Chamouni, after having conscientiously followed the peripatetics of a
sunset, remarked, "Very fine, very fine indeed! but it is a pity Mont
Blanc hides the view." In this sense, Mount Washington "hides the view"
to the west. No peak dares show its head in this direction.
From the vicinity of the hotel, Wildcat Mountain allows the eye to
embrace, at the left, Mount Washington as far as Tuckerman's Ravine.
Only a few miles of the valley can be traced on this side; but at the
right it is open for nearly its whole length, fully exposing that
magnificent sweep of the great northern peaks, here bending majestically
to the north-east, and exhibiting their titanic props, deep hollows,
soaring peaks, to the admiring scrutiny of every wayfarer. It is
impossible to appreciate this view all at once. No one can pretend
to analyze the sensations produced by looking at mountains. The bare
thought of them causes a flutter of enthusiasm wherever we may be. At
such moments one lays down the pen to revel in the recollection.
Among these grandees, Adams looks highest. It is indispensable that this
mountain should be seen from some higher point. It is only half seen
from the Glen, although the view here is by far the best to be had in
any valley enclosing the great chain. Ascend, therefore, even at the
risk of some toil, one of the adjacent heights, and this superb monument
will deign to show the true symmetrical relation of summit to base.
I have already said that most travellers approach this charming mountain
nook by the Pinkham defile, instead of making their début by the
Carter Notch. It will be well worth our while to retrace at least so
much of this route, through the first-named pass, as will enable us to
gain a knowledge, not so much of what it shows as of what it hides. By
referring to the chapter on Jackson, we shall then have seen all that
can be seen on the travelled highway.
The four miles back through the Pinkham forest deserve to be called the
Avenue of Cascades. Not less than four drop from the mountain tops, or
leap down the confined gorges. Let us first walk in this direction.
Two miles from the hotel we meet a sprightly and vigorous brook coming
down from Wildcat Mountain to swell the Peabody. A short walk up this
stream brings us to Thompson's Falls, which are several pretty cascades
slipping down a bed of granite. The ledges over which they glide offer
a practicable road to the top of the falls, from which is a most
interesting view into Tuckerman's Ravine, and of the summit of Mount
Washington.
Some overpowering, some unexplained fascination about these dark and
mysterious chambers of the mountain arouses in us a desire strangely
like to that intense craving for a knowledge of futurity itself. We
think of the Purgatory of the ancients into which we would willingly
descend if, like Dante holding the hand of Virgil, we might hope to
return unscathed to earth. "This is nothing but an enormous breach
in the mountain," you say, weakly attempting to throw off the spell
by ridiculing the imagination. Be it so. But it has all the terrible
suggestiveness of a descent into the world of the dead. When we walk in
the dark we say that we are afraid of falling. It is a falsehood. We are
afraid of a _Presence_.
That dark curling lip of the south wall, looking as if the eternal
adamant of the hills had been scorched and shrivelled by consuming
flame, marks the highest curve of the massive granite spur rooted deep
in the Pinkham defile. It is named Boott's Spur. The sky-line of the
ravine's head-wall is five thousand feet above the sea, on the great
plateau over which the Crawford trail passes. That enormous crag, rising
like another Tower of Famine, on the north and east divides the ravine
proper from the collateral chamber, known as Huntington's, out of which
the source of the Peabody gushes a swift torrent, and near which the
carriage-road winds its devious way up to the summit. In the depression
of this craggy ridge, between the two ravines, sufficient water is
collected to form the beautiful cataract known as Raymond's, which is
seen from all those elevations commanding the ravine itself.
[Illustration: THE EMERALD POOL.]
The ravine also furnishes a route to the summit of Mount Washington in
so far that the ascent may be continued from the head of the chasm to
the high plateau, and so up the pinnacle, by the old Crawford trail, or
over the crag on the right to the carriage-road; but it is not to be
highly recommended on that account, except to strong climbers. It should
be visited for itself, and for what is to be seen going or returning by
the different paths. I have also descended from the Summit House to the
ravine and returned by the same route; an excursion growing in favor
with those tourists having a day or two on their hands, and who approach
the mountain from the west or opposite side. In that case a return to
the summit saves a long détour.
