by Bud Kenny
After I tied Della out and fed her, Patricia and I climbed in the cart to wait for the rain to let up. The seat in the cab was a tight fit for Patricia and me with just regular clothes on. In rain gear we had to squeeze in. Our baloney sandwiches that evening were soggy and fell apart in our hands.
“This isn’t fun,” Patricia said. “I’m real tired of it.”
I knew what she meant. We were both sick of the rain. Here we were, on the evening of one of the most heartbreaking days of this journey, and we couldn’t put the tent up. We were in the middle of a deluge, on the side of a mountain, with lightning and thunder all around us.
It was not a good situation to pitch a tent, but we had no choice. As the storm raged we bucked the wind, waded through ankle deep water and eventually got the thing up. By the time we got the bed made, everything was soaked. The only saving grace was that it was not cold.
You have read about many wet nights in this book. So I’m going to spare you this one. Other than to say, of all of them so far, it was the most miserable.
Besides everything getting soaked, and our spirits being low, one of the things that made that night difficult were the intrusions. Each time I fell asleep, Patricia would shake me and say, “There it is again. I’m telling you something is clomping around out there.”
My first thought was that Della had gotten loose. So I poked my head out into the storm with the flashlight and pointed it toward her. Each time, I found her still tied. Usually the first thing I’d see was the shine of her eyes. Then I’d scan around our camp. I never saw a thing. And sometimes I heard clomping too. So I’d get up, go out and look around. The results were always the same. Della was where she was supposed to be and I found nothing else around. Neither of us got much sleep that night.
The rain stopped just a bit before sunrise. When I climbed out of the tent, we were totally engulfed with fog. It was so thick I couldn’t see Della from the tent. However, I did see what the commotion in the night had been. All around the tent and the cart were moose tracks and droppings. I could see where they had ventured toward Della, but then turned back. Why I didn’t see the moose, I’ll never know.
At the bottom of the hill, on the White River, was the village of Hancock. What we needed more than anything, besides a full night’s sleep, was a washer and dryer. But Hancock didn’t have a laundry. So we turned south on Highway 100 headed for Rochester.
About a mile down the road we came to a farm, with the house on the left side of the highway and barns on the other. On one barn was a sign that read “Cobble Hill Stable.” We were about to walk past it, when a pickup truck pulled into the barnyard and a woman in her late thirties go out. She was packed into tight blue jeans and wore high top riding boots. She strolled toward us as she said, “My, what a beautiful mule! What are you folks doing?”
After we told her, Leslie asked, “Do you need a place to camp for the night?”
She bred, raised and trained Welsh Cob horses and ponies. Leslie, and her husband, also had an organic beef operation. Less than a quarter of a mile further down the highway was one of their farms. On it was an old house that recently had been renovated so they could rent it to vacationers.
“No one is there now,” Leslie said. “You’re welcome to use it. And if you need to do some laundry, it has a new washer and dryer.”
Who says there is no God?
Doing a poetry show in the heart of Rochester, Vermont.
CHAPTER 21
NEW HAMPSHIRE AND KNOWING WHY
WHITE SETTLERS MOVED INTO NEW Hampshire a hundred years before they ventured into Vermont. Most came up to the Granite State from Massachusetts and Connecticut because they’d been given land patents by the King of England. John Hancock got one fifteen years before he signed the Declaration of Independence. New Hampshire was the first to declare its independence from Great Britain. The state motto is “Live free or die!”
Walking across New Hampshire, we passed many open pits where long ago men with picks, spades and steam shovels plundered the hills and valleys, leaving mounds of spoil behind. Near some of those diggings, and often in the middle of open fields, there were the brick shells of old factories. Long two and three story buildings whose roofs had collapsed and rotted inside those walls decades ago. A few times we saw a tall smoke stack standing by itself in the middle of a pasture. And in many places, the huge pieces of rusted machinery had been there so long, they’d become a permeant part of the landscape.
Still, New Hampshire was beautiful. It’s the second most forested state in the nation – Maine is first. Unlike Vermont, we didn’t see many dairy farms or orchards because most of the time we were walking through woodlands. Like Vermonters, when people in the Granite State stopped to visit us along the road, they seemed more relaxed than folks in New York. And one of the things that really impressed us about New Englanders was how complimentary they were about each other’s state. “You think Vermont’s pretty, wait till you see New Hampshire.”
And all across the Granite State it was, “Weren’t the Green Mountains wonderful?”
In both states, everyone said, “Just wait until you see Maine!”
We took Highway 25 through Meredith and Central Harbor on Lake Winnipesaukee. A large natural scintillating body of blue with the slopes of the White Mountains rising up all around it. Forested slopes, many of which were capped with ragged granite peaks.
It’s a popular tourist area year round. The summer attractions were the lakes, streams and hiking in the mountains. What brought them in the winter were the ski areas, and the White Mountains had plenty. It was mid-September when we were there, so the big draw then was the leaves. Autumn was beginning to bloom.
