Mt. Moosilauke (1922) - Long Trail
". . . In the newspaper game, when your managing editor orders you to do a thing - do it! If you are sent out to "cover" a story - get it - or don't come back. This is the first law of newspaper work - and the last. It does not make any difference how you get your story, only get it!
Coming down from the deserted village near St. Johnsbury, I dropped off at Woodsville having another story in Witchersville which didn't pan out. I asked about Mt. Moosilouk, but nobody seemed to know anything about it. So I went into the railroad station and the ticket agent knew. "Get a ticket to Glen Cliff," he said. "That's where they all get off to go up the mountain."
On the trail I met a young fellow as lean as a hunting dog - and as alert. He had a pack with him. He knew all about the mountain and was going to the top. "When are you going up?" I asked. "Tonight," he replied. "All right - if you don't mind I'd like to go up with you." (Man, I was glad to have company on that climb.) Years ago I had, with others, a claim in the mountains in Oregon. We used to pack animals up that trail and I have been over the mountains alone, and know how lonely it is especially making an unknown trail at night.
When we left the train at Glen Cliff, where there was a saw mill and several houses, the youth with the pack said, "You had better leave your bag at the post office. I'm afraid you'd have trouble carrying it up the trail." So I did, and we started, after young Hadlock had stuffed a few large parcel post packages into his already well-filled pack. I helped him on with it, and if my judgment is good, I think the pack weighed not less than 50 pounds. He carried it by two straps over his shoulders - I carried a raincoat flung jauntily over my arm.
"This is the beginning of the trail," he said, pointing to a little red marker with which the Dartmouth Outing Club blaze their trails. The evening was warm, and we were going up - soon we were both sweating. Hadlock, with the heavy pack, and I with my heavy raincoat. The sun was still high, and by fast time it was only 6:30 p.m. I said, "Am I going too fast for you?" "No," he replied, "you are setting a good pace." And this is where I fell down on my story. I forgot that I was old enough to be the father of the boy at my heels, and that it was 25 years since I had navigated a trail over a mountain. . . ."
From "It's A Long Trail Up Moosilouk" by Hayden Jones, pp. 262-267, The Moosilaukee Reader (Vol.1). ©1999.