Before we come to Thompson's Falls a well-trod path leads to the Emerald
Pool, which Bierstadt's painting has rendered famous. At first one sees
only a deep hollow, with a dark and glassy pool at the bottom, and a
cool light coming down through the high tree-tops. Two large rocks
tightly compress the stream which fills it, so that the water gushes
out with sufficient force to whiten a little, without disturbing the
placid repose of the pool. This gives the effect of milk poured upon
ink. Above these rocks we look up the stony bed of the frantic river
and meet the blue mass of a distant mountain. Rocks are picturesquely
dropped about the margin. Upon one side a birch leans far out over the
basin, whose polished surface brilliantly reflects the white light of
its bark. One sees the print of foliage on the black water, like that of
ferns and grasses upon coal; or, rather, like the most beautiful Italian
mosaics--black marble inlaid with arabesques of color. The illusion
is more perfect still when the yellow and scarlet of the maples is
reflected, as in autumn.
The contrast between the absolutely quiet pool and the feverish
excitement of the river is singular. It is that of a life: one, serene
and unmoved, receives the other in its bosom and calms its excitement.
It then runs out over the pebbles at a steadier pace, soothed,
tranquillized, and strengthened, to meet its destiny by this one moment
of peace and rest.
Doubtless many turn languidly into this charming sylvan retreat with
only a dim perception of its beauty. Few go away except to sing its
praises with heart and tongue. Solitude is here. Repose is here. Peace
is omnipresent. And, freed from the excitements of city life, "Peace
at any price" is the cry of him whom care pursues as with a knotted
scourge. If he find not rest here, 'tis his soul "is poor." For him
the smell of the earth, the fragrance of the pines, the very stones,
have healing or strength. He grows drowsy with the lullaby of the
brook. A delicious languor steals over him. A thousand dreamy fancies
float through his imagination. He is a child again; or, rather, he is
born again. The artificial man drops off. Stocks and bonds are clean
forgotten. His step is more elastic, his eye more alert, his heart
lighter. He departs believing he has read, "Let all who enter here leave
care behind." And all this comes of seeing a little shaded mountain pool
consecrated by Nature. He has only experienced her religion and received
her baptism.
Burying ourselves deeper in the pass, the trees, stirred by the breeze,
shake out their foliage like a maiden her long tresses. And the glory
of one is the glory of the other. We look up to the greater mountains,
still wrapped in shadows, saying to those whom its beams caress, "Out of
my sun!"
At the third mile a guide-board at the right announces the Crystal
Cascade. We turn aside here, and, entering the wood, soon reach the
banks of a stream. The last courtesy this white-robed maid makes on
crossing the threshold of her mountain home is called the Crystal
Cascade. It is an adieu full of grace and feeling.
[Illustration: THE CRYSTAL CASCADE.]
The Crystal Cascade divides with Glen Ellis the honor of being the most
beautiful water-fall of the White Mountains. And well may it claim this
distinction. These two charming and radiant sisters have each their
especial admirers, who come in multitudes every year, like pilgrims
to the shrine of a goddess. In fact, they are as unlike as two human
countenances. Every one is astonished at the changes effected by simple
combinations of rocks, trees, and water. One shrinks from a critical
analysis of what appeals so strangely to his human sympathies. Indeed,
he should possess the language of a Dumas or a Ruskin, the poetry of
a Longfellow or a Whittier, the pencil of a Turner or a Church, to do
justice to this pre-eminently beautiful of cascades.
Look around. On the right bank of the stream, where a tall birch leans
its forked branches out over the pool below, a jutting rock embraces
in one glance the greater part of the fall. The cliffs, rising on both
sides, make a most wild and impressive setting. The trees, which shade
or partly screen it, exclude the light. The ferns and shrubbery trace
their arabesques of foliage upon the cold, damp rocks. The sides of
the mountain, receding into black shadows, seem set with innumerable
columns, supporting a roof of dusky leafage. All this combines to
produce the effect of standing under the vault of some old dimly-lighted
cathedral--a subdued, a softened feeling. A voice seems whispering, "God
is here!"
