Dartmouth Digital Commons (Dartmouth College)

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2008: The Wilderness: 
Is It Real? 
Article 13 
2024 
Letters 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
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(2024) "Letters," Appalachia: Vol. 59: No. 1, Article 13. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss1/13 
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106 APPALACHIA
Letters
Dear Editor,
As a longtime member of the AMC and licensed forester, I am happy to note 
that the state of New Hampshire has recognized the need for a controlled area 
where ATVs (all-terrain vehicles) can operate. This is in contrast to the posi-
tion of many organizations to prohibit operation of ATVs on public land.
 This action by New Hampshire could remove some of the pressure to 
operate uncontrolled on private land by some ATV operators.
—Howard F. R. Mason, Russell, Massachusetts
Dear Editor,
We’re Appalachia journal subscribers and members of the New England Hun-
dred Highest, New England Four Thousand Footer Club and White Moun-
tain Four Thousand Footer Club.
 We always enjoy getting the journal andparticularly enjoyed the newest 
issue, with the Gene Daniell interview (Summer-Fall 2007). Having met and 
corresponded with Gene a number of times over the years, we felt the inter-
view captured his personality and style of speaking perfectly. A fun read!
 We’re writers ourselves (co-authors of a couple of Falcon hiking guides to 
Acadia National Park, as well as journalists), so our appreciation of the jour-
nal is all that much greater. Keep up the great job!
 One fact about “random scoots” that we know only because we’re now in 
the middle of the [Adirondack] 46ers and came across this in an Adirondack 
history book: Random scoots, the Adirondack phrase for bushwhack, was 
coined by legendary Adirondack guide Orson “Old Mountain” Phelps. 
 And Phelps called a particularly dense bushwhack a “reg’lar random scoot 
of a rigmarole.” That’s as quoted on page 7 of The Adirondacks: A History of 
America’s First Wilderness, by Paul Schneider. 
 Thanks again for the wonderful read, and happy trails to you!
—Dolores Kong and Dan Ring, Milton, Massachusetts



