AMONG THE WIND-SWEPT LAKES.
The first thing which I saw as I opened my eyes Monday morning was the tip of Passaconaway’s pyramid, rosy with the sun’s earliest rays, and hanging like a great pink moon between the soft gray of a hazy sky and the cold gray of the misty forests. It was a soft morning with a southerly wind and a cloudy sky, yet with a chill in the air which hinted of snow. As the damp wind swept across the snow-covered peak of Chocorua, its moisture was condensed, and from the rock, trailing away northeastward like a huge white banner, a cloud streamer waved for an hour in the hurrying wind. Then the peak was overcome by the cloud and hidden for the rest of the day in a slowly thickening and descending pall.
In all the years which I had spent in wandering over these fair hills, I never had explored Whitton Pond. Looking down upon it from the snow-covered mountain yesterday, it had seemed so pleasant to the eye that I determined to view it from all sides, and to see the mighty form of Chocorua reflected in its clear waters. Towards Whitton Pond, then, I directed my steps this gray morning.
Taking the Conway road from the Chocorua House, I walked northward upon it rather more than three miles to what is known far and near in this country as the Bell Schoolhouse in Albany. Perhaps the bell uses its tongue in dark nights when the wild storm-wind sweeps down from Chocorua, and the forest groans under its stripes. Certainly its tones are not heard in the sunlit hours, as the bats in its belfry and the spiders in its schoolroom can bear witness.
As I passed up the eastern side of Chocorua Lake, under the great pines which guard its shore, a flock of ducks rose from the water and flew towards the south, then wheeling, returned and vanished far in the north. There were seven of them, six flying neck and neck in an even row, and one lagging behind. The six were apparently snowy white with dark markings on heads and wings; the laggard was dark colored.
One often hears in February and March that signs of early spring are growing numerous, that red buds are swelling on the maples, catkins have come upon the alders, and that many another shrub or tree is pushing out its new life. Noticing the alder catkins swinging in the wind, I measured several and found them already from an inch to an inch and a half long. Some of the maples were noticeably ruddy in tone, so thick and red were their buds. Lucky it is for the grouse that buds do not wait for winter to go, before they pack away the sweet food of life under their snug jackets. The grouse could give an eloquent lecture on the pledges of the spring renaissance which are made every autumn by the budding trees.
At the Bell Schoolhouse I took the right-hand road, crossed the Chocorua River, a slender run at this point, and almost immediately after turned again to the right, taking an old road leading eastward over the hills to Madison village. The road was a new one to me, but I knew that it led through one of the saddest regions in the Bearcamp valley. A generation ago the “North Division” was comparatively thickly settled. More than a dozen comfortable sets of buildings were tenanted on those sunny slopes. Children flocked to the little school-house, corn rustled in the fields, and farmer’s “gee” echoed back to farmer’s “wah-hīsh” from the plowings or wood-lot. Now the porcupine and the skunk, the chimney swift and the adder are the undisputed owners of the deserted farms. The people have gone as though the plague had smitten the land, and houses, barns, fences, bridges, and well-sweeps are mouldering away together. Why is it? Ask the West and the great cities, which between them have drawn the young blood from New England’s rural families, leaving the old and feeble to struggle alone with life on the hills. A kindlier region than this could be depopulated by such a process.
The most remote and the highest farm in the North Division shone, as we approached it, like a brass button. Carpenters, painters, and home-makers had been at work upon it until the hills and trees knew it for its old self no longer. Nevertheless it was as empty and silent as the decaying farmsteads below. Gazing from its terrace upon the far view of Ossipee Lake, the broad Bearcamp valley, and the semicircle of hills and mountains from Wakefield to Chocorua, I understood why its present owner came from the shores of Lake Michigan to spend his summer in its beautiful quiet.
Behind this redeemed fragment of the North Division rises a granite ledge, from which matchless views of many mountains, lakes, and sleepy hollows can be obtained. I found the ledge covered with snow, and the spruce woods on its steep northern slope as full of snow as the thickets on Chocorua’s ridges. At this season a slight elevation and shade make all the difference between summer and winter.
