THROUGH KING’S RAVINE AND HOME AGAIN
Art was not the first one up in the morning. When he opened his eyes,
he saw the caretaker of the hut moving about the stove. Nobody else was
astir in the Scouts’ party, but through the open door Art saw the two
men who had arrived the previous evening standing on the rocks, looking
off. It was full daylight!
Art climbed hastily down out of his bunk and shook Peanut.
“Lemme ’lone! I got to climb this rock!” said Peanut.
“What do you think you’re doing? You’ve got to get up!” laughed Art.
“Whaz ’at?” said Peanut. Then he opened his eyes, stared into Art’s
face, and added, “Hello! Why, I’m awake!”
Meanwhile, the others had waked, also. Rob looked at his watch. “Six
o’clock!” he exclaimed. “That’s what comes of sleeping in bunks. All
up, and have a look at the weather!”
The weather seemed propitious. The north peaks were all out, and the
great shoulder of Chandler Ridge on Washington, across the white mists
which filled the Great Gulf, looked like a stone peninsula thrusting
out into a foamy sea. There was only a slight wind, and the sun was
pleasantly warm already.
“How’s the grub holding out?” asked Mr. Rogers. “If we have breakfast
cooked for us inside, it will cost us something. Have we enough left
for breakfast and lunch? We’ll have to get supper on the train.”
“Train! Gee whiz, I don’t want to go home! Let’s stay another week,”
said Frank.
“That’s the talk!” Peanut cried. “Let’s go down in the Great Gulf and
get some trout, and live on them.”
“I’ll shoot a bear with a bow and arrow,” Art added. “We’ll need the
meat, too, for we’ve not got more than enough for one good meal--except
vegetables. We’ve got a lot of spinach left, ’cause we’ve hardly
ever stayed anywhere long enough to soak it, unless we’d had it for
breakfast.”
Peanut fished in his rear pocket and produced his purse. “I’ve got
enough to buy breakfast, if the caretaker’ll sell us any, and a sleeper
home,” he announced. “Golly, though, where’s my return ticket!”
He began searching wildly in all his pockets, while the others
investigated their pocketbooks, to see if they had their tickets.
Peanut finally dashed back into the hut, and discovered his in his
pack. The tickets were from Fabyans, however, and as they would reach
the railroad at Randolph, some miles east, there would be a small
extra fare. All the boys had money enough left for the trip, and for
breakfast as well.
“I’ll shout you all to supper on the train,” said Mr. Rogers. “Let’s
save all our grub for a whacking big farewell luncheon in King’s
Ravine, and buy breakfast here, eh?”
“You’re on,” the Scouts replied, and they hastened back into the hut,
where the two men joined them. The caretaker finally agreed to give the
boys breakfast out of his own stores, though he didn’t seem very keen
about it. Usually, he only cooks meals for visitors at the hut when
they provide the food.
“How do you get the food up here?” Peanut asked him.
“The birds bring it,” he said.
“You think you’re Joshua, don’t you?” Peanut retorted.
“Why?” asked the man, looking puzzled.
“’Cause he was fed by the ravens. Wake up and hear the birdies,” Peanut
laughed. “Now will you tell me?”
The man grunted, and made no reply.
(“I suppose he has to pack it up from Randolph,” one of the men
whispered. “It’s no cinch, either.”)
Breakfast over, the boys paid fifty cents each for their night’s
lodging, and a dollar and a half for cooking dinner and the breakfast.
Then they set out for the summit of Madison, before descending to the
railroad. The sharp cone of Madison rose directly behind the hut.
Indeed, you could step from the roof of the hut in the rear out onto
the rocks. It was only a twenty minute climb, without packs, for
the hut is 4,828 feet above the sea, and Madison, the last of the
Presidentials, is only 5,380. From the top they had their last high
prospect, and they drank it in to the full. Eastward, they looked out
over the ravine of the Peabody River to the timbered slopes of the
Moriahs and Carter’s Dome, another group of mountains which lured their
feet. Beyond them was the state of Maine. Southward, over the Great
Gulf, was Chandler Ridge, with the Chandler River leaping down its
steep side, like a ribbon of silver. South westward lay the bare stone
pyramids of Adams and the two lesser Adamses (Jefferson was hidden) and
finally the great bulk of Washington to the left of Clay, lying high
above them all, far off against the blue sky. Due west, they looked
down into the yawning hole of King’s Ravine. It was a mighty prospect
of bare rocks piled more than a mile in air, of great gulfs between
them, of far green valleys and far blue hills.