English

Letters

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2008: The Wilderness: 
Is It Real? 
Article 17 
2024 
Books of Note 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
Recommended Citation 
(2024) "Books of Note," Appalachia: Vol. 59: No. 1, Article 17. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss1/17 
This In Every Issue is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been 
accepted for inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, 
please contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
Books of Note
Strange and Dangerous Dreams*
*The Fine Line Between Adventure and Madness
By Geoff Powter
Seattle Washington: The Mountaineers Books
245 pages. ISBN 0-89886-987-0. Price: $22.95 (hardcover)
ON OCTOBER 0, 809, JUST THREE YEARS AFTER HE AND WILLIAM 
Clark returned from their celebrated expedition across North America, Meri-
wether Lewis rode his horse through Tennessee and stopped at a frontier 
cabin inn.
The innkeeper reported that Lewis, who had just been appointed gover-
nor of Upper Louisiana and was en route to Washington, acted strangely—
pacing around in his room with a flushed face while talking to himself in a 
loud voice.
Lewis eventually settled down, but in the middle of the night, he leaped 
back to his feet and resumed his agitated pacing. Then, to the innkeeper’s hor-
ror, Lewis pulled out a pistol and shot himself in the head. By one account, 
the bullet only grazed his temple, so Lewis then aimed the gun at his chest 
and fired. When he still didn’t die, the renowned explorer began slashing him-
self with a razor. That evidently did the trick, though it took hours for Lewis 
to gasp his final breath.
Thus begins Geoff Powter’s fascinating and disturbing book, Strange and 
Dangerous Dreams: The Fine Line Between Adventure and Madness, which 
should give pause to all those with a predilection for pushing the envelope.
Powter, a clinical psychologist, high-altitude mountaineer, and award-
winning writer, profiles a dozen other delusional, self-destructive adventurers 
whose demons drove them to despair, despondency, desperation, and often, 
death. He divides their stories into sections based on adventurers who have 
been either “burdened,” “bent,” or “lost.” Several, like Lewis, are well known, 
though their tales are told from a perspective quite different from the grade-
school history books most of us grew up reading.
WINTER/SPRING 2008 141
142 APPALACHIA
Such is the tragic case of explorer Robert Falcon Scott, who, along with 
other members of his expedition, trudged on foot in the so-called “Race to 
the South Pole,” while his Norwegian rival Roald Amundsen opted to use 
dogsleds. This was unfair, undignified, and uncivilized, Scott fumed, but he 
steadfastly refused to alter his itinerary or mode of transportation. Scott’s party 
slogged through horrific conditions, only to find the Norwegian flag planted 
at the Pole by the time they arrived in 92. To compound their misery, the 
weather deteriorated and their supplies diminished during their return, and 
only eleven miles from reaching home, Scott and his four companions per-
ished. As he lay dying, Scott scrawled this message in his journal: “For my 
own sake, I do not regret this journey, which has shown that Englishmen can 
endure hardships, help one another, and meet death with as great a fortitude 
as ever in the past.”
Much closer to home, literally and figuratively, is the depressing story of 
Guy Waterman and his two sons, Johnny and Bill. Guy frequently chronicled 
his climbs of virtually every mountain in the Northeast in a style that re-
flected a Thoreau-like appreciation for the wilderness. He instilled in his two 
older sons a passion for adventure that tipped over the line into obsession. 
Like Thoreau, Guy Waterman grew increasingly disenchanted with civiliza-
tion, and he struggled with dark moods and was a recovered alcoholic.
Waterman’s oldest son, Bill, who drifted away from the outdoor life and 
had begun taking drugs, severely injured his leg while trying to hop a freight 
train. After that incident, Guy wrote, “His prospects dimmed.” Bill dropped 
out of college and headed to Alaska, and his absences grew more extensive. 
Then, in 973, he simply disappeared. Powter notes that it took Guy years to 
accept that his son was never coming home and that he was probably dead.
“As difficult and painful as Bill’s story was, Johnny’s was even more tor-
tured,” Powter writes. This son threw himself into mountaineering with a 
vengeance, continuously pushing the limits and surrounding himself with 
those who also had little regard for their personal safety. By the time Johnny 
was 20, Powter writes, nine of his friends had died in climbing accidents. 
 At the same time, the demons that his father battled also seized him. 
Johnny eventually was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, “an illness 
that combines profoundly unstable moods with psychotic ideation and bi-
zarre behavior.” In 98, he departed on a solo winter expedition to Alaska’s 
Mount Hunter, poorly equipped and seemingly disoriented. He was last seen 
“threading his way through a lair of crevasses high up on the Ruth Glacier, 
skiing into a torment of ice that no sane man would enter.”
Of his second son’s disappearance and presumed death, Guy wrote in his 
memoirs, “Suffice it to say that Johnny sought this death in the mountains.”
Fast-forward 9 years, to February 2000. As fate would have it, I was in 
New Hampshire on a day that was so bitterly cold I opted to cross-country 
ski with my family and friends rather than climb above treeline.
Before heading out, over breakfast in Franconia in the shadow of Mount 
Lafayette, I read the front-page news: Guy Waterman had hiked to the sum-
mit of Lafayette and sat down to die, leaving his friends with the grim task of 
carrying out his frozen body. I put down the newspaper and looked over at 
my own teenage son, Tom, with whom I went on to hike all 67 of the New 
England 4,000-footers, as well as the Long Trail. I handed him the paper and 
let him read the story.
After Tom finished, he shook his head sadly and gave me a reassuring look, 
as if to say, “Don’t worry, Dad. We’re not like that.”
Some of these stories at least start out humorously, such as that of Donald 
Crowhurst, who in the late 960s tried to fake his way to victory in the Golden 
Globe sailboat race around the world. Today such a ruse would be impossible 
because of global positioning systems, satellite television, and other technolo-
gies, but Crowhurst almost pulled his off by sending phony radio messages 
of his apparently astonishing progress while he circled about aimlessly in the 
south Atlantic. In the end, though, Crowhurst’s own madness did him in. His 
messages became increasingly incoherent and bawdy before ending abruptly. 
His boat was eventually found floating ,800 nautical miles southwest of Eng-
land, apparently abandoned. Crowhurst’s body was never found. 
What is so disturbing about Powter’s book is that many of us who venture 
into the wilderness must ask ourselves at one time or another the same ques-
tion he poses: Where do you draw the line between spirited adventure and 
tortured obsession? 
White Mountain Guide, 28th Edition
Compiled and Edited by Gene Daniell and Steven D. Smith
Boston, Massachusetts: The Appalachian Mountain Club
624 pages. ISBN 1-929173-34-2. Price: $24.95 (softcover)
FIRST PUBLISHED IN 907, THE AMC WHITE MOUNTAIN GUIDE HAS A 
well-deserved reputation as the “hiker’s bible,” and this centennial edition 
lives up to its legacy with comprehensive descriptions of more than 500 trails. 
WINTER/SPRING 2008 143
144 APPALACHIA
It also includes six updated, pull-out, full-color maps that were created us-
ing geographic information systems  technology, thus offering more accurate 
scales and mileage.
I still have my old, battered nineteenth edition, published in 969, as well 
as a handful of later volumes, and this one trumps all the others, hands-down, 
for its hiker-friendly format and extensive descriptions. It is a must-have re-
source for anyone planning a day hike or weeklong excursion in the Whites. 
New editions of any book are usually worthwhile, but updated guidebooks 
are indispensable because some of the paths described in earlier editions, such 
as the old Adams Slide Trail, no longer exist. 
My only complaints are that the distances between trailhead and summit 
don’t seem to get any shorter, the grades seem a bit steeper than those out-
lined in earlier editions, and the estimated times to reach your destination, 
which I used to scoff were ridiculously conservative, now are pretty much on 
the money. 
I’m sure the publishers will address these problems by the time the 29th 
edition rolls off the presses a few years from now.
AMC River Guide, New Hampshire and Vermont, 4th Edition
Edited by John Fiske
Boston, Massachusetts: The Appalachian Mountain Club
288 pages. ISBN 1-934028-05-3. Price: $16.95 (softcover)
JUST AS NO ONE EMBARKING ON A HIKE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE SHOULD 
hit the trail without the AMC’s White Mountain Guide, no kayaker or ca-
noeist should start paddling without checking the AMC River Guide.
Revised to reflect not just changing river access points, but dramatic shifts 
in watercourses caused by extensive flooding on Mother’s Day in 2006, this 
fourth edition shows that the AMC does guidebooks well.
This guide features thousands of miles of paddling routes on major rivers 
and smaller tributaries, and though it is most useful for detailing all the vari-
ous rapids, it also describes serene waterways better suited to novice paddlers. 
You won’t find a better river guide anywhere.
Quiet Water New York, 2nd edition
By John Hayes and Alex Wilson 
Boston, Massachusetts: The Appalachian Mountain Club
445 pages. ISBN 1929173-73-3. Price: $19.95 (softcover)
AFTER DECADES OF KAYAKING AND CANOEING ALMOST EXCLUSIVELY IN 
New England, I recently “discovered” New York and in the past couple of 
years completed lengthy excursions, including a 30-mile circumnavigation 
of Long Island, a 320-mile paddle from the Canadian border on Lake Cham-
plain and down the Hudson River all the way around the Statue of Liberty, 
and a 34-mile journey from Buffalo to Albany on the Erie Canal.
 On each of those trips, I relied on a variety of guidebooks and charts, 
which adequately provided all the basic information I needed to get from 
point A to point B. I wish now that I had brought along Quiet Water New 
York for the added details on flora, fauna, geology, and history not always 
found in the other publications. 
Unlike the other newly revised AMC guides, Quiet Water New York 
does not attempt to be a comprehensive compendium. Instead, it recom-
mends 90 quiet water  routes for canoeists and kayakers, from marshy bays 
to mountain ponds.
Briefly Noted
Best Hikes with Dogs, New Jersey
Best Hikes with Dogs, New Hampshire & Vermont
Best Hikes with Dogs, New York City & Beyond
Best Hikes with Kids, Connecticut, Massachusetts &  
Rhode Island
Best Hikes with Kids, Vermont, New Hampshire & Maine
Seattle: The Mountaineers
YOU GOT KIDS? YOU GOT DOGS? YOU LIKE TO HIKE? YOU LIVE IN THE 
Northeast? These titles by the Seattle publishing house should inspire new 
generations of hikers and their four-legged friends to hit the trails.
These terrific resources describe destinations familiar to many hikers as 
well as the paths less traveled. As one who has hiked with youngsters and 
WINTER/SPRING 2008 145
146 APPALACHIA
dogs, I can attest that they make wonderful companions as long as the adult/
master chooses a reasonable route, lets others set the pace, is patient, has a 
sense of humor, and carries lots of treats. 
—Steve Fagin
Books Editor
White Mountain Guide: A Centennial Retrospective
Compiled by the staff of AMC Books
Edited by Katharine Wroth
Boston: AMC Books, 2007
224 pages. ISBN: 1-934028-08-8. Price: $39.95 (hardback)
THIS ILLUSTRATED NARRATIVE TRACES THE HISTORY OF THE CLUB’S  
longstanding guide to New Hampshire’s White Mountains and the trail 
builders and hikers who compiled it beginning in 907. The large, 9-inch-
by-2-inch, volume offers many pages of historic photographs and a fold-out 
color timeline tracing changes to the guide, edition by edition.
The first White Mountain Guide was a small hardcover book with a differ-
ent name, Guide to the Paths and Camps in the White Mountains. When it was 
published, hikers traveled to the White Mountains by train and needed help 
finding new paths to the summits. Nine years later, a second edition, Guide 
to Paths in the White Mountains and Adjacent Regions appeared, and, only 
one year after that, the third, which added a description of Katahdin, among 
other changes. 
After that, a new edition came out every two to six years. Today’s ver-
sion covers 624 pages and weighs more than a pound. The first edition, 
covering a smaller geographic area, weighed less than 4.5 ounces and cov-
ered 224 pages. 
The Centennial Retrospective tells how the guidebooks continued to add 
material such as safety advice, stewardship information, elevation gains, and 
more accurate distances from point to point. Eric Hague writes in an essay 
comparing early descriptions of the Crawford Path to the modern descrip-
tions that in 907 it was the custom for hiking guidebooks to wax poetic 
about scenic vistas as much as they described how to get to them. Yet there 
were already signs of this guide 
favoring descriptions and brevity. 
Th at tradition has continued.
Other essays in the Centen-
nial Retrospective are by retiring 
White Mountain Guide editor 
Gene Daniell, continuing editor 
Steve Smith, and AMC cartogra-
pher Larry Garland, and historian 
Adam Jared Apt. Hikers avoid 
missteps and confusion because of their fi eld work. 
Th e Centennial Retrospective is a refreshing book that tells much of the 
story with reprints of pages and photos from the fi rst edition to the most re-
cent. Reading through this compendium of primary sources feels like spend-
ing a couple of days in the stacks of the AMC Library.
Th e book’s editor is Katharine Wroth, the former editor of the AMC’s 
member magazine, AMC Outdoors. Th e book is available through booksell-
ers and directly from the AMC at www.outdoors.org/amcstore or by calling 
800-262-4455.
—Christine Woodside
WINTER/SPRING 2008 147



