A DRY RIVER (MIS?)ADVENTURE: 12/2/09

This trek reminded me of a familiar admonition from childhood: don't bite off more than you can chew. Even after 30 years of hiking and bushwhacking, there are lessons to be learned, or re-learned.

The setting for this journey was the Dry River valley, the long, remote drainage on the south side of Mt. Washington, which forms the core of the Presidential Range-Dry River Wilderness. (The view of the valley seen below was taken from a southerly spur of Mts. Webster and Jackson.)


The Dry River area has an almost spooky mystique about it, dating back to Nathaniel Hawthorne's haunting tale of obsession, "The Great Carbuncle." It is wild, rough country, and, despite its proximity to the ultra-popular Southern Presidentials, its primitive trails are lightly traveled.

In recent winters Dry River has developed a reputation as a catchbasin for lost hikers driven off the Southern Presidentials by bad weather and/or misnavigation. Once down in there, it's a long ways out, and the trails are usually unbroken, if they can be found at all in the deep snow.

The name of the river itself is deceptive - it is a fast riser after heavy rain, and two hikers drowned here in separate incidents in 1971. In the wake of those tragedies, the Dry River Trail was relocated to eliminate the many river crossings of the old logging railroad grade, and a suspension footbridge was built over the first crossing, 1.7 miles from the road.

I had two objectives for this hike. One was to visit the newly reconstructed suspension footbridge, which had just been opened to public use the previous weekend after being closed for four years. The second was to bushwhack to a small cliff deep in the valley, where I had found an unusual view on an autumn journey back in 1997.

Heavy snow had fallen a few days earlier on the north side of Crawford Notch, and I had decided that if there was significant snow at the trailhead, I would hike elsewhere -- a nine-plus mile solo round trip through unbroken snow would not be manageable.

When I got to the trailhead on Route 302, I found...bare ground. I knew there would be at least some snow farther and higher in the valley, so I brought both Microspikes and snowshoes along - one of the things I did right today. Without either I wouldn't have completed the trip.


In the first half-mile, the Dry River Trail meanders through a fine hardwood forest, where it felt more like late October than early December.


Then the trail hops aboard a section of the old Dry River logging railroad, which had a brief run during the 1890s.


Before long you're in the Wilderness, and this one certainly has more than enough "wild" in it to earn the label.


A view of the boulder-strewn Dry River.

A mile and a half in, the trail makes a sudden steep climb up the side of the valley. This is a recurring theme in the next several miles: rough ups and downs or sidehills mixed with sections of railroad grade strolling. The trail originally followed the railroad grade, which made thirteen (!) crossings of the river to keep to a gentle grade up the tightly confined valley. (In his Logging Railroads of the White Mountains, C. Francis Belcher described this as "one of the most inaccessible of all the White Mountain locations to be logged by railroad.") After the hiker drownings, the trail was relocated to eliminate the crossings, but this necessitated running it up on the side of the slope in many places. Thus, as the AMC Guide hints, the Dry River Trail is a lot more rugged and tiring than your typical valley trail.

Where the trail swings around the slope, high above the river, there is a striking "window" view up the valley to Mt. Washington rising above the headwall of Oakes Gulf, with Mt. Monroe's sharp peak to the left. This is a nice objective for a short hike -- 3 miles round trip.




I ran into the first snow here, which had refrozen into near-ice where the trail tightropes along a very steep slope just past the outlook. I put the Microspikes on, and wouldn't have done this stretch without them. Then the trail descends a rather nasty steep pitch towards the bridge; this will be a tricky spot when it freezes up.

Approaching the new bridge.


An impressive work of footbridge construction, it is.

This Seattle company specializes in trail bridges.



A nice ledgy spot on the river just past the bridge.


Soon the snow cover was continuous on the trail, a crunchy couple of inches. At one point you see this massive gravel slide across the valley.

About 2 1/2 miles in, where the trail makes a welcome return to the railroad grade, the snow depth had increased to the point where barebooting was becoming tedious and tiring.


On went the snowshoes for their first workout of the season.

A landmark along the way - the junction with the Mount Clinton Trail at 2.9 miles.

The previous week's storm had wreaked havoc on the trails, with numerous blowdowns from high winds, and bendovers of small trees from a burden of heavy wet snow.


