AN ALUMNUS ON THE OUTING TRAIL

From the sedentary habits of a practicing lawyer to the activities incident to a 65 mile tramp across country gives a violent tug to one's imagination and a still more violent tug to one's muscles, but it is an experience which, if safely passed, leaves a taste for more. A trip to Moose Cabin in 1918 with strawberry shortcake and "fixins" followed by another trip in 1919 to the same spot with roast pig and more "fixins" was followed by a resolve to see more of the Outing Club cabins and incidentally ascertain if youth was really so far back in the mists of antiquity as the calendar would seem to indicate. Accordingly arrangements for the trip were made and early on Monday afternoon, September 20, 1920, my friend, George B. Thayer, a graduate of the Yale Law School, and I found ourselves leaving the Inn at Hanover, headed for Moose, and the venture was begun.

While an undergraduate, I had several times walked up Balch Hill, but, so far as I now recall, never with such a feeling of freedom from care as I had on this particular day. The sunshine was delightful, the air was warm and all thoughts of business and civilization were left behind. Our packs quickly settled into place and much to my astonishment did not seem to grow heavier as we progressed. When at the top of the hill we halted an instant to look hack over the familiar valley where the old college nestled among the trees. It seemed to me that the vista was more beautiful than it used to be. I may have been unconsciously affected by the fact that this historic seat of learning did not now mean to me study, lectures and examinations.

Soon we saw the D. O. C. sign indicating a turn to the right. These signs we found all along the trail in such places that no one need get off the trail except by his own inattention. Although we were passing along the highway we saw no one and few dwellings, and the tilled fields, became fewer in number and less in extent. At the big birch which we imagined was about half way from town to Moose we stopped to rest and unslung our packs. A cool and refreshing breeze came out of the west and for twenty minutes we just enjoyed it and the fresh air, air that no one had ever breathed and which was pure and uncontaminated.

The principal feature of the remaining distance to Moose is the barbed wire fences. The , old ones were easily negotiated but some were recently built and one had to have a care about how he handled them. In due time Moose Cabin was reached. A drink from the stream of cold water near by; a few minutes rest; a change of shoes, for we had brought soft shoes for camp use, and then preparations for supper. We soon discovered that we had acquired two things that afternoon; weariness and appetite. We had our supper on the veranda of the cabin and then sat a while to enjoy the beautiful sunset and the quiet of the evening. With our hunger appeased and that tired feeling soothed, I recall few evenings more pleasant. The sunset glow over the western hills; the babbling brook close at hand; the gentle breeze of late afternoon; the occasional sound of a distant cow bell; and the gathering darkness-all were balm for tired muscles and high pitched nerves. One could feel the relaxation stealing over one's body and mind. It was the real getting back to the simple life and I told my companion about Johnnie Johnson and how he had made it possible for the boys to get close to nature; to breathe pure air; to drink pure water; to know the feel of untrodden grass; to see the sparkle of the morning dew; to hear and to see the wild life of the woods, and we were thankful.

In the morning, breakfast, the dishes and blankets put to rights, the cabin swept out, a portion of wood cut to replace what we had used and we were on the road to Cube at eight o'clock. The trail was well cleared, the air invigorating and the weather pleasant. Nearly the whole of the twenty miles is through wood roads, more or less abandoned, and pasture land.

At noon we had reached the old Quint Town Road, and stopped for lunch by the brook. At the south end where the grade is steep for a mile or more the old road is badly washed and gullied, but when the top of the hill is reached the road passes along a fairly level stretch of good farming land once cleared but now grown up to timber, until it dips down toward the north. Once this region must have been thickly settled, and much traveled. The old lines of the highway are clearly indicated, about four rods wide, enclosed with substantial stone walls and crossed by stone culverts and solid stone bridges, but the earth had in places been all washed away generations ago, leaving the stones absolutely bare, a veritable Appian Way. On both sides of the road for miles are remains of stone cellars, with big stone chimneys in the center, and close by are the stone foundations of great barns, but nowhere is there even any remains of the former frame work to be seen. A few aged and gnarled apple trees here and there, a few scattered lilac bushes, a few old fashioned lilies now run wild are all the indications left that the place had once been inhabited. Yet the stone remains raise a reasonable presumption that many people, possibly three hundred, once helped to make up the census of this neighborhood. Today, along the Old Quint Town Road through its entire length of .seven or eight miles, not an habitation, not a soul is left.

A couple of miles or so further on are the Cube Cabins, situated at the foot of Cube Mt. in a grove of beautiful white birches. The ground has been cleared of under brush and running water is at the corner of the larger cabin. The site is indeed "beautiful for situation."

Again hunger and weariness. I wonder if anyone knows what relief and refreshment, plenty of cold water is to hot, tired and swollen feet. Cold water, soft shoes and the odor of supper, does wonders in driving away weariness and soon we were enjoying another beautiful sunset and evening. How soothing and restful are the evening sounds in the woods and what softness is created in any sleeping place by a tramp like the one from Moose to Cube.

Eight o'clock next morning saw us again on the way. This day the trail started in the highway but soon left it, and when passing Tapper Baker Pond the first signs of frost were seen. A few inhabited houses were passed but the trail was largely away from the travelled roads. At noon we reached Armington Pond and had our lunch in the cool shade of the evergreen trees between the. cabin and the pond. The location of this cabin appealed to us as being one where a week or a month could be delightfully spent. Fishing, hunting, tramping, resting are all there to be had. From the looks of the newly constructed boat house we surmised that canoeing was to be added to the list also.

