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Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2008: Adventures Near 
Home 
Article 22 
2024 
Books of Note 
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162   APPALACHIA
Books of Note
 
 
AMC’s Best Day Hikes in Connecticut
By René Laubach and Charles W.G. Smith
Boston, Massachusetts: Appalachian Mountain Club Books
304 pages. ISBN 978-1-93402810-0. Price: $16:95 (paperback)
iN A STATE CRISSCROSSED WITH HUNDREDS OF MILES of blazed trails 
that traverse terrain ranging from woodlands to pastures to rocky ridges to 
sandy beaches, how do you narrow it down to just 50 of the best day hikes in 
Connecticut?
 Easy: You leave it to the Appalachian Mountain Club, which for decades 
has set the gold standard for hiking and paddling guides.
 This latest volume certainly lives up to the AMC’s well-deserved reputa-
tion for detail, accuracy, and overall ease of use. But this book goes beyond 
the standard hiking guide in that it includes elegantly crafted essays that re-
flect the authors’ personal connections to and experiences with various trails.
 Thus, in “Trip 30: Hezekiah’s Knob and the Chestnut Grove,” describing a 
2.8-mile-loop in Hamden’s sleeping Giant state Park, we get an account of the 
plight of the American chestnut and recent efforts to restore this majestic tree to 
our forests. in “Trip 25: Castle Craig, Cat-Hole Pass, and East Peak,” laying out 
a 4.6-mile out-and-back stroll along part of Connecticut’s celebrated traprock 
ridge, a reminiscence of a youthful encounter with a copperhead snake might 
give the casual hiker pause. And in “Trip 50: Barn island Wildlife Management 
Area,” a 5.3-mile out-and-back hike in stonington through woodlands and tidal 
wetlands, included is an essay titled “The Jaws of Death” that describes schools 
of Atlantic silversides fleeing from a feeding frenzy of bluefish: “Like a handful 
of skipping pebbles hurled across the water’s surface, each jump took the school 
approximately one linear foot across the water before they fell once again into 
the watery realm they were attempting to escape.” 
 Well organized into three sections—western, central, and eastern Con-
necticut—Best Day Hikes includes everything one planning a casual outing or 
rigorous trek needs to know: the difficulty, distance, elevation gain, estimated 
time, winter access, appropriateness for children, and trip highlights.
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SUMMER/FALL 2008   163
 As one who grew up in Connecticut, has hiked most of its major trails, 
and spends as much time as possible enjoying the outdoors, i can testify that 
the authors chose well. i look forward to exploring those sections that i’ve 
yet to hike and to revisiting some of my familiar haunts, armed with fresh 
insights.
—Steve Fagin
Editor’s Note: Several reviews that follow are of volumes published during the 
past few years by Bondcliff Books, as we catch up with that independent New 
Hampshire publisher. 
Logging Railroads Along the Pemigewasset River
By Bill Gove
Littleton, New Hampshire: Bondcliff Books
166 pages. ISBN 1-931271-195. Price: $27.95 (paperback)
THE PEMIGEWASSET WILDERNESS IS A MECCA for new England hikers, 
drawn to more than a third of new Hampshire’s 48 mountains that rise above 
4,000 feet. The Pemi, of course, is named for the Pemigewasset River, and 
anyone who has driven north on interstate 93 will see the name on several 
highway bridges that cross the 65-mile-long waterway as it meanders from 
its source at Profile Lake, Franconia notch state Park, before merging with 
the Winnipesaukee River to form the Merrimack River at Franklin, new 
Hampshire. The river itself is popular among paddlers, with lively stretches 
of white water.
 But long before outdoor enthusiasts began gravitating to the Pemi, the 
region was better known for its lush forests, and in the nineteenth century, 
the Pemi gewasset Valley attracted new England’s top lumber barons.
  in his extraordinarily detailed, lavishly illustrated book, Logging Railroads 
Along the Pemigewasset River, Bill Gove, a retired forester and rail buff, traces 
the colorful history of an era that saw the transformation of a remote wilder-
ness to a region bustling with commerce. Though Pemigewasset, Gove notes, 
was the native indian word for “valley of the crooked pines,” he adds that “the 
jewel of the original forest in the Pemigewasset Valley was the magnificent 
red spruce,” a tree highly prized by the lumber industry. some 225 vintage 
photographs, along with more than a dozen original maps, help tell the story 
of how, during a half-century, much of the Pemi’s virgin timber was felled 
Appalachia_June_2008_v6.indd   163 5/9/08   9:42:31 AM
164   APPALACHIA
to help support construction of new homes that were spreading throughout 
new England and the rest of the nation.
 it’s difficult to imagine, looking at the Pemi today, how it could have sur-
vived such widespread clear cutting, but Gove points out that not only has 
much of the forest recovered but also the logging industry has left behind 
some valuable, if unintentional, vestiges.
  First of all, some of the abandoned rail beds are now hiking trails, but a 
more significant legacy came after passage of the Weeks Act in 1911, when 
the federal government began buying the timber-exhausted woodlands in 
the Pemigewasset and subsequently established the White Mountain na-
tional Forest.
 “The lumber barons performed their tasks and made their fortunes as they 
supplied the needed lumber to a growing nation that demanded it. With 
the advent of the railroads in the north Country in the latter 1800s, those 
loggers of yesteryear had been given the crucial tool, the steam locomotive, 
which they were able to use to pull off the greatest timber harvest that the 
White Mountains will ever receive. But that’s all history now. . . .The railroad 
loggers have long since steamed off into oblivion; the forests remain,” Gove 
concludes.
—Steve Fagin
Searching for Thoreau 
On the Trails and Shores of Wild New England
By Tom Slayton
Bennington, Vermont: Images from the Past
208 pages. ISBN 1-884592-44-9. Price: $18.95 (paperback)
HERE’S A CHALLENGE FOR A MODERN-DAY outdoor enthusiast: Try writ-
ing about the history of the environmental movement without once invoking 
Henry David Thoreau.
  it can’t be done; you might as well try explaining the theory of relativ-
ity without mentioning Einstein or the law of gravity without referring to 
newton.
 in the century and a half since Thoreau took up temporary residence at 
Walden Pond, traipsed into the Maine Woods and journeyed on the Concord 
and Merrimack rivers, he still casts a long shadow; all who follow in his foot-
steps are treading on hallowed ground.
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SUMMER/FALL 2008   165
  in his contemporary paean, Searching for Thoreau. On the Trails and Shores 
of Wild New England, Tom slayton revisits The Great one’s old stomping 
grounds and reflects not just on how these areas have changed but how he has 
connected with them.
 slayton writes about Thoreau’s well-documented journeys to such new 
England landmarks as Walden, Katahdin, Mount Washington, Monadnock 
and Cape Cod, and notes “Walden Pond today is neither secluded nor espe-
cially picturesque.”
  As for the Merrimack, slayton comments that though Thoreau drank 
directly from the river in 1839, “i had no desire to follow suit in 2006, since 
the river now carries the treated sewage effluent of several hundred thou-
sand people.”
 on to Cape Cod, which Thoreau visited in 1849:
 “of course, it is no longer the remote outpost that Thoreau walked. ‘A 
man may stand there and put all America behind him,’ he wrote. Today that 
hardly seems true,” slayton observes.
 i found these observations somewhat superficial and unsurprising. Part of 
the problem is the formula: slayton has structured his book so you can’t help 
but compare his writing with Thoreau’s, and you can only guess who can turn 
a pithier phrase, invoke a deeper emotion, offer a more salient social com-
mentary, and command more authority.
 Searching for Thoreau, though, is not without value. its final chapter, “Tips 
on Tracking Thoreau,” contains detailed instructions on how to visit the places 
the celebrated environmentalist chronicled in the nineteenth century. Readers 
can use this information to make their own pilgrimages and then offer their own 
reflections on how the world has changed since Henry David walked the land.
—Steve Fagin
The Old Codger’s Guide to Hiking and Climbing  
in the White Mountains
By The Old Codger
Littleton, New Hampshire: Bondcliff Books, 1995
128 pages. ISBN 1-931271-15-1. Price: $12.95
i MARRIED INTO AN OLD nEW ENGLAND FAMILY whose pater familias was 
well acquainted with Joe Dodge and might have been the anonymous “old 
Codger” save (a) he passed away some time ago, and (b) he would never offer 
Appalachia_June_2008_v6.indd   165 5/9/08   9:42:32 AM
166   APPALACHIA
unsolicited advice. (The later characteristic was probably the primary reason 
for our good fellowship.) But i often thought of Put Cilley as i read this book. 
not that Put would have agreed with a fair number of the dogmatic proposi-
tions put forth in this book, but he would have granted a fellow old codger 
the right to his opinions.
 Though aimed at an older audience whose need to achieve for the sake of 
achievement has passed, the Codger does, in fact, dispense much of the same 
advice i have given to novice trampers of far younger age. To the extent that as we 
age we complete much of a cycle that goes back to our youth—where the glories 
of the day depend far more on where we are, rather than where we might have 
gotten to—to that extent this book might even be turned into a primer of taking 
your children hiking. The Codger’s dogmatic statements will put off some who 
have hiked a dozen or two local peaks but are not of “true” old new England 
heritage and philosophic bent. And the medical advice he dispenses will probably 
drive a freshly ordained Wilderness First Responder to medicinal drink. 
 The old Codger suggests that there is much in the White Mountains 
that requires neither stamina nor pain to enjoy, and that the journey can and 
should be as much a part of that enjoyment as any particular “destination” 
might offer. it is advice well taken.
—Robert Goeke
Mount Chocorua, A Guide and History
By Steven Smith
Littleton, New Hampshire: Bondcliff Books
168 pages. ISBN 1-931271-20. Price: $14.95
HAVE YOU EVER USED WIKIPEDIA (wikipedia.org)? it is a phenomenon 
originally explained to print devotees in The Cathedral and the Bazaar 
(o’Reilly) by Eric Raymond back in 1997, namely the strength of innumer-
able minor contributions to an exercise in building a large structure (in his 
example, the Linux computer operating system). Unlike the 20-volume En-
cyclopedia Britannica, edited by a relatively small number of well-read folks 
and supported by annual update volumes, the Wikipedia owes its content to 
whomever in the world feels the necessity/obligation/sheer delight in explain-
ing some small part of their universe to the rest of us.
 About a third of the way through steve smith’s Mount Chocorua, i was 
struck by the déjà vu feeling of visiting the Wikipedia web site. Everything 
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SUMMER/FALL 2008   167
you wanted to know—plus a few things you would have wanted to know 
had you known enough to ask—all packaged in one relatively concise space. 
smith starts with a chapter on geography, and moves (perhaps not smoothly, 
but this isn’t a novella, after all) through natural history, nomenclature, trails, 
views, and a delightful piece of historical writing by Frank Bolles. You might 
not want to plagiarize the geology section for a term paper, but all in all, this 
is a valuable little book, complete with a selected bibliography that will do 
you in good stead, should you need to probe deeper into some particular 
nooks and crannies. 
—Robert Goeke
 