Books of Note

Doyle, James

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2008: The Wilderness: 
Is It Real? 
Article 23 
2024 
Geese 
James Doyle 
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 Part of the Poetry Commons 
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Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss1/23 
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65 APPALACHIA
Geese
The sky tips and pours them out,
broth from a bowl, grey drops
rolling apart like mercury, flocked
in geometric patterns: a diamond, a triangle. 
South or north, it doesn’t matter. 
The earth scrolls by below, wallpaper
shapes: fading mountains, lakes
waiting to rise up and surround them. 
I turn from them, follow
their shadow skimming the plains
like a flat rock I’ve skipped
across the flat water of a pond. 
The plains grow farther from me,
but nothing is personal out here. 
When I draw the birds’ vector
on graph paper later tonight,
I could be tracing anything here
that seems to have direction
for the moment, fire pinched
to a tip by the chimney’s draft,
the ancient arrowhead that dials
its small compass of soil one
way, then another, as the different
seasons seep down through the dirt,
the patterns that coalesce and disperse
as if there were no consciousness, as if
I couldn’t reach out and touch day
and night, as well as turn inside them.
—James Doyle 
JAMES DOYLE’S new book, Bending Under The Yellow Police Tapes, will be published by 
Steel Toe Books in 2007. He has published poems in many journals, including Alaska 
Quarterly Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Iowa Review, and Poetry. His piece, “Se-
vere Aunts,” was read on National Public Radio by Garrison Keillor in 2004.
WINTER/SPRING 2008 65



Geese

Pierre, Charles

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2008: The Wilderness: 
Is It Real? 
Article 24 
2024 
Winter's Poem 
Charles Pierre 
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 Part of the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Pierre, Charles (2024) "Winter's Poem," Appalachia: Vol. 59: No. 1, Article 24. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss1/24 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, please 
contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
101 APPALACHIA
Winter’s Poem
The insistent New Hampshire winds
scour a row of oaks on Mount Chocorua
where crows inscribe a stark calligraphy
against the sky, moving singly or together
in upper branches of the leafless trees,
perching or erupting in flight, each move
a cursive stroke between lines of the limbs,
the birds attuned to the frigid air swirling
in the treetops, their starts and stops
the measured gestures of winter’s poem,
an unadorned lyric, somber and clear,
of existence in a bare dormant land,
where the spirit embodied in the crows
is the voice of the season, unspoken
but written high in the oaks’ branches,
its script still crisp in the lingering dusk.
—Charles Pierre
CHARLES PIERRE is the author of the poetry collection, Green Vistas. His work has 
been published in many literary journals nationwide, including The Ledge, Rattapal-
lax, Long Island Quarterly, Hidden Oak, Common Ground Review, Aethlon, and Avocet. 
He lives in Manhattan where he works as a freelance writer.
WINTER/SPRING 2008 101



Winter\u27s Poem

The late author of the first “50 Hikes” book recounts a fishing misadventure on the Connecticut River in the 1930s