Through these sombre shades the cascade comes like a gleam of light:
it redeems the solitude. High up, hundreds of feet up the mountain, it
boils and foams; it hardly seems to run. How it turns and tosses, and
writhes on its hard bed! The green leaves quiver at its struggles. Birds
fly silently by. Down, down, and still down over its shattered stairs
falls the doomed flood, until, lashed and broken into a mere feathery
cloud, it reaches a narrow gorge between abrupt cliffs of granite. A
little pellucid basin, half white, half black water, receives it in
full career. It then flows out by a pretty water-fall of twenty feet
more. But here, again, the sharp, wedge-shaped cliff, advancing from
the opposite bank, compresses its whole volume within a deep and narrow
trough, through which it flies with the rapidity of light, makes a
right angle, and goes down the mountain, uttering loud complaints. From
below, the jagged, sharp-edged cliff forms a kind of vestibule, behind
which the cascade conceals itself. Behind this, farther back, is a rock,
perfectly black, and smooth as polished ebony, over which the surplus
water of the fall spreads a tangled web of antique lace. Some very
curious work has been going on here since the stream first made its way
through the countless obstacles it meets in the long miles to its secret
fountains on Mount Washington. One carries away a delightful impression
of the Crystal Cascade. To the natural beauty of falling water it brings
the charm of lawless unrestraint. It scorns the straight and narrow
path; has stolen interviews with secret nooks on this side or that; is
forever coquettishly adjusting its beautiful dishabille. What power has
taken one of those dazzling clouds, floating over the great summit, and
pinned it to the mountain side, from which it strives to rise and soar
away?
We are now in the wildest depths of the Pinkham defile. The road is
gloomy enough, edging its way always through a dense wood around a
spur of Mount Washington, which it closely hugs. Upon reaching the
summit, thirteen hundred and fifty feet above the Saco, at Bartlett, a
sign-board showed where to leave the highway, but now the noise of the
fall coming clearer and clearer was an even surer guide.
The sense of seclusion is perfect. Stately pines, funereal cedars,
sombre hemlocks, throng the banks, as if come to refresh their
parched foliage with the fine spray ascending from the cataract. This
spray sparkles in the sun like diamond-dust. Through the thick-set,
clean-limbed tree-trunks jets of foam can be seen in mad riot along
the rocky gorge. They leap, toss their heads, and tumble over each
other like young lambs at play. Backward up the stream, downward beyond
the fall, we see the same tumult of waters in the midst of statuesque
immobility; we hear the roar of the fall echoing in the tops of the
pines; we feel the dull earth throb with the superabundant energy of the
wild river.
Making my way to the rocks above the cataract, I saw the torrent swiftly
descending in two long, arching billows, flecked with foam, and tossing
myriad diamonds to the sun. Two large masses of rock, loosened from the
cliffs that hang over it, have dropped into the stream, turning it a
little from its ancient course, but only to make it more picturesque and
more tumultuous. On the left of the gorge the rocks are richly striped
with black, yellow, and purple. The water is crystal clear, and cold as
ice, having come, in less time than it takes to write, from the snows of
Tuckerman's Ravine. The variegated hues of the rocks, glistening with
spray, of the water itself seizing and imprisoning, like flies in amber,
every shadow these rocks let fall, the roar of the cataract, make a deep
and abiding impression of savage force and beauty.
But I had not yet seen the fall. Descending by slippery stairs to the
pool beneath it, I saw, eighty feet above me, the whole stream force its
way through a narrow cleft, and stand in one unbroken column, superbly
erect, upon the level surface of the pool. The sheet was as white as
marble, the pool as green as malachite. As if stunned by the fall, it
turns slowly round; then, recovering, precipitates itself down the rocky
gorge with greater passion than ever.
On its upper edge the curling sheet of the fall was shot with sunlight,
and shone with enchanting brilliancy. All below was one white, feathery
mass, gliding down with the swift and noiseless movement of an avalanche
of fresh snow. No sound until the moment of contact with the submerged
rocks beneath; then it finds a voice that shakes the hoary forest to
its centre. How this exquisite white thing fascinates! One has almost
to tear himself away from the spot. Undine seems beckoning us to
descend with her into the crystal grottoes of the pool. From the tender
dalliance of a sunbeam with the glittering mists constantly ascending
was born a pale Iris. Exquisitely its evanescent hues decorated the
virgin drapery of the fall. Within these mists two airy forms sometimes
discover themselves, hand-in-hand.