After a rough, rocky stretch along the bank, the trail crossed this brook. And here I made a careless navigational error. I assumed this was a brook shown on the USGS topo map, and I soon left the trail to head up the ridge that rises between it and the Dry River, a route that would lead me to the clifftop I was seeking. The trail had become increasingly obstructed by blowdowns and bendovers, and I was anxious to get off it and start whacking.

I climbed up a steep spruce-clad slope to a shoulder. At the top I realized that there were brooks on both sides of this ridge, and the one down to my left was not the Dry River. What a bonehead - I had left the trail one brook too early and gone up the wrong ridge! That's why the woods seemed thicker than I remembered. With the short daylight hours this time of year, this whack was starting out as a fiasco. Cursing was heard in the valley. To correct my course, I dropped to the left down a steep slope, crossed the brook at the bottom (shown below), then struggled up an even steeper slope on the far side. My mistake had cost me an extra half-hour of strenuous snowshoeing through the increasingly wet snow.


The correct ridgecrest started out as a narrow hogback.


Out here, deep in the valley, I felt "Alone in the Wilderness." I soon found evidence that there were other creatures out and about. First a bear...

...and then a moose.


Through a break in the trees there was a peek up at the high ridge of Mt. Davis.

Then the woods started to open up, though the snow was getting deeper, about 8 inches or so, and there were hobblebush patches to wade through.


I broke out into the open hardwoods that I remembered from my previous visit to this ridge. Some large old yellow birches in here.


The slope steepened as I approached the little knob where the SW-facing cliff was located. By now I was pretty pooped from four hours of nearly non-stop hiking and snowshoeing, and I was taking frequent rests during the slow, winding ascent. On the steep final approach to the cliff, I found the little gap that had provided a convenient route up through the ledges on my first visit was now roadblocked with a humongous blowdown mess. This forced me into some awkward snowshoe maneuvering in steep terrain.

And here my legs put up their first protest in the form of painful cramps of the inner thigh muscles. This has happened occasionally before on bushwhacks with much leg lifting, and also on the first full-day of snowshoeing in a season, when these muscles have been on a long layoff. On this trip I was doing both. Compounding the problem, I had not stopped often enough to drink water because I felt an urgency to keep moving with the short daylight hours. Dumb and dumber!


I finally made my way out to the little clifftop perch at 1:30 pm, 4 1/2 hours from the trailhead. It was downright balmy here, no need for a hat or more than one extra layer.


The view from here south down the Dry River valley is unique, though the low December sun and hazy skies made for less than stellar pictures.

Mt. Carrigain (L) and the sprawling Hancock (R) dominate the distant horizon.



The lower Dry River valley is like a canyon - it's hard to believe a railroad was put up through here.


Across the valley to the west is Mt. Jackson, which has a broad-spreading aspect from this perspective, quite different from its usual nubbly look. In the foreground the steep valley wall is scored by numerous small slides and gullies.


Closer by to the SE was a spur ridge of Mt. Davis. A half-hour rest here was all I could afford, during which I ate, drank water and took electrolyte tablets to try and counteract the leg cramps.


I had two hopes for the first part of the return trip: find a less strenuous route off the clifftop knob, and maybe before dropping down find a west-facing ledge I had spotted from Mt. Pierce on a winter hike. I made a brief stab at searching for the ledge, but quickly decided I had better start heading my butt down. (A look at Mt. Pierce photos after the hike showed that the west-facing ledge would have required a significant side trip for which there was neither time nor energy.) I started descending the moderately steep slope, not sure what I would find for vegetative obstacles. And soon I came into some really good woods. At this point I was pretty pleased with my choice of descent route.



A nice area to snowshoe in.


And then, about halfway down to the valley floor, I hit some bad woods. With the need for lots of maneuvering and leg-lifting to negotiate these small snow-covered conifers, the leg cramps really kicked in, the worst I've ever experienced. Several times I was immobilized for a few minutes. Clearly I had way overdone it today. I ate and drank more and chewed more electrolyte tablets.



It was three o'clock and I will confess to having a few anxious moments while struggling in the thickets. I figured I would be able to get out OK, but that it could take longer than usual. I had plenty of food and still had a bit of water left, and if needed I could drink more from the several side streams crossed by the trail, or from the river itself.



As a husband, I was concerned about the worry an unusually late exit would cause for my wife. As a search and rescue volunteer, I considered the embarrassment of a really, really late exit, having Fish & Game officers and some of my cohorts give up their evening and come out in the dark looking for me when I wasn't injured or lost. Say what you want about cell phones - I carry one - but in a case like this a call could save alot of trouble and worry. No chance of a signal in this remote valley, though. Lurking in the back of my mind was the knowledge that heavy rain was moving in overnight.


