Fatal Error

Fatal Error
Written by Ben George
The following is an account of an actual incident that took place at the Willey House Historic Area in Bartlett. The Author has placed it in a piece of historical fiction.

As they drove eight miles north to the Crawford Notch State Park in Johnny's '42 pickup, he said to his fiancée, "I'm filling in for Carl today. Feeding the animals should be easy compared to some of the other assignments Art has given me.”

"Have you been trained for that job?" Mary asked.

"No, but I've got the schedule and directions and I've watched Carl do some of it."

"Why don't we meet for lunch in the picnic area south of the pond?" Mary suggested. "Let me see your schedule.” Mary's pretty blue eyes scanned the schedule and she said, "Perfect. According to this, you should be finished feeding Benny and Josie by 1:30 and that's my lunch-break time.”

As Johnny pulled into the employee parking lot, Mary looked around and sighed, "What a lovely day it's going to be. The sun is reflecting off the rock faces on Mount Webster, the sky is sooo blue and the trees on Mount Willey are already showing autumn colors."
He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek and said, "Okay, Love, I'll see you at 1:30. Hand me that schedule and I'll get started.” He watched her skip away to the Willey House gift shop where she worked, and smiled at her spirit and enthusiasm. She was the essence of happiness and optimism and always had been, even when they were little kids. As he headed for the feed lockers, memories of her childish concern as she nursed his make-believe wounds on the imaginary WWII battle fields of their neighborhood, forced him to smile. He was lucky that his childhood friend had evolved into the love of his life.

Upon reaching the lockers and sheds, he loaded the modified golf cart with various sacks of bird seed and animal feed. His handsome face and muscular arms were nicely tanned after a summer of outdoor work in jeans and a tee shirt, but today, the sun was taking its time rising above this narrow valley. He put on his windbreaker and drove the cart across US 302 and through the visitor's parking lot. Starting at the north end of the wildlife exhibit he worked his way south. First on the list were Ricky and Rachel, the raccoons; next was Robby, the red- shouldered hawk. Down the trail he went, stopping at each pen, filling the feeders and checking the water levels. He reached the pen of Benny the Bear and his mate Josephine right on time and parked his cart just off the path.

They were the premier attraction at this wildlife exhibit in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Since 1949, these black bear cubs had grown up in the park and delighted visitors, particularly children, with their playful antics. Now, in 1952, Benny was said to weigh about 400 pounds while his mate was closer to 250. He was an unusually large, well-fed bear compared to his cousins in the wild. Neither Benny nor Josephine seemed alarmed when school kids surrounded them, cameras flashed, girls talked to them as if they were Teddy and boys shot them with imaginary rifles.

Carrying two buckets, Johnny stopped to unlatch the door and then headed straight to the feed trough. As he began to pour the first bucket, he saw from the corner of his eye, Benny shuffling toward the door. A chill went through him as he realized he had forgotten to secure the door.

He quickly grabbed the other bucket and rushed toward Benny to lure him back with the offer of food. The choice of freedom won. Visitors around the pen were aghast to see Benny open the door with his right paw and amble through. Horrified at his terrible mistake, Johnny grabbed the long-handled shovel from his cart, got in front of Benny and tried to prod him backwards. Provoked by the shovel, Benny growled and charged. In a split second, Johnny was on the ground with the bear over him.

The Elders in a Young Grove

Mary saw Johnny's cart from the café deck, and while crossing the road she heard and felt his terrifying screams. She saw Benny outside his pen, but where was Johnny? Racing across the bridge, she froze when she saw him under the big bear, trying to shield himself from the claws. Visitors ran screaming and yelling from the area. The cold bottle of Moxie that she was bringing to Johnny, along with lunch, slipped out of her hand as she reached for the bridge railing to steady herself.