One of the things we had looked forward to since the onset of this journey, was walking through New England in the fall–and we were not disappointed. No photograph, painting or film could do justice to how beautiful New Hampshire was right then. Through those mediums you can appreciate how radiant the trees were with their myriad shades of red, orange, yellow and purple. But you have to be there, completely surrounded by it, to truly appreciate a New England autumn. While we walked down the road, it was like we were in a kaleidoscope that changed in hues, shades and shapes with every step. Then there were those moments when we’d come around a bend and ahead would be a maple or hickory whose brilliance upstaged every tree around it. A color so vibrant, that one of us couldn’t help but exclaim, “Wow, look at that!”
And then there’s the smell of the season–a pleasing, pungent aroma that had a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg to it. Right then, in some places, New Hampshire smelled like pumpkin pie. You can’t get that from a picture or a movie. Nor can you get it riding in a car, even if the windows are open. To really experience a New England autumn, you have to get out and let yourself be inundated.
But driving was how most folks were experiencing that autumn. Sometimes the highway was bumper to bumper with motor homes, motorcycles, and automobiles of every description. Often it was like a parade was passing us on the left.
“Leaf peepers!” snarled an old man in Meredith. “Gets worse every year.”
We met him when we stopped to give Della a drink in a parking area adjacent to Lake Winnipesaukee. He was a head shorter than me and wore baggy new blue jeans that were too long for him. The legs were rolled up into high cuffs so they wouldn’t drag on the ground.
He coughed up some phlegm and spit it on the asphalt before he said, “Lived here all my life and seen it happen. When I was growing up, the roads were narrow and steep. It could be pretty rough going around here in those days. Especially in the winter. Back then, we didn’t have all these damn tourists. It was too hard getting in and out of here. But they fixed the roads and built the stinking interstate. Now they can hop on it and zip up here from Boston in no time.”
In his voice was a wheeze. “It’s a dirty shame. Back in those days there were lots of places you and your mule could have camped right next to the lake. But not now. Too ma
ny goddam houses!”
Suddenly he was seized with a spasm of coughing that made the veins across his bald head swell. I feared one was going to burst. When the coughing stopped, he spit on the pavement again.
He said, “Ain’t nobody from around here can afford houses like that. It’s all them city folks from down south. Came here to get away from the city, but they brought the damn city with ’em.”
A few minutes after he walked off, a younger man told us, “Problem is, all these big expensive houses have jacked up the property values to where our taxes have gone out the roof. People who’ve lived here all their lives can’t afford it anymore.”
Meredith was conspicuously up scale. The homes, the shops, the cars, the clothes, the whole style of the Lakes Region was chic–but all of that was tempered by the natural beauty around us. The mountains and the forest got more awesome by the mile.
During the two days it took us to walk around that part of the lake, the weather was perfect. The sky was blue with occasional puffy white clouds and the temperatures were ideal for traveling. Warm in the day, but not enough to make you sweat. At night it was cool enough for a blanket and sweet cuddling. But it wasn’t going to last long.
Hurricane Isabelle was tormenting the Carolinas and was about to send storms up over New England. The forecast called for the hurricane to go out to sea, gain strength and possibly come back on land in the northeast. In 1938, New Hampshire was devastated by a hurricane, and Isabelle was behaving exactly like that one.
“Bud, what would we do if a hurricane came through here?” Patricia asked that question as we were setting up camp adjacent to Fuller’s Store and Station west of Moulton Falls on Highway 25. “Have you thought about that? Do you have a plan?”
“Find high ground and hold on.”
Isabelle didn’t come to New Hampshire, but she sent us a lot of rain. Off and on for two days it came down, always as a deluge. We kept our dirty laundry in a plastic bag on the roof of the cart. By the time we got to South Tamworth it was a huge black shiny ball full of soggy clothes and bedding.
“Let me take it to my house and do it for you.”
This was the second time we met Dot. The first was at the South Tamworth Store a mile or so back down the road. We were at a pull-off near the junction of Highway 113 and 25. Dot was a stout woman, in her late fifties with short, salt and pepper hair. She had brought her granddaughters to meet us. One of them had just finished reading us some of her poetry, when Dot offered to do our laundry.
Patricia said, “I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not? I doubt you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before.”
“It’s not that. I just–”
Dot pointed her finger at me. “Get that bag off your roof and put it in my car!”
I had just pulled it down when a Tamworth Police car pulled up next to the cart. We had also met Chief Dan Poirier back at the store. In his mid-forties, Dan had the looks and presence that befitted a TV personality. He was a horseman and had initially invited us to his place for the night, but he lived too far off the road. Then he offered to get us a couple bales of hay. So when he stopped beside me and the laundry bag, I said, “You don’t have hay in that cruiser do you?”
“No. I’ll get that later. There’s been a change of plans.”
Before we met Dan, we had planned to take Highway 5 to 16 on up to Conway. But he convinced us to take Highway 113 up through the village of Tamworth. “You’ll miss a lot of traffic and it’s a prettier route.”
I asked, “So, what’s the plan now?”
“The town would like to treat you to a night at the Tamworth Inn.”
Dot gasped. “Oh, how wonderful! You will just love it!”
Dan said, “That includes dinner for two and breakfast in the morning.”
“That’s awesome,” the poet granddaughter said. “I love to eat there. It is so cool!”