“Oh, I like the mountains!” cried Lou. “I want to come to the mountains
every year! I want to stand up under the sky and see off--way off, like
this!”
“That goes for me, too, even if I can’t say it so pretty,” declared
Peanut.
Reluctantly, they descended from the cone, picked up their packs at
the hut, and with Peanut throwing back a final “Goodbye, Josh,” to the
caretaker, they hit the Gulf Side Trail for a scant quarter of a mile,
swung off of it to the right, and stood presently in a kind of gateway
of great stones, with the world dropping out of sight between the posts.
“Look back!” said Mr. Rogers.
They turned. Behind them, framed by the huge stones of the natural
gate, rose the cone of Madison against the blue sky--that and nothing
else.
“Goodbye, Maddie,” said Peanut.
“Au revoir,” said Lou. “See you again next summer, maybe!”
They turned once more, and at once began to drop down the head wall of
King’s Ravine, a ravine almost as fine as Tuckerman’s, discovered and
explored by the Reverend Thomas Starr King in 1857 and named after him.
“Say, this trail has the Six Husbands’ guessing,” said Art.
“Glad I’m not going up,” said Frank.
“Well, nothing is steep to me after the head wall of Huntington,” Lou
said. “I can see something under my feet here, at any rate.”
The descent was rapid, for they dropped 1,300 feet in the
five-sixteenths of a mile to the floor of the ravine, which means an
ascent of 4,160 feet to the mile. Anybody good at mathematics can
reckon out what this angle is. The boys estimated it roughly as they
were descending at about seventy degrees. Nobody had time to figure it
on paper, however, and when they got to the bottom, there was too much
else to see. Anyhow, it was steep going!
They found the bottom of the ravine strewn with great boulders which
had fallen down from the cliffs on three sides. Some of them were as
big as houses, and in a cave under one they found ice. Two paths led
down the ravine, one over the boulders called “Elevated Route for Rapid
Transit,” the other “The Subway.”
The guide book said the latter took longer but was more interesting.
“The Subway for us!” cried Peanut.
So they took the Subway, and though it was not a second Lost River,
this path took them by a tortuous route through several caves, and
under many an overhanging boulder, where the air was chill and there
were strange echoes. Again, at the lower end of the ravine, they
descended rapidly for half a mile by a steep way, into the woods again
at last, and finally stopped by a brook for the farewell lunch.
The last of the powdered eggs, spinach soaked and boiled as long as
they dared wait, till it wasn’t too tough to eat, the last of the bacon
from Lou’s and Mr. Rogers’ packs, a single small flapjack apiece,
a quarter cake of sweet chocolate for each, and tea, completed the
repast. After it was over, they carefully burned all the wrapping paper
and Art blazed a tree and printed on the fresh wood, “Farewell Camp,”
and the date. Then under it they all wrote their names.
It was less than two miles from this point out to the railroad and for
the first time in many days they were walking on almost level ground.
Before long, the woods opened, and they came out on the meadows of
Randolph. Across a field in front of them lay the railroad track and
the tiny station. They dropped packs on the platform and turned to look
at the mountains. Only the north peaks were visible--Madison, Adams and
Jefferson--three pyramids against the sky.
“Golly, how funny it feels to be down on the level again!” said Peanut.
“And how far away they look! Think, we were up there only this
morning!” said Frank.
“And how small our hills will look when we get home,” said Lou.
“Well, anyhow,” put in Art, “cheer up and think how good some of
mother’s pies will taste.”
“There’s something in that,” laughed Rob and Mr. Rogers.
The train soon came, and carried them by a roundabout route to Fabyans,
where they had to change to the night train down the Connecticut
valley. At Fabyans, where the big Fabyan Hotel sits beside the
railroad, they bought some more souvenir post-cards and Peanut got
a pound of very sticky candy which Mr. Rogers said would spoil his
supper, whereat he answered, “Wait and see!” They could see from here
the whole south range, culminating in the peak of Washington, and thus
could follow their adventurous climb over the Crawford Bridle Path.
Again, the peaks seemed very far off, and Lou said it was like a dream
to think that they had been walking way up there only a few days before.
Once aboard the train, they secured berths for the night, and began to
think of supper. Mr. Rogers was true to his word--and so was Peanut. He
provided--and Peanut ate.
“What’s a pound of candy to an empty tum?” said Peanut. “Besides, Frank
and Art ate most of it.”
They had a last faint glimpse of Lafayette against the twilight at
Bethlehem junction, and then the train moved on through the darkness.
“Well, it’s goodbye mountains,” said Rob. “Let’s fix up our mileage.”
