeA33SRQ30eW8xC3zAS7tMkVtIAS_0VhdL01i-mJlYHIUyaYGar8f/s400/A+brave+girl%27s+cold+feet.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778094733118257603.post-89798266259157179162009-09-27T09:50:00.050-04:002009-09-27T20:19:38.796-04:00Primitive Green<p style="FONT-STYLE: italic" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Times New Roman','serif';font-size:12;">The great Overdog<br />That heavenly beast<br />With a star in one eye<br />Gives a leap in the east.<br />He dances upright<br />All the way to the west<br />And never once drops<br />On his forefeet to rest.<br />I'm a poor underdog,<br />But to-night I will bark<br />With the great Overdog<br />That romps through the dark.</span></p>- Canis Major by Robert Frost<br /><br />The stars stopped me in my tracks. It was 3 a.m. and I was walking the mile from our campsite to Mary's car to retrieve allergy medication for one of the kids. Most of the walk was under the canopy of the trees of Vermont's southern Green Mountains. But now I had walked out into the open and I could see the sky, and oh what a sight. Far away from the glare of city lights, the night sky was deep indigo and filled with stars. Across the heavens stretched the white belt of the Milky Way. The sight was awe inspiring and the concept of infinity was made very real to me. As the cool air of this late August night filled my lungs and the heavens stretched off into infinity above, the struggles of the previous evening melted away and concerns about worrisome bears fled my thoughts. So how did I come to be on this southern Vermont trail in the Green Mountain National Forest at 3 a.m.?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUV-8Js34yHuBhn2t4By76eEo7iY3D0lwawEPxMWcoF5a3vLcNmGDa7tUAZA80VOkwXuo6FlODIsGb-RhsuMKAjvvlyC7DmFqoWUwDN_GH2fvQwr5Tkqy2Z_qlkA6FH7Ao9VH74Vn05I3e/s1600-h/Mt+Snow+across+Grout+Pond.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 302px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153852802955282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUV-8Js34yHuBhn2t4By76eEo7iY3D0lwawEPxMWcoF5a3vLcNmGDa7tUAZA80VOkwXuo6FlODIsGb-RhsuMKAjvvlyC7DmFqoWUwDN_GH2fvQwr5Tkqy2Z_qlkA6FH7Ao9VH74Vn05I3e/s400/Mt+Snow+across+Grout+Pond.jpg" /></a> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Grout Pond with Mt. Snow in the distance. Green Mountain National Forest Vermont</span><br /></div><br />It began with my friend Mary and I talking about getting her children and my daughter out camping before the new school year began. We threw plans together in a rush and after a frenzy of planning and last minute gear acquisition, we were off to Grout Pond Recreation Area. Grout Pond nestles in a sixteen hundred acre recreation area of the Green Mountain National Forest. No gas motors are allowed on the pond and only primitive camping is available. This serene and simple camping is exactly what Mary and I most enjoy and what we wanted the kids to experience. Mary's son Mark is a Boy Scout and familiar with this type of camping but her daughter Rachel and my daughter Janet had little to no camping experience. So this trip had the potential to be a wonderful new experience for them, or something altogether less good. The way the trip began was not good, and indeed made it seem that we were in for one of those trips that go into the disaster file that every parent keeps of family experiences that had gone horribly wrong.<br /><br />We arrived at Grout Pond in early afternoon on August 26th. The campground is as I said primitive and the sites are first come first served. Each site has tent platforms and fire rings and the sites are strung out along the shore of the pond. Some of the sites are as much as a mile in along a trail from the designated parking area, which also is where the only available potable water is and where one of the areas two simple outhouses is maintained.