Doan, Daniel

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2007: Time In the 
Backcountry 
Article 13 
2006 
The Mighty Pike and Miss Methuselah 
Daniel Doan 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
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Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss2/13 
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94 APPALACHIA
The Mighty Pike and Miss 
Methuselah
The late author of the first “50 Hikes” book recounts a fishing 
misadventure on the Connecticut River in the 1930s
Editor’s Note: Daniel Doan’s daughter Penelope Doan found this previously un-
published story among her papers. We have decided to publish it as he first wrote 
it, beginning with a brief telling of the more dramatic debacle of the day, flashing 
back to an earlier humiliation while racing sleek canoes from a summer camp, and 
then returning to the main tale of two boys’ determined attempt to catch a pike.
Daniel Doan
TWO 6-YEAR-OLD BOYS, SOME YEARS AGO—WELL, ALL RIGHT, MANY years ago—fished for pike from an old rowboat they called Miss Methu-
selah. Claud, growing up in the village of Orford, New Hampshire, knew the 
deep bend in the Connecticut River where men had failed to boat a mighty 
pike. I was a summer resident, more usually called by my contemporaries a 
“summer bastard,” but I had the tackle with which we were going to catch 
that legendary fish—or at least his smaller companions.
I cast out a pikie-minnow plug. I used my new casting rod, level-winding 
reel, and braided silk line, which with the plug had cost $8.79 of my school sav-
ings account. I thought I was an accomplished plug caster. I had practiced for 
hours on the lawn with a hookless weight, when I wasn’t busy helping Claud 
restore Miss Methuselah. He had bought her fourteen-foot hull for eight dollars 
of his golf caddying money. She was to release us from our shore-bound fishing. 
We worked hard to repair her cedar planking with tar, tin, oakum, and paint.
I cast, and my thumb refused to apply the correct pressure on the spool of silk 
line. I was too nervous and too eager. I got a backlash to end all backlashes. Not 
only that, the pikie minnow snapped off the line and sailed out into the river, tak-
ing my hopes with it. It was the only plug I had. Then I remembered it floated.
“I’ll haul up the anchor,” I told Claud. “I’m going to row after that plug. 
It cost 95 cents.”
“Wait,” he said. “You’ve got a bite on your drop line.” He turned his head 
back to watch his own heavy line from his rod to his bobber, which was a ther-
mos bottle cork. It jiggled as the lively redfin minnow on his hook swam about.
Appalachia_07exp.indd   94 5/10/07   11:10:43 PM
I reached for the line I’d baited with a night crawler and dropped over the 
side as insurance if the pikie-minnow proved ineffective.
I knew it was a pike when I yanked up and felt a solid yet swimming pull. That 
must be the way a pike carried off a baited hook. I let him have it for half a minute 
that seemed an hour. I hauled up hand over hand. I gave a final heave, and a two-
foot eel slithered over the side. It began thrashing around in the water that Miss 
Methuselah took through her leaky seams. I was appalled. I had never seen such a 
monster. I pulled loose an oar and tried to jab the water serpent in the head.
Claud yelled, “Stop! You’ll punch a hole in the bottom. Never mind the 
eel. Look there! Look at that sandbar! There’s the old pike chasing minnows 
into shallow water.”
I looked across from our anchorage in the deep bend off the Vermont shore. 
Overhanging willows hid the Boston and Maine railway tracks high on the 
bank, the road between Fairlee and Bradford, and the gray cliffs. Although the 
river was wide, I could see across to the sandbar on the New Hampshire side. 
Flickering minnows took to the air in the sunlight off the sand. Behind them a 
giant dorsal fin cut in splashing pursuit. Then the water was still again.
I jammed the oarlock back in the gunwale socket—the oarlocks were pinned 
to the oars—and started rowing toward that New Hampshire sandbar.
I had forgotten the anchor. It was a rock tied to a rope. The rope slipped 
off, loosing the boat, which surged ahead. It dumped Claud—who had stood 
up to cast his redfin toward the sandbar—and he sprawled in the bottom with 
the water and the eel.
His comments, I could tell from his expression, were about to explode, 
but his eyes bugged out and he pointed with his rod at the sandbar. “There he 
is again! Gawd, he’s long as a yardstick!”
I couldn’t see over my shoulder, so I bent to the oars. This was a mistake. 
The right oarlock socket wrenched out of the gunwale. It really let go. It 
had been held down with baling wire, which should have been around the 
anchor rock. In my turn, I was dumped backward into the bottom—in the 
bow—and for the second time that day.
The first time had been when we were racing four red canoes paddled by 
snooty city kids from a summer camp. That time accounted for the baling 
wire around the oarlock socket.
This all happened one crazy, long-ago day. Every event teetered on the 
brink of disaster, and I suppose the final event was disaster, yet I’d not ex-
change that pike-fishing day for one when dreams come true.
We had launched Miss Methuselah on the Connecticut River in July 930. 
Miss Methuselah was undoubtedly older than our sixteen years, and probably 
SUMMER/FALL 2007 95
Appalachia_07exp.indd   95 5/10/07   11:10:43 PM
96 APPALACHIA
even combining them. She was unique. The world will never see her like 
again. Miss Methuselah’s lapstrake cedar hull and delicate ribs curved in the 
shape of a flattened pea pod. Double-ended, copper-nailed, drawing four or 
five inches of water, she came alive under the oars.
She had one weakness, aside from leaky seams. Her right gunwale had 
rested on a carpet of pine needles for unknown years above a canoe rental 
wharf. She had become punky at the oarlock socket. We had applied an oak 
strip and a brass plate.
We launched her where the Connecticut River separates Orford, New 
Hampshire, and Fairlee, Vermont. We lived in Orford. The hundred yards of 
slow water between the two states had seemed mysterious and urgently beck-
oning. And since we were small boys, we had heard of those pike.
Miss Methuselah floated a few days below the covered bridge, to swell and 
close her seams as much as they would, while we prepared for the great pike 
that lurked in the deep bend halfway to Bradford and Piermont. At last one 
morning, we bailed out Miss Methuselah, and hardly any river came back 
in. We took along the coffee can bailer, our tackle, and peanut butter sand-
wiches. Also a collapsible landing net an uncle had given me.
My Uncle Fred, an old fisherman, had laughed when I told him we were 
going after pike. “Nobody will ever boat one of those big pike. If you use 
tackle strong enough to hold one, your minnow can’t swim free and natural. 
A pike won’t strike at it. You boys better concentrate on the black bass. Troll 
that plug of yours behind your boat. But take along some minnows.”
Uncle Fred didn’t have any faith in plug casting. So Claud and I com-
bined Uncle Fred’s advice. We netted big redfin minnows in Jacobs Brook. 
We thought they were big enough to swim free and natural, even with Claud’s 
20-pound-test Cuttyhunk line from Sears, and a Kirby hook to suit the line. 
Claud used a steel telescoping rod and a big reel.
The redfins splashed in the minnow bucket that morning as we pushed 
out on the misty river.
I was at the oars because Claud had won the coin-toss to determine who 
first trolled for bass from the stern seat of Miss Methuselah. I saw the red ca-
noes appear out of the mist astern. I said, “Look behind you.” Claud did, and 
reeled in the pikie-minnow.
The camp kids were dressed in green jerseys and green shorts. The Con-
necticut here provided a long, winding avenue for canoe trips. The kids 
seemed to find Miss Methuselah funny.
Claud and I took no notice. We held a low opinion of city kids who had to 
have counselors with them on the river. They continued making cracks about 
Appalachia_07exp.indd   96 5/10/07   11:10:43 PM
the patched tin and tar on Miss Methuselah. And they paddled easily by us. I 
rowed harder but couldn’t gain on them. Those canoes were fast.
One of the camp kids hollered, “Can’t you hayshakers get any speed out 
of that tub?”
Claud moved from the stern seat. “Shove over,” he said. “Leggo one oar.”
He sat down beside me and took the left oar.
Miss Methuselah balked, because we couldn’t match our dipping oars. She 
shunted from side to side, she rocked, she tossed her bow.
A loudmouth kid began imitating a coxswain’s call. He giggled in be-
tween, like this: “Stroke! Hee-hee. Stroke! Hee-hee. Stroke!” He was a riot, or 
so his buddies thought.
But his joke backfired. Claud and I caught the cadence and began to row.
Miss Methuselah steadied into a gliding rush. She was meant for rowing, all 
right. We lifted her out of the water, and she leaped ahead. I felt a triumphant 
yell in my chest, but I saved my breath. Claud spat over the side and couldn’t 
control a joyful, sharklike grin.
