By the road upon which the lake went out man in time came in, and founded in the bosom of the spruce-grown mountains a small but comparatively prosperous settlement. Having seen this hidden valley in summer, and taken account of its rare beauty and its remoteness from the wearisome machinery of the world, I yearned to know its winter charms, feeling sure that they would surpass those of summer as the fairness of snow surpasses the fairness of grass. Accordingly, in the latter part of December, 1891, I went by rail with a friend to Chatauque Corner, and thence by sleigh up the weird pass between Chocorua on the south and Moat and Bear mountains on the north, gaining at nightfall a warm haven in one of the snug farmhouses in the middle of the intervale.
The township of Albany knows no priest or physician, squire or shopkeeper, and in its coat of arms, if it had one, the plow and rifle, axe and circular saw, would be quartered with bear and porcupine, owl and grouse. From the head of the intervale the people are forced to travel nearly thirty miles to reach and bring home their mail and groceries. In spite of these drawbacks, the permanent residents are intelligent, thrifty, well-housed, and well informed of the world’s doings. Though their only road to the outside is long and rough, they let no moss gather on it in summer, and no snowdrifts blockade it in winter.
Setting out for this far valley in midwinter, I felt something of the explorer’s thrill as he turns towards the unknown, and leaves home and comforts behind. The distant and the difficult of attainment are always seen by the mind through a golden haze, and although no fair Lorna drew me to her rescue, and no lawless Doones barred my way through the grim passes which led to the valley, romance and the spice of danger seemed mingled with my enterprise. As the journey progressed, and one stage of it after another slipped past, unreal gave way to real, and commonplace supplanted marvelous. Even when night fell, as we entered the valley, the light which gleamed afar through the spruces told of hospitality as truly as the sleigh’s ample furs spoke of comfort, and the keen wind of health.
We reached the valley on the evening of Saturday, December 19, and enjoyed every moment of our stay, which was prolonged until Saturday, the 26th. From my journal, written on the evening of each day, I take the following account of our wanderings.
We left Chatauque Corner (Conway) at three o’clock, well packed in the fur robes of a comfortable two-seated sleigh and drawn by a skinny graduate of a race-course. It was an ideal winter afternoon, blessing an ideal Northern landscape. There were the broad Saco intervales flat with snow, the pale blue sky with a fringe of cloud-banks, and between intervale and sky, mountains of marble and ramparts of dark evergreens. Straight up the Saco valley the immense mass of Mount Washington rose against the sky. It was wholly covered by snow. On its left, Moat, like a breaking wave of the sea, was close at hand. On its right, Carter Notch, with walls of dull purplish-black spruce, reached to where stately Mount Pequawket reared its dark cone on high. The Saco splashed in its rocky bed. Every boulder was glazed with white ice, and from the two banks of the stream, borders of ice reached towards each other, half concealing the greenish waters which lapped their edges.
“MOAT, LIKE A BREAKING WAVE”
The sleighing was excellent. Not more than eight inches of snow had fallen during the week, and it was the first enduring fall of the season. It had been followed by a dash of rain and then a sudden freeze. After going a mile on the North Conway road, we turned to the left into a road leading westward towards the narrow pass between Chocorua and Moat. The immense crags of Moat frowned upon us. Then we plunged into a pine forest and felt the first chill of night. As we sped through the shadow, we passed the skinned carcass of an ox hung by its fore-legs to the limb of a pine. A strange slaughtering-place, and one to tempt sniffing foxes when night falls. A mile farther on, the skull of a bear grinned on the tip of a pole in the brush fence by the roadside.
Music sounded in our ears, and far below the narrow road, which was grooved in the mountain-side, we saw Swift River plunging from ledge to pool on its way to the Saco. The Saco had seemed wild when we saw it in Conway intervale, but this stream’s madness left it placid by comparison. Two steep slopes, glare with crusted snow, led down to the narrow channel. At their foot boulders of every shape and size fought the progress of the water. The stream dashed itself against them, hurling spray into the air; the spray fell upon the snow and froze, fell upon the boulders and froze, or drained back into the stream, freezing in icicles of marvelous forms. The water, colored doubtless by the mosses and weeds below its surface, was green,—a cold, pale green,—with something of the cruelty of a winter ocean in its tones. Now and then we met and passed sleds heavily laden with lumber or logs. One load of birch logs was on fire at the hinder end, and the driver was warming his hands at the blaze. A few poor farms lined the road at points where small patches of tillable land were to be found between the rocky fingers of Moat. As we passed one of these farms a flock of two dozen or more snow-buntings rose from a field full of tall weed-stalks and whirled over us singing. Their sweet notes fell on us as holy water falls on a kneeling congregation.
The road grew steeper, and then it crossed the river, passing through a huge covered bridge, and soon we found ourselves inside of the portals of Chocorua and Moat, with the high ridge of Bear Mountain, covered with black spruces, barring our westward way. The wall of sullen forest seemed without a cleft, yet the raging river which met us told of a way somewhere, to be found by retracing its channel.