The day was perfect, there was a pleasant company on board the Longfellow, Sebago Lake was all one could wish for a morning’s sail, and the Songo River, with its twenty-seven turns in six miles, although only two and a half miles “as the bird flies,” fascinating beyond all anticipation. Passing through the locks was a novelty and the Bay of Naples as lovely as its name suggests. Then came the sail through Long Lake to Harrison, the terminus, where the boat stayed long enough for us to stroll up the street and go to the post office, and then we had all this over again, enjoying the afternoon sail even more than that of the morning.
This was a round trip of seventy miles, and it was too late when we returned to drive farther, as we had planned, but we were off early next morning, the buggy scrupulously clean, and with a new head band and rosette. We hoped Nan’s pride was not hurt by wearing a plain A on one side of her head, and an old English S on the other!
We drove up the east side of Sebago Lake, passed the Bay of Naples, and on through the various towns on Long Lake, and at night found ourselves at the Songo House, North Bridgton, just a mile and a half across the end of the lake from Harrison, where we posted cards the day before at noon.
The following day we turned our thoughts from lakes, bays and rivers, and faced the mountains, which are never more enjoyable than when approaching them. We retraced our route of two years ago, but there is a great difference between driving towards the mountains and away from them. As we drove on through the Waterfords, Albany, West Bethel and Gilead, the views were finer every hour, and at Shelburne we had a most beautiful sunset, and watched the after-glow a long time from a high bluff.
The rain clouds of the night vanished after a few sprinkles, leaving only delicate misty caps on the highest peaks, and the day was perfect for the famous drive from Gorham to Jefferson, so close to the mountains of the Presidential range, along through Randolph. The afternoon drive over Cherry Mountain to Fabyan’s was never more lovely. We feasted on wild strawberries as we walked up and down the long hills through the woods.
That this was the tenth time we had driven through the White Mountains did not in the least diminish their charm for us. On the contrary, they have become like old friends. To walk up and down the steep pitches through Crawford Notch, leading the horse, listening at every turnout for mountain wagons, and this year for automobiles, would be a delight every year. Our youthful impression of a notch as a level pass between two mountains was so strong, the steep pitches are a lovely surprise every time.
The old Willey House was one of our favorite resting places. We are glad the driveway and barn were spared when the house was burned, and we still stop there to give our horse her noon rest.
After the “pitches,” the rest at old Willey, and a snap shot at the ruins, come the miles and miles of driving through the dense woods, with high mountains on either side, the way made cheery by the sunlight glimmering through the treetops, and the music of the babbling brooks.
At Bartlett we received a large forwarded mail, the first for ten days, which we read as we drove on to North Conway, and we were grateful for the good news which came from every direction.
After leaving North Conway and getting our first glimpse of Chocorua’s rugged peak, there was no more regretful looking backward. Chocorua in its lofty loneliness is all-absorbing. We had an ideal mid-day camp on the shores of the beautiful Chocorua lake at the base of the mountain.