14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

The next day we crossed the mountain, hoping to take a fairly direct course to the Connecticut River, but on first inquiry, were told we must follow down White River forty miles before we could strike anything but “going over mountains” to get north.

It matters not whether you drive north, south, east or west, among the Green Mountains. It is all beautiful. Even the “level” roads are hilly, with a continuous panorama of exquisite views. Crossing the mountains we are in and out of the buggy, walking the steepest pitches to the music of the lively brooks and myriad cascades, letting our horse have a nibble of grass at every “rest,” which makes her ambitious for the next one. We do not care how many automobiles we meet, but on these roads they are conspicuous by their absence days at a time.

As we revel in these mountain drives and walks, we think of our friends who say we must be “tired to death,” who would not be “hired” to go, and again of the one who likes to have a horse and “amble along,” not forgetting the one who wrote she had just come in from an automobile ride, and that “to shoot through miles of beautiful country, eyes squinted together, and holding on tightly was a punishment,” and still another automobilist who said it did seem rather nice to go with a horse, and stop to “pick things.”

The forty miles down White River in order to get north was truly following a river, and a charming drive as well as restful change, after the mountain climbing. As we journeyed we found genuine hospitality at the hotels in Stockbridge and West Hartford, small country towns in Vermont, and everywhere the phonograph, the R. F. D. and telephone, bringing the most remote farm house in touch with the outer world.

We left White River with real regret, but after cutting a corner by driving over a high hill, we started north along the Connecticut, and at first should hardly have known the difference. In the course of twenty-five miles we realized we had faced about, as the hills gave place to mountains. We found very pleasant accommodation at the hotel in Fairlee, which was being renovated for summer guests. We remember the bevy of young people we saw there last year, as we passed.

The river fog was heavy in the early morning, but cleared later, and all day long we reviewed the views we have reveled in so many times; the river with us, and the New Hampshire mountains in the distance. For two or three miles we were on the lookout for a parting “camp” in Vermont. We almost stopped several times, and once began to unharness, then concluded to go a little further. When we reached the highest point on the hill, a large tree by the roadside, and a magnificent view of the river, hills, and mountains, assured us this was the spot we were being led to. Nan usually takes her oats from the ground, after she has made a “table” by eating the grass, but here they were served from a bank. We had taken our lunch, added a few lines to the journey report, which we write as we go, harnessed, and were ready to drive on, when a man came to the fence, from the field where he had been at work, and resting on his hoe said, “Well, ladies, you are enjoying yourselves, but you might just as well have put your horse in the barn, and given her some hay.” We thanked him, saying she seemed to enjoy the camping as much as we do, and was always eager for the grass. He then told us we had chosen historic ground. Our camp was on the road spotted by Gen. Bailey and Gen. Johnson to Quebec for the militia. He gave several interesting anecdotes. At one time in Quebec he was shown a small cannon, which they were very proud of, taken from “your folks” at Bunker Hill. His wife replied, “Yes, you have the gun, and we have the hill.”

We shall have to take back some things we have said about river roads, for that day’s drive completed more than one hundred miles of superb river driving, in turn close by White River, the Connecticut, Wells River, and the Ammonoosuc, which roared like Niagara, as it rushed wildly over the rocks under our window at the hotel in Lisbon, New Hampshire.

It rained heavily during the night, but the sun was out bright in the morning. We surprised friends with a very early call, and then went on, taking our river along with us. At Littleton we found a generous mail, and all was well, so still on we went, camping at noon by our Ammonoosuc but parting with it at Wing Road, for it was bound Bethlehem-ward, and we were going to Whitefield, where we found a new proprietor at the hotel, who at one time lived in Leominster.

Jefferson was our next objective point, and there are two ways to go. We wanted that lovely way marked out for us once by a Mt. Washington summit friend, who knew all the ways. We took a way that we wish to forget. We called it the ridgepole road between the White Mountains and the mountains farther north. There were mountains on all sides, but some of them were dimly discerned through the haze, which threatened to hide them all. We went up until we were so high we had to go down in order to go up more hills. The road was full of mudholes, and swamps or burnt forests on either side, instead of the fine road and exquisite views we remembered that other way. We had not been so annoyed with ourselves since we did not go to Providence to start westward. That came out all right, however, and we went to Providence after all. We had to trust to providence to pacify us this time, for we could not go back as we did then.

For immediate diversion we considered our homeward route. The “ridgepole” must be our northern limit for this journey. From Lake Memphremagog last year we drove home through Franconia Notch, and from the Sebago Lake trip two years ago through Crawford Notch. It was Pinkham’s turn. Yes, and that would give us that unsurpassed drive from Jefferson to Gorham. How easy it was to decide, with the thought of that drive so close to the mountains which are never twice alike, and North Conway would be a good mail point.