I was very happy to finally get down to the trail and begin the four-mile trudge out, even with its ups and downs and many blowdowns and bendovers. I reached the bridge at dark, and sat down to pull out a headlamp and put on the Microspikes for the steep icy pitch up past the Mt. Washington outlook. With the cramps I had a difficult time bending my legs to pull the stretchy rubber of the 'spikes on - for one foot I had to take my boot off to do it. (In this instance, Stabilicers would have been far easier to put on.) Once past the steep descent from the outlook, the walking became pleasant on bare ground.

The last stretch out could have been a scene from "The Great Carbuncle," with gnarled hardwood branches looming high overhead under the dim light of a cloud-veiled moon.

As it turned out, I made it home in time for a not-too-late dinner. When I emailed my bushwhacking buddy John Compton about this trek, I said it could be considered an epic or a debacle, depending on your point of view. With his usual good humor, he suggested it be called an "epicable." The photo below, taken from Mt. Pierce, shows the setting for the day's journey, one which this fool won't soon forget.

PERKINS NOTCH: 11/25/09

Perkins Notch, the gentle gap between Carter Dome and Black Mountain, is a remote and interesting area at the SW corner of the Wild River Wilderness. The broad uplands in this region are a haven for beaver and moose, and hidden in the woods is some interesting logging history relating to the old Wild River Railroad.

On the day before Thanksgiving, the forecast promised "brightening skies" after low clouds, fog and drizzle in the morning. Alas, the sun was never to be seen this day, but it still proved to be an interesting and rewarding trek.

I drove up Carter Notch Road from Jackson to the small, rough parking area for the Bog Brook Trail, and set off at 8:15 am. (Note that this road is not plowed for the last half-mile, and in winter parking is almost nonexistent.)




The first two brook crossings on the trail were easy enough, but the third - over the Wildcat River - didn't have a comfortable rock crossing this day. The stream is wider than it looks in the photo.

After a futile search for a better rock crossing, I ended up sliding across this log on my butt. Not many style points, but no one was watching.



The Bog Brook Trail climbs gradually, with some good walking and some very mucky stretches. In its upper mile it crosses mossy Bog Brook five times.


One stretch leads through a nice spruce corridor alongside the brook. This area reminds me of valley trails in the eastern Pemi Wilderness.

The fifth crossing of Bog Brook is by an old beaver pond/swamp. With the footbridge out of commission...


...you have to cross on a slippery beaver dam with uncertain footing.

Just beyond, I turned right onto the Wild River Trail and soon broke out into open hardwood glades.

A rolling section of trail brings you to the junction with the Rainbow Trail in the secluded woods of Perkins Notch. As recounted in the recently published Nature and Renewal, by Dean Bennett, and also in the out-of-print Logging Railroads of the White Mountains, by C. Francis Belcher, and The Wild River Wilderness, by D. B. Wight, the owners of the Wild River Railroad wanted to get at the timber in the upper valleys of Bog Brook and Wildcat River. But these drainages were on the opposite side of Perkins Notch from the railroad in the main Wild River valley. The logs would have to be hauled uphill to the notch, a job that was too much for the horses. So in 1902 woods boss Jim Keenan rigged up a winching rig known as a "donkey engine" or "steam donkey." This steam-powered engine had a large drum attached and used a steel cable to haul the logs up to the height-of-land, from which they were sledded down to the railroad on the north side.


In Nature and Renewal there is a picture of Joe Taylor, a retired Forest Service employee, examining a piece of this cable. I hoped to find it on this trek. Armed with with some email advice from Ben English, Jr. of Jackson, one of our finest White Mountain historians (co-editor of the two Our Mountain Trips books and author of two books on Crawford Notch railroading), I found the inch-thick steel cable near the junction of the Rainbow and Wild River Trails.



Nearby was a shallow ditch that Ben had mentioned, perhaps made by, or for, the hauling of the logs up the slope.


Upslope from the cable was a series of large bolts protruding from the ground.


Together the bolts outlined a rectangle roughly 5 feet by 15 feet. Ben and I think that possibly this represents the location of the donkey engine used to pull the cable.


Pleased with these finds, I continued across a wild section of trail leading to No-Ketchum Pond and Perkins Notch Shelter.


