“Wonderful,” applauded Meg, “You could be a professional. I take lots of pictures in my work, and it’s obvious you know your way around a camera.”
“Thanks. Yes, I like to take pictures, not only of people, but of animals, gardens and beautiful scenery.”
“Well, you’ll certainly get some great shots here,” Claire put in, “the foliage is lovely again this year, and there’s so much natural beauty everywhere you look.”
“Now that the kids have their party faces on, we’ll take it all in,” laughed the third mother, whose name was Ellen.
After the women thanked each other for the photo shoots and wished one another a great day, the groups parted and went their separate ways. Claire then led her guests on a tour of what she jokingly called “the village mall.”
Over the years throughout America when affluent families built luxurious vacation homes in coastal and mountain areas, many small nearby hamlets developed into popular resort towns, with trendy franchise shops, women’s boutiques and gourmet restaurants. But this was not true of Woodbridge Notch. While wealthy people from Boston, New York and Philadelphia built vacation homes and weekend cabins in the mountains and foothills, officials made every effort to preserve the downtown area as a picturesque New England village.
From its beginning in 1794, the two-block downtown marketplace was the population and commerce center from which the town and its people grew and prospered. Many of the original buildings were restored and continued to be in use in the years thereafter. The Fellowship Meeting House, originally used for both worship and town business, later was occupied by The Woodbridge Township Remembrance Society. The town hall, now the courthouse, was originally constructed of native timber. In 1880 it was renovated and expanded, using the more durable Conway red granite. Next to the courthouse is the Town Cobbler, where several generations of men in the Madden family have repaired shoes in the small shop that was once the jail.
June’s Pottery Barn at the end of the street was actually a barn in those early years. It became a thriving family enterprise, complete with instruction classes and a kiln. A former cannery was converted to a showcase antique gallery owned by retired high school Principal Harry Lonsbury. After a successful career as an educator, he followed his life-long dream to buy, sell and collect antiques and fine art.
Another historic building is the Granberry Inn built in 1830, which was a boarding house before being purchased as a residence by General Russell Tanner, a leading figure with New Hampshire’s Constitutional Militia. It was later purchased by the general’s descendants who restored it back to its original use as the Granberry Inn.
Other buildings in the village were small family homes that sprang up as the town developed. These were later occupied by the Woodbridge Florist, Randall’s Books and Gifts, Fred’s Fudge Factory, the Country Store, the Lilacs ‘n Lace Tea Room, and an Amish Bakery.
Meg was immediately drawn to the sign above the bakery, which read “Delicacies from Pennsylvania’s Amish Culture.”
“I didn’t know you had an Amish community up here, Claire,” said Meg, who looked in the window and exclaimed excitedly, “Oh, look, they have shoofly pies. Tom and I bought two from a bakery in Ohio. It’s more like a coffee cake with a gooey molasses bottom. We loved them.”
“I don’t know about a community, but I know two brothers, Samuel and Abram Yoder, came here with their families about eight years ago. Very nice people. Samuel and his wife, Mary, have the bakery; Abram has a furniture store on the other side of town. Both families are well respected in the village and seem to be doing well. We visit the bakery often when we are here.”
“I wonder what time the bakery closes,” asked Meg. “I’d really like to take a couple of those pies home. Let’s go in and see if they’ll hold them until we come back this afternoon.”
The group entered the bakery to a warm, pungent smell of breads and pastries just out of the oven. They were greeted by Mary Yoder, a strong-boned woman with an angular face and soft brown eyes. She was dressed in a long-sleeve, light gray calico working dress, covered in front with a white apron. A white starched bonnet covered most of her salt and pepper hair.
“Good morning, Mrs. Yoder,” said Claire, returning her greeting. Then nodding at Meg, she said, “My friend is interested in your shoofly pies.”
Mrs. Yoder looked at Meg and said with a warm smile. “Ah, yes. May I serve you, please?”
“Yes,” replied Meg, and asked what time the bakery closed.