Each Scout got out his precious staff, battered now, with the end
pounded into a mushroom by the hard usage on the rocks, and cut the
mileage for the day--five miles was all they could make it, even with
the trip up the Madison cone included.
“Disgraceful!” said Peanut. “Five miles! Bah!”
“But the day before is _fair_,” said Art, “considering the Six
Husbands’!”
“Let’s see, have I got it right?” asked Peanut. “Mile and
three-quarters from Tuckerman hut to Washington, three and a half miles
to Six Husbands’, mile and a half to sprained ankle, mile up Jefferson
and back, three miles to the hut--that’s ten and three-quarters miles,
and I guess we can call it eleven, all right, and some up and down
hill, take it from me!”
“Well, we did more’n that,” said Frank; “we had the mile and
three-quarters from Tuckerman’s, six to the Madison Hut along the Gulf
Side, and three back to you folks, and three back to the hut again.
That’s thirteen and three-quarters, and we took in the summits of
Jefferson and Adams, so we can call it an even fifteen. Some up and
down for us, too.”
“Well, eleven over the Six Husbands’ will stand off your fifteen,”
Peanut declared; “won’t it, Rob?”
“I think it will,” said Rob, “but let’s not fight about it. What’s the
grand total?”
“Eight the first day,” said Art, “from Sugar Hill station to camp;
ten up Kinsman; twenty-one on Moosilauke; seventeen in Lost River and
on to the Flume camp for you fellows, and eighteen for Peanut and me;
sixteen over Lafayette; ten on Cannon and in Crawford’s; nine on the
Bridle Path, fighting storm; thirteen and a quarter in Tuckerman’s and
Huntington--let’s call it fourteen, ’cause we climbed the Huntington
head wall a way; eleven for half of us in the Gulf, and fifteen for the
rest; and five on the last day. What does that make?”
Rob, who had put down the readings on a bit of paper, added the total.
“One hundred and twenty-one for half of us, one hundred and twenty-six
for the rest,” he said.
“About a hundred and twenty-five miles in ten days,” said Mr. Rogers.
“Well, that’s not so bad, when you’re toting a pack and a blanket, and
fighting clouds and hurricanes, and shinning up Six Husbands’ trails.
Are you glad you came, boys?”
“Are we!” they shouted, in one breath. “You bet!”
“We haven’t done so awful much real scouting though,” added Peanut.
“Why not?” said the Scout Master. “It seems to me we have. We’ve been
prepared, haven’t we? We’ve handled ourselves in storms and clouds,
we’ve helped other folks, we’ve known how to signal for aid from one
mountain top to another, we’ve kept ourselves well and hardy in the
open, and we’ve had a bully good time. After all, we’ve put a lot of
scout lore into use, when you come to think of it. That’s what scout
lore is for--to use, eh, Peanut?”
“Guess you’re right. Gee, you’re always right!” said Peanut. “I say
three cheers for Mr. Rogers, the best Scout Master in America! Now,
one----”
“Sh!” said Rob. “We all agree, but the man in that next berth is
snoring already. He might not agree!”
“Well, I can snore as loud as he can,” cried Peanut, “if I get the
chance. Let’s turn in. And to-morrow A. M. we’ll be in old Southmead!
Golly, wish I was in the Great Gulf!”
“You couldn’t tell the other fellers what a good time we’ve had, if you
were,” said Art.
“That’s so,” Peanut reflected. “Aw, the stiffs! I hadn’t thought about
’em till just this minute. The stiffs! Think of the fun they missed!”
It was eight o’clock the next morning when the five Scouts and Mr.
Rogers, tanned and lean, with shoes battered and worn thin by the stony
trails, marched up Southmead Main Street from the railroad station,
and found the village just as they had left it.
“It’s all here, as if we’d never been away!” said Rob.
“But we are changed,” said Lou. “We’ve got pictures in our heads, and
memories, that we didn’t have before. We’ve lifted up our eyes unto the
hills!”
“And our feet, too,” said Peanut. “Yes, sir, we are changed. These old
Southmead hills haven’t grown smaller, but our eyes have grown bigger.”
“You’re a psychologist, Peanut,” laughed Mr. Rogers.
“I’m a hungry one, whatever it is,” Peanut replied. “Hope ma has saved
some oatmeal.”
“So do I!”
“So do I!”
“So do I!”
“So do I!”
“We seem to have the same old appetites, anyhow!” laughed Rob, as
the White Mountain hike ended at the post-office, and the six hikers
scattered for their homes.
THE END
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Transcriber’s Notes:
A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.
For the “War of the Revolution Series” the price was blank in the
original image so does not exist in the transcription.