The "pond,"downslope from the trail just past the shelter, is a long, narrow pool of water hemmed in by mats of bog vegetation. In 1882 AMC explorer Randall Spaulding estimated its area at 500 feet by 60 feet. It looks smaller today. I root-hopped down the second of two muddy side paths and stood on a rock for a fuzzy view of the east end of No-Ketchum.



The shelter, built by the Forest Service about 1957, provided a welcome dry spot for lunch away from the drizzle.



The view across the bog from the side of the shelter was fog-soaked today. On a clear day you can see the Carter Dome massif.


Heading back to the Rainbow Trail, I bushwhacked down to the next bog west of No-Ketchum Pond. This is beautiful, remote wetland country, which, as noted in AMC guidebooks from the 1920s, "possesses a weird charm of its own."



I went a little ways up the Rainbow Trail, then headed NE through wonderfully open glades of birch and hardwood.



I made a tour of four more beaver ponds and meadows, some of which I first visited in the mid-1980s while surveying the area in early summer as an Audubon Society volunteer for the NH Breeding Bird Atlas. It was a lot less buggy today!


An open spruce glade led me out to one of the ponds.



In this area there was sign of beaver...



...and moose. Along the way I made use of several well-trodden moose paths, and there were some fresh-looking, glistening piles of pellets.



I made my way out to one side of the largest pond/meadow of the group. I spotted a sitting rock on the far side, and had to go there.



It turned out to be a great spot to sit while the drizzle took a break.



The view from the sitting rock. Not a sound to be heard on this foggy, calm day. Wilderness, indeed, out here.


For a moment the mists parted, slightly, allowing a partial glimpse of Rainbow Ridge, the southern spur of Carter Dome.

On the return trip I came across this unusually shaped maple.


Some of the nicest open hardwood forest you'll find anywhere in the Whites.

I had to hustle along the trails to make it out before dark. Partway down the Bog Brook Trail, I encountered a bull moose occupying the footway. Unlike a similar encounter during mating season in late September (on the Blueberry Ledge Trail on Mt. Whiteface), when an aggressive bull came at me and forced an unplanned bushwhack, this moose took off immediately into the woods. For the lower part of the hike I followed a Forest Service logging road that leads back to Carter Notch Road. It was a half-mile longer than the corresponding section on the Bog Brook Trail, but it avoided three brook crossings and was much easier to walk in the gathering gloom. Despite the dreary weather, it had been a great day of exploration in mostly-forgotten Perkins Notch.

SNOOPIN' AROUND THE SOUTH SIDE OF SANDWICH: 11/19/09

Looking for a leisurely trek on the last in a string of gorgeous November days, I headed down to the quiet southwestern corner of the Sandwich Range Wilderness for some easy rambling on and off the trails. I started at the western trailhead for the Flat Mountain Pond Trail, reached by driving down the narrow end of Bennett Street.




The first part of the Flat Mountain Pond Trail is on the privately owned Swift River Tree Farm. Thank you, landowners!


Past the Bennett Street Trail junction, the trail climbed through hardwoods glowing in the unusually warm November sun.



At 1.1 miles I reached the Guinea Pond Trail...



...and headed down it for a leafy ramble on the grade of the old Beebe River Logging Railroad, which ran 22 miles from lower Campton to the Flat Mountain Pond area and was in operation from 1917 to 1924 and intermittently after that.


I spent the next four hours exploring off-trail, north of the Guinea Pond Trail and south of Sandwich Dome. This area was mostly hardwood, with a variety of going - old logging roads, open glades, head-high hobblebush thickets, dense beech saplings, and some conifers both open and tightly packed. In one place I came across a logging camp from the Beebe River railroad operation.

Lots of interesting stuff here. (Reminder to readers: It is illegal to remove historic artifacts from the National Forest; the fines are hefty.) This sled runner tip was sticking up from the forest duff.


More sled runners and other ironware.



Not sure what this piece was used for.


Someone had hung some horseshoes from a tree.


Part of an old stove?


The remains of a logger's boot, from 80 or 90 years ago.

An old barrel standing by itself.


Among the other treasures I found were several cascades on local brooks.



This one was in a small flume-type formation.



A neat confluence of two brooks, almost twins.


One of the more open sections of woods in the valley.

Yet another cascade.


The biggest waterfall of the day, with fine ledges at the top.


A side view from the ledges.


I capped off the exploration with an ascent to a favorite ledge with a massive close-up view of Sandwich Dome, its SW and SE spurs spread wide like the wings of a giant eagle.

