Day 4 - 7 September 2008
What could be simpler? Just a mile up the road from our cottage - explained the White Mountain Guide - was a moderate ascent, some attractive views, an elevated pond. Roughly an hour up, the same back; a two-hour jaunt. Perhaps a trifle longer, for us. Neither Riley nor I now like to rush things. We now have a tendency to ramble, not rampage, along mountain trails.
Cooler this day than the previous four. Rain coincided with dusk's arrival yesterday; earlier in the mountains than elsewhere. And it rained heavily throughout the night, relieving the discomfort of the preceding nights. This would be an undeniably nice day, forecasted for wind, low UV index, mid-humidity levels, mostly overcast, high of 70F.
Reading The New York Times, listening in to C-Span's lectures, lingering over a robust breakfast, we were in no great hurry to set out. Eventually, though, backpack prepared, collars on Button and Riley, yesterday's kitchen waste out for collection, linen out for replacement, we were ready to go.
But not before a visit to the dwarf goats' enclosure, to reward their curiosity, heads tilted in our direction, softly bleating for recognition. We picked some long fresh grass blades, and they, eagerly anticipating, beat their tiny hooves in anxiety. Then munched greedily, satisfyingly at the offering, as we sped a retreat.
When we parked the car ten minutes later, we changed into our hiking boots, led the dogs around the gate, then set off, up the heavily gravelled yet vegetation-choked fire-road. To the right stood an old sugar shack. We could see the dark blue hoses leading from the trunks of old Sugar Maples to the shed's grey-weathered boards. It surprised us to note just how great a distance those sap-running hoses covered, from tree to shed.
Not far from the last of the intersecting hoses stood a forest giant, right beside the fire-road. Its dark, ridged bark emphasizing its girth and imposing height. Five, 5-1/2 feet in diameter, Irving hazarded an educated estimate. An ancient oak, a maple? No, the largest, oldest Ash we'd ever seen, its compound leaves in the high distance aiding identification.
Pine and hemlock, spruce and fir grew plentifully among the yellow birch and maples surrounding the ash tree. Ferns and dogwood, moose maple and slender, immature white birch formed the understory. Asters and goldenrod thrived among the ferns.
We hiked steadily upward. The Guide had informed us of a 1200-ft. rise to our destination on Peaked Hill trail.
Steady and moderate. Button and Riley forging ahead, picking up interesting scents. Approaching a meadow-like area - obviously a clear-cut, not remotely close to restoration - we were relieved to opt for an alternate route, a dense, moist, fragrant trail running through conifers.
As we forged on, the sound of rampant water became evident, growing gradually in volume as we proceeded. Some ten minutes later, the trail verging beside a steeply descending bank with trees marching steadily down the mountain slope, the sound came to a crescendo, and we just were able to make out a distant stream, flowing down the mountain, glinting in shards of sunlight.
The dense canopy of leaves overhead ensured enduring shade. The sky, glimpsed through the thickets of branches above, revealed blue, interspersed with a still-dense cloud cover. Trudging upward, jewelweed, milkweed, cinquefoil and turtleheads joined the profusion of goldenrod and asters. Painterly hues of white, pink, blue and yellow.
The trail opened to a partial clearing on the right. The ground smothered with white lichens, and alternately, pink lichens, and among them, complementing them, a selection of alpine mosses and additional miniature flora. One of nature's spontaneously-presented ornamental miniature gardens. A visual treat one expects to see on a mountain, ascending above the tree line; premature here.
The trail commenced upward and grasses began to populate the hard-packed soil of the trail, still wet from yesterday's rainfall. Large dragonflies drifted lazily by. Thrushes lifted themselves silently from the trail, flitting past into the dense bush. There, on the right of the main trail an offshoot. Another narrower, overgrown trail, delving deeper into the forest.
No, our expedition leader proclaimed, not the trail we're in search of. We were able to glimpse, through the curtain of tree trunks, a body of water in the distance. Quite obviously the pond we're in search of. I protest, this is the very trail we're looking for, but dear leader disagrees and presses on, while I do a mental shrug, and follow.
The major trail has us bypassing the pond, and it's a long, stretched-out body of water. Peering through the screen of tree trunks and underbrush we can make out widely displayed aquatic weeds; lily-pads arrayed along the outer reaches of the spread-out pond. But, as we progress, there is no appearance of another offshoot trail, allowing us ingress to the pond.
From the trail, as we plod along on the right, is the screened pond, placed well below the trail. On the left is a marked rise of land beside the trail, hosting legions of symmetrical hemlock. Obviously the result of re-forestation. Planted too close together, the tree trunks are slender and tall, in competition for space and sun. And under the trees on the sandy slope of the hill, grow mountain laurel.