Briefly Noted
Field Guide to Trout Ponds of New Hampshire
By Paul VanderWende
Littleton, New Hampshire: Bondcliff Books, 2004
192 pages. ISBN 1-931271-99-7. Price: $16.95
FOR THOSE FOR WHOM TRAMPING TO THE summits of the new Hamp-
shire 4,000-footers was a good way to be enticed to visit places that you might 
never have otherwise visited, here is the equivalent guide for trout fishermen. 
Your challenge is to extract a “keeper” from each of these bodies of water.
 seriously, this is a fine reference for the fisherman who wants to see some 
new scenery in the process, providing the very necessary map directions to 
find the oft-hidden put-ins for these varied bodies of water.
—Robert Goeke
Appalachia_June_2008_v6.indd   167 5/9/08   9:42:33 AM



English

Books of Note

Doyle, James

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2008: Adventures Near 
Home 
Article 27 
2024 
The Great Blue Heron 
James Doyle 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Doyle, James (2024) "The Great Blue Heron," Appalachia: Vol. 59: No. 2, Article 27. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss2/27 
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 
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SUMMER/FALL 2008   95
The Great Blue Heron
is all bent stalks and ninety-degree angles. 
When the wings lift from the swamp grass,
it is like taking a razor to the sky’s
silk vestments.  The shredded air snags
on a pitch of bone and feather, particles
settling over scrawny flesh, layering
the skin in blue.  The heron flies mirrors
until color is stripped by reeds and eddies, a lake
rising to meet it.  The heron’s claws slide
through the dull sheen of water onto mud,
a shifting perch for the work of eyes and beak,
tracking the brown clouds below the surface
as they clone swirls of fish.  The bird hones its beak
on a grinding stone that flashes silver with gills.
—James Doyle
JAMES DOYLE’s new book, Bending Under The Yellow Police Tapes, was published by Steel 
Toe Books in 2007. He has published poems in many journals, including Alaska Quar-
terly Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Iowa Review, and Poetry. His piece, “Severe 
Aunts,” was read on National Public Radio by Garrison Keillor in 2004.
Appalachia_June_2008_v6.indd   95 5/9/08   9:41:37 AM



The Great Blue Heron

A retired professor and organist remembers his days taking Puerto Rican teenagers to the White Mountains in his old cars