Black Mountain, the SW shoulder of Sandwich, rises above a large beaver pond/meadow. The Algonquin Trail runs across its top; the upper Black Mountain Pond Trail ascends steeply at the left end.

The SE shoulder; on the other side are the Gleason and Bennett Street Trails.

There is a spacious ravine between Black and Sandwich Dome itself. One of the striking things about this view is that this whole wide southern front of Sandwich is devoid of trails, other than those on the main ridgecrest and at the far ends.



A closer look at the beaver pond/meadow.


A view from the shore of the beaver pond/meadow, taken on a spring visit a few years ago.


A distant view to the NE, looking along the front of the Sandwich Range.


Mt. Whiteface, showing its great south cliff, and the southern Flat Mountain.



Mt. Chocorua, with Mt. Paugus and Mt. Wonalancet (in front) on the L.

A small plane approached from the SW.

Spotting my blaze orange vest, it made two close passes. I waved, and I assume the pilot waved back.


A parting look - best to head back while the sun is still up.


The most challenging part of the trip was descending this steep hardwood slope, with treacherously slick leaf cover.

Back on the Guinea Pond Trail in golden evening light, concluding a most enjoyable exploration.

UNKNOWN POND & THE HORN: 11/18/09

What a glorious stretch of November weather! John Compton and I headed north to the Mill Brook Road trailhead in Stark, knowing we wanted to get a big view with today's clear, sunny skies. The only person we saw on the 4.5 mile drive up the gravel road was a deer hunter heading into a clearcut.

At the parking spot (surely one of the loneliest trailheads in the Whites) we opted for a trail hike to Unknown Pond and The Horn over a bushwhack up an eastern spur to the Pilot Ridge and on to the summit of Hutchins Mountain. Back in late fall of 1990, when I whacked with several friends across the four main Pilot peaks from Lost Nation, the descent down the west side of Hutchins proved to be the most difficult going of the day and took longer than expected. With November's limited daylight it seemed a better bet to choose the known trek over a long bushwhack route we hadn't used before.

After some mucky footing at the start, the walking on the Unknown Pond Trail was pleasant through open hardwoods.



After a mile or so we began the steadier climb up through an extensive birch forest.



At the top of the climb we continued a short distance ahead on the Kilkenny Ridge Trail to the side path leading down to the classic view of The Horn rising above Unknown Pond. A thin skim of ice gave the vista a different look.


We didn't linger too long at the pond, so we would have more time atop The Horn, one of the great spots in the Whites. We soon headed out on the southbound Kilkenny Ridge Trail.


The trail descends to a wet sag before beginning the long, meandering climb of The Horn.



We came upon some recent axe work.



The Kilkenny Ridge Trail is a very pleasant ramble with a remote feeling. Trail conditions were dry and excellent.




As it slabs around the side of The Horn, the trail gets fairly rocky - a Kilkenny version of the notorious Link, but about one-tenth as difficult.



The spur trail to The Horn -- only 0.3 mile to the views!


Just below the top there are a couple of little ledge scrambles.


Then you have to find a way up the imposing summit ledge. Only by getting up there can you enjoy the full range of views from the watchtower of the Kilkenny.


It's a pretty challenging little scramble. I usually approach it via a crack on the east side.



The summit ledge, which AMC explorer William H. Peek described in 1885 as "a rock as large as a goodly, hospitable dining-table." The Bulge rises nearby, with Vermont horizons beyond.



The summit benchmark, placed in 1965.



With the 90-plus mile visibility, the cameras saw plenty of action.




The shadowy view south to South Terrace, North and South Weeks, Waumbek and the Presidentials.


Southeast to the Moriahs and Carters beyond the Crescent Range.

Baldpate, Old Speck and the northern Mahoosucs, beyond the southern knobs of Unknown Pond Ridge.


North to the Percys and the Nash Stream mountains. The Devil's Slide is seen in shadow at center right.

My favorite Horn vista is northwest to the trailless Pilots, with their multiple peaks and down-flowing ridgelines. When I once made a solo summer whack to a small cliff and talus slope on the east flank of the Pilots (towards the right end in this photo), the feeling of remoteness was amazing - even though I ran into two local guys fishing the West Branch of Mill Brook down in the valley, and even though the talus was only two miles from the end of the road.