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRjebSZf21H0suC13h59hjKxyRyXCIfNh5q7N0BWhAkXbvGKU9Ik257QpWL8Kg7gR5xOpV8O6Tq57VO76IZcc9-bUagbP1_X48Stas83v6lRdTc7XsjCO4H6ZOCdX2sK6HROU7rPqUnPC/s1600-h/Bear+Warning.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 332px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386167966513948050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRjebSZf21H0suC13h59hjKxyRyXCIfNh5q7N0BWhAkXbvGKU9Ik257QpWL8Kg7gR5xOpV8O6Tq57VO76IZcc9-bUagbP1_X48Stas83v6lRdTc7XsjCO4H6ZOCdX2sK6HROU7rPqUnPC/s400/Bear+Warning.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Black Bear warning signs were posted in many locations</span> </div><br />The weather forecast had worsened the day we arrived and we faced the possibility of rain making the establishment of camp difficult. We also learned on arrival that two Black Bears had been active in the area and campers were being warned to keep their sites clean and as free of food odors as possible. But here is where we wanted to be so Mary and the girls waited with the vehicles while Mark and I hiked in to find an open site. As we passed occupied site after occupied site I started to be concerned about how far we would have to haul gear. If we could find a site right on the water I could use some of the kayaks (we had five with us) as barges and tow gear across the pond. Mark and I soon reached the last campsite and found that all the pond side sites were occupied and my spirits admittedly sank.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52BBITHnw-r6FEyFEwnOzd76mCoiRklfeuWnjvsdpKooEt3X3hRKvRJAoSzme-h0NlGSCtZkd7CTWy6gBciysoCGCgz1A6rtc1o_831LpaTKSqX5zUguu8M7Ws0o-rbjDLhqEAXavKEAy/s1600-h/Camp+trail.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386171737132682242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52BBITHnw-r6FEyFEwnOzd76mCoiRklfeuWnjvsdpKooEt3X3hRKvRJAoSzme-h0NlGSCtZkd7CTWy6gBciysoCGCgz1A6rtc1o_831LpaTKSqX5zUguu8M7Ws0o-rbjDLhqEAXavKEAy/s400/Camp+trail.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The beginning of the trail to the camp sites. This trail would turn in to a muddy rocky track further in.</span><br /></div><br />The first wonderful moment of the trip occurred when the two ladies setting up camp at site #10 offered to share the site with us. Site #10 had two tent platforms and the two campers, Holly and Natalie, very graciously offered to give us the larger platform. So leaving Mark with these sweet souls I hiked back out to discuss with Mary whether we wanted to take them up on their generous offer. After a brief discussion, we agreed to stay with Natalie and Holly at site #10 and we began the process of getting the gear hauled in. It was at this point that the first rain drops started to fall. So as Mary and the kids took what gear that they could comfortably carry the mile to the site, I began to move kayaks to the water and load them with the first heavy items such as food supplies, cooking gear, and tents that needed to be transported in.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QisPDxSmdb2-qmcPB5C-CtbTlJW-Y54etEANIw16YoTU0oqeTDH_kb2ue44eKhVLAQqkobnsoK1qPy6ueNlV6tM2-OTEKwtwXcuNZdB-CH9FPdItXx_pecaLRytYPS_oW_SrX1uy3Ds5/s1600-h/Looking+north+across+Grout+pond.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386175251744162082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QisPDxSmdb2-qmcPB5C-CtbTlJW-Y54etEANIw16YoTU0oqeTDH_kb2ue44eKhVLAQqkobnsoK1qPy6ueNlV6tM2-OTEKwtwXcuNZdB-CH9FPdItXx_pecaLRytYPS_oW_SrX1uy3Ds5/s400/Looking+north+across+Grout+pond.