Parsons, William

Appalachia 
Volume 59 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2008: The Wilderness: 
Is It Real? 
Article 11 
2024 
From New York City to the Mountains 
William Parsons 
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 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
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Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol59/iss1/11 
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From New York City to the 
Mountains
A retired professor and organist remembers his days taking Puerto 
Rican teenagers to the White Mountains in his old cars. 
William Parsons
96 APPALACHIA
MEMORIES CAN BE MORE INVIGORATING THAN THE ACTUAL EXPER-rience. I am thinking of my trips to the White Mountains some 40 
or so years ago, when I was in my middle years and had recently relocated 
from Boston to New York. Today I read about others’ excursions and climb-
ing exploits in old copies of Appalachia, which I lovingly peruse just before 
turning out the bedside night light. I savor what others have done because of 
my own experiences, even though those might seem tame compared with so 
many others. In my own small way, though, I too have grown to know the 
white hills from roving there.
I did not become a rover (to use Benton MacKaye’s term—see the winter 
987 Appalachia) without some inspiration. My father took a group of five 
or so up into Crawford Notch in the mid-930s to ski. In those early days, 
we used either the old bear-claw Dover bindings on some of the skis and 
those stick-in-your-foot loops on others. We stayed at the Inn Unique, which 
loomed out of the bleak winter night as we ascended slowly and cautiously 
from Bartlett in what I remember as a light snowfall, snow being everywhere 
all about in that wintry landscape of approaching dusk.
 My friend and longtime mentor in matters plant-wise, George R. Proc-
tor, took us kids down into the cellars of the inn that, constructed of heavy 
granite, made for a scary scene of dim light as we thought of ghosts. The next 
morning, before anyone else was up, I took my stick-on skis onto the trail 
that led west behind the inn—probably toward Mount Carrigain. This was 
my first attempt to ski, ever. I was exhilarated but baffled by my inability to 
steer down the gentle (but not entirely ruler-straight) path that I had man-
aged to ascend partway. Later that same morning a woodsman emerged with 
a horse dragging several logs. Our group drove up into the notch to ski on 
a wide meadow, probably near the old Crawford House. We all had a grand 
time clambering up and attempting to ski down without falling.
Other interests took over in the 940s, 950s, and early 960s. Then, in the 
summer of 963, my colleague in the math department at Boston University, 
Philip Maker, proposed that a group of us make an excursion to the Whites. 
He had worked on a trail crew some years earlier and, he told me, had helped 
to build the former Desolation Shelter. I eagerly agreed to go. We arrived at 
the Dolly Copp parking lot, and Phil told us to put all our possessions out on 
the grass at the head of the trail. “You can’t take that,” Phil would say, and, 
“Leave that behind”—pointing to a heavy pair of pants, two extra socks, and 
Fred and Louis Maldavedo getting away from the city at Hermit Lake. WILLIAM PARSONS
WINTER/SPRING 2008 97
98 APPALACHIA
maybe a portable radio. Most of us still found that we had brought much more 
than we would like to carry as, over the next few days, we climbed the little 
headwall to the top of Washington, descended the Sphinx Trail, climbed the 
Six Husbands Trail to Mount Jefferson and then went back down the Buttress 
Trail. This trip turned me on to hiking in the New Hampshire mountains. 
The Friday Night Escape
I moved to New York soon after to get a Ph.D. at Yeshiva University. Not 
many years after that, I became the organist at a tiny evangelical church on 
Catherine Street in lower Manhattan. The parishioners were mostly Puerto 
Ricans, and I soon found that my small choir included four or five youths who 
seemed eager not only to sing but also to try other things. When I suggested 
a camping trip up to New England, they jumped at the opportunity. Cesar 
Torres was the kingpin. His brother, Freddie, their friend, Rudy D’Erico, and 
I fit into my Volvo, together with whatever paraphernalia we decided to take 
along. The pattern remained the same for some ten or more years, with the 
group changing as new members joined and some others decided that per-
haps they had had enough.
The feeble microbus.  WILLIAM PARSONS
We would leave New York as soon as we could on Friday evening, which 
usually was no earlier than 7 P.M., and I would drive up through New Ha-
ven—I will never forget Louis Maldonado’s remark: “Oh, New Heaven”—
and then up I-9 to South Newbury, Vermont, where a friend of mine had a 
large house and provided a living room rug for us to roll out sleeping bags. 
We arrived in Vermont sometime between  and 2 A.M. The next morning, we 
would head up to Wells River, cross the Connecticut River and head east on 
Route 2 to North Woodstock. Or else we would go north through Lisbon 
and Littleton and approach the Whites from the northwest. In either case, we 
usually were set to hike on Saturday morning at about 0.
Hiking with these teenagers was satisfying because they so 
appreciated everything and were so in awe of the natural 
world that opened around them. We would be driving 
up I-9 and see a hill in the distance. “A mere pimple,” I 
would say. Then, closer to the White River, we might see a 
real mountain. “Wait,” I’d say, “You’ll see some higher ones 
tomorrow.”
The group would get strung out so that it was not that easy to talk. We 
didn’t have much to say, anyway, as we just enjoyed the physical effort of plant-
ing one foot in front of the other; in stepping across the occasional brook on 
stones; crossing on a small bridge; or being aware of the trees, undergrowth, 
mosses, and heaths without actually paying close attention to any of them. As 
we moved up and up, they became interested and even excited. We stayed in 
shelters when convenient, but often we would set up a tarp, which I carried 
along to provide shelter. One time, I recall, we hiked up the Airline Trail and 
arrived at Crag Camp to spend the night before proceeding the next day up 
to the top of Adams and on to Washington. At Crag, we saw only one or two 
people, if anyone.
The only exception to our mostly good weather was the time we arrived at 
Guyot Shelter in the rain to find it full. We made camp as best we could out 
near the approach trail. It was a soggy night for us and the other late arriv-
WINTER/SPRING 2008 99
100 APPALACHIA
als. (I have hiked Mount Washington possibly ten times. I have found good 
views all around. I have never experienced the high winds I read about with 
so much fascination in Appalachia.)
Hiking with these teenagers was satisfying because they so appreciated 
everything and were so in awe of the natural world that opened around them. 
We would be driving up I-9 and see a hill in the distance. “A mere pimple,” 
I would say. Then, closer to the White River, we might see a real mountain. 
“Wait,” I’d say, “You’ll see some higher ones tomorrow.”
Their equipment was not high-tech. Their Spanish-speaking parents, who 
had come north to fill low-wage jobs, probably bought their sleeping bags, 
parkas, and other items at a cut-rate athletic store like Model’s. The gear was 
fine, as the many visions in memory and photos show: One night we slept in 
the tower atop Mount Carrigain. Somewhere I have an old photo of Victor 
Maldonado looking out from his sleeping bag from an upper bunk, or ledge, 
or platform of some sort, there in that aerie at the top of a great peak.
Not all of the boys came from Puerto Rico. Some of them were African 
American. Ronnie Figgs was shy and stammered; he came only on one trip. 
Another time, a co-resident  of my high-rise co-op brought a friend along on 
my group climb of Mount Moosilauke. We took two cars and camped in a 
field at the junction of routes 2 and 6. I doubt very much whether such 
impromptu camping, without permission, would be possible today. Everyone 
had a wonderful time camping and climbing. Even our car troubles were lots 
of fun. One of the vehicles was a feeble Volkswagen microbus, which we had 
to push as we neared the top of the grade coming up from the Connecticut 
Valley to the base of the mountain. 
In all, my groups must have climbed all of the Presidentials and some of 
the other four thousand-footers in the “inner core” of the Whites. The way I 
remember that Fred Torres reached the top of Mount Liberty is my memory 
of him standing on the summit holding a pumpkin we had found up there. 
Even some 35 to 40 years after these days, I still keep in touch at Christmas 
with Cesar Torres, who is doing well and now a grandfather in Kentucky. I 
like to believe that the others found their hiking experiences opened doors for 
them that led to rewarding lives. They did for me.
WILLIAM PARSONS, a retired math professor and organist, hiked the 46 Four Thou-
sand Footers of the White Mountains in 972. In the 970s and 980s, he led hikes 
for the AMC New York–North Jersey chapter. Today he lives in the Fort Greene 
neighborhood of Brooklyn.



From New York City to the Mountains

Tales of off-kilter behavior above the 66th parallel, where the summer sun is out for 24 hours straight

