Leaf-Peepers Paradise by Linda Ballou

Standing astride granite boulders the size of box-cars atop Black Cap Mountain, I could see the bustling village of North Conrad framed in yellow and flame red far below. Mount Washington stood in stark relief against endless blue sky, and Maine dotted with lakes spread to the east. Like millions of trampers before me, I’d come to the White Mountains of New Hampshire to see the trees festooned with brilliant leaves and to know Mother Nature’s healing heart.

Over 600 miles of well-marked paths lace our first National Forest. These trails seduce the hiker into shady glens through lacy fern forests and to alpine climbs pocked with turquoise glacier cirques. The fragrance of balsam fir and the fecund odor of the gold and amber carpet of falling leaves filled the air.

The Whites from a distance appear benign but are reputed to be intolerant and unpredictable. Winds funnel into the canyons from several different directions creating churning whiteouts that blind hikers and stop rescue attempts. Hikers get lost so often the good folks of New Hampshire now require them to pay for the cost of their rescue. With the aid of New England Hiking Holidays, I was able to explore the fabled notches, inter-vales and peaks of the mountains with carefree abandon.

The median age of our group was fifty. Many of the guests were seasoned, international travelers, and most had a few week-long hiking adventures under their belts. After hiking 5-7 miles each day, we enjoyed the luxury of the Thorn Hill Inn and Spa, where we could partake in a full massage, steam or hot tub under the stars. The sophistication of the group made for stimulating conversation over gourmet meals prepared by a chef with a flare for perfection. The Inn is located in Jackson, a village oozing with White Mountain charm; pumpkin men and ladies on the lawns, benches for strollers to enjoy, bright flower boxes and a red covered bridge spanning the Wildcat River that runs through the town. Two of our nights were spent in the Sugar Hill region at the lovingly restored Sunset House, built in 1882, overlooking a vast meadow dotted with wild turkey.

Amazingly, the group of eighteen settled naturally into two groups of nine with similar degrees of fitness and aspirations. We tramped to Lonesome Lake, where we enjoyed a healthful repast at a friendly hut maintained by the Appalachian Mountain Club, the oldest outdoor organization in the U.S. This track crosses a segment of the 2,125 mile Appalachian Trail that runs all the way from Maine to Georgia. In the sunny afternoon we circumnavigated the lake on boardwalks that kept us above the moose marsh surrounding the blue gem nestled in pines. I was struck by the fact that there were no mosquitoes swarming in what looked to be the perfect habitat.

Fall is the best time to come here because there are no bugs. The pesky black flies of the summer months are at bay, and ticks are out of season. The crisp nights bring out brilliant color in the foliage, but the days are in the seventies, perfect for the droves of leaf peepers who flock to the region this time of year.

Each morning we were shuttled to appropriate trail heads. On the way to the Cascade-Basin hike, we passed by what remains of the Old Man in the Mountain. The beloved jagged granite face considered to be the guardian of the mountain came down in 2003. Now, he is affectionately referred to by locals as “Cliff.”

One day was spent exploring Crawford Notch, where Ethan Allan Crawford built the first hospitality house in the 1800s for the “rusticators” who came by train and stayed all summer. Tourists still pour off the train from Conway at the depot in the notch. Crawford also carved a trail to the top of Mt. Washington, which remains the oldest trail in continuous use in the United States.

After a saunter through the woods on a path of soft moss, we crossed a wooden bridge spanning a ravine where deep pools carved by the charging water serve as swimming holes for the intrepid in the summer. Soon, we arrived at the back door of the Mt. Washington Hotel. The last of the grand hotels, built in the 1800s, is a bit fussy for the hiking set, but we were graciously allowed to enjoy a drink on the veranda. From there we watched the cog-train chug its way up the flank of Mt. Washington.

Mt. Washington was called the Place of the Storm Spirit by the Native Americans, who viewed it has the sacred home of the Great Spirit. The moody monarch, generally crowned with dark swirling clouds with a white cape on the shoulder, was plainly visible in the cloudless blue sky. From the top of the mountain one may see Maine, the Green Mountains of Vermont, the four-toothed summit of Mt. Chocorua, and the other main peaks of the Presidential Range.

Over the week I visited Arethusa Falls, which at 200 feet is the highest cascade in the Whites, Sabbaday Falls, a picturesque series of cascades that funnels into a narrow channel, as well as Avalanche Falls in the dramatic Flume Gorge. Of the over one hundred waterfalls in the mountains, Diana’s Bath is my favorite. This most alluring rush of white fans over granite boulders into inviting stepped pools.

The bottom leg of the Basin-Cascade trail is a 2-mile mama bear run that follows the Pemigewasset River. It was to be our last stroll through burgundy and bronze, spiked with happy chartreuse leaves overhead. Light streaming through the cathedral that is the woods spotlighted our path. I felt fortunate to have this quiet time free of cell-phone bleeps calling me back to duty. My internal tape had run clean during my week in the White Mountains. I just hoped this calm feeling inside would stick along with my memories of leaf peeper’s paradise.