CHAPTER X
A Fight with the Storm on the Crawford Bridle Path
The morning dawned cold, with a north wind, and the Scouts woke up shivering. As they were in the woods on the west slope of a mountain, it would be some time before they could see the sun, but so far as they could get a glimpse through the trees to the west and north, the day promised well for the ascent of Washington.
“Looks clear,” said Art. “I wonder if old Washington has got a cloud cap on?”
“We’ll know before very long,” said the Scout Master. “Even if it has, I don’t think we’ve got much kick coming. Here we’ve been out in the open since the night before the Fourth, and not a bad day yet.”
“Right-o!” said Peanut. “Weather man must have known we were up here.”
The party ate a good breakfast, chiefly of fresh eggs, which Lou ran down to the Crawford House and bought while the fire was being made. Then the packs were carefully packed, the blanket rolls firmly strapped, compasses examined and stowed in the pockets, and the party was ready for the ascent. They moved rather slowly into the path, and turned upward, for the loads were heavy. They were carrying enough provisions for four days, the evaporated vegetables and powdered milk and eggs having been largely saved for this final trip over the bare Presidentials, where they would be far from any sources of fresh supply, and their weight increased by flour, a little butter, some coffee, bacon, potted ham and sweet chocolate purchased the day before in Franconia.
“I feel like a packhorse,” said Peanut.
“Don’t you mean a donkey?” Art laughed.
“Speaking of horses,” said Mr. Rogers, as they plodded up the trail through the woods, “this Crawford Bridle Path was made originally for horses, little burros I suppose they were, and folks even when I was a boy used to go up on their backs. I suppose the cog railroad put that form of transportation gradually out of business. Now nobody goes up this way except on Shanks’ mare.”
“When was this path made?” asked Frank.
“It was the first path cut on the Presidential range,” Mr. Rogers replied. “Abel Crawford opened it in 1819, as far as the summit of Clinton—three miles from the Crawford House. It’s another five and a half or six to the top of Washington, however, and it wasn’t till about 1840, I believe, that one of Abel’s sons converted it into a bridle path and carried it on to Washington. You see, by that time, people had begun to visit the mountains for their vacations in large numbers.”
“So the part we are on is nearly a hundred years old!” Lou exclaimed.
They plodded steadily upward, by a fairly steep grade, though not a difficult one. The rising sun was now striking down into the spruce and hemlock woods about them, but they noted that it was rather a hazy sun.
“I bet there’s a cloud on Washington,” Art muttered.
“What’ll we do if there is? Can we climb in it?” Frank asked.
“That all depends,” the Scout Master replied, “upon how bad a cloud it is. If we get into a storm up there, a real storm, we’ll beat it back, you bet! I haven’t told you, I guess, that as late as 1900 two men lost their lives on this path in a snow-storm on the 30th of June—that’s hardly more than a week earlier than to-day. Down here it’s midsummer, but up there on the five thousand or six thousand foot level it’s still early spring.”
“Golly!” said Peanut, in such a heartfelt manner that the rest laughed—though they laughed rather soberly.
“I ought to add,” the Scout Master went on, “that W. B. Curtis and his companion, Allen Ormsby, the two men who died, would not have perished, probably, if they had turned back when they first saw threats of bad weather, as they were warned to do, instead of trying to keep on, or even if there had been a shelter hut, as there is now, on the long, bare, wind-swept col between Monroe and the summit cone of Washington. They tried to build a shelter under Monroe, and then left that to press on to the summit. Curtis didn’t quite get to the site of the present hut, but doubtless he would have if the hope of it had been there to spur him on. As it was, he evidently fell and injured himself, and Ormsby died some distance up the final cone, struggling in a mad attempt to get to the top and find aid for Curtis. He had fifty bruises on his body where the wind had blown him against the rocks. Curtis was thinly clad, and he was sixty years old. Two guides, descending, who met them on Pleasant, had warned them not to go on—that there was snow and terrible wind above; but they evidently didn’t realize at all what they were in for.”
“Oh, well, we’ve got blankets, and you know the way,” cried Peanut. “What do we care? Guess we’ll ride out anything that can hit us in July!”
The conversation was suddenly interrupted by a sharp “S-sh!” from Art, who was leading. The rest stopped short, and looked up the path in the direction of his pointing finger.
There, right in the path fifty feet ahead, pecking away at the mould exactly like a hen in the barnyard, was a big brown partridge! The Scouts stole softly toward it, expecting every moment to see it rise and go whirring off through the woods. It did stop feeding, raised its head to look at them, and then hopped up the bank beside the path and began scratching again.
“Good gracious, is it a tame partridge?” Art whispered in astonishment.