“We usually close at six o’clock, but if it’s busy we stay longer,” she replied pleasantly.
Meg then explained that she’d like two shoofly pies held for her until they returned later that afternoon, which Mrs. Yoder agreed to do.
As the two women spoke, Claire and the others admired the tempting displays of breads and pastries in the gleaming glass display cases. One held shoofly, apple, chocolate, pecan and buttermilk pies; another apple strudel and cakes: lemon, maple-walnut, sugar and a funnel cake. Another held biscuits, muffins and breads, including the traditional Amish Friendship bread. Made from sour dough, this enduring family staple, like certain other recipes made from a starter, is passed around to family and friends for generations like a chain letter for all to enjoy.
The Cookie Corner displayed four large glass jars of cookies labeled sugar, drop, oatmeal, and chewy raisin.
Rosemary’s eyes fell on a glass-domed cake dish of “stickies,” which Mrs. Yoder explained were sweet rolls.
“They are very popular in Amish families. Today my husband made raisin, pecan and orange-rhubarb. But he also made some plain ones, too.”
“What are these?” asked Anne, pointing to a plate of cinnamon squares.
“That is what we call ‘cinnamon flop,’” smiled the proprietress warmly. “They are also very popular in Amish homes. Would you like to try one?” she offered. “They are best served warm, but I think maybe you will like one now, yes?”
Reaching into the case, she withdrew the platter of cinnamon flop, and offered it to the women.
“Oh, I like it,” said Claire, biting into one. “Yes, I can see that it would be good warm with coffee in the morning. Almost like a coffee cake.”
The others agreed.
“But my favorite is apple strudel,” said Rosemary. “I’d like to take some home.” Turning to Mrs. Yoder, she asked, “May I also leave it until we return this afternoon?”
“Everything is so tempting,” remarked Anne, who also bought apple strudel and raisin cookies, leaving them to be picked up later.
After the orders were placed and paid for, the women thanked Mrs. Yoder and emerged from the bakery into the warm mid-morning sun.
“I have great respect for the Amish,” said Anne. “One of my happiest experiences when I was writing restaurant reviews was spending a weekend with a Mennonite family in Lancaster County in rural Pennsylvania. I was there to review Groff’s Farm Restaurant at Mount Joy, a wonderful gourmet restaurant in the Dutch Country. Craig Claiborne was the food editor of the New York Times at the time and gave it a raving review. So did I. The owner, a delightful woman, took me to Easter service at her Mennonite church.”
“Do you remember what you had for dinner at her restaurant?” asked Claire.
Anne laughed and said, “I really don’t remember the entrée, but I do remember the wonderful fresh vegetables she served. She gave me a tour of her vegetable gardens the next morning. She took care of them herself and was very proud to serve them at her restaurant.”
As Anne finished her story, Claire looked at her watch. Realizing they had to get to the train station in Bretton Woods to catch the 10:30 cog to Mt. Washington, she suggested they head in that direction. Her timing was perfect. Meg pulled the SUV into the parking lot at Marshfield Station with only minutes to spare.
Chapter 19
The nation’s first cog railroad was the brainchild of New Hampshire native Sylvester Marsh, whose genius was rewarded handsomely during the A
merican industrial revolution.
A bright young man, at age nineteen Marsh walked about 120 miles from his family farm in Campton to Boston where he got a job in the meat trade. An ambitious young man, like others bent on success he went west to seek his fortune and found it in the stockyards of Chicago. The success he was seeking became a reality by designing machinery that would ultimately be used in the meatpacking industry worldwide. The quality of meat processed at his steam-operated plant was such that it didn’t need inspection before it went to market.
When he retired, his love for New England brought him home to the Boston suburbs. In the summer in 1852, he and his pastor attempted to hike up Mt. Washington and got lost during a rain storm. The experience led him to feel there had to be a better way to reach the summit than hiking through the unchartered wilderness. His plan was to build a mountain-climbing railway. He had no doubt it was possible. He felt the steam engines that powered the machinery in the meatpacking industry could also power a train up the mountain. But true to the maxim that a prophet is without honor in his own hometown, he was ridiculed when he presented his idea to state lawmakers. They thought he was “a crazy man,” and told him he might as well try to build a train to the moon.