As I was sitting on the talus, gazing at a unique view of Unknown Pond Ridge, The Bulge and The Horn rising above the upper bowls of the Mill Brook valley, I heard a stealthy step above me, at the top of the slope. Whatever was up there kicked a small loose rock down. When I turned around and looked up - nothing. I must admit it sent a bit of a chill down my spine when I thought of the frequent reports of mountain lion sightings in the Lancaster/Kilkenny area. It's pretty wild out there.


A zoom on Hutchins, with inviting south-facing ledges below its summit.


The Bulge and the bulky Mt. Cabot loom close at hand, tough to see with the low November sun.



The Rangeley area mountains in Maine were clearly visible. Most prominent were the four sharp peaks of the Bigelows, seen to the right of the scraggly spruce.


One of our objectives was to find a clear view down to the highland ponds at the base of The Horn. After exploring along the densely grown ridgecrest, we were successful. Unknown Pond is on the left, tiny Bishop's Pond is on the right.

A closeup of Unknown Pond and its neighboring cliff.


Bishop's Pond, where John and I had a late, chilly lunch in the sun two weeks earlier. In the 1970s, before the Kilkenny Ridge Trail was built, the AMC Guide recommended this pond as a key to a bushwhack ascent of The Horn from the Unknown Pond Trail, "swinging L higher up to avoid the cliffs." I did that route in the summer of 1990, wading through waist-high ferns in the birches, then scrambling up the steep, rough upper part of the SE ridge.


Rogers Ledge (L) and Square Mountain (R), two interesting smaller peaks in the northern Kilkenny. The Kilkenny Ridge Trail passes over Rogers Ledge, where the southward view is superb, while Square, with its huge cliff face, is a bushwhack (which should be avoided during peregrine falcon nesting season, April 1-August 1).


This view shows the breadth of the birch-clad basin of Unknown Pond Brook.

The Horn casts a mighty shadow on the land.

Back to the summit ledge, it's 2:30 and time to head out.


A last look at the Pilots, with late afternoon shadows slipping into the ravines.



Evening sunlight on the shore of Unknown Pond.


A steady pace back down through the birches got us back to the car just as it was getting dark. We had gotten a full measure of satisfaction from our journey to The Horn.

THE KETTLES & THE SCAUR: 11/11/09

****Thank you, vets, for your service.***

Carol and I had Veteran's Day off together, and decided to spend a leisurely afternoon on one of our favorite short hikes: The Kettles and The Scaur in Waterville Valley. This four-mile round trip has pleasant, uncrowded trails, fine woods and a wide south-facing view from a rocky nubble, all with only 600 ft. of climbing. As you approach the Depot Camp clearing near the start of the Livermore Trail, The Scaur is in sight ahead.




The Livermore Trail is always a relaxing stroll.


At 0.9 mile, we turned left on the Kettles Path, which was originally opened about 1890 by Arthur Goodrich, father of famed trailbuilder and Waterville historian Nathaniel Goodrich.


The first part is a gentle meander through mixed woods.


Two short, steep pitches lead to the three Kettles - bowl-shaped depressions left in the woods when stranded ice chunks melted at the end of the last Ice Age. These are the same formations that are now the hundreds of kettle ponds on Cape Cod.


Approaching the junction with the Scaur Trail through nice hardwood forest, we passed this interesting rock.


Near the trail is this large old white ash.


At the junction we turned right for the short but steep climb up The Scaur.


The trail circles around the backside of the nubble, then shoots up through conifer woods.


At the top you scramble through a ledgy slot before emerging at the outlook.


The Scaur is a great place to hang out in the warm sun - even in November!


To the east are Middle and South Tripyramid, with West Sleeper peering out on the right, above the Slide Brook valley.
Close-up of the Trips.


You get an intriguing look into the remote Lost Pass area.

Southward there's an impressive spread of Sandwich Dome, with Jennings Peak prominent on the right.

Tecumseh, its ski slopes still bare due to recent warm weather, is to the SW.


By poking carefully around you can get a view towards Thornton Gap, the pass between Tecumseh and Osceola, home of Tripoli Road.


Mt. Osceola looms impressively to the NW.


A window view of the unusual Painted Cliff on East Osceola.


Caught in a November snooze!


On the way down we made a short side trip on an unmarked road and path to Swazeytown, site of an early Waterville homestead and later the site of a dam and pond used for river-drives in the early 1900s. Part of the old dam can be seen underwater.


A semi-bushwhack around the corner revealed a hidden beaver pond that is actually close to Livermore Trail, but separated by a very steep slope. There's alot to explore in the Waterville Valley.