But his astonishment was still greater when, a moment later, the whole party stood in the path not six feet from the bird, and saw that it was one of a small covey of six. Four of them were feeding on the ground, and making soft, prettycoots, like hens on a hot summer day. Two were perched lazily on the low branch of a hemlock. They paid no attention to the Scouts.
“Gee!” said Frank, “you could knock ’em over with a stick! Let’s have partridge for dinner.”
“Nix!” said Art. “It’s out of season. Besides, I wouldn’t kill anything so tame. I guess they’re not hunted much here. I never saw ’em tame like this before in my life. Down home they’d have been a mile away by now.”
The birds looked up at the sound of his voice, and moved a few feet farther off. Then they began feeding again, the hens following the cock in a sort of procession.
“They certainly are pretty,” Rob said. “I didn’t know a partridge was so pretty. Take a picture of ’em, Frank.”
“Not sun enough in under those trees,” Frank sighed. “I wish I could.”
The boys were reluctant to leave the partridges, but the day was mounting, and they pressed on.
The trees were growing more and more stunted, and rocks began to appear in the trail. Now and then there was a break to the north, and they could see far below to the broad green intervale of Bretton Woods. In another half hour, the forest had shrunk to dwarf shrubs, and they emerged above timber line almost upon the top of Clinton. The summit, however, lay a few hundred feet to the south of them, and shut out the view in that direction. Northward, they could see for a long distance. Westward, too, they looked back at the first mountains toward Franconia. Ahead of them, they saw only a great, bare, rocky ridge rising gradually to the dome of Mount Pleasant, and to the left of this, northeastward, the sloping shoulders of the mountains beyond, falling away to the valley far beneath. Washington was hidden somewhere beyond Pleasant—still six miles away. It was nine o’clock. The dome of Pleasant was free from clouds. The northern sky was blue. Yet the sun was hazy, and southeastward there seemed to be a haze over everything. The wind was cold. Mr. Rogers shook his head, but said nothing.
Sitting down to rest, and ease shoulders from the pull of the pack straps, he pulled the little green Appalachian guide book out of his pocket, and read the “Caution” therein about the Crawford Path:
“This path is one of the most dangerous in the White Mountains, on it no less than four persons having lost their lives. For a long five miles it is above tree line and exposed to the full force of all storms and there is but one side-trail leading to the shelter of the woods. The following precautions are suggested:—Persons unfamiliar with the range should not ascend the Crawford Path except in fine weather and beginners should not attempt it alone. If trouble arises south of Pleasant go back over Clinton. If on Pleasant go down the Mount Pleasant Path. If between Pleasant and Franklin remember that by returning via the south loop there is protection from north and northwest winds in the lee of the mountain. Between Franklin and the cone of Washington the Club’s Refuge Hut should be used. This is the most dangerous part of the path. Never, under any circumstances, attempt the cone if a storm has caused serious trouble before its base is reached. Should the path be lost in cloudy weather go north, descending into the woods and following water. On the south nearly all the slopes are much more precipitous and the distance to civilization is much greater.”
“This path is one of the most dangerous in the White Mountains, on it no less than four persons having lost their lives. For a long five miles it is above tree line and exposed to the full force of all storms and there is but one side-trail leading to the shelter of the woods. The following precautions are suggested:—Persons unfamiliar with the range should not ascend the Crawford Path except in fine weather and beginners should not attempt it alone. If trouble arises south of Pleasant go back over Clinton. If on Pleasant go down the Mount Pleasant Path. If between Pleasant and Franklin remember that by returning via the south loop there is protection from north and northwest winds in the lee of the mountain. Between Franklin and the cone of Washington the Club’s Refuge Hut should be used. This is the most dangerous part of the path. Never, under any circumstances, attempt the cone if a storm has caused serious trouble before its base is reached. Should the path be lost in cloudy weather go north, descending into the woods and following water. On the south nearly all the slopes are much more precipitous and the distance to civilization is much greater.”
“Say, what are you trying to do, scare us to death?” Peanut said.
“No, I’m not trying to scare you,” Mr. Rogers answered. “But I do want to impress on you, before we begin our two or three days on these summits, that they are dangerous mountains, and that here, if anywhere, our scout motto, ‘Be prepared,’ is the one to live by. As you say, we have blankets, plenty of food, and compasses, and we can go down anywhere we want, if need be, into the timber, and get through. But we might get scattered, or after to-day we might split for a time into groups, and I want you all to know what to do. Now, let’s on again.”
Packs were resumed, and the party started ahead along the rocky path toward the domed summit of Mount Pleasant, which from this high col was hardly more than a hill of rocks, rising a few hundred feet above the path. They plodded on for a mile or more, and began to see over into the great wilderness to the south. To the north, at their very feet, lay the Bretton Woods intervale, with the hotels and golf links, but to the south the pitch was much steeper, and dropped into a region of forest and tumbled mountains without a house or road of any sort as far as the eye could see.
