A FIGHT WITH THE STORM ON THE CRAWFORD BRIDLE PATH
The morning dawned cold, with a north wind, and the Scouts woke up
shivering. As they were in the woods on the west slope of a mountain,
it would be some time before they could see the sun, but so far as they
could get a glimpse through the trees to the west and north, the day
promised well for the ascent of Washington.
“Looks clear,” said Art. “I wonder if old Washington has got a cloud
cap on?”
“We’ll know before very long,” said the Scout Master. “Even if it has,
I don’t think we’ve got much kick coming. Here we’ve been out in the
open since the night before the Fourth, and not a bad day yet.”
“Right-o!” said Peanut. “Weather man must have known we were up here.”
The party ate a good breakfast, chiefly of fresh eggs, which Lou
ran down to the Crawford House and bought while the fire was being
made. Then the packs were carefully packed, the blanket rolls firmly
strapped, compasses examined and stowed in the pockets, and the party
was ready for the ascent. They moved rather slowly into the path, and
turned upward, for the loads were heavy. They were carrying enough
provisions for four days, the evaporated vegetables and powdered milk
and eggs having been largely saved for this final trip over the bare
Presidentials, where they would be far from any sources of fresh
supply, and their weight increased by flour, a little butter, some
coffee, bacon, potted ham and sweet chocolate purchased the day before
in Franconia.
“I feel like a packhorse,” said Peanut.
“Don’t you mean a donkey?” Art laughed.
“Speaking of horses,” said Mr. Rogers, as they plodded up the trail
through the woods, “this Crawford Bridle Path was made originally for
horses, little burros I suppose they were, and folks even when I was a
boy used to go up on their backs. I suppose the cog railroad put that
form of transportation gradually out of business. Now nobody goes up
this way except on Shanks’ mare.”
“When was this path made?” asked Frank.
“It was the first path cut on the Presidential range,” Mr. Rogers
replied. “Abel Crawford opened it in 1819, as far as the summit of
Clinton--three miles from the Crawford House. It’s another five and
a half or six to the top of Washington, however, and it wasn’t till
about 1840, I believe, that one of Abel’s sons converted it into a
bridle path and carried it on to Washington. You see, by that time,
people had begun to visit the mountains for their vacations in large
numbers.”
“So the part we are on is nearly a hundred years old!” Lou exclaimed.
They plodded steadily upward, by a fairly steep grade, though not a
difficult one. The rising sun was now striking down into the spruce and
hemlock woods about them, but they noted that it was rather a hazy sun.
“I bet there’s a cloud on Washington,” Art muttered.
“What’ll we do if there is? Can we climb in it?” Frank asked.
“That all depends,” the Scout Master replied, “upon how bad a cloud it
is. If we get into a storm up there, a real storm, we’ll beat it back,
you bet! I haven’t told you, I guess, that as late as 1900 two men lost
their lives on this path in a snow-storm on the 30th of June--that’s
hardly more than a week earlier than to-day. Down here it’s midsummer,
but up there on the five thousand or six thousand foot level it’s still
early spring.”
“Golly!” said Peanut, in such a heartfelt manner that the rest
laughed--though they laughed rather soberly.
“I ought to add,” the Scout Master went on, “that W. B. Curtis and his
companion, Allen Ormsby, the two men who died, would not have perished,
probably, if they had turned back when they first saw threats of bad
weather, as they were warned to do, instead of trying to keep on, or
even if there had been a shelter hut, as there is now, on the long,
bare, wind-swept col between Monroe and the summit cone of Washington.
They tried to build a shelter under Monroe, and then left that to
press on to the summit. Curtis didn’t quite get to the site of the
present hut, but doubtless he would have if the hope of it had been
there to spur him on. As it was, he evidently fell and injured himself,
and Ormsby died some distance up the final cone, struggling in a mad
attempt to get to the top and find aid for Curtis. He had fifty bruises
on his body where the wind had blown him against the rocks. Curtis was
thinly clad, and he was sixty years old. Two guides, descending, who
met them on Pleasant, had warned them not to go on--that there was snow
and terrible wind above; but they evidently didn’t realize at all what
they were in for.”
“Oh, well, we’ve got blankets, and you know the way,” cried Peanut.
“What do we care? Guess we’ll ride out anything that can hit us in
July!”
The conversation was suddenly interrupted by a sharp “S-sh!” from Art,
who was leading. The rest stopped short, and looked up the path in the
direction of his pointing finger.
There, right in the path fifty feet ahead, pecking away at the mould
exactly like a hen in the barnyard, was a big brown partridge! The
Scouts stole softly toward it, expecting every moment to see it rise
and go whirring off through the woods. It did stop feeding, raised its
head to look at them, and then hopped up the bank beside the path and
began scratching again.
