Day Five - 15Sept2006
Heavy overnight rain, but we slept well, exhausted. Two young couples had moved into the cottage close to ours late last night and they too must have been tired - it's a long drive from Prince Edward Island. Early morning saw a lighter, albeit still cloud-bedecked sky. The forecast was for rain throughout the day, until late afternoon, then clearing. But even as we had our breakfast the sun burst through and the day already felt warmer.
As we left the cottage, there were the four twenty-somethings from P.E.I. drinking cans of beer, barbecuing Bratwurst sausages and buns, sitting at the picnic table outside their cottage. They were there, they said, for the NASCAR races at Loudon. They were anticipating the arrival of five more friends or family, to stay at the cottage next to theirs. Irving mentions to them the close proximity of picturesque hiking trails. That unsolicited information draws blank incomprehension.
We'd return, we decided, to Smart's Brook and take a chance on the weather holding despite the forecast - and plan on doing the entire circuit. So we picked up the Boston Globe, fuelled up at roughly three-quarters the price at home and drove back to the White Mountain National Forest, past the frolicksome goats, the Lamekin sign, the William Tell Restaurant & Tavern, the long drives through woods to isolated homes.
Once again we indulge ourselves in the splendour of the first mile of the hike and ascent. The clear mountain stream tumbling over huge boulders strewn along its bed, the high sides of the canyon, granite coloured charcoal-grey, orange-pink, dark red. Tiny ferns, lichens, mosses on the protuberant rocks. This time we traverse the entire length of the deforested pine flats, with the wistfully determined first-growth of poplars, moose maple, now understoried and soon to be overtaken by the relentless new growth of pine, fir, hemlock and spruce seedlings thickly encroaching one upon the other.
Soon enough we dip into the forest on the Yellowjacket trail, and the cloud-filtered light we had enjoyed up until then receded. We adjust to the dark, brooding presence of a inner-forest trail on an overcast day, pushing webs away from our faces, as we progress. I remembered the features that define this trail: long determined ascents, numberless dips over which rough boards had been handily laid, thank-you-very-much. We hear the wings-in-flight of a large bird, but see only a hairy woodpecker busy on an old beech.
Every now and again Button and Riley stop, look behind us, suspiciously alert. Their repeated motions at attention as though sensing an alien, possibly threatening presence, makes me feel a little nervous. What was that all about? We begin to hear the slight roar of water tumbling over rocks and soon come abreast, with ever-increasing sound, to the stream again. But it appears to be going in the wrong direction. Shouldn't it be streaming in the other direction?
We tread on, descending to the level of the stream and do a slight side-circuit to stand beside the water, placid at this point, moving horizontally. Back to the trail, and yet another long ascent. I find myself trudging, try to rest, adjust my gait. Damn the interminal uphill anyway. The sky, what little of it is revealed through the thick overhang of the forest canopy, appears to be getting lighter, although still cloudy. We wonder if we left the potential for sun behind, at the cottage.
Across the narrow path ahead of us flies a lumbering bird, pinions and sharp wing tips evident. As it rises it becomes more graceful, and the hawk lands high on a tree beside the path. At our approach it takes off again, to land atop a further tree, still positioned alongside the trail. Irving thinks it might be intrigued at Riley's presence. Yum. But not to be. It soon flies off deep into the forest.
We regain the obstinately backward-running stream and soon reach the broad bridge that takes us around to the fire road running alongside Smarts Brook, opposite our original incoming trail. Ferns luxuriate along the road. We are more open now to the sky because of the road width and soon realize that rain is gently falling. We stop now and again to take photos of bright yellow fungi, rich swaths of mosses, miniature forests growing atop huge boulders. A pair of turkey vultures rise high on the wind. A raven flutters his wings against the prevailing wind.
Presently we see a cairn and turn down another trail, returning back to the foot-kind forest ambiance. Button has already begun this new descent, needing no assurance from us that she is on the right track. This too is a lovely trail. Old pines, beeches, maples towering thick and straight to the sky. Masses of trefoil green the trailsides; ferns, dogwood, moose maple the understory.
Finally, the discordantly emphatic, too-loud sounds of traffic from the road far bvelow. We descend steadily, and soon see glimpses of the sky. There are blue patches and the rain has stopped.
posted by Pieface @ Friday, September 22, 2006
<< Home