Day Six - 16Sept2006
A milder night; by morning heavy mist and fog hangs over the landscape. We trudge back to bed. The dogs have not even raised their still-weary heads in curiosity. By the time we all wake again it is almost 9, time to rise, and we do, to a partly clear sky - a pair of bluejays heralding these late risers.
At breakfast, seated before one of the large windows looking out over the stony hill rising directly behind the cottage, we watch chipmunks and red squirrels jaunting about, the occasional yellow leaf drifting slowly down from the trees marching up the hill. We're later than usual, but in no hurry - no compulsion to beat the rain for a hike. We'll have good weather all day.
I do the usual clean-up of the kitchen, our bed, the bathroom; rudimentary and quick. Vacuum the floors and carpeting using the neat battery-operated electric broom we bought a few days ago. Collect the still-wet towels, set them out for daily replacement and last, tie up the kitchen garbage for removal - and we're off. (We never eat lunch, only take water along for Button and Riley and that simplifies our agenda. We simply recognize no need - after our more than ample breakfasts of juice, fresh fruit, eggs, toast and coffee/tea - to fuel up again before our evening meal.)
Irving met some of the new arrivals of the P.E.I. gang and over morning coffee at the picnic table learned that the 40-year-old had been a lobster fisher for 12 years, and this season was the best he'd ever had. He said that earning $30K a year you can live like a king on PEI. And, he said, he fishes for two months of the year. It's likely his wife also works. He mentioned his wife's interest in dropping by a few antique shops so Irving got out the pamphlet on antique alley and handed it over before we left. The younger contingent once again fired up the barbecue and were awaiting their morning Bratwurst sausages, drinking canned beer.
We swing over to the Tenney Mountain highway and we're off for the day's excursion. Mountains loom up before us, and in the near distance on either side of the highway. Traffic moves smoothly at a good clip, mostly New Hampshire plates but plenty of Massachusetts as well - it seems as though New Hampshire is the summer playground of Bostonians. Mind, there are also Ontario and Quebec cars. And the vehicles of our P.E.I. friends were heavily brushed with the red, red dirt of their province.
We pass Holderness and isolated-looking homes, many well cared for, others sinking into decay. Some new, others choice examples of late 18th, mid- to late-19th century U.S. Georgian, Colonial, Federal styles. The occasional glimpse of a red-brick, many-windowed Georgian maintained in pride of ownership stands proudly within the New Hampshire forest.
Most of the small towns we've passed on this trip bespeak civic pride, but prosperty has eluded them. There are some places, like Tilton and Franklin that express the depressing architecture of old mill towns. But there is ample pride evinced in the many Greek Revival-style commemorative statuary placed around the public streets, parks, bestride the dams.
Turning off the main highway at Holderness we drive by the Holderness School, a solid collection of regional college buildings faithful to the Federal period, gracing the backwood of this area. There's a natural sciences centre nearby, a motley collection of restaurants, interesting-looking boutique-type arts and crafts shops. We gain a winding roadway, leading to this day's hiking destination.
Squam Lake to our right and to the left, close to the shores of the lake a succession of summer cottages, newer condos. On the right larger, more elegant full-season homes. We're now on an interminably long, winding lake-to-mountain road, and soon there is the improbable sight of farms, their fields marching up the foothills to the mountains beyond. While to the right we catch climpses of the lake through the screen of forest trees. Pleasure craft abound on the lake, and several rough-and-ready marinas.
Eventually the dark green forest closes in on both sides and their depths begin to appear impenetrable. Still, we soon slow down to the sight of vehicles parked by the roadside in the realization that the meagre parking lot servicing adjoining trailheads either side of the narrow road are full. We don't plan to climb the longer ascent, but rather the much shorter one, at a mile in length to attain a moderate height called The Rattlesnake which will treat us to an half-panoramic view of the lake below and its many green islands.
It's Saturday, a beautiful weather day. We'd forgotten how popular this climb is with tourists. And given the nearby NASCAR event, additional tourists. We are surprised nonetheless at the crowds of hikers and their vehicles. Too late for us to go back. The ascent is a moderate but prolonged affair and too many people are sharing the path at first, albeit in a lively and polite manner.
Young couples with children, older people, groups of friends, some with companion dogs. All slogging up to the low summit. Greetings are exchanged in passing, and pleasantries. Before long the throng thins out nicely. this trail is obviously a popular one not requiring too great an effort for the reward of a loftily pleasant view. Much effort has been expended in constructing rough timber "steps", the ubiquitous placement of which we find irksome and unhelpful. Far better to ascend a natural trail.
Irving stoops, offers to me a marble-sized green sphere marked overall with deep red dots. Light-weighted, its covering giving slightly to a pressing touch. A gall? A seed pod? It is beautiful. We soon see lots more, wonder if they're fallen off oaks. This area has been logged out more than three or four times by the immature look of the forest. Mostly deciduous; conifers considerably less in evidence and of a younger presence. We see a single mature jewelweed plant in bloom, and plenty of goldenrod and asters; striped maple, ferns and dogwood.
Further up the trail it becomes rock-strewn, then busily crossed with tree roots. Then as it continues its winding ascent it clears and is soft with the detritus of many years' past foliage and crushed shale. Riley appears to vanish into the trail; its colour reflecting his own. A tiny blonde boy, his trousers around his ankles, has been led by his parents just off the trail to relieve himself against a birch. But he is more interested in our dogs. Their presence frightens him, and we hurry forward.
When we finally reach the stony-flat top we select our own flopping spot from which to view the lake below. Several other groups are ensconsed at various places. Relaxed, enjoying the view, the weather, their late lunch. We enjoin Button and Riley repeatedly to remain beside us, offer them water. They both spurn the turkey-flavoured doggy treats we offer. The bits of bacon they were treated to at breakfast time has satisfied their noshing proclivities for now.
After sitting about a bit, relaxing, taking photographs, we begin our descent. We're favoured by the sight of a small neatly-striped garter snake, swirling through the underbrush beside the trail. A group of young people make their way toward us, then pass, one girl busy speaking into a cell phone. My husband's voice floats along behind me, directed at the girl, expressing his doubt that any pizzeria might be agreeable to delivering up there.
We are nicely shaded on the way down by the closely treed trail, appreciating its coolness.
posted by Pieface @ Friday, September 22, 2006
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