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Looking north across Grout Pond</span><br /></div><br />The rain soon began in earnest. I worked as fast as I could prepping the boats so I could quickly get to the site and help rig a canopy over the tent platform. But nature has a way of not giving a damn about the comfort and ease of the creatures scurrying about in the open and indeed the cold rain was soon joined by a strong wind which created not only waves across the pond but actual whitecaps. So the initial trip across the pond became a struggle to keep the towed boats from capsizing and the gear in the boats from being soaked. When I finally arrived at site #10 I was soaked, cold, and exhausted. The rain was steady and didn't look to stop anytime soon. With a sinking heart I had to ask Mary and the kids to make another hike out to get as much gear as they could carry while I rigged a canopy of tarps over the tent platform. So they set off along the wet muddy trail and I started rigging the canopy. After a struggle I managed to achieve a reasonable shelter with numerous ropes extending in many directions. Mary and the kids returned looking wet and tired with more gear. Mary had carried more than she should have and she had a brave face on but I could tell she was struggling with the way things were unfolding. So was I. But seeing the way Mary and the kids were working and keeping their spirits up renewed my determination to make everything ok. Looking at the camp site I christened it "Spider Camp" in honor of the web of lines holding everything up, then I started on firing up the camp stove and heating up the beef stew I had made back home and brought with us. It was wonderful to stand under that rain shelter and eat hot delicious stew while the forest emitted that wonderful aroma that a rainy forest can only create. We had weathered a difficult start to our trip. Things would soon get much better.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftMGob81LJaLE-5YA6_4wRWNSNV7rSpfS2L_BsLgWumUAGXhUGeVrwNDbRMZ1-M2Wny3iAkOmNLZtcS3929aXphNmrDd-MTTAB6QT0FkK-kASFhCxQH7BDxq5Td9i_YxV6R6taOknm5-Y/s1600-h/Spider+camp.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386155583359496370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftMGob81LJaLE-5YA6_4wRWNSNV7rSpfS2L_BsLgWumUAGXhUGeVrwNDbRMZ1-M2Wny3iAkOmNLZtcS3929aXphNmrDd-MTTAB6QT0FkK-kASFhCxQH7BDxq5Td9i_YxV6R6taOknm5-Y/s400/Spider+camp.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Spider camp. Ropes strung every which way but a successful rain guard!</span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br />As the daylight failed we settled into what were admittedly damp tents and sleeping bags. The rain had finally stopped and the sky began to clear as night fell. The kids were in good spirits and Mary and I started to really feel that the trip would be a success. It was during this first night that one of the kids had an allergy flare-up. After discussing with Mary how best to address the situation I had begun the walk out to the vehicles where much of our gear still remained, including the allergy medicine we now needed. This 3 a.m. trek had started as a task that a parent does as a matter of course. It soon turned into one of those wonderful moments in our lives, standing in the dark and staring at the starry heavens. No longer feeling a lack of sleep, I continued on with my task and we soon had the kids asleep in their sleeping bags. Mary and I spoke quietly about the day through our tent walls. Then we heard the Loons.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fpvTuMiJq1E&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fpvTuMiJq1E&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="530" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />There is no magic in the world that can compare to the sound of Loon song in the night. Out of the darkness floated the wail of this bird of the northern ponds and lakes and I was transfixed. And as the Loon's voice flowed across the pond, Barred Owls also called on the far shore. Even coyotes joined this symphony of the night. Enveloped in darkness, haunting bird song echoing in the air, the sound of children slumbering, and quiet conversation with a friend, I felt as if there could be no place better than this. The struggles of the day faded into an easy price to pay for the joy of being here, in the dark, in the forest, happy.