We were leading by two lengths when my oarlock socket on that weak side 
tore loose. I went over backward into the bow. Claud kept rowing furiously. 
We careened to one side against a canoe. A tanned counselor scowled and 
fended us off as he yelled at Claud, “Stop rowing, you young fool!”
Claud froze his oar in midair. Then he turned fiercely on the counselor 
and yelled back, “Go to hell, you old puke!”
The counselor burst out laughing. He was probably 9 years old.
Easily then, the campers in their swanky red canoes passed upstream, 
while we drifted and figured how to hitch down the oarlock socket with bal-
ing wire from the anchor rock.
From upstream, the campers were singing, “Row, row, row your boat, 
gently down the stream...” And they vanished in the mist.
--- --- ---
I didn’t think of this humiliation as I struggled the second time in the bow. 
I was too scared of that eel. It slithered alongside me. Out of sheer fright, I 
seized it and lost it like a wet cake of soap—a squirming, elongated cake of 
soap two feet long. I grabbed a burlap bag we had brought to put our fish in. 
With the rough cloth giving me a grip on the slimy eel, I wrestled it toward 
the gunwale. Once back in the water it could have the hook and sinker when 
I cut the line. All I wanted was the monster out of the boat.
Claud shouted, “Don’t do that! I’ll take him home! My old man’s always 
talking about jellied eels when he was a kid in Wales.”
SUMMER/FALL 2007 97
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98 APPALACHIA
So, hindered by the heavy drop line flailing from the eel’s mouth, I wrestled 
the eel back to Claud, who neatly stabbed it behind the head with his jackknife—
and sprayed us with a fountain of blood. I was ready to go overboard myself.
Claud cut the hook from the eel’s jaw, put the eel in the bag, wiped his 
knife, and said, “Now for that pike!”
I scrambled into the rowing seat and began to wind the baling wire again 
around the oarlock socket. “First,” I told Claud, “I’m going to find my pikie-
minnow plug.”
“Geez-hosophat! Chance of a lifetime for a pike and you want to go look-
ing for a crazy, double-jointed plug.”
“Damn it all, that plug’s a well-known pike lure. Besides, for gosh sake, it 
cost 95 cents, and I can’t cast for pike without my plug.”
“Use a redfin,” said Claud. “Better than any old plug.”
“So you say. I’m going to row along the shore there, before I land us on 
the sandbar.”
“Then make it speedy. That pike’s due to come in for another feed.”
We had drifted down the river. I began rowing back toward the New 
Hampshire sandbar.
I saw the pikie-minnow floating in a little eddy below the mud bank, 
which rose from the dark water into tall weeds, brush, and elms and bass-
woods. I scooped the plug in with the landing net. This was a change of luck! 
I knew the day would turn out perfect. The sun shone down out of a cloudless 
sky. I knew we’d catch one of those huge pike. There must be more than one! 
The river was full of them. I knew I’d catch one!
At the downriver end of the sandbar, we stepped from Miss Methuselah. 
I unhooked the pikie-minnow from the landing net—a frustrating process 
with trembling fingers. At last I tied the green-mottled plug on my line—in 
my excitement forgetting the tangled backlash. It looked hopeless.
Claud was inserting his hook into a fresh redfin. He asked, “You want to 
toss a coin to see who tries the pike first?”
“No, I’ll be picking this backlash forever.”
“We can take turns with my rig,” Claud said. “I’m going to toss a coin. 
Heads or tails?”
“Well, heads.”
The coin landed between us—tails.
Claud walked along the sandbar so he could cast into the slow current 
beyond the eddy, which circled below the upstream curve of sand. His bobber 
floated out, jiggling a little as the redfin swam toward deep water.
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The schooling minnows appeared in the shallow water to Claud’s left, 
close in from his bobber. The pike appeared then as a lurking shadow holding 
steady off in the current. All at once he was a torpedo-shape among the leap-
ing minnows. The pike’s dorsal fin cut the surface. He broke water with mul-
tiple splashes like two bobcats in a rain barrel. Minnows beached themselves 
to escape. Waves from the pike washed some of them back in the water.
Then the pike circled slowly toward deep water—toward Claud’s bobber 
and the redfin below. Now there! The redfin shot to the surface and the pike 
after him, all mouth. The redfin vanished.
I yelled, “Let him take it! Let him run with it!”
These were directives from articles in Field and Stream about live bait fish-
ing for game fish—confirmed by my Uncle Fred.
But Claud, seeing the great pike, and feeling the charging lunge of his 
trophy on that 20-pound-test line, reared back and yanked with both arms, 
one fist locking the reel.
The rod and Claud curved, bowed, bent. The rod trembled, the tip ap-
proached the reel. The rod broke off above the reel seat. Staggering, Claud 
jumped back. He gripped the butt and the reel. The broken rod slid down the 
twanging line into the water.
Claud backed up. He dug his heels into the sand. There was a furious thrash-
ing in the shallow water. I could see the length and breadth of the pike’s back. I 
dropped my rod to the bottom of the boat and grabbed the landing net.
Claud yelled, “I’ll beach him! I’ll beach him!”
A tremendous splashing flurry turned me in time to see water and sand 
flying in all directions. The pike looked now to my paralyzed gaze at least four 
feet long. With a muscular twist, the pike sprang back toward the water.
Claud, for his second time, fell over backward in a tangle of slack line. The 
pike was in the river again.
I came to life and ran into the river after the pike, waving the landing net. 
My wild scoop had him for an instant partway into the net. I’d get him! I’d 
swing him up on the sand!
The landing net’s handle split at the takedown ferrule. The pike swam out 
of the net in an instant.
I had been so sure of him before the handle broke, I could only watch him 
swim away. How slowly he swam! I could grab him by the gills! I could …
He was gone.
I stood knee-deep in the river. I picked up the net by the floating handle 
before the current carried it away. I wanted to throw both pieces into the river.
SUMMER/FALL 2007 99
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100 APPALACHIA
A landing net could be repaired, I thought in numb automatic reaction, 
although I felt no importance to it. I waded ashore.
Claud got to his feet. We stood there glaring at the silent river. It flowed 
on with absolute calm.
At last, we examined the wreckage of his tackle. He pulled in the broken 
rod, which had stopped sliding down the line at the bobber. The line hadn’t 
broken. We kept running it through our fingers until we came to the hook.
The hook was still tied to the line. But the hook extended straight from 
the eye and shank to the barb. The pike had straightened it out and escaped.
We looked toward the river again, and now with awe.
I must point out that these events alone do not make the experience memo-
rable. It became so, in time, because the pike’s behavior, like his size, turned 
out to be far beyond the ordinary. Indeed, in time we assigned that giant pike’s 
actions to the realm of eccentricity or aberration. Never again did we see that 
pike, or any pike, chase minnows onto that sandbar. Not for the remainder of 
the day, not ever again. And we returned. Did we not return! Again and again.
We never caught a pike.
I should also mention my special plug. Those pike must have regarded the 
pikie-minnow as some inedible gadget.
Yes, we learned—as Uncle Fred had suggested—how to catch the scrappy 
Connecticut River black bass, and we were happy on the river. We camped 
on Morey’s Island, which was named either for the Orford genius, inventor of 
the first steamboat, Samuel Morey, or for more recent men of that name. We 
opened half a ton or so of freshwater clams looking for pearls, to which we 
never came as close as to the mighty pike. We even tried boiling some clams 
and eating them. They were as tough as rubber heels.
Miss Methuselah went to her reward on a high spring freshet. By then, I 
had acquired a cranky old fifteen-foot canoe.
Claud and I haven’t lived in Orford for years. Sometimes, however, I drive 
along old U.S. Route 5 between Fairlee and Bradford, in Vermont. Under the 
cliffs, I look down at the deep bend of the river. The sandbar is under water 
now, from the new dam at Wilder, but I know it’s there, and someday I’m going 
back and catch a pike. Maybe Claud and I’ll go this summer and do just that. 
THE LATE DANIEL DOAN, a writer, hiker, and sometime manufacturing foreman and 
farmer, wrote 50 Hikes in the White Mountains and 50 More Hikes in New Hampshire, 
launching a series. This story was submitted by his other daughter, Ruth Doan Mac-
Dougall, a novelist who keeps his hiking books updated. Doan’s other books include 
Our Last Backpack, a memoir of a weeklong hike with the Claud Sharps of this story.
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The Mighty Pike and Miss Methuselah