Now the path divided, the trail to the left leading directly over the summit of Pleasant. They took the right hand trail, and dropped down a little, going along through some low scrub which had climbed up from the gulf below, protected from the north winds. It was warmer here in the shelter of Pleasant, and they stopped for a long drink by a spring. But, two miles from Clinton, they rose again beyond Pleasant upon the bare col between Pleasant and Franklin, and got the full force of the north wind, which seemed to be blowing harder than before. The sun, too, was getting more misty. Mr. Rogers was watching the south and southeast, but while it was very hazy in that direction, the direction of the wind didn’t seem to indicate that the mist bank could come their way. They rested a moment, and then began the toilsome ascent up over the waste of strewn boulders toward the summit of Franklin. The path was no longer distinct. Here and there it was plain enough, but in other places it could be detected only by the piles of rock, or cairns, every hundred feet along the way.
As they drew near the summit of Franklin, Frank, who happened to look back down the trail, shouted to the rest.
“Look,” he said, “somebody’s coming up behind us!”
The others turned. Sure enough, half a mile back down the trail, were two people, a man and a woman, evidently hurrying rapidly.
“They haven’t any packs or blankets,” said Art.
“Nor anything at all, but sweaters tied around their waists, as far as I can see,” Lou added.
“Probably going up for the day only, and expecting to get down again before night,” said the Scout Master. “They’ll have to hurry. They seem to be hurrying. They’ll catch us all right, at the rate they are coming now, before we get beyond Monroe.”
A few moments later, the Scouts were on top of Franklin, 5,029 feet, the first time they had been above the five thousand foot level except on the summit of Lafayette. Directly ahead, a little over a mile away, was the summit of Monroe, two jagged twin shoulders of rock, with the south wall plunging down almost precipitously into the great pit of Oakes Gulf. Beyond Monroe, rising a thousand feet higher into the air, at last the great summit cone of Washington was fully revealed, and even as they gazed upon it, a thin streamer of grayish white cloud blew against it out of nothingness, and then shredded out to the southward.
“I don’t like that,” said Rob.
“Hm,” said Mr. Rogers, “if it’s no worse than that we needn’t worry. It’s those two behind I’m thinking about.”
The Scouts moved on, across the col between Franklin and Monroe, with the north wind blowing an increasing gale, and always now on their right the yawning pit of Oakes Gulf. They were not more than half-way across when the couple behind them came over Franklin, following them. They were under the southern side of Monroe, some little distance below the summit, and very close to the head wall of the gulf, when the couple caught them.
Meanwhile the cone of Washington had gone out of sight in a white mass. Southward, the view was shut out, for the haze had moved up against the wind. Down at their very feet, in Oakes Gulf, a cloud suddenly appeared from nowhere, coming to the last scrub evergreens.
The couple hailed the boys with panting breath.
“How much farther is it up Washington?” the man asked.
Mr. Rogers and the Scouts turned and looked at them. They were young, evidently city bred, and they had on very light shoes. The girl had on a silk waist, the man a stiff collar! They had no food with them, having eaten some sandwiches they brought, so they said, as they walked. They had put on their sweaters, and had no other protection.
“You are two miles from the summit yet,” said Mr. Rogers, “with the hardest part of the climb ahead.”
“Oh, John, I can never do it!” said the girl.
“We’vegotto do it,” the man answered. “You see,” he added to Mr. Rogers, “we’ve got to catch the train down. Some people are waiting for us at the Mount Pleasant House.”
“The train down!” said Mr. Rogers. “Why, man alive, it’s nearly noon now, and the train goes down shortly after one. It will take you two hours to make the summit cone, with your—your wife in her present condition, even if you don’t lose the path.”
“I—I’m not his wife,” the girl said, turning very pale. “We are engaged only. You see, we’ve got to get down again to-day. Oh, John, wemustcatch that train!”
“Come on, then, we’ll do it! Why, we can make two miles in less than an hour! Two hours, indeed!”
He started ahead, but Mr. Rogers grabbed his arm.
“Hold on!” he said, “have you ever been on this mountain before?”
“No,” they both answered.
“Well, I have,” the Scout Master continued. “Ahead of you lies the most dangerous stretch of path east of the Rocky Mountains. There’s a cloud coming down from Washington, and we may have a storm at any minute. You’ve got no compass, no provisions, no proper clothes. You’d lose that path in five minutes in a cloud. In 1900, the thirtieth day of June, two men, good strong walkers, too, died of exposure between here and the summit. You stay with us.”
The girl went whiter still, and the man, also, grew pale.
“But can’t we go back the way we’ve come?” he said.
