The route matched the prior day's to West Ossipee, where we turned west onto NH-25, then north onto NH-113. This is an area with both windy old routes and modern state highway designations that jump from road to road; a sign points you to the left or right to stay on the state road while a local road continues straight ahead. With Waterville Valley and Sandwich Notch restricting access on the north and west, and highways 16 and 25 bounding things on the south and east, the state highways in the Tamworth / Sandwich area (113 and 113A - particularly the latter) have to curve all over the place to get anywhere at all. If you lose the thread (easy to do), you pretty much need local knowledge or a compass to find your way back.
Our route to the trailhead is marked and was easier than expected. Turning onto NH-113A, I was very pleasantly surprised to see that we were on the Chinook Trail. The picture of the dog was indeed on the road sign. A very cool image, and it solves the mystery of the existence of the now-closed Chinook Cafe (which featured an image of the same dog on its sign) in Conway village.
One of the great things about the White Mountain region - and rural life in general - is the sort of local heroes that always seem to emerge. Real renaissance men and women, usually with feats of physical strength or endurance that set them apart from similarly notable city folk. Arthur Walden, husky trainer (Chinook was his best dog, a real legend) and his wife Katherine Sleeper Walden were two such individuals. Today, they are remembered in the best ways one can be in this region - with trails (the Walden Trail up Mt. Passaconway, the Sleeper Trail) and mountains (East and West Sleeper) named for them.
I suppose most rural heroes probably lacked some of the people skills that helped Really Famous People become so well-known; I guess I value such skills less than the self-motivation required to do so much for the public good in relative obscurity.
The sky had started to spit as we arrived at the trailhead, so we bagged Mt. Whiteface and its open ledges in favor of the more wooded Mt. Passaconaway. It'd be about a 9-mile round trip with a little under 3,000 feet of elevation gain - a nice moderate day.
The Dicey's Mill trail is mostly flat for its first couple of miles, doing little to prove that today's housing / forest line is naturally mandated. Indeed, a river crossing about two miles in is near the site of a 19th-century sawmill (no visible remnants). Across the river, the path steepens but remains straight with a near-constant grade; the usual marks of a logging road. Probably the whole mountain, or close to it, could have been logged without too much trouble.
High and low clouds combined for a dreary day, but we maintained a good pace and got into the physical side of the hike. Eventually, we climbed to some interesting between-the-clouds views, although you can barely tell from this photo.
There are usually a few steep, wet rocks on even the kindest trails, but we passed without incident. A moose or two had made it as well.
Soon, we reached a SW outlook - the best view of the day.
After tagging the viewless summit and a lunch break, we started down. The rain, which had mostly held off, intensified before long. It was a loud, but not all that wet trip down; the thick canopy kept most of the rain off. Along with the ol' "raincoat over the backpack" trick, my stuff stayed pretty dry, helping the trip squeak out "rainy adventure" over "big bummer".
Alicia really found her stride on the descent and we were quickly back at the car. It wasn't the right day for the Sandwich Creamery, but we'll be back - and delicious nachos featuring leftover chicken from Friday and 12 (!!) hours of sleep were worthy post-hike indulgences.
The next morning, I got a huge kick out of the current issue of the Wonalancet Out Door Club (WODC - the area's trail-maintenance organization) newsletter. Part of the joy of reading about rural heroes is that those who write about them tend to share common stylistic preferences - dutiful research, understated prose, occasional rambling, and a fiendishly clever word here and there. Like a small town, it appears languid until proper attention is paid. Then it becomes quaintly fascinating, with interest leaping and bounding past what's merited. Finally, it levels off; where it does so depends on the reader, and may as well be a mark of his or her urban vs. rural preferences.
Or, the last may remain unclear. A favorite passage: (the author is uncredited, but may be editor Susan Goldhor; the subject is Dave Bowles)
"And here we’d like to insert a little digression into snowmobilers and hikers/skiers. Dave has been an avid snowmobiler (as well as hiker and skier) for a long time, and many hikers and skiers have a knee jerk negative response to snowmobilers. But there are snowmobilers and snowmobilers, and Dave is clear in his response to the overpowered speeders we see too often today; some of whom he’s had to rescue after they misjudged a curve or sped into trees. For a long time, Dave’s machine of choice was a Motor-Ski Zephyr (now regarded as a vintage classic); a motor perched on skis, and a body pretty much amounting to a front fender with headlights, that he took everywhere at a average speed of ten to fifteen miles per hour. He speaks fondly of going up to the ridge between Paugus and Chocorua with a few other snowmobilers, and just sitting there and enjoying the view. It was the old way to snowmobile -- on little machines, going slow, brushing out the trail, building bridges where needed, and enjoying the woods and the view."
The Honda was up to about 500 miles for Friday - Sunday; staying close to home on the 4th was indicated.
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