“Good gracious, is it a tame partridge?” Art whispered in astonishment.
But his astonishment was still greater when, a moment later, the whole
party stood in the path not six feet from the bird, and saw that it
was one of a small covey of six. Four of them were feeding on the
ground, and making soft, pretty _coots_, like hens on a hot summer day.
Two were perched lazily on the low branch of a hemlock. They paid no
attention to the Scouts.
“Gee!” said Frank, “you could knock ’em over with a stick! Let’s have
partridge for dinner.”
“Nix!” said Art. “It’s out of season. Besides, I wouldn’t kill anything
so tame. I guess they’re not hunted much here. I never saw ’em tame
like this before in my life. Down home they’d have been a mile away by
now.”
The birds looked up at the sound of his voice, and moved a few feet
farther off. Then they began feeding again, the hens following the cock
in a sort of procession.
“They certainly are pretty,” Rob said. “I didn’t know a partridge was
so pretty. Take a picture of ’em, Frank.”
“Not sun enough in under those trees,” Frank sighed. “I wish I could.”
The boys were reluctant to leave the partridges, but the day was
mounting, and they pressed on.
The trees were growing more and more stunted, and rocks began to
appear in the trail. Now and then there was a break to the north,
and they could see far below to the broad green intervale of Bretton
Woods. In another half hour, the forest had shrunk to dwarf shrubs,
and they emerged above timber line almost upon the top of Clinton.
The summit, however, lay a few hundred feet to the south of them, and
shut out the view in that direction. Northward, they could see for a
long distance. Westward, too, they looked back at the first mountains
toward Franconia. Ahead of them, they saw only a great, bare, rocky
ridge rising gradually to the dome of Mount Pleasant, and to the
left of this, northeastward, the sloping shoulders of the mountains
beyond, falling away to the valley far beneath. Washington was hidden
somewhere beyond Pleasant--still six miles away. It was nine o’clock.
The dome of Pleasant was free from clouds. The northern sky was blue.
Yet the sun was hazy, and southeastward there seemed to be a haze over
everything. The wind was cold. Mr. Rogers shook his head, but said
nothing.
Sitting down to rest, and ease shoulders from the pull of the pack
straps, he pulled the little green Appalachian guide book out of his
pocket, and read the “Caution” therein about the Crawford Path:
“This path is one of the most dangerous in the White Mountains, on it
no less than four persons having lost their lives. For a long five
miles it is above tree line and exposed to the full force of all
storms and there is but one side-trail leading to the shelter of the
woods. The following precautions are suggested:--Persons unfamiliar
with the range should not ascend the Crawford Path except in fine
weather and beginners should not attempt it alone. If trouble arises
south of Pleasant go back over Clinton. If on Pleasant go down the
Mount Pleasant Path. If between Pleasant and Franklin remember that
by returning via the south loop there is protection from north and
northwest winds in the lee of the mountain. Between Franklin and the
cone of Washington the Club’s Refuge Hut should be used. This is the
most dangerous part of the path. Never, under any circumstances,
attempt the cone if a storm has caused serious trouble before its
base is reached. Should the path be lost in cloudy weather go north,
descending into the woods and following water. On the south nearly all
the slopes are much more precipitous and the distance to civilization
is much greater.”
“Say, what are you trying to do, scare us to death?” Peanut said.
“No, I’m not trying to scare you,” Mr. Rogers answered. “But I do want
to impress on you, before we begin our two or three days on these
summits, that they are dangerous mountains, and that here, if anywhere,
our scout motto, ‘Be prepared,’ is the one to live by. As you say,
we have blankets, plenty of food, and compasses, and we can go down
anywhere we want, if need be, into the timber, and get through. But we
might get scattered, or after to-day we might split for a time into
groups, and I want you all to know what to do. Now, let’s on again.”
Packs were resumed, and the party started ahead along the rocky path
toward the domed summit of Mount Pleasant, which from this high col was
hardly more than a hill of rocks, rising a few hundred feet above the
path. They plodded on for a mile or more, and began to see over into
the great wilderness to the south. To the north, at their very feet,
lay the Bretton Woods intervale, with the hotels and golf links, but
to the south the pitch was much steeper, and dropped into a region of
forest and tumbled mountains without a house or road of any sort as far
as the eye could see.
Now the path divided, the trail to the left leading directly over the
summit of Pleasant. They took the right hand trail, and dropped down
a little, going along through some low scrub which had climbed up from
the gulf below, protected from the north winds. It was warmer here in
the shelter of Pleasant, and they stopped for a long drink by a spring.