WILD RIVER: 11/10/09

After two years away from the beautiful Wild River Valley, long one of my favorite White Mountain haunts, I was anxious for a visit. John Compton and I agreed to undertake a bushwhack to a ledge on a nameless Wild River ridge that I had visited back in 1996. I knew this spot had a phenomenal view of the Carter-Moriah Range.

Adding much interest to the planned trek was the October publication of a fascinating new history of the Wild River Valley. Written by Maine environmental writer and naturalist Dean Bennett, Nature and Renewal: Wild River Valley & Beyond tells the story of the valley's decimation by logging in the 1890s and fire in 1903, then its reforestation and eventual designation as the newest Wilderness area in the White Mountains in 2006.


Mentioned in this book are two features of this expansive valley - one natural and one historic - that happened to be near our bushwhack route. The first was a giant hemlock that survived the logging and fire, the second was a remnant piece of logging railroad, complete with rusting rails and rotting ties, that lies mostly forgotten in a brookbed.

We parked at the end of the 5 1/2 mile Wild River Road, a quiet and lonely place in November. No hikers' cars were there; the only people around were two campers in a campground lean-to. We set off on the Basin Trail, and soon undertook what proved to be a futile search for a spur line of the Wild River logging railroad (1890-1903). The abandoned piece of track was reported to be on a spur that extended a short distance into the Blue Brook valley, but we couldn't find a definitive railroad grade in the area we were searching.

We had better luck finding the giant old hemlock, whose survival over several centuries is a central theme in Dean Bennett's Wild River book. It is located off-trail not too far from the Basin Trail.



Bennett determined that this tree has a diameter of 3 1/2 feet at breast height, and that it could be as much as 300 years old. It was not discovered until 1999, when a Forest Service forester was inventorying timber in the area.



Nearby was another hemlock that was almost as impressive. These ancient trees are now protected within the Wilderness area.


After admiring these forest giants, we set off on the bushwhack to the view ledge. Along the way we found this pretty gorge and cascade on a tributary of Blue Brook.


Farther upstream the brook's ledges were lushly carpeted in moss.


The whack was mostly through hardwood forest, generally good going but with plenty of beech saplings (sons-of-beeches, we call them, when they slap you in the face).



The final approach was steep and thick through spruces. When we got to the ledge, we saw that the day's promised sun was not about to materialize. However, the cloud deck was very high, allowing for fine views of the Carter-Moriah Range to the west across the broad expanse of the Wild River Valley. The whole sweep of the ridge was revealed here - from Carter Dome's Rainbow Ridge on the south end to Howe Peak, east of Shelburne Moriah, on the north end. In this photo all of the high Carters are seen.


A zoom on Rainbow Ridge, Carter Dome and Mt. Hight, which has a particularly sharp aspect from this angle.

The east side of the Carter Range is wild, remote and rugged country, notable for its l-o-n-g valleys and ridges. This view looks into the trailless four-mile-long valley of Cypress Brook, which has two partly-formed glacial cirques at its head, one on either side of South Carter.



The three Moriahs (L to R): Mt. Moriah, with its long, ledgy SE ridge; Middle Moriah; and rocky, lumpy Shelburne Moriah.


From the ledge you look straight into the valley of Moriah Brook, which is traversed by one of the most attractive trails in the Whites. The stripes of old logging roads, lined with light-colored aspen, are evidence of a selective timber harvest performed in the early 1950s by the Nadeau Co. of Berlin.


John, bedecked in his best blaze orange, takes a last look at the view after our 1 1/2 hour sojourn.


We whacked back down to the Wild River, where shoreside rocks opened a view upstream to Middle Carter.


The Wild River rivals the East Branch of the Pemigewasset, in the Pemigewasset Wilderness, as a premier backcountry river. The Wild River Wilderness itself is sort of an eastern version of the Pemi, on a smaller scale.


We made a short side trip to check out the suspension footbridge over the river at the start of the Moriah Brook Trail. (This bridge is just outside the Wilderness boundary.)


With plenty of daylight left, we headed back into the leafless woods in search of the old railroad track. After some searching, we found it, though not quite where we expected it to be. As noted in the book (a picture of this is on the cover), the section was about 40 feet long and resting in a brookbed.



John takes a closer look at this neat piece of White Mountain logging history.


Back at the Wild River Campground, we saw that the Blue Brook Shelter, which had been dismantled and removed from its site up on the Black Angel Trail, has been reassembled down here and will be open for use by car campers at the campground.