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbWKySRzO7x5MYmG65OdyUMp5Shf1k1I7UAphNDwQPy2kxr_xeOss_fubUuMTn3LFR18AjUh81LExKO7QFd0Uv5nSNP-VXT7mOsz85Lmet8lSm6WKXZ_hghpkG927_YiJSq274fR7NNjf/s1600-h/Camp+Site.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386147246730857938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbWKySRzO7x5MYmG65OdyUMp5Shf1k1I7UAphNDwQPy2kxr_xeOss_fubUuMTn3LFR18AjUh81LExKO7QFd0Uv5nSNP-VXT7mOsz85Lmet8lSm6WKXZ_hghpkG927_YiJSq274fR7NNjf/s400/Camp+Site.jpg" /></a></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; FONT-STYLE: italic">The re-arrangement of camp took up much of the morning of day 2.<br /></div><br />When morning came it brought bright sunshine and clean cool air. Mary started making coffee and breakfast while I began preparing to haul the rest of our gear into camp and to re-arrange the hasty camp of the night before into a more orderly and comfortable situation. I soon came to appreciate what amazing energy and determination resides in Mary. I am a hard worker in situations such as this, where the kids are depending on the adults to make everything happen smoothly. But Mary not only held her own and worked tirelessly, continuously, and with enthusiasm, she very nearly put me to shame, inspiring me to work even harder for the success of the trip and the enjoyment of the kids. The trip ultimately was a resounding success. Mary played an enormous role in making it so.<br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPnsE9qFYcOPlAEQltXzdAEOrMqA2b4ZlSo2eRcAefyBtu0mWB1D_jGSP8Yx3ofgyoBFdfr7UBh7UcMHpVoF1-l_j6ptcu6xdV5f7uSifuuie4KTN9VmX4KceW98Jw9R1QShc7wcae2y7/s1600-h/Mary+does+dishes.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386147621194288162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPnsE9qFYcOPlAEQltXzdAEOrMqA2b4ZlSo2eRcAefyBtu0mWB1D_jGSP8Yx3ofgyoBFdfr7UBh7UcMHpVoF1-l_j6ptcu6xdV5f7uSifuuie4KTN9VmX4KceW98Jw9R1QShc7wcae2y7/s400/Mary+does+dishes.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Mary cleans up after breakfast</span><br /></div></div></div><br />Grout Pond, as any clean back country pond does, offers a great deal of vibrant nature for kids to explore. As Mary and I were taking care of the daily tasks of camping, Mark, Rachel, and Janet went in search of treasures. It wasn't long before they were wading into the pond and catching Red-spotted Newts.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnudMwEneoHiLnBR7ekk9LOq-mWY_uGbyD5alYFH0Rvopt-rvRtOtBU0_Ng3j3VnLecyOsMqQEvPc0ydYZdtkS16LOmIJiD15gLuNevyclW6A5sExiITaxf8ynMjbHrDQBeWXq5KTUudW/s1600-h/Janet+holds+newts.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 312px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386155590343246850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnudMwEneoHiLnBR7ekk9LOq-mWY_uGbyD5alYFH0Rvopt-rvRtOtBU0_Ng3j3VnLecyOsMqQEvPc0ydYZdtkS16LOmIJiD15gLuNevyclW6A5sExiITaxf8ynMjbHrDQBeWXq5KTUudW/s400/Janet+holds+newts.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Janet gently displays two Red-spotted Newts caught in Grout Pond.</span> </div><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVdXftXta7cEgrFARrzHHfLuyZ4B-6-7DSa9ujPbGIRl53dWlt9bLW_AKIjJi_MWhbhetZh2NiR9MBeRkdcY8DholA3j-bZN1R5WxMjJMr24Xg_ZLv_gn2tKdxhOHhgQmY4hZ9H14MKSc/s1600-h/Red-spotted+Newt.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386147631446784706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVdXftXta7cEgrFARrzHHfLuyZ4B-6-7DSa9ujPbGIRl53dWlt9bLW_AKIjJi_MWhbhetZh2NiR9MBeRkdcY8DholA3j-bZN1R5WxMjJMr24Xg_ZLv_gn2tKdxhOHhgQmY4hZ9H14MKSc/s400/Red-spotted+Newt.