But, two miles from Clinton, they rose again beyond Pleasant upon the
bare col between Pleasant and Franklin, and got the full force of the
north wind, which seemed to be blowing harder than before. The sun,
too, was getting more misty. Mr. Rogers was watching the south and
southeast, but while it was very hazy in that direction, the direction
of the wind didn’t seem to indicate that the mist bank could come their
way. They rested a moment, and then began the toilsome ascent up over
the waste of strewn boulders toward the summit of Franklin. The path
was no longer distinct. Here and there it was plain enough, but in
other places it could be detected only by the piles of rock, or cairns,
every hundred feet along the way.
As they drew near the summit of Franklin, Frank, who happened to look
back down the trail, shouted to the rest.
“Look,” he said, “somebody’s coming up behind us!”
The others turned. Sure enough, half a mile back down the trail, were
two people, a man and a woman, evidently hurrying rapidly.
“They haven’t any packs or blankets,” said Art.
“Nor anything at all, but sweaters tied around their waists, as far as
I can see,” Lou added.
“Probably going up for the day only, and expecting to get down again
before night,” said the Scout Master. “They’ll have to hurry. They seem
to be hurrying. They’ll catch us all right, at the rate they are coming
now, before we get beyond Monroe.”
A few moments later, the Scouts were on top of Franklin, 5,029 feet,
the first time they had been above the five thousand foot level except
on the summit of Lafayette. Directly ahead, a little over a mile away,
was the summit of Monroe, two jagged twin shoulders of rock, with the
south wall plunging down almost precipitously into the great pit of
Oakes Gulf. Beyond Monroe, rising a thousand feet higher into the air,
at last the great summit cone of Washington was fully revealed, and
even as they gazed upon it, a thin streamer of grayish white cloud blew
against it out of nothingness, and then shredded out to the southward.
“I don’t like that,” said Rob.
“Hm,” said Mr. Rogers, “if it’s no worse than that we needn’t worry.
It’s those two behind I’m thinking about.”
The Scouts moved on, across the col between Franklin and Monroe, with
the north wind blowing an increasing gale, and always now on their
right the yawning pit of Oakes Gulf. They were not more than half-way
across when the couple behind them came over Franklin, following them.
They were under the southern side of Monroe, some little distance below
the summit, and very close to the head wall of the gulf, when the
couple caught them.
Meanwhile the cone of Washington had gone out of sight in a white mass.
Southward, the view was shut out, for the haze had moved up against the
wind. Down at their very feet, in Oakes Gulf, a cloud suddenly appeared
from nowhere, coming to the last scrub evergreens.
The couple hailed the boys with panting breath.
“How much farther is it up Washington?” the man asked.
Mr. Rogers and the Scouts turned and looked at them. They were young,
evidently city bred, and they had on very light shoes. The girl had
on a silk waist, the man a stiff collar! They had no food with them,
having eaten some sandwiches they brought, so they said, as they
walked. They had put on their sweaters, and had no other protection.
“You are two miles from the summit yet,” said Mr. Rogers, “with the
hardest part of the climb ahead.”
“Oh, John, I can never do it!” said the girl.
“We’ve _got_ to do it,” the man answered. “You see,” he added to Mr.
Rogers, “we’ve got to catch the train down. Some people are waiting for
us at the Mount Pleasant House.”
“The train down!” said Mr. Rogers. “Why, man alive, it’s nearly noon
now, and the train goes down shortly after one. It will take you two
hours to make the summit cone, with your--your wife in her present
condition, even if you don’t lose the path.”
“I--I’m not his wife,” the girl said, turning very pale. “We are
engaged only. You see, we’ve got to get down again to-day. Oh, John, we
_must_ catch that train!”
“Come on, then, we’ll do it! Why, we can make two miles in less than an
hour! Two hours, indeed!”
He started ahead, but Mr. Rogers grabbed his arm.
“Hold on!” he said, “have you ever been on this mountain before?”
“No,” they both answered.
“Well, I have,” the Scout Master continued. “Ahead of you lies the most
dangerous stretch of path east of the Rocky Mountains. There’s a cloud
coming down from Washington, and we may have a storm at any minute.
You’ve got no compass, no provisions, no proper clothes. You’d lose
that path in five minutes in a cloud. In 1900, the thirtieth day of
June, two men, good strong walkers, too, died of exposure between here
and the summit. You stay with us.”
The girl went whiter still, and the man, also, grew pale.
“But can’t we go back the way we’ve come?” he said.
Mr. Rogers pointed back over the ridge. A cloud was rolling up and over
it from the pit of Oakes Gulf.
“You’d lose that path, too,” he said. “You stick with us, and if we
can’t make the summit before the storm breaks, we’ll ride her out in
the Shelter Hut. Come, I’m captain, now. Forward, march!”