We've finally reached the end of the fire-road-cum-trail. Turning back to access the formerly spurned side trail. Which does, indeed, meander down to the lake. A semi-clearing affords us a long view of the pond. It's large enough for a "mountain lake" and looks shallow. Clearly, the stream and cascades we had seen and heard not too far distant, drains the lake.
It appears also that some locals (there is partial private ownership of the pond; two cottage-owners, aside from the National Forest ownership) make use of the pondside clearing. Evidence of campfires, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Under trees nestle a canoe, red, and a skiff, aluminum, silver, tarnished. No paddles or oars in sight.
We take photos of the pond from several perspectives, then begin to retrace our steps. Fifteen-year-old Button, now we're on the return leg, picks up speed. we don't want to lose sight of her. Riley's usual plodding pace is more in keeping with our own, even given our accelerating progress, because we're descending steadily.
We resort to fitting on Button's harness to which we affix her leash, and thus control her energetic impatience. We frighten a pale brown newt, as it scrambles frantically under shelter of a pile of leaves. Neither Button nor Riley, as so often happens when we occasionally come across a snake, for example, seem to notice the presence of another creature.
Our descent is sufficiently speedy, without undue haste. Riley obviously agrees, toddling comfortably close behind us. The sky has by now freed itself of much of its cloud cover. Sun rays begin to make inroads through the leafy shelter above us. The sun and its heat beginning to infiltrate the green bower above, adding to the increased body heat of our exertions.
Soon, surprisingly soon, we're closing in on the trailhead. We recognize, in reverse order, all the geological and verdant features we had noted and enthused over, on our way up. We greet each as though they're familiar acquaintances. We know we're coming close to where the old Ash stands and plan to have a closer look at it.
There is a sudden loud rustling from inside the immediate vicinity of the forest interior, drawing our attention. And some 40 feet from where we stand on the trail, we focus on something swiftly descending from the trunk of an old beech. I catch a glimpse of something black and furry; and think, big squirrel. In a big hurry, scrambling down the tree.
As we peer curiously, trying to make out precisely what could be making such an inordinately loud sound - never having heard a squirrel even come remotely close - it impinges on our consciousness that we are looking at a black bear. It has reached the ground, has its rump toward us and is trundling hurriedly off into the interior. Obviously as swiftly as it can manage.
Its familiar territory has become somehow threatening, with the presence of creatures it cannot quite identify, but they're large, bipedal, colourful, accompanied by furry companions that bark. Although, truth to tell, neither Button nor Riley, who ordinarily will bark at the presence of other animals, appears to have noted the swiftly vanishing presence.
Damn! We reacted too slowly, too late to try to snap a photograph. We'll just have to file away the mental snap we took as we ogled a yearling black bear vacate the premises.
Cooler this day than the previous four. Rain coincided with dusk's arrival yesterday; earlier in the mountains than elsewhere. And it rained heavily throughout the night, relieving the discomfort of the preceding nights. This would be an undeniably nice day, forecasted for wind, low UV index, mid-humidity levels, mostly overcast, high of 70F.
Reading The New York Times, listening in to C-Span's lectures, lingering over a robust breakfast, we were in no great hurry to set out. Eventually, though, backpack prepared, collars on Button and Riley, yesterday's kitchen waste out for collection, linen out for replacement, we were ready to go.
But not before a visit to the dwarf goats' enclosure, to reward their curiosity, heads tilted in our direction, softly bleating for recognition. We picked some long fresh grass blades, and they, eagerly anticipating, beat their tiny hooves in anxiety. Then munched greedily, satisfyingly at the offering, as we sped a retreat.
When we parked the car ten minutes later, we changed into our hiking boots, led the dogs around the gate, then set off, up the heavily gravelled yet vegetation-choked fire-road. To the right stood an old sugar shack. We could see the dark blue hoses leading from the trunks of old Sugar Maples to the shed's grey-weathered boards. It surprised us to note just how great a distance those sap-running hoses covered, from tree to shed.
Not far from the last of the intersecting hoses stood a forest giant, right beside the fire-road. Its dark, ridged bark emphasizing its girth and imposing height. Five, 5-1/2 feet in diameter, Irving hazarded an educated estimate. An ancient oak, a maple? No, the largest, oldest Ash we'd ever seen, its compound leaves in the high distance aiding identification.
Pine and hemlock, spruce and fir grew plentifully among the yellow birch and maples surrounding the ash tree. Ferns and dogwood, moose maple and slender, immature white birch formed the understory. Asters and goldenrod thrived among the ferns.
We hiked steadily upward. The Guide had informed us of a 1200-ft. rise to our destination on Peaked Hill trail.
Steady and moderate. Button and Riley forging ahead, picking up interesting scents. Approaching a meadow-like area - obviously a clear-cut, not remotely close to restoration - we were relieved to opt for an alternate route, a dense, moist, fragrant trail running through conifers.