“And . . .” Dan was beginning to sound like a game show host. “if you’re up for it, after dinner we have two tickets for the show tonight at the Barnstormers Theater.”
Dot yanked open the back hatch of her car and motioned for me to bring the laundry bag over. “They’ve got you set up. I’ll bring your clothes to the Tamworth Inn.”
It was a three mile hike to Tamworth. The sun was out and the trees were full of fall. Both our steps and spirits were lighter than they had been in several days. We were about a mile from the village when Patricia ran up beside me and took my hand. “I can’t believe this. I am so excited! A room in an old historic inn. A night out on the town. It’s almost too good to be true!”
When we traveled, not often did my wife and I get to walk holding hands. Usually she was right behind me, holding onto a strap attached to the cart shaft. Hand-in-hand would put her out in the driving-lane too far. But we did walk that way in a few places where we felt safe to do so. And our walk to Tamworth was on one of those kinds of roads. And like every other time we did it, Della finagled her head up between us. Patricia thought she did it because Della was jealous of her. I think she did it because she wanted to be sure she was the center of attention. It’s always all about Della.
Tamworth was a tiny village on the Swift River. It had two churches with tall pointed steeples, a few white clap-board stores, a library, post office, the inn and the Barnstormers Theater–the oldest professional summer theater company in America. It began in 1931 in the barn of the Tamworth Inn, which opened a hundred years earlier as a hotel on a stage line.
When we walked into the village, I said, “Isn’t this sweet?”
Besides the quaintness of the buildings and setting, there was the view of the White Mountains and Mt. Chocorua, which was truly something to behold. At 3,475 feet, it had a rugged granite peak with a skirt of evergreens and broadleaf trees in their autumn finery. The mountain was named after a Pequawket Chief who was killed on the summit by a white settler.
Over the years, Tamworth has wooed many notables. A number of authors went there to write, including John Greenleaf Whittier and Henry David Thoreau. President Grover Cleveland owned a summer home in Tamworth, and his son Francis started Barnstormers Theater.
When we turned onto Main Street, at least a dozen people–mostly women and children––were sitting on the curb. They looked like they were waiting for a parade. Then, as we walked down the short street they stood up and began to applaud and cheer.
While we waved back, Patricia said, “Were they waiting for us?”
We were both immediately enchanted by the Tamworth Inn. It’s the quintessential New England country inn. A gray wood building with tan trim and red shutters. It had three floors, a pitched roof and dormer windows. The view from the front rooms was Mt. Chocorua. The back ones looked out over the gardens and lawn that led down to crystal clear Swift River. I can’t imagine anyone not being charmed by the Tamworth Inn.
Across the street was a park with a small parking lot that we pulled into. Chief Dan said it was all right to tie Della out in the park to graze. The Schraders, who owned the Tamworth, gave us a second floor room that overlooked the cart, Della and the mountain.
Our whole experience in Tamworth was delightful. Both meals were tremendous. It was easy to see why famous food critics, like Boston’s Phantom Gourmet, raved about the place. Any room out of the weather, with a hot shower, would have been great. That one was tremendous.
Sunday morning, when Margo Mallur interviewed us for the Carroll County Independent, I told her how kind everyone in Tamworth had been. “And when we walked into town yesterday, it was like people were waiting to welcome us.”
“They probably were,” Margo said. “With all the controversy around here lately, Tamworth needs something positive.”
When we walked into the area we saw signs that read “No Zoning.” Chief Dan was the first to explain, “A group of investors want to put a Grand Prix type race track on one of the mountains nearby. A lot of folks don’t want it. So we’re going to vote on a zoning issue.”<
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Margo said, “Most people don’t want the track, but they don’t want zoning either. New Hampshire people take the state motto to heart. Live Free Or Die!”
In North Conway we did something we had not done on this journey. We rented a room at the Yankee Clipper Motel. The rain was torrential, and the forecast called for it to continue through the next day. It was my birthday, and when Patricia asked me what I wanted, I said “To be dry!”
KNOWING WHY
Yes, there are moments when I wonder, “Why are we doing this?”
Like when it’s raining – and I don’t mean your average soft sweet shower.
But more like it’s being poured from an endless bucket, and it’s cold, and it’s been that way all day.
And that New Hampshire highway has no shoulder.
And everything is leaking from the rain coming down and the traffic splashing up.
And your boots are like wading pools and your body is worn out from lugging them along.
And you curse every driver who comes a little bit too close, which means you’re cursing everyone who splashes you by.
Yes there are moments when I want to cry, “Why in the hell are we doing this?”
“Hi, do you remember me?”
She was pretty. Her name was Mary. She wrote for a local paper. We met her yesterday.
It was dry, way back then. And the rain was not so heavy just now.
“Can I talk to you guys for a moment? It’s kind of important.”
It was a place where we could get off the road. So we did.
Then all of us, in our rain gear, got closer together so we could hear through the rain and the traffic on the road.
“Do you remember me telling you about my brother?”
I did. She had said he was dead.
And as a poet she hadn’t been able to write in the months since it happened.
“But what I didn’t tell you was that he dreamed of doing something like you’re doing.