The story runs that the daughter of a sagamore inhabiting the little
vale, now Jackson, was secretly wooed and won by a young brave of
another and neighboring tribe. But the haughty old chief destined her
for a renowned warrior of his own band. Mustering his friends, the
preferred lover presented himself in the village, and, according to
Indian usage, laying
"--at her father's feet that night
His softest furs and wampum white."
demanded his bride. The alliance was too honorable to permit an abrupt
refusal. Smothering his wrath, the father assembled his braves. The
matter was debated in solemn council. It was determined that the rivals
should settle their dispute by a trial of skill, the winner to carry off
the beautiful prize. A mark was set up, the ground carefully measured,
and the two warriors took their respective places in the midst of the
assembled tribe. The heart of the Indian maiden beat with hope when
her lover sent his arrow quivering in the edge of the target; but it
sunk when his rival, stepping scornfully to his place, shot within the
very centre. A shout of triumph rewarded the skill of the victor; but
before it died away the defeated warrior strode to the spot where his
mistress was seated and spoke a few hurried words, intended for her
ear alone. The girl sprung to her feet and grasped her lover's hand.
In another moment they were running swiftly for the woods. They were
hotly pursued. It became a matter of life and death. Perceiving escape
impossible, rendered desperate by the near approach of their pursuers,
the fugitives, still holding fast each other's hand, rushed to the verge
of the cataract and flung themselves headlong into its deadly embrace.
Over the pool the gray and gloomy wall of Wildcat Mountain seems
stretching up to an incredible height. The astonishing wildness of the
surroundings affects one very deeply. You look up. You see the firs
surmounting those tall cliffs sway to and fro, as if growing dizzy with
the sight of the abyss beneath them.
The Ellis Cascade is not so light as those mountain sylphs in the great
Notch, which a zephyr lifts from their feet, and scatters far and
wide; it is a vestal hotly pursued by impish goblins to the brink of
the precipice, transformed into a water-fall. For an instant the iron
grip of the cliff seems clutching its snowy throat, but with a mocking
courtesy the fair stream eludes the grasp, and so escapes.
While returning from Glen Ellis, I saw, not more than a quarter of
a mile from this fall, a beautiful cascade come streaming down a
long trough of granite from a great height, and disappear behind the
tree-tops that skirt the narrow gorge. I had never before seen this
cascade, it being usually dry in summer. The sight of glancing water
among the shaggy upper forests of the mountain--for you hear nothing--is
a real pleasure to the eye. The rock down which this cascade flows is
New River Cliff.
Before leaving the Ellis, which I did regretfully, it is proper to
recall an incident which gave rise to one of its affluents. In 1775,
says Sullivan, in his "History of Maine," the Saco was found to
swell suddenly, and in a singular manner. As there had not been rain
sufficient to account for this increase of volume, people were at a
loss how to explain the phenomenon, until it was finally discovered to
be occasioned by a new river having broken out of the side of the White
Mountains.
When this river issued from the mountains, in October, 1775, a mixture
of iron-ore gave the water a deep red color, and this singular, and to
them most startling, appearance led the people inhabiting the upper
banks of the Saco to declare that the river ran blood--a circumstance
which these simple-minded folk regarded as of evil omen for the success
of their arms in the struggle then going on between the Colonies and
Great Britain. Except for illustrating a marked characteristic the
incident would possess little importance. Considerable doubt exists as
to the precise course of this New River, by which it is conjectured that
the ascents of Cutler, Boott, Bigelow, and perhaps others, early in
this century, were made to the summit of Mount Washington. But this is
merely conjecture.[20]
After Glen Ellis one has had enough, for the day at least, of waterfalls
and cascade. Its excitement is strangely infectious and exhilarating. At
the same time, it casts a sweet and gentle spell over the spirits. If he
be wise, the visitor will not exhaust in a single tour of the sun the
pleasures yet in store, but, after a fall, try a ravine or a mountain
ascent, thus introducing that variety which is the spice of all our
pleasures.
V.