Accidents

Taylor, Ann

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2007: Time In the 
Backcountry 
Article 24 
2006 
Methuselah 
Ann Taylor 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Taylor, Ann (2006) "Methuselah," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 2, Article 24. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss2/24 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, please 
contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
101 APPALACHIA
Methuselah
roots in a blasted dolomite plot
at eleven thousand feet.
Diminutive, gnarly,
this bristlecone looks down
on clockless Las Vegas,
  drinks rare snow-water,
  heats in desiccating sun,
a thin strip of bark standing
between life and firewood.
Each year, slim needs trim
  still further
  while the
  youngest growth
  draws all energy,
staking real estate
with a five-thousand-year lease—renewable.
Water, sun, provident bark,
and a little sprig of green to tend to.
—Ann Taylor
ANN TAYLOR teaches English at Salem State College in Salem, Massachusetts. Her 
book of personal essays is titled Watching Birds: Reflections on the Wing (Ragged 
Mountain/McGraw Hill, 999). Her poems have appeared or are accepted in Arion, 
Ellipsis, The Dalhousie Review, and Classical and Modern Literature, among others. She 
lives in Woburn, Massachusetts, with her husband, Francis Blessington.
SUMMER/FALL 2007 101
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Methuselah

Woodside, Christine

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2007: Reflections on 
the 1970s Hiking Boom 
Article 2 
2006 
The Long Way Home: The Battered-Pot Philosophy of 
Backcountry Adventure 
Christine Woodside 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Woodside, Christine (2006) "The Long Way Home: The Battered-Pot Philosophy of Backcountry 
Adventure," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 1, Article 2. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss1/2 
This Editor's Column is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been 
accepted for inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, 
please contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
 appalachia
The Long Way Home
The Battered-Pot 
Philosophy of  
Backcountry Adventure
sometime in the late 1970s, my olD FrienD Peter was sitting in a ridge-top campsite somewhere in Montana, popping popcorn in his 
little aluminum pot on his camp stove. something went amiss, and the pot 
fell off the stove and started rolling down the mountain. Peter crashed down 
through the trees after it. it took him a long time to find the two-pint, black-
ened pot hiding in the brush. He then carried it back up.
Peter told me this story as he was cooking in this pot in August 1983. He 
had taken four of his friends on a four-day backpacking trip from Crawford 
notch to Franconia notch. That was my first overnight in the mountains. 
Peter was a veteran hiker from the West, and i noticed his ease with his gear 
and his slow, steady pace. The four friends introduced me to the magic world 
of getting up onto a ridge and, basically, not coming down until you have 
forgotten where you used to live.
sometime in the next year, Peter gave me and my future husband the 
famous pot he’d rescued. My husband and i still use it. it’s been to the Rock-
ies, Bigelow Mountain in Maine (twice), and it thru-hiked the Appalachian 
Trail (AT). Later, it served up meals in Tennessee, north Carolina, Virginia, 
Vermont, Maine again, and near home in Connecticut. The pot must have 
broken some kind of record.
i hang onto it because i like its compact shape, but mostly because it al-
most fell off a mountain and was rescued by Peter (who today is a Lutheran 
minister in Wisconsin). it embodies so many years of experience.
The other things i like about my pot now border on irrational. The an-
cient, heavy Coleman Peak one stove that i keep saying i’ll replace fits inside 
it. The pot lid has a nice little knob that doesn’t burn my hands, but the lid is 
so misshapen now that it alternately falls off and gets stuck. i have to use a pot 
lifter to peek inside, and i’ve occasionally splashed hot water on myself as i 
Appalachia_07WS.FINAL.indd   6 11/8/06   4:07:00 PM
winter/spring 2007 7
yank at the lid or try to drain things.
“That pot is listing!” my friend Bob 
said, shaking his head, as water boiled 
furiously one morning last summer. 
He’s not the only one who laughs at it. 
i demonstrated it last June for a crop of 
thru-hikers along the AT in Connecti-
cut. They were amazed that this setup 
still worked after the same number of 
years they’d been alive. i asked myself 
if i’d become an inflexible kook as i 
watched them boil one cup at a time 
on soda-can-denatured-alcohol stoves 
the thru-hikers now favor.
The answer is yes. But the reasons 
are all noble. i did not start backpack-
ing in the 1970s, but i am as much 
a product of the 1970s backpacking 
ethic as was Peter, who organized 
that first trip, and whose 1970s pot 
became my backwoods companion. This pot says so much. it says that i have 
done this for long enough that i know what i’m doing. it says that i like living 
in the woods, as opposed to moving through it at breakneck speed, and that i 
will not compromise my habits and comfort to save a few ounces. it says that 
old, simple things can mean more than newer, perfect ones.
several articles in this issue work outward from these values to frame the 
attitudes of the 1970s, when young men and women took off for the woods 
for similar reasons. They sought a kind of peace and simplicity they weren’t 
finding at home. only on the AT have the numbers of trekkers and campers 
remained high since that time. in many ways, backpacking the 1970s way is 
as rare as my old pot. But the 1970s boom taught us how to do less damage 
to campsites and trails. out of that enthusiasm grew new practices handling 
waste and foot traffic. 
When i stir the bubbling soup in the battered pot, i am in another place—
not just in the mountains, where i am physically, but somewhere else, reliving 
my personal history.
—Christine Woodside
Editor-in-Chief
The old pot—not quite ready for retire-
ment. Christine WooDsiDe 
Appalachia_07WS.FINAL.indd   7 11/8/06   4:07:01 PM



The Long Way Home: The Battered-Pot Philosophy of Backcountry Adventure

As a memorial to Guy Waterman, friends and his wife, Laura, formed a fund to protect the alpine zones of the Northeast