As we forged on, the sound of rampant water became evident, growing gradually in volume as we proceeded. Some ten minutes later, the trail verging beside a steeply descending bank with trees marching steadily down the mountain slope, the sound came to a crescendo, and we just were able to make out a distant stream, flowing down the mountain, glinting in shards of sunlight.
The dense canopy of leaves overhead ensured enduring shade. The sky, glimpsed through the thickets of branches above, revealed blue, interspersed with a still-dense cloud cover. Trudging upward, jewelweed, milkweed, cinquefoil and turtleheads joined the profusion of goldenrod and asters. Painterly hues of white, pink, blue and yellow.
The trail opened to a partial clearing on the right. The ground smothered with white lichens, and alternately, pink lichens, and among them, complementing them, a selection of alpine mosses and additional miniature flora. One of nature's spontaneously-presented ornamental miniature gardens. A visual treat one expects to see on a mountain, ascending above the tree line; premature here.
The trail commenced upward and grasses began to populate the hard-packed soil of the trail, still wet from yesterday's rainfall. Large dragonflies drifted lazily by. Thrushes lifted themselves silently from the trail, flitting past into the dense bush. There, on the right of the main trail an offshoot. Another narrower, overgrown trail, delving deeper into the forest.
No, our expedition leader proclaimed, not the trail we're in search of. We were able to glimpse, through the curtain of tree trunks, a body of water in the distance. Quite obviously the pond we're in search of. I protest, this is the very trail we're looking for, but dear leader disagrees and presses on, while I do a mental shrug, and follow.
The major trail has us bypassing the pond, and it's a long, stretched-out body of water. Peering through the screen of tree trunks and underbrush we can make out widely displayed aquatic weeds; lily-pads arrayed along the outer reaches of the spread-out pond. But, as we progress, there is no appearance of another offshoot trail, allowing us ingress to the pond.
From the trail, as we plod along on the right, is the screened pond, placed well below the trail. On the left is a marked rise of land beside the trail, hosting legions of symmetrical hemlock. Obviously the result of re-forestation. Planted too close together, the tree trunks are slender and tall, in competition for space and sun. And under the trees on the sandy slope of the hill, grow mountain laurel.
We've finally reached the end of the fire-road-cum-trail. Turning back to access the formerly spurned side trail. Which does, indeed, meander down to the lake. A semi-clearing affords us a long view of the pond. It's large enough for a "mountain lake" and looks shallow. Clearly, the stream and cascades we had seen and heard not too far distant, drains the lake.
It appears also that some locals (there is partial private ownership of the pond; two cottage-owners, aside from the National Forest ownership) make use of the pondside clearing. Evidence of campfires, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Under trees nestle a canoe, red, and a skiff, aluminum, silver, tarnished. No paddles or oars in sight.
We take photos of the pond from several perspectives, then begin to retrace our steps. Fifteen-year-old Button, now we're on the return leg, picks up speed. we don't want to lose sight of her. Riley's usual plodding pace is more in keeping with our own, even given our accelerating progress, because we're descending steadily.
We resort to fitting on Button's harness to which we affix her leash, and thus control her energetic impatience. We frighten a pale brown newt, as it scrambles frantically under shelter of a pile of leaves. Neither Button nor Riley, as so often happens when we occasionally come across a snake, for example, seem to notice the presence of another creature.
Our descent is sufficiently speedy, without undue haste. Riley obviously agrees, toddling comfortably close behind us. The sky has by now freed itself of much of its cloud cover. Sun rays begin to make inroads through the leafy shelter above us. The sun and its heat beginning to infiltrate the green bower above, adding to the increased body heat of our exertions.
Soon, surprisingly soon, we're closing in on the trailhead. We recognize, in reverse order, all the geological and verdant features we had noted and enthused over, on our way up. We greet each as though they're familiar acquaintances. We know we're coming close to where the old Ash stands and plan to have a closer look at it.
There is a sudden loud rustling from inside the immediate vicinity of the forest interior, drawing our attention. And some 40 feet from where we stand on the trail, we focus on something swiftly descending from the trunk of an old beech. I catch a glimpse of something black and furry; and think, big squirrel. In a big hurry, scrambling down the tree.
As we peer curiously, trying to make out precisely what could be making such an inordinately loud sound - never having heard a squirrel even come remotely close - it impinges on our consciousness that we are looking at a black bear. It has reached the ground, has its rump toward us and is trundling hurriedly off into the interior. Obviously as swiftly as it can manage.
Its familiar territory has become somehow threatening, with the presence of creatures it cannot quite identify, but they're large, bipedal, colourful, accompanied by furry companions that bark. Although, truth to tell, neither Button nor Riley, who ordinarily will bark at the presence of other animals, appears to have noted the swiftly vanishing presence.
Damn! We reacted too slowly, too late to try to snap a photograph. We'll just have to file away the mental snap we took as we ogled a yearling black bear vacate the premises.
Labels: Peregrinations, Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 6:04 PM
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