Fair, Jeff

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2007: Time In the 
Backcountry 
Article 4 
2006 
Arctic Time 
Jeff Fair 
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contact dartmouthdigitalcommons@groups.dartmouth.edu. 
Arctic Time
Tales of off-kilter behavior above the 66th parallel, where the 
summer sun is out for 24 hours straight
Jeff Fair
THE FIRST TIME I HEARD THE TERM ARCTIC TIME, I WAS IN CAMP with four other wildlife biologists and a pilot at 70 degrees north lati-
tude, more than a hundred miles north of the Brooks Range, here in Alaska. 
It was the third of July. We had flown from Anchorage to Deadhorse by 
commercial jet that morning and then out to our bivouac by bush plane to 
initiate a research project investigating the rare and elusive yellow-billed loons 
that were rumored to nest thereabouts. We had set up our tents, constructed a 
windbreak on the tundra to cook behind, organized our gear, and were about 
to begin preparing dinner when Dr. Joel Schmutz, our trip leader, suggested 
that we go directly onto “Arctic time.”
“What’s that mean?” I inquired.
“It means you can sleep in,” he explained. Sleeping late did not correlate 
well with my image of a field biologist, but before I could object, Joel added, 
“It’s easier that way.”
“Easier than what?”
“Easier than fighting it.”
“Fighting what?” 
“You’ll see,” he said. I was new to the Arctic summer and (as usual) I had 
a lot to learn. I offered one last argument, there in our sunlit kitchen, pointing 
out that it was only dinnertime and we were fully organized, so we certainly 
could get plenty of rest and arise at a respectable hour. Joel glanced at his watch 
and noted that it was :45 P.M. and our noodle water had yet to boil.
Arctic time. The term appears to be relatively obscure, generally unheard-
of and unrecorded. My searches on the Internet failed to turn up a single 
mention of it. It does not appear anywhere in Barry Lopez’s Arctic Dreams (a 
most scholarly and encyclopedic description of Arctic phenomena) (Scribner, 
986), or in E. C. Pielou’s Naturalist’s Guide to the Arctic (University of Chi-
SUMMER/FALL 2007 15
Appalachia_07exp.indd   15 5/10/07   11:10:21 PM
16 APPALACHIA
cago Press, 994). Yet, among the field biologists and wilderness guides and 
other Arctic wanderers I’ve spoken to, it is a familiar term of common use and 
well-defined understanding.
The phenomenon itself may be described as follows: Take one flatlander (a 
good lower-48 term) out of Anchorage or Fairbanks or Seattle, Buzzards Bay, 
Winter Harbor, Peoria, etc., and place him or her into the summertime Arctic 
of, say, Alaska. Immediately the traveler begins to lengthen her days, arising 
later, delaying his meal schedule, walking or working well past quitting time, 
and crawling into a sleeping bag in the wee hours of the morning—if there 
were a morning up there in the summertime. Trouble is, there isn’t one—nor 
is there a night, afternoon, evening—except by the clock. Those who struggle 
to follow their timepieces are fighting the allure of light and landscape in this 
part of the world.
The Arctic I speak of is the land north of the Arctic Circle, which lies at 
approximately 66 degrees north latitude, and north of which the sun does 
not set on the night of summer solstice. The further north one ventures from 
there, the more days (and nights) occur without sunset. At 70 degrees north, 
one observes about two and a half months of midnight sun. Which is to say, 
the days are coupled together by sunlit nights. From the vantage point of that 
first field camp, the sun did not set but, rather, traveled a circular path above 
the Arctic horizon, by day just above the lofty blue peaks of the Brooks to the 
south, and by “night” low over the Beaufort Sea.
That constant sunlight during brief Arctic summers allows the cotton 
grass and sedges to grow 24 hours a day, and the goslings that feed on it to 
fledge faster than their cousins to the south. It also stimulates the human 
mind. Without darkness, we feel at first unready to go to bed, lengthening 
our period of activity to a point at which we establish a free diurnal schedule, 
if the wristwatch can be ignored or better yet relinquished. But there’s more 
to it than that. This low-sun’s light cloaks the land in a richer quality of light, 
particularly when the sun glows from its lowest arc, out of the north, in the 
middle of the Arctic summer night.
Most of my Arctic junkets have been made in the company of wildlife 
biologists on research missions. To a person, every one of these scientists with 
Arctic experience understands Arctic time and adopts it immediately. These 
are men and women who wear wristwatches to record the times of certain 
events or observations, or to meet an airplane or receive a radio message at 
a particular time. Still, they resign their schedules to the curious effect. In-
sofar as they might require a repeated daily routine for calibrations within 
Appalachia_07exp.indd   16 5/10/07   11:10:21 PM
their study protocols, they usually maintain a 24-hour schedule, reestablished 
three or four hours later than normal by the clock. Their typical day, then, 
on Arctic time involves arising around 9 or 0 in the morning, having coffee, 
breakfast, gathering equipment, and starting work by  or noon. Work ends 
between 9 and midnight, when they return to camp. (Work in the Arctic is 
subject to a different set of logistics, and often requires or inspires a work 
day longer than eight hours.) They turn in sometime between midnight and 
4 A.M. After eight or ten hours of marching across the tundra tussocks into 
a barrage of mosquitoes or a stiff, icy wind, sleep comes upon them easily, 
despite a sunlit tent.
My guiding friends, who are not bound by the chronometric restrictions 
of science, often free themselves entirely from their wristwatches and regularly 
find themselves on varying or more divergent schedules. One friend told me 
that at the end of a clock-free two-week Arctic river trip, someone dug out a 
watch at breakfast and found it to be 4 P.M. This was hardly a problem—such 
a phenomenon is only cause for levity on the river. The discomfort will occur 
