14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

We did not visit the Flume this time, but just paid our respects to the Old Man, took breath and a sketch at Echo Lake, and gathered mosses as we walked up and down the steep places through the Notch. We spent the night in Bethlehem, and enjoyed a superb sunset. We went several miles out of our way the next day to see the Cherry Mountain slide, which occurred the week before. We were introduced to the proprietor of the ruined farm, caressed the beautiful horse, pitied the once fine cow, which now had scarcely a whole bone in her body, and learned many interesting details from the daughter, a bright girl. It was a forlorn spectacle, and a striking contrast to the drive we had after retracing our steps to Whitefield. Charlie had traveled far enough for such a hot day, but we knew the Lancaster post office had something for us, and we could not wait, so started leisurely, promising to help poor Charlie all we could. He understood us well enough to stop at the foot of every hill, and at the top of very steep ones, to let us get out and walk. We were repaid a thousand times by the magnificent views of the Franconia range until we reached the highest point, when the glories north opened before us. We were now facing new scenes for the first time since we left home, and yet we felt at home in Lancaster, for another Lancaster is our near neighbor. The postmaster looked relieved to find owners for his surplus mail, and as he handed out the seventh letter with a look of having finished his task, we said, “Is that all?” for one was missing. “I think that will do for once,” he said. Two weeks later we sent him a card and the missing document came safely to hand down in Maine.

Fate knows we like to drive north, and led us onward. We followed the Connecticut through the lovely valleys, crossing it and driving in Vermont one afternoon, enjoying the new country until we had left the White Mountains sixty miles behind us. We then turned directly east, and ten miles along the Mohawk River brought us to the entrance of Dixville Notch. We were bewildered by its beauty, grander even than the Franconia Notch. We reached the Dix House, the only habitation in that wild spot, at three o’clock, and as soon as we could register our names we hastened away for Table Rock, a narrow peak 800 feet above the meadow in front of the Dix House and 3150 feet above the sea. It was the roughest climb we ever attempted—almost perpendicular, and everything we took hold of seemed to give way.

Once at the top we looked aghast at the narrow path, hardly four feet wide, then with open arms rushed across and embraced the flagstaff on Table Rock. It seemed as if the foundation was rocking beneath us, but after a little time we went back and forth confidently. The air was clear and the view very fine. Just below the summit, a tiny path, with scarcely a foothold, led to an ice cave, and we refreshed ourselves by looking into its cooling depths. When safely at the foot again we cut some spruce walking sticks for souvenirs and stripped the bark as we walked back to the Dix House.

It rained the next day and the mountains were visible through the mist only now and then. We sketched Table Rock and the Notch profile in instalments, reading and writing between times, and enjoyed the very lonesomeness of the place. The clouds made way for the moon at night, but we were disheartened next morning to find they had settled down closer than ever, although the rain was over. We could not wait another day, and packed up, hoping it would all come out right, as many times before. Our wildest hopes were more than realized when we entered the Notch, and found it clear ahead. The clouds had driven through and settled about the meadows. It is two miles through the Notch, and we walked nearly all the way. Everything is moss-grown and marked with decay. The Notch has its Old Man, its Flume and Cascades, and our exclamations burst forth at every turn. Such mosses, such high, ragged bluffs, such babbling brooks, and all so fresh after the rain! Was ever anything so beautiful? Suddenly we found ourselves in open space again, and driving along the Clear Stream meadows, we passed the little enclosure where are the graves of the first two inhabitants of this lonely region. Six or eight miles more brought us to Errol Dam, where we left Charlie in good care, while we took a five hours’ trip on a tiny mail steamer. We thought we were to be the only passengers, but a young woman with an invalid brother, bound for the Rangeley Lakes, came at the last moment. We steamed along the Androscoggin River until within a half mile of Lake Umbagog, then turned into the Magalloway. In course of time the little Parmachenee pushed up against a bank and we were landed in the glaring sun, to wait while the mail was carried two or three miles, and the two men had dinner.

Fortunately we had a luncheon with us, or we should have had to content ourselves with crackers and molasses, and “bean suasion” with the brother and sister, at the only house in sight. We were back at Errol Dam at four o’clock, and as we paid the four dollars for our little trip the man said, “Too much, but we have to live out of you folks.”