Mr. Rogers pointed back over the ridge. A cloud was rolling up and over it from the pit of Oakes Gulf.
“You’d lose that path, too,” he said. “You stick with us, and if we can’t make the summit before the storm breaks, we’ll ride her out in the Shelter Hut. Come, I’m captain, now. Forward, march!”
As the party emerged from the slight shelter of Monroe, upon the great, bare stretch of rising plateau which forms the col between Monroe and the summit cone, they could with difficulty stand up at first against the gale which hit them. The clouds were apparently doing a kind of devil’s dance around Washington. Behind them other clouds had sucked up the Notch, and then up Oakes Gulf, and were pouring over the southern peaks behind like a gigantic wave, beaten back into breakers by the wind. Here on this plateau they were for the time being in a kind of vortex between two cloud masses. They hurried as fast as they could, Mr. Rogers and Art leading.
All the party were rather pale, especially the girl. Rob was walking beside her, and helping her fight the great wind. Their breath was short, in this altitude, and hurrying was hard work. Moreover, the wind came in mighty, sudden gusts, which almost knocked the breath out of them and frequently made them stop and brace.
They had not gone a quarter of a mile when the clouds that came down Washington and those which streamed in from Oakes Gulf closed together, and the last of the party, who chanced to be Lou, suddenly found that he couldn’t see anything, nor anybody.
His heart gave a great jump in his breast, and he let out a terrified cry, which was almost lost in the howl of the wind.
“Come on up!” he heard faintly. A second later, and he saw the forms of Peanut and Frank emerge from the mist ahead of him. The whole party now gathered close in behind Mr. Rogers, keeping only two feet apart, almost treading on each other’s heels. The Scout Master stopped a second.
“Everybody watch for the cairns,” he shouted, “and keep close together. Art and I have our compasses. Now, keep cool. We are only a short way from the hut. We’ll go in there till the worst is over.”
Then he moved on, slowly, making sure of the path. The wind was rising. The cloud that packed them close as cotton batting condensed on their clothes in fine drops. Suddenly Peanut, who was blowing on his chilled hands, noticed that the drops were beginning to freeze! The rocks of the path were getting slippery, too. The girl had stumbled once, and strained her ankle. She was paler than ever.
“Oh, why did I wear these high heeled shoes!” she half sobbed.
The words were no sooner out of her mouth (and probably nobody heard them for the shrieking of the wind along the stony ground), when a terrific gust hit the party in the faces, its force knocking their breath out, the hail-like, freezing cloud stinging their faces, the damp cold of it numbing them. The girl fell again, Rob holding her enough to break the fall. Mr. Rogers ahead also fell, but intentionally. He made a trumpet with his hands.
“Lie down and get your breaths!” he shouted. “Then go on in the next lull as far as you can!”
They all got up again when the hurricane blast was over, and, heads down into the teeth of the icy wind, they pushed on, till the next gust made them fall down for shelter.
“Two miles in an hour!” Peanut was thinking. “We aren’t going a quarter of a mile an hour at this rate. Will we ever get there?”
But the rest were struggling on, and he struggled, too, though his instinct was to turn back to the wind, and beat it for the Crawford House, not realizing that over four miles of bare summit lay between him and the sheltering woods.
Suddenly Art and Mr. Rogers ahead gave a cry. The rest, looking, saw dimly in the swirling vapor only a pile of stones and a cross.
“It’s the spot where Curtis died,” Mr. Rogers shouted. “We have only a quarter of a mile to go.”
“Gee, I don’t think it’s very cheerful,” said Peanut. “I’m near frozen now.”
At the sight of the cross the girl gave way. She began to sob, and Rob felt her weight suddenly sag heavily on his arm.
“Here, quick!” he yelled at her companion. “Take her other arm.”
The two of them got Rob’s blanket unrolled and wrapped about her, as best they could for the whipping of the gale, and then half carried her along, while she tried bravely to stop her hysterical sobbing.
The gale was now a perfect fury. It must have been blowing seventy miles an hour, and the contact of this north wind with the warmer cloud bank from the south was making a perfect hurricane vortex of half frozen vapor around these high summits. Everybody was exhausted with fighting against it, and chilled with cold. Mr. Rogers and Art, however, kept shouting back encouragement as each fresh cairn was picked up, and as Mr. Rogers knew the trail, and they had a map and compass, there were only a few delays while he or Art prospected ahead at blind spots. Alternately lying on their faces on the frozen, wet rocks to get their breaths, and pushing on into the gale, they struggled ahead for what seemed hours. Actually it was only half an hour. Half an hour to go 440 yards!
Suddenly, out of the vapor, not twenty-five feet ahead of them, loomed a small, gray shanty.
“Hoorah!” cried Art and Mr. Rogers. “The hut!”