after the trip, upon reentry into a culture that conforms to a regular diurnal 
timetable. One of my friends calls this an “Arctic hangover.” 
When I first began to investigate Arctic time, I assumed that its cause 
would be primarily related to our innate circadian rhythm, which, I seemed 
to recall, was set at just a bit longer than a solar day. But no one I interviewed 
ever mentioned that, not even the most serious and studious Ph.Ds. The bi-
ologists I spoke to pointed out more simply that it’s hard to conclude the day 
when the sun’s still up. The mind seems to be waiting for sundown before it 
retires itself and the body. And given 24-hour daylight, it’s relatively easy to 
shift one’s schedule. 
Too easy, sometimes. On the first day of my second Arctic junket with 
Joel Schmutz, I was determined not be the last one down to the coffee pot 
(a stigma I’d gained during the first trip; I forget why), so I set my alarm for 
8 A.M. I arose next morning, delighted to be the early bird, trotted down to 
the kitchen area, and started a pot of coffee. By God, I thought, I’ll have it 
all brewed by the time they tie their bootlaces. Partway through my second 
cup, I noted that no one else had yet emerged. No voices from the tents, 
either. Not the sound of a single zipper. About then a curious thought arose: 
I had recently returned to Alaska from a working trip in Maine, four time 
zones to the east. I hadn’t used the alarm clock since then and hadn’t reset it 
last night—which meant that I’d awakened myself at 4 A.M. Alaska time, or 
approximately five hours early for Arctic time activities. I hadn’t noticed, of 
SUMMER/FALL 2007 17
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18 APPALACHIA
course, because the sun was shining cheerily. Charged with caffeine, I sneaked 
back to my tent to contemplate a false glory from the warmth of my bedroll.
Biologists, guides, and wilderness trekkers alike observe that one usually 
gets a late start on the day of arrival. The Arctic is a long way from just about 
everywhere, and the visitor often arrives late in the day with camp still to set 
up or a section of river or mountain still to negotiate. One usually gets to bed 
late that first day. And given the likelihood of a good hard chill in the Arctic morn-
ing, it’s easy to stay in later. Thus begins the automatic drift into Arctic time.
Wilderness guides will add that the winds up there often abate in the 
evening, thus making it preferable to float a raft, paddle a canoe, or hike a 
ridge starting then. And at the end of a day spent on Arctic time, after dinner, 
when some of the clients have retreated to their tents—that’s precisely when 
the animals come out. Some of the best bear and caribou and wolf watching 
presents itself after midnight. After a long day of gaining on the destination 
by raft or boot sole, one of the guides told me, she finds in the wee hours the 
inspiration to simply wander about alone and unencumbered, connect to the 
wild landscape, and maybe see the local wildlife. Some of her clients—“the 
ones who get it,” she says—learn to do the same.
What I found most surprising was that everyone I spoke to, to a person, 
went on about the beauty of the boreal landscape under the midnight sun, 
about feeling compelled to be up and about in those hours, just to experi-
ence the tender light. Rolling in from low above the Beaufort Sea like a tide 
of golden light, thick as syrup, this Arctic lambency saturates the land and 
one’s spirit with a numinous magic that even the scientists like to stay up for. 
Joel, for example, told me that in that romantic twilight he can best enjoy the 
serenity of the landscape in which he is working. And why not? I’ve enjoyed 
it myself. With the wind died down, the silences may be spawned, and with 
them the impression, for all the world, of eternity. An intense and exciting 
peace. Timeless beauty. Latitudinal ecstasy. Nothing more and nothing less.
And it strikes me that, if the bears and wolves and caribou find a calling 
to be out more in those lovely hours, then perhaps there is something buried 
deep in the human instinct as well, some wisdom inherited from long, long 
ago that urges us out into those beatific crepuscular hours of the Arctic sum-
mer night. Perhaps it is an instinct born of survival, or perhaps simply of joy, 
that most encourages us to accept the delay, and the freedom, of Arctic time.
In a culture in which so many of our outdoor experiences are becom-
ing urbanized, in which would-be enthusiasts infect the last of their local 
wild places with the clockwork of the office and disconnect the human spirit 
Appalachia_07exp.indd   18 5/10/07   11:10:21 PM
from the real world even through participation in the very kinds of activities 
that once facilitated connection—where runners turn trails into racetracks, 
peakbaggers time and tally their ascents, cell-phone addicts order rescue from 
5,000 feet, and treks along the Appalachian Trail are scheduled around re-
spites at McDonald’s, Internet coffeehouses, and motels—some of us have 
the good fortune to spend part of our lives in a world where clock-time be-
comes illogical, irrelevant, and untenable. This world is a zone in which cell 
phones haven’t a hope for a signal, crowds occur only in the migrations of 
birds and caribou, races are what the rivers do, motels aren’t, and the restau-
rant is a fire pit or a butane stove; most of the mountains are nameless and 
the competition is between caribou and grizzly, gosling and goshawk, loon 
fledgling and freeze-up. Up there on the silent tundra, living under a freedom 
driven by the powerful light of latitude and granted by the landscape itself, 
where the real and natural world still has influence over our schedules and our 
inspirations—even when you’re late, you’re right on time.
APPALACHIA’S ALASKA BUREAU CHIEF JEFF FAIR has perfected the art of hitchhik-
ing by bush plane and frequently visits the Far North. He delivered this manuscript 
two days past deadline, explaining to the editor simply that he was operating on 
Arctic time.
SUMMER/FALL 2007 19
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Arctic Time