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Rachel displays a Red-spotted Newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) </span><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></em><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">for a close look</span> </div><br />A newt is a specific type of salamander. In its adult stage it lives in the water, unlike its relatives which are partially or mostly terrestrial. The red spots are warnings of <span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">toxic secretions that act as a chemical defense against predation and allow the newts to coexist with fish which often eat other salamanders. The young stage of the newt is called a Red Eft. It is terrestrial and brilliantly red, also a brazen statement of "Don't dare eat me." After the newt hunt the kids started gathering algae from the pond. This is one of those things that kids love to do that parents don't. I contented myself to watch them and photograph them. This of course elicited threats of being "algae bombed" but thankfully restraint was maintained.<br /></span></span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCy-U1opl4MQ1yL9WDD9gcDIL3_eaJO_gIqSbAHwIA84xd2Lo2c76IoAJ8DCJS84InPTHFPzoS6XyiWNwEeGrMyJ978gJsN5oqxnXNjw5OhKaJw2VN_JO4Rnc3ZTvirJgeQn1dhWNmjucL/s1600-h/Algae+throw.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153357750464978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCy-U1opl4MQ1yL9WDD9gcDIL3_eaJO_gIqSbAHwIA84xd2Lo2c76IoAJ8DCJS84InPTHFPzoS6XyiWNwEeGrMyJ978gJsN5oqxnXNjw5OhKaJw2VN_JO4Rnc3ZTvirJgeQn1dhWNmjucL/s400/Algae+throw.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Mark, Janet, and Rachel threaten to throw algae bombs at me.</span> </div><br />With everything in the camp now in order it was time to head out onto the pond in the kayaks. We had brought a kayak for each of us and it was wonderful exploring Grout Pond with Mary and the kids. That evening, after Mary once again made a wonderful dinner for all of us, we built a fire in the fire ring. Holly and Natalie had been gone all day hiking in the Green Mountains and when they returned they joined us around the fire on a lovely evening in the woods of southern Vermont.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31BiM-PECgpYK6mupE7N9ENK9DIt9cQwfSnArKkfpWspNTZOGju8-6oVCrhUznFm8rXP_h2hh8ztWfv-PzCUOJoDofpOy-omszioGWjo0xPH1W2lCQrZmDVrLYA6WRF7Mfv6qWVJFFcWE/s1600-h/CampFireGroupsmall.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386144791357825714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31BiM-PECgpYK6mupE7N9ENK9DIt9cQwfSnArKkfpWspNTZOGju8-6oVCrhUznFm8rXP_h2hh8ztWfv-PzCUOJoDofpOy-omszioGWjo0xPH1W2lCQrZmDVrLYA6WRF7Mfv6qWVJFFcWE/s400/CampFireGroupsmall.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Holly, Natalie, Mary, Rachel, and Janet enjoy the campfire</span> </div><br />When it was time to get the kids in the tents for the night, Mary supervised while I made another kayak run across the pond to get more drinking water and to retrieve more firewood. The pond was still as black glass as I paddled under the moonlight. Once again I was flooded with serenity and happiness to be here doing these things for the kids. When I returned across the pond, loaded down with wood and water, I strayed a little too close to the western shore and I was showered with the calls and screams of Barred Owls who felt I was intruding into their space. Their vocalizations sounded like the screams of maniacs and were absolute music to my ears. When I returned to the camp Mary helped me unload and we then spent a few quiet minutes drinking very well deserved beers by the fire before returning to our tents for the night. During the night I was awakened by the sound of rustling in the trees nearby. Being concerned about the presence of bears, I grabbed a light and crawled out of my tent. After walking around the camp site and listening for movement, I thankfully could see no large carnivores to worry about. It is amazing how much noise small animals can make moving about the forest floor and I put it down to some small mammal's nightly foraging and crawled back into my sleeping bag.