Grantsmanship

We left for the Grant, Dartmouth's 42-square-mile woodland in northern New Hampshire, at 5:00 on Friday evening, the first week in February. Merrill Brook Cabin, available for use by alumni, was ours for the weekend and we planned to spend the time cross-country skiing. As we drove north we were surprised by the bustle in towns like Woodsville, Lisbon, Littleton, and Lancaster. Busy places - busier, anyway, than Hanover at night. Once past Groveton, away from the Connecticut, small towns became smaller and less frequent. Long stretches of woods, such as those along the Androscoggin, were unbroken by any lights at all.

The road leading into the Grant, just past Wentworth Location, was still open, plowed by the loggers who will probably be bringing timber out until March. We parked at the Management Center, at the junction of the Dead and Swift Diamond rivers, and stepped out into deep snow and the light of a full moon. It was nine o'clock and we had three miles to ski to the cabin. Gliding on green wax we were there by 10:00, had fires going in the two wood stoves a few minutes later - thanks to the kindling split by thoughtful visitors the week before - and were warmly in bed by midnight.

Saturday was clear and warm, barely below freezing. We skied all day, over to Maine and back, and saw the tracks of a great many rabbits, deer, and snow-mobilers. Skiing back to the road Sunday afternoon we also spotted the snowshoe tracks of Cliff Finnson, the local fire warden, who had been out checking his trap line. "Glad to see someone on skis instead of those damned snow machines," he said when we met him. "I usually check my line on skis myself but two weeks ago I cracked some ribs so now I'm on snowshoes for a while." He checks his traps every day and said the cold winter was "making for good pelts."

We were sorry to leave and to come back to Hanover, even for Winter Carnival.