Alpina

Rembold, Kristen Staby

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2007: Time In the 
Backcountry 
Article 22 
2006 
Fogged In, Late Autumn, Blue Ridge Mountains 
Kristen Staby Rembold 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Rembold, Kristen Staby (2006) "Fogged In, Late Autumn, Blue Ridge Mountains," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 
2, Article 22. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss2/22 
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. 
65 APPALACHIA
Fogged In, Late Autumn, Blue Ridge Mountains
Clouds lower on the ridge top,
an illness descending on the body,
and we have no choice
but to accept what has happened. 
Fog has vaporized the red-burned
blackgum trees, the grove
of bitter-scented witch hazel
where only yesterday we went gathering. 
A mist has closed off the vista,
trunks push forward
out of gloom, and the path’s faint grass
levitates into unknowingness. 
We want to turn back, now that
we only see as far as we
can reach: windswept moss,
lichens, the mushroom colonies—
just these, because
who looks further than the next
foothold, here on the ledges, where a misstep
could send us plummeting?
Once pain has shut a door,
we can’t ask what
if the clouds would open?
We can’t afford regret,
compelled to meditate upon the pale lichens,
the charcoal-colored rock,
until their endless snowfields
are etched into our depths.
—Kristen Staby Rembold
KRISTEN STABY REMBOLD’S poems have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Southern Po-
etry Review, and Green Mountain Review. She lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. 
SUMMER/FALL 2007 65
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Fogged In, Late Autumn, Blue Ridge Mountains

Davis, Todd

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 2 Summer/Fall 2007: Time In the 
Backcountry 
Article 23 
2006 
The Presentation 
Todd Davis 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Davis, Todd (2006) "The Presentation," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 2, Article 23. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss2/23 
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. 
73 APPALACHIA
The Presentation
Drizzle’s gray light picks up the white
that rings this ridge. Wind keeps the wet
from settling with any finality. A black bear
grazes on acorns and huckleberries until I
startle him. There is little to our meeting: 
his face turned up like a broad peony, shift
in shoulder as he decides what’s best, then
the presentation of rump, slow steady gait
of hind legs moving away in agreement.
—Todd Davis
TODD DAVIS teaches English and Environment Studies at Penn State Altoona. He 
is the author of two books of poetry—Ripe (Bottom Dog Press, 2002) and Some 
Heaven (Michigan State University Press, 2006). Recent poems have appeared in Po-
etry East, Gray’s Sporting Journal, Arts & Letters, Image, Quarterly West, and Blueline. 
SUMMER/FALL 2007 73
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The Presentation