<br /><br />Day 3 of a planned 5 day trip dawned beautifully. But the weather forecast rumors we had heard were troubling. There was talk of a major rain storm moving into the area, so at first light I hiked out to my truck to listen to forecasts on the radio. The result was that we were indeed in for heavy rain later that night into the next day. As I hiked back in along the trail to the camp site to discuss plans with Mary I ran into Holly and Natalie who had broken camp and started on their way back home to Pennsylvania. They managed to embarrass me with very kind words about how I behaved with the kids and how much the kids clearly enjoyed being with me and trusted me. As I said I was embarrassed, but I admit I was also immensely uplifted to have such things said to me. It was a real gift to meet these two travelers from PA, albeit ever so briefly.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfCKF0Yvv6JHvUFuHg3x6-_mLtaS0Pm_N1RNREYgiEwcId7mH3Hhfa76AyQCi8pL5wUSzl22UNqYgq-eLHUXj2VztmvCNnPWcgfQZ2BVmPJ6IlhDrEFnbssZEjiYo0HGSbeINHibvG1qK/s1600-h/Whorled+Aster.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153023197259602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfCKF0Yvv6JHvUFuHg3x6-_mLtaS0Pm_N1RNREYgiEwcId7mH3Hhfa76AyQCi8pL5wUSzl22UNqYgq-eLHUXj2VztmvCNnPWcgfQZ2BVmPJ6IlhDrEFnbssZEjiYo0HGSbeINHibvG1qK/s400/Whorled+Aster.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Whorled Aster I believe (Oclemena acuminata). The path to the campsites was graced by this beauty as well as other wildflowers.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-size:85%;" ></span><br /></div><br />When I returned Mary and I discussed what to do. Regrettably we had to agree that it would be best to cut our trip short and leave before the rain. So we made the best of our last day and Mary started making coffee. She soon turned that honor over to me as she and the kids started to relight the campfire.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikefCVqq0DoVRur8HTs3tLFxCDGiT4FJbMsUsgj31QuW_64iN989la0Xh8wCl8_3qf0bf-p9EYsN2nt57hbjK84GxU-claQ9MeutVS9cXQJQy637fz9UWTOpnQd9olKbr1ZqpP8tVVaTfY/s1600-h/Rachel+and+Janet+at+campfire.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 384px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153577967478242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikefCVqq0DoVRur8HTs3tLFxCDGiT4FJbMsUsgj31QuW_64iN989la0Xh8wCl8_3qf0bf-p9EYsN2nt57hbjK84GxU-claQ9MeutVS9cXQJQy637fz9UWTOpnQd9olKbr1ZqpP8tVVaTfY/s400/Rachel+and+Janet+at+campfire.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Rachel and Janet enjoy the campfire relighted by Mary</span> </div><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVF3_PrZ1Zy6XzG0ihbYc03EWqJ6qYOU76bvazIvRla2zay48ij06OcdO8Neh0R-5DUa4UZ_8PTtEz87jY9CebXUDQony1tuBVOOotc91qN_l3VtZRMtck7HhIZ0nY0MGjMqxRhAklcn12/s1600-h/Mt+Snow+and+moon+across+Grout+PondIMG_0870.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 303px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153858456865378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVF3_PrZ1Zy6XzG0ihbYc03EWqJ6qYOU76bvazIvRla2zay48ij06OcdO8Neh0R-5DUa4UZ_8PTtEz87jY9CebXUDQony1tuBVOOotc91qN_l3VtZRMtck7HhIZ0nY0MGjMqxRhAklcn12/s400/Mt+Snow+and+moon+across+Grout+PondIMG_0870.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Another beautiful day on Grout Pond, the last of our trip.</span> </div><br />After another one of Mary's great breakfasts, pancakes with M and M's for the kids, it was time to get back in the kayaks and enjoy another paddle about before packing up the camp.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_vmz6Eq7t0-meLcd9mKgro9OZBjrV4Utaen8aa2k97o4UD2HIqe6_USROTlbGK585uxaNC9-E9Y8IamJLcTZqF56TpGM8ypari_Iv7hoek-_tn8iP3pR7oGvc-3YfPatz0N81ks_L3aA/s1600-h/Janet+in+Kayak.