In the afternoon we again plunged into the woods and over the mountain to Glencliffe. When going down Webster Slide (I wonder if the redoubtable Dan ever slid down that place) we left the trail and went on down to the Lake Waupaka, a surprise to us to find such a body of water tucked away at the top of the mountains where only mountain side and ravine would be expected. After a short rest we climbed back to the trail and passing through the slow going in the swamp in the notch, came out on the north side of the hill overlooking Glencliffe. Here we had our first view of Moosilauke Summit Camp, high above timber line. Down across the valley and the railroad, through the village and up to Great Bear Cabin brought us, tired and hungry to the end of our third day's journey. . No dinner at the McAlpin was ever enjoyed with greater relish than was the supper served in Great Bear Cabin that night, and after supper the sunset and twilight from the cabin veranda. The hills stretching away to the west and the haze settling into the valleys, the twinkle of lights in the distant village and the mellow sound of a whistle as a train laboriously climbed to Warren Summit, so refreshing and so far removed from the haste and turmoil of life in populous centers. It beats psychoanalysis all to a frazzle.

Next morning we were ready for the climb to the top in good season, and with lightened packs we were off. It is a stiff grade from the cabin to timber line where the trail joins the carriage road. It seemed to us to be about as steep as the roof of a country house and when we became short of breath we rested. Two hours and three quarters after leaving Great Bear we reached the carriage road, and we felt that that was not so bad for a pair of "antiques" like us. Vast areas at the top of Moosilauke are covered with cranberry vines and not far off we saw two men picking cranberries. We were told by them that they came there every year and gathered berries, some for home use and some for sale. A week before there had been snow there, but no trace of it was left.

At the Summit House we were joined by a party who had come up the Beaver Brook Trail from Lost River. We all had luncheon together but soon they returned to Lost River. As the day was extremely mild and without wind we lingered a few hours and enjoyed the balmy sunshine. About four o'clock the cranberry pickers came, gathered up their pails of berries and departed. The weather signs appeared to be favorable and so we decided to stay all night. And such a night! It must have been most unusual. No wind, not a cloud in the sky, the moon just after the full. We were not alone in enjoying the night, for we could frequently hear hedgehogs around the building, but being at peace with the hedgehog tribe, we allowed them the freedom of the outside while we had the safety of the inside.

Just before daylight the moon settled down into the haze over the Green Mountains and it looked as large and as red as one ever sees the sun. One more nap and daylight was coming. We dressed and went out on the rocks to see due time but not in any splendor. It the beautiful sunrise. The sun rose in was the most ordinary sunrise one could see from any place on any warm morning in September. A cool breeze sprang up and drew over the top causing the grass to wave like fields of grain. After breakfast in the lee of a "rock we started down the Beaver Brook Trail. This trail passes just south of Mt. Blue and along the northern edge of the Jobildunk Ravine, thence around to the north. In .many places it is so near the edge that one has the pleasant feeling that the treetops below are like so many skewers ready to impale him if he is unfortunate enough to make a missstep. It seemed as though one could throw a stone a quarter of a mile.

The trail passes down the north side of Mt. Blue and it seemed to us marvelous to hear so much water dripping, gurgling and running over the rocks below the surface and so seldom coming to light. Going down seemed to be steeper, if possible, than going up had been, but the trail was in splendid condition most of the way. We accomplished the distance to Kinsman's Notch in three and a quarter hours stopping at Lost River, and then down the highway to Agassiz Basin. It was in the early afternoon. Not a sign of a breeze. The sun's rays seemed to have heated the air and the road and the mountain sides to the temperature of a furnace. Our packs were not heavy and it was down grade but it was the equal of a dozen Turkish baths all in one. Upon reaching the cabin at Agassiz Basin it seemed to be Paradise. So shady, cool and restful. More cold water for hot, tired feet, and a bath, and supper, and sunset and bed. The atmosphere laden with the breath of the hemlocks and vibrating with the cadences of the brook, made the process of falling asleep the operation of an instant. It is the most, wonderful invigorator ever dreamed of.

The next morning in Stygian darkness we made an early start and left the Basin in season to reach North Woodstock in time for the five o'clock (A.M.) train for Plymouth. Not having had time for breakfast at the cabin, we enjoyed that classic function on the train much to the amazement of the other passengers.

At Haverhill we left the train and walked across to the station which used to be called South Newbury, but which now has some new fangled composite and meaningless name. Arriving at Hanover we walked up the same old hill that so many thousands of Dartmouth men have walked, and the venture was over. It was a success in every respect.

The measure of success will be understood when you know that before we reached home, we were making plans for a tramp, the next summer through some real country, to wit: the second Dartmouth College Grant, but that is another story.

A still-used section of the trail

On the shoulder of Smart's Mountain; a road once used but long abandoned

Cube Mountain in the summer

Early morning mists on Cube Mountain

A spectacular peak near Armington Pond

The Franconia Range from Sky Line Farm

The Territory of the Outing Club

Up-grade in an obstacle race

A Choate Document of 1831