Day Seven - 17Sept2006
Hey, our cup runneth over! Yet another glorious weather day bloomed sunnily, mildly, from early morning to late day. In our honour? Because of our august presence? No, not the September kind of august. The tiny red squirrels and the even tinier chipmunks scrabble away in the undergrowth beneath our windows. too-early leaves continue their downward drift, dragonflies fling themselves through the warm atmosphere, this precious tail-end of summer.
I slice up melon, peel bananas, pour orange juice, cook tiny breakfast sausages along with buttermilk pancakes, tea, coffee. Call Button and Riley in for their breakfast. They've been out on the grass enjoying the pale morning sun along with Irving, leafing through our old white Mountain guide for inspiration.
What would I think, he asks me, of extending our stay here for one more day? The peace, the serenity, the feel-good environment has enveloped him and he is in a stupor of quiet satisfaction. What can I say? We'll have to call our daughter, our next-door neighbour, let them know.
Our P.E.I. neighbours have departed, gone back to the red soil of the Island. Hope they enjoyed themselves. People always say they have. Their large SUVs drive off into the early morning.
Egad, the guineau fowl have been reduced to two. Whatever might have happened to the third, we wonder. Somehow, this does not seem right. The two seem mournful, peckish, as they drift out of sight across the road to join the horses, those beautiful beasts in their broad green pasture. Donna tells us later the attrition is likely a result of a fox. Likely. I take a dim view of such untoward incivility.
Off we go, backpack and water, hiking boots in the car trunk. A pair of shorts for after our hike. the day beckons and we have already luxuriated in much of it. Good grief, look at the crowd already assembled at the Mad River Tavern! We pass those precious place names; Goose Hollow, Apple Hill, Chickenboro road, Panorama Ridge.
The dam at Compton Falls glistens in the sun, the water above the dam still and serene. The maples, sumach, birch have turned even brighter shades of red and yellow in this one week we've been here. Glorious, just glorious. We're almost there, driving alongside the rock-strewn tumult of the irrepressible Mad River. Cross the bridge and we're at the parking lot.
So where are we? Sigh. We had stopped at the New Hampshire National Forest information centre to pick up additional pamphlets, bought an excellent Waterville Valley hiking map. And avidly perused it, doing our best to work up a lather of enthusiasm. Not to be. From that aspect, we looked across to the nearest mountain groupings, watched a fleet of small migrating birds land and assemble themselves perfectly, symmetrically along the electrical wires. Amazing.
It isn't quite lack of imagination that brings us back to Smarts Brook, nor lack of initiative, but rather a comfortable sense of adequacy. We've had more than enough physical challenges for this week; we opt for the familiar, the accessible, the guaranteed leisure in the surpassing beauty of the site. And we are content with our choice, taking full advantage of the lovely day, venturing into the near reaches of the stream, to sit upon dry boulders, watch the noissome waters, the long stretch above of the rising stream, the boulders, the overhanging trees.
Then we resume our ascent, slowly, luxuriously, much to our pleasure and the confused irritation of Button and Riley, champing to get on with it, this familiar trail, all its delights revealed anew. We do not, this time, traverse the entire four-mile circuit. At the termination of the flats, just before the trail drops into the darkly-stifling forest, we turn back, turn our faces to the sun and retrace our steps.
There will be more to this day, too.
posted by Pieface @ Sunday, September 24, 2006
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