From the ledge I could see the whole of Whitton Pond, lying just below me. It looked like a silver Maltese cross with its four arms reaching out to the four points of the compass. A small island and one or two single rocks rose from its surface. At least three bluff headlands, pine-crowned and rock-faced, stood out boldly into its waters. Just across its eastern side, and due north from the elevation upon which I was standing, rose an impressive hill whose precipitous southern side was formed of a series of polished ledges sloping directly towards the deep waters of the lake. In the depths below those ledges large trout are said to live in a state of haughty contempt for all except favored anglers. I once asked a native, presumably not a favorite of the Whitton Pond trout, whether he would advise me to go to the pond fishing. Turning his gray eye upon me, he said solemnly, “Young man, ef I had the ch’ice of fishing all day in Whitton Pond or in this sandy road, I’d take the road every time.”
A logging road led from the back of the ledge down to the pond. In the dark spruces near the water stood a tiny and dilapidated log hut and stable. So small was the hut, it seemed as though only one lumberman could have lived there. From the hut the road led straight to the lakeside, and to as lovely a view of the eastern flank of Chocorua as can be won anywhere. All that I had imagined yesterday as I stood on those far ramparts was now made real. Here was the ruffled water, the pine-capped headlands, the guardian ledges; there was the stern fortress lifting its rock face and ragged outlines high against the sky. As the mists hurried over the peak, they suggested smoke from cannon fired from this Gibraltar of nature. Here and there spruces, standing in the clouds upon the edge of the precipice, looked like the dim forms of men guarding the heights.
As the water was very low, a narrow pebbly and rocky strip of beach offered an easy way round the lake. I followed it through the eastern coves to the northern shore, where the slippery ledges, one above another, hung over me. Many boulders of large size and odd outlines lay upon the shore, with the waves raised by the south wind splashing against them. Here the beach failed me, and I had to force my way westward through the woods and undergrowth to the outlet of the pond. Considering that the lake was about a mile square, the stream which escaped from it was singularly small. I crossed it with a single stride. At high water it is probably much larger, for a dozen or more great logs pushed far up on the rocks show that the rivulet of to-day gives no suggestion of the force of water sometimes at work.
MOUNT CHOCORUA FROM WHITTON POND
From the outlet to the highway was less than ten minutes’ walk, a footpath bringing me to one of the many abandoned farms of unfortunate Albany. Unfortunate no longer, I hope, for with debt paid, taxes reduced, and lumbering on the decline, the township ought to revive, partly through ordinary settlement, but mainly through the influx of city people to one of the most beautiful spots in New Hampshire.
My walk back to the hotel took me round Chocorua Lake, while pictures of Whitton Pond were still vivid in my memory. I confess to a sudden feeling of jealousy for the newly explored pond when I looked at the simpler outlines of my favorite water, and wondered how a wooded island and bluff headlands would become it. Whitton Pond is certainly too exquisite a bit of nature to remain long a wilderness; while to give up its lofty ledges to quarrymen would be little less than a crime.
As I crossed the bridge between the lakes, the coloring was full of sadness. The long-deferred rain was coming across the mountains. Their tops were concealed, and only the dimmest, most tearful vision of their flanks remained. Gray and cold, cold and gray, mountain, sky, forest, and lake, all were the same. The cry of a pileated woodpecker and the sputtering complaint of a Hudson Bay titmouse rang in my ears. Birds of the north, strangers to these cherished spots, why were they here? Why were their voices full of weird warning? The rain came softly, surely onward, over the glassy water, and with a shiver I hurried towards the fireside. After all, men, like birds and insects, flowers and leaves, feel the chill of autumn and tremble at it. Full as the season may be of eternal promise, it is charged also with a message of present death and decay. Leaves wither and fall, flowers drop their petals and turn to seeds, the locust dies in the grass, the bird takes wing and saves his life by finding a gentler clime in the far south, and man, if he is to linger under Chocorua’s lee, must gather his corn into barns, pile his shed full of wood, and fortify his mind to endure long nights, intense cold, deep snows, the wailing of wintry winds, and the gruesome voice of the lake as the ice throttles it. If the heart is brave and serene, there is peace in the long nights, pleasure in the cold, joy in snowshoe races on the snow, and exhilaration in the wailing of the wind and the moaning of the lake. As the viking exulted in sailing his ship through the fierce gale of the north, so his offspring can find joy in the wintry breath of Chocorua.