Undaunted, Marsh enlisted the help of his son, Frank, who oversaw the building of an experimental locomotive at a machine shop in Roxbury, Massachusetts. Once completed, Frank disassembled it and brought it to New Hampshire by train, then to the site by ox-cart, where he reassembled it.
Thanks to his dedicated team and a strong dose of Yankee ingenuity, Marsh’s impossible dream became a reality in the summer of 1866. At the demonstration on August 29, the Boston Journal reported that “the engine works like a charm. Not even the doubters hesitated for a moment to get on the car for the trip up or down the mountain.” Marsh’s locomotive was soon followed by others, both steam and diesel-powered, which run daily during the summer season in all weather conditions. Today the cog railway operates under the stewardship of an enterprising duo, the Presby and Bedor families, who have been its proud owners for more than twenty-five years. In addition to the “crazy man’s” railway, footpaths, hiking trails, and roads for bikes and automobiles were added as means to reach the top.
As they arrived at Marshfield Station that Saturday morning, Claire dug into her bag and pulled out four tickets which she passed around.
“I pre-ordered these,” she explained, “The Cog is such a popular attraction during leaf season, it’s a must if you want to make the trip.”
Her friends’ words of appreciation continued as they boarded the yellow locomotive and found seats together. As the steam engine began its three-mile climb skyward to the “City Among the Clouds,” the familiar, raspy voice of Fritz Wetherbee welcomed them aboard. A regional historian, the New Hampshire native hosted a television program in Boston for many years that the women had always found interesting as well as entertaining. Known for his wit and wisdom, the folksy storyteller was loved throughout New England for the friendly, down-to-earth manner in which he breathed life into the region’s unique history. Today his four Bay State fans listened carefully as he began his onboard narrative.
“On our left we pass the memorial to Lizzie Bourne, a young woman from Maine, who accompanied her uncle George Bourne and his daughter, Lucy, on a climb up the eastern side of the mountain. It was September 14, 1855, a day that started with rain but cleared enough so that they decided to hike to the Summit House, which was located where the Sherman Adams Summit Building stands today. Two miles below the summit, the rain resumed and dusk fell. Visibility diminished.
“Lizzie, at age twenty-three, had a weak heart. She was also burdened by garments like petticoats, a heavy skirt and pantaloons – what one historian estimates as forty-five yards of fabric. As her clothes were soaked, their weight became intolerable and the cold permeated them. The trio stumbled in the darkness with little notion of their progress. When the icy wind became intolerable, George urged the women to lie down and he built a crude stone wall to shelter them from the wind. The three then curled up together to share their body heat and await daybreak. At around ten o’clock, George felt Lizzie’s hand and forehead. They were cold and lifeless. Wracked with despair and grief, he clung to his beloved niece for the next eight hours.
“To George Bourne, daybreak brought further heartbreak. Gazing upwards, he saw the summit house only 100 yards distant. The little group had passed over the summit and fallen exhausted on the mountain’s west side.
“Lizzie’s funeral was scheduled for September 18, but had to be postponed because of heavy rains. Her uncle George, a robust man in his fifties, was broken by that night on the mountain. His family saw his resistance to sickness fade away. He died of typhoid fever in December 1856, less than fifteen months after his beautiful niece had breathed her last.”
As the locomotive chugged its way slowly up the steep incline, Wetherbee told fascinating stories about Mt. Washington and its environs. Although the women had been to the summit years earlier, they had never heard the popular historian’s narration and listened quietly. They learned many interesting facts they hadn’t known about the world-famous mountain, and it was obvious the craggy-voiced speaker knew and loved his native state.