_A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S._
The crag leaps down, and over it the flood:
Know'st thou it, then?
'Tis there! 'tis there
Our way runs.... Wilt thou go?--GOETHE.
At the mountains the first look of every one is directed to the heavens,
not in silent adoration or holy meditation, but in earnest scrutiny
of the weather. For here the weather governs with absolute sway; and
nowhere is it more capricious. Morning and evening skies are, therefore,
consulted with an interest the varied destinies of the day may be
supposed to suggest. From being a merely conventional topic, the weather
becomes one of the first importance, and such salutations as "A fine
day," or "A nice morning," are in less danger of being coupled with a
wet day or a scowling forenoon. To sum up the whole question, where life
in the open air is the common aim of all, a rainy day is a day lost, and
everybody knows that a lost day can never be recovered. Sun worship is,
therefore, universal.
The prospect being duly weighed and pronounced good, or fair, or fairly
good, _presto!_ the hotel presents a scene of active preparation.
Anglers, with rod and basket, betake themselves to the neighboring trout
brooks, artists to the woods or the open. Mountain wagons clatter up
to the door with an exhilarating spirit and dash. Amid much laughter
and cracking of jokes, these strong, yet slight-looking vehicles are
speedily filled with parties for the summit, the Crystal Cascade, or
Glen Ellis; knots of pedestrians, picturesquely dressed, move off with
elastic tread for some long-meditated climb among the hills or in the
ravines; while the regular stages for Gorham or Glen Station depart amid
hurried and hearty leave-takings, the flutter of handkerchiefs, and the
sharp crack of the driver's whip. Now they are off, and quiet settles
once more upon the long veranda.
My own plans included a trip in and out of Tuckerman's Ravine; in by
the old Thompson path, out by the Crystal Cascade. It is necessary to
depart a little from the order of time, as my first essay (during the
first week of May) was frustrated by the deep snows then effectually
blockading the way above Hermit Lake. The following July found me more
fortunate, and it is this excursion that I shall now lay before the
reader for his approval.
I chose a companion to whom I unfolded the scheme, while reconnoitring
the ravine through my glass. He eagerly embraced my proposal, declaring
his readiness to start on the instant. Upon a hint I let fall touching
his ability to make this then fatiguing march, he observed, rather
stiffly, "I went through one Wilderness with Grant; guess I can through
this."
"Pack your knapsack, then, comrade, and you shall inscribe 'Tuckerman's'
along with Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg."
"Bless me! is it so very tough as all that? No matter, give me five
minutes to settle my affairs, and I'm with you."
Let us improve these minutes by again directing the glass toward the
ravine.
The upper section of this remarkable ravine--that portion lifted above
the forest line--is finely observed from the neighborhood of the
Crystal Cascade, but from the Glen House the curiously distorted rim
and vertical wall of its south and west sides, the astonishing crag
standing sentinel over its entrance, may be viewed at full leisure.
It constitutes quite too important a feature of the landscape to
escape notice. Dominated by the towering mass of the Dome, infolded by
undulating slopes descending from opposite braces of Mount Washington,
and resembling gigantic draperies, we see an enormous, funnel-shaped,
hollow sunk in the very heart of the mountain. We see, also, that access
is feasible only from the north-east, where the entrance is defended by
the high crag spoken of. Behind these barriers, graven with a thousand
lines and filled with a thousand shadows, the amphitheatre lifts its
formidable walls into view.
For two miles our plain way led up the summit-road, but at this
distance, where it suddenly changes direction to the right, we plunged
into the forest. Our course now lay onward and upward over what had at
some time been a path--now an untrodden one--encumbered at every few
rods with fallen trees, soaked with rain, and grown up with moose-wood.
Time and again we found the way barred by these exasperating windfalls,
and their thick _abatis_ of branches, forcing us alternately to go
down on all-fours and creep underneath, or to mount and dismount, like
recruits, on the wooden horse of a cavalry school.
But to any one loving the woods--and this day I loved not wisely, but
too well--this walk is something to be taken, but not repeated, for fear
of impairing the first and most abiding impressions. One cannot have
such a revelation twice.
[Illustration: THE PATH, TUCKERMAN'S RAVINE.]