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153031595284146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_vmz6Eq7t0-meLcd9mKgro9OZBjrV4Utaen8aa2k97o4UD2HIqe6_USROTlbGK585uxaNC9-E9Y8IamJLcTZqF56TpGM8ypari_Iv7hoek-_tn8iP3pR7oGvc-3YfPatz0N81ks_L3aA/s400/Janet+in+Kayak.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Janet cruises among the lily pads in my kayak</span><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMB-iR7aCUYGHrEG1Wrg2L1R4jUhKJwddO9Rg8KeNd_4iRy4HlbFFqAOBdVnpycPXWuR66uz_af2QPgSI0_uvUIUVGFcTaEJvpMx3E1ELzeUQgXxYA0Vqq5Xgy15ZpgcwPVKVZiwMRHzxS/s1600-h/Janet+and+I+in+kayaks.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153030141331026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMB-iR7aCUYGHrEG1Wrg2L1R4jUhKJwddO9Rg8KeNd_4iRy4HlbFFqAOBdVnpycPXWuR66uz_af2QPgSI0_uvUIUVGFcTaEJvpMx3E1ELzeUQgXxYA0Vqq5Xgy15ZpgcwPVKVZiwMRHzxS/s400/Janet+and+I+in+kayaks.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Mary snaps a shot of Janet and me on Grout Pond</span><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigTDi0sXiT8QK8w19NHr14W5QtcVrTfzrNRu1iY4qqcKc0c95Kw_L2P_eFYaQqW9bksioEBCFET10BbP0C-2g2TeN5s7JEiRJwjfNepTNai4vE7TiUezefNwbaFM2Nvs4kOipp4koUCNTY/s1600-h/Mark+Mary+Rachel+in+kayaks.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153043450693186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigTDi0sXiT8QK8w19NHr14W5QtcVrTfzrNRu1iY4qqcKc0c95Kw_L2P_eFYaQqW9bksioEBCFET10BbP0C-2g2TeN5s7JEiRJwjfNepTNai4vE7TiUezefNwbaFM2Nvs4kOipp4koUCNTY/s400/Mark+Mary+Rachel+in+kayaks.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Mark, Mary, and Rachel. </span><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJxwFOnU3R86PDIRbRPDOkEg4Xhb2GnOXGZ4SzOAvP3INtXZ-p_oQGt_2Egx9YNPN-2LZwmLyhdJEGRJHIDRR8zIwl8iPYnbSCRf84cZ8UDcsq5BxZYUO1VBZCTWxcfakMkFVpJDaxoAe/s1600-h/Mary+in+kayak.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386147244084674434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJxwFOnU3R86PDIRbRPDOkEg4Xhb2GnOXGZ4SzOAvP3INtXZ-p_oQGt_2Egx9YNPN-2LZwmLyhdJEGRJHIDRR8zIwl8iPYnbSCRf84cZ8UDcsq5BxZYUO1VBZCTWxcfakMkFVpJDaxoAe/s400/Mary+in+kayak.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Mary heads back to camp. The paddling done, we need to get moving on breaking camp.</span><br /></div><br />When we had finished our last kayaking trip on Grout Pond we headed back to camp to begin the monumental task of packing up all the gear we had brought. Mary and I had overdone it a bit and we had expected to be here for two more days. So it was like moving a small village when it came time to haul out. John, A friend of ours, and his dog Bruin, had driven up from CT to join us with hopes of camping himself. But the weather put paid to that. Still we could get a hike in before heading home. John graciously lent a hand hauling gear and I was able to put the kayaks to use as towed barges now that the pond was calm. Mark and I made a run across each towing gear and I made another solo crossing afterward that finally saw all our belongings on the north shore by the boat access. I did leave one thing behind, a pair of sandals that bit my feet cruelly. I figured the next campers could have them or burn them. Either way worked fine for me. We loaded up the vehicles and finally, by late afternoon, headed out on a hike that John had made many times before.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKO5eIy14_vD69JvZxlaIKuw06cqQRQxP9H225nMtqLadF1FsQXuodoLnClID592ytoFtRxXlJbgsIvn0QtevNDCXku_swYXQo4BTP9Tw3FzzzAAdDHfTuqOFeEkYr-PoK_cEe4K8GWJx/s1600-h/John+and+Bruin+arrive.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 281px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386146931158742914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKO5eIy14_vD69JvZxlaIKuw06cqQRQxP9H225nMtqLadF1FsQXuodoLnClID592ytoFtRxXlJbgsIvn0QtevNDCXku_swYXQo4BTP9Tw3FzzzAAdDHfTuqOFeEkYr-PoK_cEe4K8GWJx/s400/John+and+Bruin+arrive.