Stott, Fred

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2007: Reflections on 
the 1970s Hiking Boom 
Article 10 
2006 
A Friend Dies, But His Wilderness Ethics Live 
Fred Stott 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Stott, Fred (2006) "A Friend Dies, But His Wilderness Ethics Live," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 1, Article 10. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss1/10 
This In This Issue is brought to you for free and open access by Dartmouth Digital Commons. It has been accepted 
for inclusion in Appalachia by an authorized editor of Dartmouth Digital Commons. For more information, please 
contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
 appalachia
A Friend Dies, but His 
Wilderness Ethics Live
As a memorial to Guy Waterman, friends and his wife, Laura, 
formed a fund to protect the alpine zones of the Northeast
Fred Stott
ProBaBly no mountain Death in the past DecaDe has causeD as much mental probing as that of Guy Waterman on Mount Lafayette 
on February 6, 2000. it was not the usual mountain tragedy caused by an 
overreaching hiker. it was not the slippage of grip upon ice or rock. it was not 
the result of a sudden overwhelming storm. it was a 67-year-old man’s care-
fully planned suicide in frigid conditions on a mountain he knew well.
As many have written compellingly, Guy Waterman was a man of many 
talents—mountaineer, writer, conservationist, jazz pianist, and homesteader. 
To the mountain community, he was an icon who could hike or climb on 
rock, trail, ice, or snow. He could bushwhack, usually faster than others, and 
he welcomed the onslaught of a strong north wind and ferocious blizzard. 
Above all, he cared for the land—especially the alpine regions of the north-
eastern United states. His prime concern was that the growing band of hikers 
and climbers appreciate and care for the fragile land on which they placed 
their feet.
He enjoyed the deep kinship of many friends and the devotion of his wife, 
Laura. The couple met rock-climbing in the shawangunks in the late 1960s. 
Laura, a writer and editor in new York City, left new York with Guy to buy 
land in East Corinth, Vermont. They built a simple wood house, established a 
large garden, tapped a grove of sugar maples, and lived without running water 
for 27 years. They wrote the books Backwoods Ethics (stone Wall Press, 1979), 
Wilderness Ethics (Countryman Press, 1993), and the historic Forest and Crag 
(Appalachian Mountain Club Books, 1989). Today, Laura lives and writes in 
a log house a few miles from the former homestead. Her excellent memoir, 
Losing the Garden (shoemaker & Hoard), was published in 2005.
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winter/spring 2007 
Guy Waterman, a dedicated mountain steward. Courtesy of laura Waterman
After Guy Waterman died, a small group of his friends, looking for a way 
to memorialize him, established the Waterman Fund to preserve the alpine 
regions that were so important to Guy and Laura. As one of the founders, 
Peter Forbes, said, “i saw a need more than ever for Guy and Laura’s wilder-
ness ethics. As a new Englander, i was not willing to lose the work of such an 
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0 appalachia
important new England voice.” Forbes made the initial gift that launched the 
fund, whose one purpose struck me, so that i want to set it out here:
To combine education and hands-on stewardship to preserve the high moun-
tain summits and the alpine areas of the northeast.
Their dedication to this task raised more than the goal of $250,000 for the 
endowment by the end of 2005. More than 400 people have contributed to 
the fund. The endowment, by conservative estimates, should produce a mini-
mum of $10,000 annually for awards, grants, and other alpine endeavors. The 
eight-member board often meets at Laura Waterman’s house, which she and 
Guy planned after she knew he would leave for his last mountain trip. Their 
meetings are congenial and yet highly focused on their goal. This dedication 
to this work points to the personal magnetism of Guy Waterman, even six 
years after his death.
Trying to Understand Waterman’s Magnetism
i cannot go on to the tale of the Waterman Fund without first considering 
my prime question in many conversations i had with Guy’s friends. That is, 
how could he have exerted such a powerful force on the thinking and living 
of so many people? i met Guy Waterman once, briefly, on Franconia Ridge, 
without any conversation. But i knew of his hold on many people who were 
drawn to his independent way of life, his conversations about politics, his-
tory, and his devotion to preserving wilderness lands. His strong personal 
magnetism mystified me. i asked many of his friends about it.
Two of his closest friends wrote to me. Doug Mayer, a hiker and writer 
who lives in Randolph, new Hampshire, called Guy “a confounding mix of 
selflessness and self-absorption. i don’t think Guy saw the latter because of his 
depression. i think he lived two simultaneous lives—an internal one that was 
off limits to his loved ones and friends, and the external, selfless, outgoing, 
generous Guy.” 
Rebecca oreskes, who works for the White Mountain national Forest, 
wrote, “i think of something my father once said to me (in a totally different 
context), ‘The people you love will disappoint you at some point. But you 
love them anyway.’ Guy was flawed, obviously fatally, but he was also full of 
joy, humor, and intelligence.”
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winter/spring 2007 1
Waterman Fund board meeting, March 11, 2006, at Laura Waterman’s house. freD stott
Projects on Mount Moosilauke
Guy Waterman’s joy, humor, and intelligence gave him many loyal friends in 
the hiking world. soon a small group of his close friends set up a nonprofit 
organization to improve the alpine zones in Guy’s memory. The members of 
the initial board of directors of the Waterman Fund were Chuck Wooster, 
president; Carl Demrow, treasurer; Louis Cornell, clerk; sarah Heidenreich; 
Doug Mayer; Rebecca oreskes; Eddie Walsh; and Laura Waterman. Mayer 
and oreskes were involved in the rescue effort to bring Guy Waterman’s body 
down from Mount Lafayette. originally titled the Guy Waterman Alpine 
stewardship Fund, they simplified it to the Waterman Fund in 2005.
They set out to make and receive gifts toward an annual steward Award 
and grants to support various organizations’ projects above treeline. The Dart-
mouth outing Club received three grants for Mount Moosilauke, which the 
college has owned since 1920. i love that mountain, with its mountain cran-
berries and other alpine plants clinging to its broad and gently sloping sum-
mit. With or without a cloud cap hiding its 360-degree view, i never have had 
a bad experience there. Moosilauke was the site of my 80th-birthday party, at-
tended by 60 relatives and friends. it was also the first mountain above 4,000 
feet i climbed 75 years ago, on the start of a 70-mile hike. Because Moosilauke 
Appalachia_07WS.FINAL.indd   91 11/8/06   4:07:43 PM
2 appalachia
Jeff Woodward at the summit of Mount Moosilauke. burns WooDWarD
means so much to me, i went to Hanover, new Hampshire, to talk to three 
Dartmouth College students who worked as alpine stewards on the summit. 
The first, Jeff Woodward, a native of newton, Massachusetts, spent the sum-
mer of 2003 teaching hikers about the plants, soil, and rocks at the summit. 
(The mountain is open to the public, but all new Dartmouth students climb 
it at the start of their student careers.)
Woodward showed hikers the remnants of the foundation of the hotel, the 
Tip Top House, which stood on top from 1860 until it burned down in 1942. 
its foundation still provides partial shelter from storms. on Moosilauke, 
treeline on the exposed northwest windward side is 200 feet lower than on 
the sheltered southeast side. During our 90-minute talk, Woodward revealed 
a life of hiking, beginning with his Boy scout troop. The Dartmouth outing 
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winter/spring 2007 3
Alpine steward Laura Yasaitis. freD stott
Club was central to his decision to attend Dartmouth. At the end of his sum-
mer of commuting from the Ravine Lodge to the summit to meet with the 
public, Woodward wrote a six-page report. He met 2,676 hikers, documented 
plants, animals, and evidence of off-season vandalism. He advised his succes-
sors, “Remember, you can learn from other people as much as they can learn 
from you.” Wise words, indeed.
He seemed to understand from the first day that his mission was to teach 
about the alpine zone in a friendly manner, not like a policeman. When i 
pushed hard for an unpleasant anecdote, Woodward pulled back, and then 
finally said, “i suggested to a young man that it would be better to sit on a 
rock rather than a patch of grass. There came back a mumbled comment re-
ferring to the slogan, ‘Live free or die.’” (He referred to the new Hampshire 
state motto.)
Woodward’s successor in 2004 was Laura Yasaitis, whom i met this spring 
at my house in Andover, Massachusetts, near her hometown of Lexington. 
she played basketball at Dartmouth but had given up the sport in favor of 
other interests like the mountains and medicine. (she is now in medical 
school.) Yasaitis taught mountain facts to crowds, including a group of 200 
celebrating the centennial of a summer camp. They behaved well, but Yasaitis 
said, “At the end of the day, i was totally, completely, exhausted.” she also 
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4 appalachia
worked on building scree walls to separate the trail from the summit areas 
where plants grow. she said that she likes that rocks gathered near the trail-
head were marked with a sign that said, “save the alpine vegetation. Carry a 
rock to the summit.”
Yasaitis said that she saw many inexperienced hikers, but that she had few 
negative encounters. “i found that people whom i approached in order to 
ask them to move off the plants were often the most curious and were most 
eager to learn more about why these plants were so fragile. These encounters 
were my favorites, because i felt that my position was most useful when i was 
actually able to teach people and see how this information changed the way 
people acted.”
Josh Hurd, of Missoula, Montana, spent the 2005 season as the summit 
steward. Hurd is a photographer whose calendar, “A season on Moosilauke: 
2006 Calendar” has replaced my chain store calendar. After he talked with 
Woodward and Yasaitis, Hurd developed his own plan to personally greet 
each group on the summit. “But as i learned about the mountain and the 
kind of people who hike the mountain, i realized i would have to modify (my 
plan). not everyone wanted to be talked to. Many people hiked the mountain 
to get away from society and their normal lives.” Hurd found that when hik-
ers expected solitude on the summit and were surrounded by other hikers, 
some vented their wrath when the alpine steward approached.
He said that he learned how to cater his message to each group and the 
situation. He also worked on the scree walls and made new signs to condense 
information about mountain ecology. Hurd’s report on the many dogs he met 
on Moosilauke concluded that most dogs do no damage, but that sometimes 
they cause chaos. An unleashed and uncontrolled animal wandered around 
for a half hour harassing hikers and their lunches before disappearing and 
requiring a search. A Doberman Pincer on a leash snarled aggressively, skir-
mished with a few, and finally clamped on to the tail of a springer spaniel. 
some dogs and their owners don’t belong on a mountain.
The stewards recalled low points—surly people or dogs, Woodward’s perch 
under a tarpaulin one stormy day, trying to read before he realized that only 
a few hikers would come up—but the high points won out. The sunrises and 
the sunsets under clear skies and quiet air. Telling the history of the mountain 
and its abandoned trails, huts, and shelters. As i talked with Woodward and 
Hurd, who met with me in Hanover, they mentioned the abandoned ski 
trail known as Hell’s Highway. i added my own memory of my first hike up 
Moosilauke, when i joined the hutmaster for fifteen minutes in the two-holer 
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winter/spring 2007 5
outhouse. it was Dr. Ellis Jump of Dartmouth, a notable mountain figure in 
the 1930s who formed the intercollegiate outing Clubs of America, and who 
was known for his bad stutter.
Kiosks on Welch Mountain
Despite my many White Mountain years, i had never heard of Welch Moun-
tain or the nearby Dickey Mountain. Yet there they sit at the southern end of 
the Waterville Valley with a substantial amount of open ledge attracting both 
hikers and skiers. it is a perfect place to teach about respecting the moun-
tain ecology. nat scrimshaw heads up the project, “Welch, A Mountain for 
Learning,” another project the Waterman Fund has assisted. Kiosks at key 
spots spread the message of protecting fragile alpine land. scrimshaw struck 
me as patient and wise. He believes that small steps increase public knowledge 
of the mountains, and, in turn, build respect for protecting the world. in 
today’s world, when so many areas of conflict are measured by body counts, 
it is easy to lose track of the cumulative effect of many small actions. That’s 
what alpine stewardship aims to do. 
A Look Ahead
i have always known the alpine ecosystem exists, but i was unaware of the 
work to sustain alpine areas by many organizations, including my own Ap-
palachian Mountain Club (AMC), which received Waterman funds for an 
information display at the base of Mount Lafayette, and which was a co-
sponsor of the northeast Alpine stewardship Gathering in 2004. (For a full 
list of Waterman fund recipients, see the list accompanying this article—Editor.) 
in truth, i come close to the Moosilauke hikers Laura Yasaitis described, those 
who had never heard of the alpine ecosystem. obviously, my age is a factor. 
But despite my interest in the mountains, my energies in the AMC were going 
in other directions. Given this confession, and the reports of the Moosilauke 
stewards i met, i strongly sense that spreading the word about the alpine eco-
system, and the work to protect it, will become even more important in the 
near future. The Waterman Fund, a small organization dealing with this one 
issue, has made a fine start. it has a clear focus and the endowment. But the 
work could expand if the endowment grew. The need is there.
Finally, i want to talk about the atmosphere in which the Waterman Fund 
functions: in a word, FUn. several months ago, four friends, all of them 
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 appalachia
Waterman Fund Projects
Year Organization Project
200 Town of Waterville Valley,  
Curious George Cottage
interpretive Trailhead Displays
200 Adirondack Mountain Club interpretive signs in alpine zones
200 Dartmouth outing Club and  
Appalachian Trail Conservancy
Mount Moosilauke photo 
monitoring
2005 Green Mountain Club Bilingual displays (in English and 
French) in alpine areas of Vermont
2005 Maine Appalachian Trail Club Education and management of 
alpine areas along the Appalachian 
Trail
2005,  
2004,  
2003
Dartmouth outing Club Mount Mooselauke summit steward
2004 Appalachian Mountain Club/ 
U.s. Forest service
new England Alpine Gathering
2004 Adirondack nature Conservancy/
Adirondack Mountain Club
Adirondack photo monitoring
2004 Green Mountain Club Alpine outreach project
2003 Green Mountain Club Reach and Teach alpine ecology 
program
2003 Appalachian Mountain Club information display at Lafayette 
Place trailhead
2002 Adirondack Mountain Club Wildlands Exchange Conference
2002 Randolph Mountain Club Crag Camp bilingual (in English 
and French) alpine zone display
Source: Waterman Fund, www.watermanfund.org.
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winter/spring 2007 7
either Waterman Fund board members or connected to the organization in 
some way, each celebrated turning 40 by holding a joint 160th birthday party 
in a house with a view of the northern Presidentials: Mounts Madison, Ad-
ams, and Jefferson. no one ground any axe. it was pure kinship of mountain 
and mountain lovers.
As i look at the future of the alpine areas, the mountains, and the world, 
i believe that we depend on sharing our values, on a sense of humor, and on 
FUn. i never knew Guy Waterman, but through these people who knew 
him, i have met qualities that drive the Waterman Fund’s mission.
FreD stott of Andover, Massachusetts, first climbed Mount Moosilauke in 1932, at 
age 13. He worked as an AMC hutmaster at Pinkham notch and Madison Hut from 
1936 to 1939. He is a highly decorated Marine veteran of World War ii, dedicated 
political action worker, retired secretary of Phillips Academy, a former AMC Board 
member, and a current member of the AMC Board of Advisors. His son and daugh-
ter-in-law, sandy and Lucille stott, both are former Appalachia editors.
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A Friend Dies, But His Wilderness Ethics Live