Mt. Washington, he explained, is a New Hampshire State Park. As the highest peak in the Northeast, it’s considered the crown jewel of the White Mountains. Native Americans called it Aglocochook, “the place of the Great Spirit.” On a clear day visitors can see as far as 130 miles. The Atlantic Ocean and peaks in both Quebec province and upstate New York are all within view.
Also, Wetherbee told them, it is part of New Hampshire’s Presidential Range, a twelve-mile ridgeline that includes Mounts Madison, Adams (John Quincy), Jefferson, Monroe, Eisenhower and Pierce. The Presidential Range has the largest area of above-tree-line and alpine vegetation in the eastern part of the United States. Trees cannot thrive above the tree line because of the thin soils, cold temperatures, short growing season, high winds, blowing snow, and ice.
In addition to the effects of their velocity, he told them, high winds cause plants to lose moisture, which also contribute to the challenges of this alpine region. The mountain’s unusual environment is reflected in its vegetation, with many plants here more typically found at higher altitudes or higher latitudes. The avens and Robbins’ cinquefoil, both rare white-flowered mountain plants belonging to the rose family, are found almost nowhere else on earth.
At the summit, a plaque proclaimed “the highest wind ever observed by man was recorded here.” The commemorative inscription told of a monstrous storm on April 12, 1934, that measured a wind velocity of 231 miles per hour on the observatory’s instruments. Which is why Claire, and no doubt other parents, feared that small children might get blown away during a visit to the mountain.
It was late morning when the women reached the summit on this September morning, and they were pleasantly surprised to find weather conditions to their liking. The temperature was 51 degrees, mild winds came out of the west at 18 miles per hour and, although it was mostly cloudy with only partial sunshine, visibility was 95 miles.
“I want you to know, gals,” laughed Claire, “I ordered this weather especially for you so you could enjoy your visit to our famous mountain.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” replied Anne, going along with her friend’s good-natured humor. “You do think of everything. We thank you for this pleasant weather, along with everything else you’ve done for us this weekend.”
Meg and Anne were quick to pull cameras from their totes and begin shooting, first each other at various spots on the summit, then of the spectacular views along the Presidential Range and beyond. Meanwhile another cog brought more visitors to the summit, creating a mood of excitement and wonder as everyone wandered around enjoying the views and snapping pictures.
After a half hour of picture-taking and admiring the distant mountain vistas, Claire asked, “Is anyone ready for lunch?” When the
others answered in the affirmative, she led them to the cafeteria and gift shop in the rotunda-shaped Sherman Adams Summit Building on the north slope of the mountain. Named in honor of the former New Hampshire governor who later became President Eisenhower’s chief of staff, the reinforced concrete structure is also headquarters for the park. On a clear day, its curved windows give a spectacular panoramic view of the Northern Presidentials, as it did on this day.
As the foursome settled into seats in front of a large bowed window, Claire said, “I’m just going to have a Cobb salad, because we’ll have an early dinner at the Jack O’ Lantern.”
Meg and Anne followed her suggestion, choosing Caesars with shrimp while Rosemary ordered chicken salad on a croissant with fruit. All ordered iced coffee, but no dessert. They lingered over lunch, frequently gazing out the window at the scenic views of distant mountain peaks. It was a peaceful time and place and they were in no hurry to leave.
As she glanced out the window on the mountain ranges below, Meg smiled broadly and said to Claire, “Absolutely breathtaking, especially in the fall. But then, these mountains are beautiful every season of the year. Remember the time we brought all the kids up here for the July 4th weekend and enjoyed that yummy barbeque and Ed’s fireworks show that night?”
“Do I remember?” laughed Claire. “I’ll never forget it. It’s among my happiest memories and it’s one of our favorite photo albums. It’s fun to see how the kids looked then and how they look today. They were pre-teens and early teens; now they’re all grown and married with children of their own.”
“We had a great time; everyone did. That morning hike!” exclaimed Rosemary with a mocked grimace. “It wasn’t exactly the Appalachian Trail, but it sure seemed like it by the time we got back.”
The Mystery Trip Page 11