There is a stage route from Errol Dam to Bethel, Me., but we preferred to follow the Androscoggin, so that eventful day finished off with a fourteen-miles drive through the forest, over a road badly washed, with the river rushing madly along, as if bent on its own destruction, then taking breath for awhile and looking placid as the Connecticut, but directly in a turmoil again as the rocks obstructed its course. Just as the sun dropped, we emerged from the forest into a broad plain, and four houses, widely separated, were in sight—the first habitations we had seen since we left Errol Dam. We knew one of them must be Chandler’s, where we had been directed for the night. It was a lonesome place, and we did not feel quite comfortable when we found ourselves in a room on the first floor, having four windows and two doors, with no means of fastening any of them, and a “transient” man in the room adjoining. I am not sure but the Denver ladies’ “loft” and “boy” might not have seemed preferable, only we had a revolver. Suffice it to say, our experience since we left Dixville Notch in the morning had been sufficiently fatiguing to insure rare sleep, in spite of open doors, barking dogs and heavy breathing of the “transient,” and after a very palatable breakfast we took our leave, grateful for such good quarters in such a benighted country.

We drove thirty miles that day, following the Androscoggin all the way. Berlin Falls and the Alpine Cascades, along the way, are worth going miles to see. We camped at noon between Berlin Falls and Gorham and had a visit from five boys of various nationalities, some with berries and some with empty pails. They sat down on the ground with us and showed much interest in our operations, jabbering in their several dialects. “I know what she’s doing: she’s making them mountains,” one whispered. We looked quite like traveling parties we have seen, with Charlie munching his oats, and we asked them if they did not think we were gypsies. “No, indeed, we never thought such a thing; we thought you were ladies from Gorham.” With this compliment we drove on toward Gorham, dropped our mail, and then turned directly eastward with the Androscoggin, to enjoy for the first time the drive from Gorham to Bethel, called the North Conway drive of that region. We spent a night at Shelburne, almost as nice as Rumney, and another at Bethel.

With much regret we now parted from the Androscoggin, and aimed for the Saco at Fryeburg. The heat was so intense that we stopped, ten miles sooner than we intended, at Lovell, driving the next day to Hiram, and the next to Hollis, so full of delightful recollections of the wonderful hospitality of stranger friends a few years ago. That charmed circle is now broken by death and change, but a welcome was ready for us from those who had heard about our visit there, and we were at home at once. There were many summer guests, but a cosy little attic room, full of quaint things, was left for us. The Saco runs just before the house, and we took the little walk to the “Indian’s Cellar” where the river rushes through the narrow gorge, and it charmed us as much as before.

We not only felt at home in Hollis, but really at home, for all between us and home was familiar, whatever route we might take. We eagerly drove towards Saco, for that was our next mail point, and the letters that came direct, and those that followed us around the country, came to hand there. We talked over their newsy contents as we drove miles on Old Orchard Beach that afternoon. We spent the night at Bay View, and part of the next day, for the thunder showers followed one after another so closely, we could not get an order to the stable, and time for a dry start in between. We finally ordered Charlie harnessed after one shower, and brought to the door after the next. This plan worked too well, for after all our hasty packing off, sides on, boot up, all ready for a deluge, it never rained a drop. We called at the Saco post office again, and then took a road we thought would take us by the house of a friend in Kennebunkport, but it proved to be a lonely road with neither friends nor foes, and before we knew it Kennebunkport was left one side, and we were well on our way to Kennebunk. Despite our muddy and generally demoralized condition, we called on friends there before going to the hotel for the night. We drove thirty-seven miles the next day, through Wells, York and Portsmouth, to Hampton. Ten miles the next morning took us to Newburyport, where we stopped over Sunday for a visit.

All was well at home, so we thought we would still follow the ocean, as this was a sort of water trip. (We had followed the Merrimac, Pemigewasset, Connecticut, Mohawk, Androscoggin and Saco rivers.) The old towns, Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich and Essex, are always interesting, and Cape Ann is so delightful we could not resist the temptation to “round” it again, and have another look at Pigeon Cove, one of the loveliest places we have ever seen.