The world was aligned with my karma last week. I got a good night's sleep and even got up and out a little early. I was bound and determined that I was going to get up into the WHite Mountains and hike for the day. What I had in mind, more because it was close than for any other reason, was the Welch-Dickie loop. This was pretty much universally described as an "intermediate" trail. In the White Mountains. The tallest thing that I can remember climbing, from scratch, was about 900 feet, down in Pawtuckaway. I was second-guessing this whole thing. I wanted a win, not another attempt. I looked on-line and was able to find, one time in a row, an interactive Googlemap that had little icons at every trail head and pick-nic spot. There were HUNDREDS of them. I couldn't even begin to guess which ones were "good". I stopped at the Park HQ, right off Rt.93 at exit 27.
Inside I was met by three friendly rangers. The older of the three had apparently drawn the "ups" on me and we struck up a pleasant conversation in which I coughed up a storm and revealed that I could not come up with the word "Pawtuckaway" under the slightest bit of pressure from The Man. This particular Ranger, it turns out, was a recent transplant from Florida. The highest point in the sate, or some I am led to believe, is the top of a building, not an actual geological feature. I thought that, with that in mind, we would ahve a special kind of understanding when I told him that I wanted "Something relatively easy today". "Couch, hack". "I have just the thing for you!" He told me and, in consultation with Evil Mastermind and Knowledgeable Ranger Chris, came up with about a dozen likely prospects. The one that he was most keen on was clear on the other side of the park. So I left the Ranger Station with renewed and fierce determination to drive one exit up and get off the highway in the Mad River Valley and conquer that Welsh-Dickie thing at all costs. Until I saw the sign for the exit and chickened right the fuck out.
Driving. I hate it. I do it an hour on the way to work and an hour on the way back. I do it most of the time that I am at work and I did it for two and a half hours before I set off from the Ranger Station to Franconia, which lay at the northern end of the Notch of the same name. I honestly don't remember how long it took. It could have been half an hour or an hour and a half. My mind was numb to the miles and time and my eyes and soul were distracted by the beauty and grandeur of the Notch. I thought to myself that if I didn't set boot to trail just driving through the Notch and sucking in the view would make the whole trip worth while. It was a t that point that I realized that my blood sugar was low.
I was in luck. At the same exit that I wanted for the trailhead there was a blue sign with a picture and an arrow on it indicating that if I followed the road in the direction that I wanted to go, I would come across "food". I cold work with that. Eventually I got to the village of Franconia. After all the build up of the State Park and grandiose Notch, the village was quite a let down. I had a dickens of a time finding a place to eat. There wasn't a Mac Wedoking any where in sight. What there was, nestled between a bike shop and a "country store" was a coffee-shop looking place called MoJos
It was a little place with a porch or walkway our front, like in the old cowboy movies, but painted bright yellow. There were two tables out front, one on each side of the door and a bunch of Hippie-theamed Shenanigans crap hanging from the facade and in the windows. It looked like exactly the kind of place that I always have liked, but never feel cool enough to go into. The pickings were slim though so I spooled up my courage, slid on my best Jerry Garcia vibe and slid on in. Inside there were two people. A tinny little hippie girl who was too cute to hail from a town like this and a giant, crew-cut wearing New Hampsire Stat Trooper, resplendent in his big hat, brown pants and neon green coat. The two of them were doing their best to bridge the cultural gap and try to figure out a way to explain to their respective circles of friends why they were looking at each other "like that". Clearly I eaves dropped and realized that not only do Troopers come from all around to eat here (always a good sign of good food) but that the fastest way back to the seacoast was down highway 101. It was also clear that these two were just too star-crossed to stand a chance and shortly after I placed my oder, the both left and I was alone to suck in the hippie-dippy ambiance. I liked it. I liked the food too. It's worth the trip back and if I had nothing to do all day but tool around in a brown muscle car on the trail of Moose Rustlers, I'd find a reason to stop in here for a bite too. I fueled up and headed out too.
Inside I was met by three friendly rangers. The older of the three had apparently drawn the "ups" on me and we struck up a pleasant conversation in which I coughed up a storm and revealed that I could not come up with the word "Pawtuckaway" under the slightest bit of pressure from The Man. This particular Ranger, it turns out, was a recent transplant from Florida. The highest point in the sate, or some I am led to believe, is the top of a building, not an actual geological feature. I thought that, with that in mind, we would ahve a special kind of understanding when I told him that I wanted "Something relatively easy today". "Couch, hack". "I have just the thing for you!" He told me and, in consultation with Evil Mastermind and Knowledgeable Ranger Chris, came up with about a dozen likely prospects. The one that he was most keen on was clear on the other side of the park. So I left the Ranger Station with renewed and fierce determination to drive one exit up and get off the highway in the Mad River Valley and conquer that Welsh-Dickie thing at all costs. Until I saw the sign for the exit and chickened right the fuck out.
Driving. I hate it. I do it an hour on the way to work and an hour on the way back. I do it most of the time that I am at work and I did it for two and a half hours before I set off from the Ranger Station to Franconia, which lay at the northern end of the Notch of the same name. I honestly don't remember how long it took. It could have been half an hour or an hour and a half. My mind was numb to the miles and time and my eyes and soul were distracted by the beauty and grandeur of the Notch. I thought to myself that if I didn't set boot to trail just driving through the Notch and sucking in the view would make the whole trip worth while. It was a t that point that I realized that my blood sugar was low.
I was in luck. At the same exit that I wanted for the trailhead there was a blue sign with a picture and an arrow on it indicating that if I followed the road in the direction that I wanted to go, I would come across "food". I cold work with that. Eventually I got to the village of Franconia. After all the build up of the State Park and grandiose Notch, the village was quite a let down. I had a dickens of a time finding a place to eat. There wasn't a Mac Wedoking any where in sight. What there was, nestled between a bike shop and a "country store" was a coffee-shop looking place called MoJos
It was a little place with a porch or walkway our front, like in the old cowboy movies, but painted bright yellow. There were two tables out front, one on each side of the door and a bunch of Hippie-theamed Shenanigans crap hanging from the facade and in the windows. It looked like exactly the kind of place that I always have liked, but never feel cool enough to go into. The pickings were slim though so I spooled up my courage, slid on my best Jerry Garcia vibe and slid on in. Inside there were two people. A tinny little hippie girl who was too cute to hail from a town like this and a giant, crew-cut wearing New Hampsire Stat Trooper, resplendent in his big hat, brown pants and neon green coat. The two of them were doing their best to bridge the cultural gap and try to figure out a way to explain to their respective circles of friends why they were looking at each other "like that". Clearly I eaves dropped and realized that not only do Troopers come from all around to eat here (always a good sign of good food) but that the fastest way back to the seacoast was down highway 101. It was also clear that these two were just too star-crossed to stand a chance and shortly after I placed my oder, the both left and I was alone to suck in the hippie-dippy ambiance. I liked it. I liked the food too. It's worth the trip back and if I had nothing to do all day but tool around in a brown muscle car on the trail of Moose Rustlers, I'd find a reason to stop in here for a bite too. I fueled up and headed out too.
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