Accidents

Appalachia 
Volume 58 
Number 1 Winter/Spring 2007: Reflections on 
the 1970s Hiking Boom 
Article 14 
2006 
News and Notes 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia 
 Part of the Nonfiction Commons 
Recommended Citation 
(2006) "News and Notes," Appalachia: Vol. 58: No. 1, Article 14. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/appalachia/vol58/iss1/14 
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. 
12 appalachia
News and Notes
Little Cherry Pond Trail Designated a National Recreation Trail
The Little Cherry Pond Trail, located in the Pondicherry national Wildlife 
Refuge in Jefferson, new Hampshire, north of the Presidentials, was one of 
seven trails on national wildlife refuges designated as national Recreation 
Trails by secretary of the interior Dirk Kempthorne last June.
national Recreation Trails are designated to recognize exemplary trails of 
local and regional significance.
Leading between Cherry and Little Cherry Ponds, the newly designated 
trail passes through six forest types and features 600 feet of boardwalk as it 
crosses black spruce bogs and other wetlands. Dominant trees include black 
spruce, balsam fir, larch, and red maple. sphagnum and feather moss carpet 
the ground, and many wildflowers and shrubs bloom in spring and early 
summer. Boreal birds such as black-backed woodpecker, gray jay, yellow-bel-
lied flycatcher, boreal chickadee, and more than a dozen warbler species are 
found in the surrounding forest. A viewing platform at Little Cherry Pond 
provides an opportunity to see moose, beaver, and otter. 
The loop trail is about one mile long and is described in the AMC White 
Mountain Guide. The Pondicherry refuge is part of the larger silvio o. Conte 
national Fish and Wildlife Refuge headquartered in Turners Falls, Massachu-
setts.
Friends of Pondicherry President Dave Govatski, who was instrumental 
in the development of the Little Cherry Pond Trail, said, “The designation 
highlights the opportunity hikers have to experience a boreal forest with pic-
turesque scenery and a diverse array of wildlife.”
This is the fourth national Recreation Trail designated in new Hamp-
shire. Previously named were the Boulder Loop Trail and the lower 0.4 mile 
of the sabbaday Falls Trail off the Kancamagus Highway, and the lower 2.9 
miles of the Crawford Path on Mount Pierce. There are twelve national Rec-
reation Trails in Massachusetts, including Boston’s Freedom Trail, 52 miles of 
the Metacomet-Monadnock Trail, and the Atlantic White Cedar swamp Trail 
in Cape Cod national seashore. Two trails, both in Acadia national Park, 
have been designated in Maine, five in Vermont (including 54 miles of the 
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winter/spring 2007 127
Long Trail), two in Rhode island, three in Connecticut, twenty in new York 
(including two sections of the Long Path), and two in new Jersey.
Sources: The Courier, Littleton, new Hampshire; national Recreation 
Trails database.
Waterfall at Lost River Reopened after 20 Years
new Hampshire’s only underground waterfall has been reopened after being 
inaccessible for more than 20 years. The Falls of Prosperine, located in Lost 
River Gorge near north Woodstock, was clogged by debris from Hurricane 
Gloria in 1985. 
in the fall of 2005, work crews spent nearly three weeks digging out many 
years’ worth of sticks, mud, and other debris that had blocked a small cave, 
bringing the 22-foot waterfall back into view. Last spring, the falls were 
opened to the public for the first time since the hurricane.
Brothers Royal and Lyman Jackman reportedly discovered the boulder-
strewn Lost River Gorge in 1852. They stumbled upon it while fishing the 
stream that flows off the slopes of Mount Moosilauke. Lyman slipped and 
fell into a hole that became known as shadow Cave. in 1893, Royal began 
giving tours through what he named Lost River Gorge. in 1912, the society 
for the Protection of new Hampshire Forests bought the property for $7,000 
from Publishers Paper Company and Johnson Lumber Company. Today, the 
White Mountain Attractions Association manages the land for the society for 
the Protection of new Hampshire Forests.
several of the caves at Lost River were named more than a century ago 
using themes from Greek mythology. The underground falls are located in a 
cave known as the Judgment Hall of Pluto and were named for Pluto’s wife, 
Prosperine.
Sources: Associated Press; Lincoln and Woodstock: A Photographic Journey, 
by Mike Dickerman. 
Northern Forest Canoe Trail Dedicated
The 740-mile northern Forest Canoe Trail (nFCT) officially opened on na-
tional Trails Day last June 3 with simultaneous ribbon-cutting ceremonies at 
saranac Lake, new York; newport, Vermont; Groveton, new Hampshire; 
and Greenville, Maine.
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12 appalachia
At the new Hampshire ceremony, held on the bank of the Upper 
Ammonoosuc River in a cold, driving rain, an enthusiastic crowd of about 
60 watched as water from rivers in the four states traversed by the trail were 
mixed in a small canoe, symbolizing the northern forest’s river communities. 
The water trail, more than five years in the making, links the northern Forest 
regions of new York, Vermont, Quebec, new Hampshire, and Maine. The 
development of the trail involved many volunteers, landowners, towns, busi-
nesses, and public and private agencies. 
The route of the nFCT largely follows historic water travel routes used 
by native Americans of the Penobscot and Abenaki tribes traveling in their 
famed birch bark canoes. native Trails, inc., a nonprofit corporation headed 
by Maine resident Mike Krepner, began researching the old canoe routes 
in 1976. During the next few years, members paddled, poled, and portaged 
across the routes that are followed by the nFCT today.
in 1999, Kay Henry and Rob Center, former owners of Mad River Ca-
noe in Waitsfield, Vermont, joined forces with native Trails, and by January 
2000, the nFCT organization had been created. The nFCT passes through 