We enjoyed a marvelous and leisurely day exploring one small area of the Wild River Valley. If the snow holds off and the road stays open, perhaps one more trip there will be in the cards for this year.

KILKENNY BIRCH RAMBLE: 11/4/09

After last week's relaxing trek to "Unknown Ledge," the sweet solitude and gleaming birch glades of The Kilkenny lured John Compton and me back for an encore journey. This time we would explore the other side of the Unknown Pond Brook valley, visiting three small ponds and a nameless set of cliffs on the SE ridge of The Horn.

We hiked partway up the Unknown Pond Trail from York Pond Road, following the cheerful tumblings of Unknown Pond Brook.



In one spot numerous birch trunks had toppled across the brook - felled by the 1998 ice storm?


The first trail crossing of the brook.


We whacked up to a newly recreated beaver pond, with an inviting shoreline lit up in the sun.


John checks out the zig-zag beaver dam.


We passed by the lodge, but didn't knock to see if anyone was home.

A view of Unknown Pond Ridge from the west side of the pond.


John, blazed in orange (muzzleloader season was on), admires the Kilkenny scenery.


A well-worn beaver trail led us up and over to a higher pond.

Another beauty with an open shoreline.


Those busy beavers had almost felled this good-sized birch.


This pond extended a ways to the south.


Then we set off on our whack up the ridge to the cliffs, through birches...


...and more birches...

...and......a definite trend here, thanks to the 30,000-acre fire in 1903 that ended the intensive logging era in The Kilkenny. Such beauty sprung from widespread devastation.

Can't really call this bushwhacking. In summer, though, the ferns would be waist or even chest-high.


Long corridors looking across the slope.

Eventually the bluff that held our cliffs could be seen rising ahead.


The approach required a flanking action to the right.


Climbing steeply up to the blufftop, we enjoyed a Mahoosucs view through the trees.

To our surprise, the approach to the clifftop didn't become gnarly until the last few yards. From last week's ledge, and from the road this morning, we had spotted a jutting ledge here and had hoped for at least a small open perch. Our alleged viewspot turned out to be a separate rock tower, a gendarme that had split off from the main cliff.



So we had to work hard for our views, picking them up in segments from openings between the trees. From this spot we looked out at the Moriahs beyond Black Crescent Mountain and the Upper Ammonoosuc lowlands. The water on the left is the pond at Godfrey Dam. In the foreground is the ridge we ascended.

The main and middle summits of Unknown Pond Ridge, seen across the Unknown Pond Brook valley.



The middle and south peaks of Unknown Pond Ridge; Baldpate and Old Speck in the distance.


We pushed through clinging spruces to glean this vista of North Weeks and the shrouded, rime-frosted Presidentials.



Leaving the bluff, we headed north across the birch-clad slope....



...and eventually came to a small pond, unnamed on maps, at the foot of The Horn.


In AMC White Mountain Guides from the 1970s, this pond was mentioned as part of a bushwhack route to the then-trailless Horn. The guide gave the local name as "Bishop's Pond."


One of the greatest enthusiasts of The Kilkenny was the Rt. Rev. Robert McConnell Hatch, an Epsicopal Bishop from Connecticut and later Massachusetts, who roamed this area frequently with his friend Jack Farr. For the December 1956 issue of Appalachia, Bishop Hatch wrote a lyrical essay, "A Lean-To in the Mountains," about an exploration he and his friend made in search of a small, remote pond at the base of a ledge-capped peak. When they at last reached their objective, they "stood motionless and gazed at the pond. For a long time neither of us could speak, and when we finally did it was in a whisper. Never in our lives had we been in a place of such wild and breath-taking beauty."

In his honor, the tiny tarn was unofficially named the "Bishop's Pond." Bishop Hatch, by all accounts a beloved figure, passed away last summer at the age of 99.



Sunlit rocks on the northeast shore beckoned for a late lunch break.


The sun was just over the shoulder of The Horn; only when a cloud rolled in could we see the view of the peak looming above the pond.




In mid-afternoon we took our leave of this magical place and followed the little outlet brook down through the birches.



Eventually we came out by one of the beaver ponds on the floor of the valley - the first pond we had visited in the morning.


Back on the Unknown Pond Trail, we made a short detour to look at a cascade on Unknown Pond Brook.


At the crossing of the tributary brook, there was another small waterfall.

Then we walked the two miles back out on the trail, concluding another entrancing day in The Kilkenny.