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2007: Reflections on 
the 1970s Hiking Boom 
Article 11 
2006 
Letters 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
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Recommended Citation 
(2006) "Letters," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 1, Article 11. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss1/11 
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 appalachia
Letters
Dear Editor,
Peter Bronski, in the summer/Fall Appalachia (“Climbing Toward God”) ex-
presses a reaction to the wilderness that is more or less 180 degrees opposed 
to my own. He writes of a spiritual response. spirituality, however, deals with 
the supernatural, whereas when i am in the wilderness i feel a strong, elemen-
tal connection to the natural. it’s a shame that some people cannot appreciate 
the overwhelming, awe-inspiring, sublime glory of nature without feeling the 
need to shoehorn it into the story line of their favorite fairy tale.
—Dennis Paul Himes
Bolton, Connecticut
Editor’s Note: Himes is the Connecticut state director of American Atheists Inc.
Dear Editor,
in the Accident report on page 107 of the summer/Fall issue, you reported 
that Jeff G. and his party used a cell phone to report an injury and request 
assistance unnecessarily. 
i was with Jeff, just at tree line on november 19, 2005, when he fell and 
severed the tendon that held his kneecap in place. it was immediately obvious 
that the injury was serious as the kneecap was six inches higher than it should 
have been. However, we splinted the leg and carried him for a half hour be-
fore calling for assistance. Jeff was in considerable pain and had previously 
had a hip replaced on the other side (never an issue, but a concern through-
out the ordeal). We sent the Cub scouts hiking with our group ahead, with 
some adults. Four strong adults equipped with hiking boots, heavy weather 
gear, flashlights, camp stove, food, water, etc. worked to get Jeff down. Trail 
conditions were icy.
When the rescue crews from the Forest service and Dublin Fire Dept. 
arrived, they provided a better splint and more help. They all agreed that we 
had done the right thing by calling. Their lights helped augment ours, since 
the five-hour descent meant we arrived at the trailhead after dark. Jeff could 
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winter/spring 2007 
not have descended alone, and while he was not littered out, we had rotating 
teams assisting him throughout the ordeal. After consulting with an ortho-
pedic surgeon, we decided to transport Jeff home to Massachusetts, where he 
was operated on the next day. Perhaps the official report did not reflect the 
seriousness of the injury. 
Yes, cell phones can be abused and some calls for help are unnecessary. 
But Mount Monadnock can also be fierce, and there are times when even the 
most prepared hiking parties, familiar with the trail, will need help. We were 
grateful to have it on november 19, 2005. 
—Sarah Hammond Creighton
Mory Creighton
Manchester, Massachusetts
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Letters

Books of Note

Geese

Winter\u27s Poem

The Mighty Pike and Miss Methuselah

Accidents

Methuselah

The Long Way Home: The Battered-Pot Philosophy of Backcountry Adventure

A Friend Dies, But His Wilderness Ethics Live

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