Moose Sighting

At the Spalding Inn, this time my heart knew better than to do a sentimental leap when recalling happy childhood hours there. My imagination is a liar. I will never again trust my memories of youthful bliss. Still, since I know I went there a lot as a kid, I gave the dining room a small, slightly guilty smile, the way I do a person I’m supposed to recognize but don’t.

There was a new addition to the hotel since my grandparents’ time.

I learned that the current owners of the Spalding Inn are the stars of some Sci Fi Channel show called Ghost Hunters. Apparently they got the idea for the show because of what they’ve seen over the years at their Inn. But like New Hampshire moose, haints evaded me. The only mysterious sound I heard late at night was the clanking of the hundred-year-old radiators. Or could it have been… ?

It wouldn’t be exactly a lie if I said I saw a moose today.

In the morning I found my way back to the cog railway where it was cold and foggy. The chill didn’t seem to bother the brakeman, whose job on the way up is to lean over the front of the train and check the tracks. We got to stand out there with him for a while. He informed us that the mountain is the Northeast’s highest, it frequently claims lives, its winds have been recorded at 200 mph, and that he accepts tips at the end of the ride.

We went up a 37-degree slope they call Jacob’s Ladder. It makes one stand funny, which I guess is why everyone else is sitting.

At the top of the mountain one can take shelter from the howling winds and ice formations (they had four feet of snow there a couple weeks ago) and look at heated exhibits. I noticed this faceless skier and wondered if he’s that way in sympathy for the Old Man in the Mountain. Pictured at right are myriad plant and animal specimens encased in Lucite and illuminated. I was too preoccupied with the colorful effect from a distance that I didn’t get a closer look. It was in the gift shop that I realized how much I needed this vacation. Looking through the books I saw an odd title: “Scary Cognitive Tales.” Only after several seconds of pondering its meaning, I saw that “Cognitive” was really “Campfire.”

Speaking of the Old Man in the Mountain, I noticed that the New Hampshire highway signs show the profile of the dear old gentleman when he still had a face. They need a new logo. Maybe at the same time they can come up with something more postmodern than “Live Free or Die.”

After poking around the frigid summit we climbed back into the train and watched the brakeman swirl wheels around to slow the train over steep sections. Softly to myself I was humming “Casey Jones.”

We were above the clouds at the summit and descended back into them on the way down.

Safely down the mountain, I climbed into my car and do what I always do when on an adventure: scour the map for a possible route, drive away and within five minutes head off in an entirely different direction. This time, just down the road from the Cog Railway was an enticing dirt road that took me over Jefferson Notch. Notches, even when marked with signs, are as hard to spot as moose. It took half an hour to drive the nine miles through forest, and was really lovely, even though I had no idea where I was. The road wasn’t marked on the map, but I think I was cutting my way back over the Presidential Range to the west side.

I wanted to take a little hike through the woods but, when I saw several men in trucks with guns and Day-Glo orange hats, I realized I look an awful lot like a deer. It must not be wild turkey season because I saw herds of them strutting around boldly, without a care in the world.

Eventually I landed back in familiar territory, by accident arriving at my grandparents’ cottage. This is the view from my below their old house.

After winding along a web of roads I arrived at the Connecticut River and followed it back home, first on the New Hampshire side with its wide, verdant, ripely manure-scented fields.

After many miles I got to Hanover and made a detour to see Dartmouth which was entirely devoid of ivy but brimming with pimply young academics.

Over on the Vermont side, the river road (Highway 5) meanders mostly through woods, doing playful little loops in unlikely directions for reasons I couldn’t fathom, but eventually fulfilling its goal of carrying me south toward home. Come to think of it, Highway 5 is sort of like how I work: flying all over the place on the way, but eventually getting there.

I got home, unpacked and headed to campus to meet Kim to make a banner for a surprise event for MATs on Friday. The only student group I’ve signed up for so far is what has come to be known as The “Funnest Collaborative.” I joined largely because Mike (our Group Dynamics professor) leads it, and he makes me laugh so hard that I can’t politely eat in his presence. Next posting you’ll see what we were up to.