a great variety of waterscapes and landscapes through its four-state journey. 
on the water, the route touches 22 rivers and streams and 56 lakes and ponds, 
with all kinds of paddling from flatwater novice to whitewater expert. Along 
the shores are some of the most remote wild areas in the northeast, as well as 
industrial forests, working farms, resort towns, and historic logging and mill 
towns.
According to the nFCT website (www.northernforestcanoetrail.org), tra-
versing the entire route will take about eight weeks and will require “all the 
skills a canoeist can muster. Flatwater, whitewater, portaging, poling, both 
upriver and down, the traveler will need to handle it all.” The first paddler 
to traverse the entire route was Donnie Mullen, a Maine outward Bound 
instructor, who finished in 55 days in 2000.
in conjunction with The Mountaineers of seattle, the nFCT has pub-
lished thirteen waterproof color maps detailing the entire route in sections. 
The maps show local contacts, parking locations, water access points, camp-
sites, portages, rapids, dams, roads, side trips, and other important features 
of the route. Accompanying the maps are route descriptions, listings of regu-
lations, and illustrated interpretive information on the natural and human 
history of the area covered.
The western terminus of the nFCT is old Forge, new York, in the western 
Adirondacks. The east end of the trail is on the st. John River at Fort Kent, 
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winter/spring 2007 12
Maine. Along the way it visits many famous waterways. in new York, which 
hosts 147 miles of the trail, paddlers traverse the Fulton Chain of Lakes, Ra-
quette and Forked Lakes, Long Lake, the Raquette River, the saranac Lakes, 
and the saranac River. The 174-mile Vermont/Quebec section includes Lake 
Champlain, the Missisquoi River, Lake Memphremagog, the Clyde River, 
and the nulhegan River. The 72 miles in new Hampshire traverse the Con-
necticut River, the Upper Ammonoosuc River, the Androscoggin River, and 
Lake Umbagog. About 347 miles of the trail are in Maine, taking in the Rapid 
River, the Rangeley Lakes, the Dead River, Flagstaff Lake, spencer stream, 
the Moose River, Moosehead Lake, the West Branch of the Penobscot River, 
Chamberlain, Eagle and Churchill Lakes, the Allagash River, and the st. John 
River.
The entire route has 55 miles of portages with 62 carries where a canoe or 
kayak must be carried or shuttled over land.
For more information, visit the nFCT website at www.northernforestca-
noetrail.org or call 802-496-2285.
Sources: nFCT website; nFCT maps; AMC Outdoors, March 2006 (Joe 
Carberry); The Mountain Ear, Conway, new Hampshire (Edith Tucker).
Appalachian Mountain Club Purchases  
Medawisla Wilderness Camps
The Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) purchased Medawisla Wilderness 
Camps near Greenville, Maine, in August 2006. The club will operate the 
seven-cabin camp as it has been run since 1953 in Maine’s 100-Mile Wilder-
ness region. This traditional Maine sporting camp is located on the shore of 
second Roach Pond near Moosehead Lake in central Maine. The camps will 
be open to AMC members and the general public.
The previous owners were Larry and shannon LeRoy, who owned and 
managed the property since 1992. shannon LeRoy, an accomplished birder 
and naturalist, will continue to work at Medawisla as camps and programs 
manager at the camps. “We look forward to welcoming back our long-time 
guests, and to seeing some new faces under AMC management,” she said.
The acquisition of the camps was another step in the AMC’s Maine Woods 
initiative, a project to conserve land in the 100-Mile Wilderness launched in 
2003. The initiative is the most significant investment in conservation and 
recreation in the club’s 130-year history. it supports local forest products jobs 
and traditional recreation, creating new multi-day recreational experiences 
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130 appalachia
for visitors, and attracting nature-based tourism to the region. As part of the 
initiative, the AMC purchased the 37,000-acre Katahdin iron Works tract, 
which it is managing for conservation, sustainable forestry and outdoor rec-
reation.
“We are excited to broaden the range of outdoor experiences we can offer 
to the public, a key goal of the initiative,” said AMC Deputy Director Walter 
Graff. The club also operates Little Lyford Pond Camps, 15 miles south of 
Medawisla.
Medawisla Wilderness Camps are located on second Roach Pond, ap-
proximately seven miles from Kokadjo. Access is via gravel logging roads. The 
cabins have sleeping quarters, kitchens, and bathrooms. From the camps, 
guests can hike, paddle, fly fish, and watch wildlife that include 100 species of 
birds. The pond is known for its abundant populations of landlocked salmon, 
lake trout, and brook trout. nearby hiking trails are extensive, and guests of 
the camps often make day trips to Katahdin in Baxter state Park. in winter, 
the camps offer a network of 60 miles of cross-country ski trails. Boats, kay-
aks, and canoes are available for use by guests. AMC staff will be available to 
assist guests in trip planning and can arrange for services from local Maine 
Guides.
Guests do their own cooking in the cabins from spring to fall, using stoves 
and cookware in the cabins. in the winter, the camps provide meals to guests. 
Cabins have wood stoves, gas heaters, lights, and, in the warm months, flush 
toilets and showers. For information, see www.medawisla.com. The AMC 
will begin managing reservations on January 1, 2007. see www.outdoors.org.
Source: AMC press release.
—Steven D. Smith
News and Notes Editor
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News and Notes

Summer/Fall 2006 - Volume LVII, Number 1 - issue #222. Bringing the Journey Home: Featuring Arlene Blum\u27s Reflections, Huts and Human Nature, and the Long Trail in Thirteen Day

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