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">John and Bruin awaited our return at the camp site.</span><br /></div><br />The hike was northwest of Grout Pond. We would hike into the Lye Brook Wilderness and towards Bourn Pond. Unfortunately the excursion into this gem of the southern Green Mountains would have to be cut short as the kids were fast tiring and the rain had begun to encroach once again.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuWjozQcM78tPEjNzVOE1KrO54wxilOtg0CBsBbkroRebsbv60Fom-RvuSu9ctU7Um8csdnQrTaruNCJ_b8tzkW7RI2diGsPBQCY3oem_2m5xGMBMAX8r0GCrrxBA1OmNnbBH82NLTG5e/s1600-h/The+crew+on+board+walk.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 323px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386146916639268370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuWjozQcM78tPEjNzVOE1KrO54wxilOtg0CBsBbkroRebsbv60Fom-RvuSu9ctU7Um8csdnQrTaruNCJ_b8tzkW7RI2diGsPBQCY3oem_2m5xGMBMAX8r0GCrrxBA1OmNnbBH82NLTG5e/s400/The+crew+on+board+walk.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The crew heads into the Lye Brook Wilderness led by John and Bruin.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCcr8icr3nchzUhEJf2qKJx0Azz0Q_FyappyCE0crdUeGWd-bOYDg7u8KzsyZ48x4PSa-ce4u6UHyEgUzA1ZHuvmTKsgdFqSqAexKJbAjcKHFc-jl9Zq0EIq_bjixqAwnGA4-barh7AU2/s1600-h/Janet+and+Rachel+on+rocks.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386153584458008530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCcr8icr3nchzUhEJf2qKJx0Azz0Q_FyappyCE0crdUeGWd-bOYDg7u8KzsyZ48x4PSa-ce4u6UHyEgUzA1ZHuvmTKsgdFqSqAexKJbAjcKHFc-jl9Zq0EIq_bjixqAwnGA4-barh7AU2/s400/Janet+and+Rachel+on+rocks.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Janet and Rachel sit on rocks in the stream during a break on our hike into the wilderness</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialSputr2fDlSY5W-Kd2quKT7hY2sCu-S-4Z4lXn43WmqTFRsYyWa6uMjmO-9xp5CnXbpDR_z6r6JZ36boWO5pEBf_L2hyUDkREx4SuxWVcNrP1LdrE2J82ywwENS8LCSYp20X2zaYPxWt/s1600-h/Indian+Pipe.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386146934070142690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialSputr2fDlSY5W-Kd2quKT7hY2sCu-S-4Z4lXn43WmqTFRsYyWa6uMjmO-9xp5CnXbpDR_z6r6JZ36boWO5pEBf_L2hyUDkREx4SuxWVcNrP1LdrE2J82ywwENS8LCSYp20X2zaYPxWt/s400/Indian+Pipe.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Indian Pipe (Monotropa uniflora) Indian pipe</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> has no chlorophyll and hence no green coloring. It cannot obtain energy from sunlight and gets nutrients from organic matter in the soil instead. </span><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDvV0IXyj5yLImbl-8uP9ExO_xp_H_4EyTW9_rdnD3lT6rrxtn6XTNv7sOckWUkZVbPU1KptL20ZpS_ndN6gmq3JcjQIt4ORGu2_tsm_JNnAP1D85taFw5FFCuvS2wEM7MtNyb5FMkY4t/s1600-h/Mary+takes+my+picture.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 315px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386146923554300866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDvV0IXyj5yLImbl-8uP9ExO_xp_H_4EyTW9_rdnD3lT6rrxtn6XTNv7sOckWUkZVbPU1KptL20ZpS_ndN6gmq3JcjQIt4ORGu2_tsm_JNnAP1D85taFw5FFCuvS2wEM7MtNyb5FMkY4t/s400/Mary+takes+my+picture.jpg" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">On the way out of the Lye Brook Wilderness. Tired but happy!</span><br /></div><br />We returned to our vehicles tired, wet, and very happy. Our camping trip to Grout Pond in the Green Mountains of Vermont had been shorter than planned and somewhat soggier than expected. Yet it had been a wonderful end to the school vacation. It was a joy to do this with Mary and the kids and I hope we can return next year and spend a bit more time enjoying and exploring this corner of New England's primitive green.Dave Provencherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14306174084345672071noreply@blogger.com1