As the party emerged from the slight shelter of Monroe, upon the great,
bare stretch of rising plateau which forms the col between Monroe and
the summit cone, they could with difficulty stand up at first against
the gale which hit them. The clouds were apparently doing a kind of
devil’s dance around Washington. Behind them other clouds had sucked up
the Notch, and then up Oakes Gulf, and were pouring over the southern
peaks behind like a gigantic wave, beaten back into breakers by the
wind. Here on this plateau they were for the time being in a kind of
vortex between two cloud masses. They hurried as fast as they could,
Mr. Rogers and Art leading.
All the party were rather pale, especially the girl. Rob was walking
beside her, and helping her fight the great wind. Their breath was
short, in this altitude, and hurrying was hard work. Moreover, the wind
came in mighty, sudden gusts, which almost knocked the breath out of
them and frequently made them stop and brace.
They had not gone a quarter of a mile when the clouds that came down
Washington and those which streamed in from Oakes Gulf closed together,
and the last of the party, who chanced to be Lou, suddenly found that
he couldn’t see anything, nor anybody.
His heart gave a great jump in his breast, and he let out a terrified
cry, which was almost lost in the howl of the wind.
“Come on up!” he heard faintly. A second later, and he saw the forms
of Peanut and Frank emerge from the mist ahead of him. The whole party
now gathered close in behind Mr. Rogers, keeping only two feet apart,
almost treading on each other’s heels. The Scout Master stopped a
second.
“Everybody watch for the cairns,” he shouted, “and keep close together.
Art and I have our compasses. Now, keep cool. We are only a short way
from the hut. We’ll go in there till the worst is over.”
Then he moved on, slowly, making sure of the path. The wind was
rising. The cloud that packed them close as cotton batting condensed on
their clothes in fine drops. Suddenly Peanut, who was blowing on his
chilled hands, noticed that the drops were beginning to freeze! The
rocks of the path were getting slippery, too. The girl had stumbled
once, and strained her ankle. She was paler than ever.
“Oh, why did I wear these high heeled shoes!” she half sobbed.
The words were no sooner out of her mouth (and probably nobody heard
them for the shrieking of the wind along the stony ground), when a
terrific gust hit the party in the faces, its force knocking their
breath out, the hail-like, freezing cloud stinging their faces,
the damp cold of it numbing them. The girl fell again, Rob holding
her enough to break the fall. Mr. Rogers ahead also fell, but
intentionally. He made a trumpet with his hands.
“Lie down and get your breaths!” he shouted. “Then go on in the next
lull as far as you can!”
They all got up again when the hurricane blast was over, and, heads
down into the teeth of the icy wind, they pushed on, till the next gust
made them fall down for shelter.
“Two miles in an hour!” Peanut was thinking. “We aren’t going a quarter
of a mile an hour at this rate. Will we ever get there?”
But the rest were struggling on, and he struggled, too, though his
instinct was to turn back to the wind, and beat it for the Crawford
House, not realizing that over four miles of bare summit lay between
him and the sheltering woods.
Suddenly Art and Mr. Rogers ahead gave a cry. The rest, looking, saw
dimly in the swirling vapor only a pile of stones and a cross.
“It’s the spot where Curtis died,” Mr. Rogers shouted. “We have only a
quarter of a mile to go.”
“Gee, I don’t think it’s very cheerful,” said Peanut. “I’m near frozen
now.”
At the sight of the cross the girl gave way. She began to sob, and Rob
felt her weight suddenly sag heavily on his arm.
“Here, quick!” he yelled at her companion. “Take her other arm.”
The two of them got Rob’s blanket unrolled and wrapped about her, as
best they could for the whipping of the gale, and then half carried her
along, while she tried bravely to stop her hysterical sobbing.
The gale was now a perfect fury. It must have been blowing seventy
miles an hour, and the contact of this north wind with the warmer
cloud bank from the south was making a perfect hurricane vortex of
half frozen vapor around these high summits. Everybody was exhausted
with fighting against it, and chilled with cold. Mr. Rogers and Art,
however, kept shouting back encouragement as each fresh cairn was
picked up, and as Mr. Rogers knew the trail, and they had a map and
compass, there were only a few delays while he or Art prospected
ahead at blind spots. Alternately lying on their faces on the frozen,
wet rocks to get their breaths, and pushing on into the gale, they
struggled ahead for what seemed hours. Actually it was only half an
hour. Half an hour to go 440 yards!
Suddenly, out of the vapor, not twenty-five feet ahead of them, loomed
a small, gray shanty.
“Hoorah!” cried Art and Mr. Rogers. “The hut!”