Art, the park manager, and Harold, an older employee, ran from the nearby deer pen and hurled themselves at Benny like football blockers. They knocked Benny off Johnny, but the bear merely rolled over and then turned on the newcomers. Art reached to pull Johnny up and away, while Harold tried to divert Benny's attention. But, he quickly knocked Harold down, and turned on Art. Johnny, bleeding from head and shoulders, was not responding. Benny rammed into Art and took him down with one swipe. As Benny was about to tear into Art, he was hit by a rock in the back of the head. Turning, another smacked him in his brown snout. Out of rocks, Mary turned to race back to the Willey House and almost ran into Alice, her supervisor. "Ask Sam to call the State highway boys and tell them we need a hunting rifle on the bridge immediately to save a life!” she said urgently.

Alice stopped about twelve feet from Benny and put shot .22 caliber bullets into the side of his head. With that irritating insult, he left Art and ambled back toward his pen, shaking his head as if stung by hornets. A nervous Alice stood guard, wishing she had a real rifle and not just her squirrel gun. Art was on the ground near Johnny; neither one moved. Harold had rolled over and appeared to be the only one conscious, though bleeding profusely.

Mary, heart pounding and out of breath, came to a running stop beside Alice and with quavering voice said, "There's a State truck near-by and the guy's been told to come to this bridge right away with a rifle. How's Johnny?"

"I don't know about Johnny, dear, he's probably hurt real bad. But, we have to deal with Benny first. Can you shoot this little rifle?" Before Mary could answer, Alice thrust it into her hands and said, "I'm going to try and get Harold on his feet and up to the bridge. You yell if Benny decides to come visit us again - and don't shoot me!" She managed to get the 67-year-old Harold up and supported him as he limped up to the bridge, where he fainted. He was a bloody mess, and now, so were her clothes.

"Alice!” Mary screamed. "He's coming back!” She heard boots pounding the bridge and looked back to see a tall young man running fast and carrying a big rifle. Crossing the bridge, he ran down the path and stepped off to one side. Kneeling, he took aim at Benny who was plodding toward them with a low rumbling growl from his shaking head. At about 30 feet, Bill, the rifleman, fired. Benny lumbered to his hind legs and let out a roar that made everyone's hair stand on end. Bill answered with four more shots in rapid succession. Benny staggered and fell. With the calm of an experienced hunter, Bill made sure he was dead.

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Alice thanked Bill profusely, while preventing Mary from running to see Johnny. She knew it would do her no good to see him ripped up, even if he was alive, so she asked Bill to help Mary back to the visitor parking lot. When they arrived at the parking lot, a crowd had gathered.

Deputy Sheriff Franklin George arrived to find three men laid out at the edge of the parking lot on stretchers surrounded by gawking visitors mesmerized by the violent events that had enveloped them in the past half hour. Responding to the deputy's loud question of "Who's in charge?" Alice raised her hand and quickly walked toward the man with the Stetson hat and badge.

When the designated 'first-aid' employees finished with tourniquets and bandages, Mary stepped forward from Bill's protective arm. She walked to where Johnny lay, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, pulled the truck keys from his pants pocket. She could hardly look at his face, where the deep bloody claw gouges were now covered with blood-soaked gauze and tape. His shallow breathing offered hope.

As soon as the ambulances left, Mary drove home and picked up Johnny's mother, Barbara, who couldn't believe the news. In shocked silence, she climbed into the old pickup, and Mary grimly drove to the hospital. When Dr. Johnson appeared at the emergency desk, he gently said, "Johnny died from his wounds before reaching the hospital, and Harold is in critical condition." They sat and sobbed until there were no more tears. It was a silent ride home, each deep in anguish.

After an emotional funeral and burial in the town cemetery, Mary and her parents Robert and Pauline were intercepted on their way to their car by a tall, handsome young man in a suit and tie. He said, "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. O'Dell. Mary, I heard how brave you and Alice were in saving Art and Harold before I arrived. If I can be of any help to you in the days ahead, just let me know. He handed her a small envelope, nodded goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.

"What was that all about?" Robert asked.

"I think that was Bill.” she replied, "the man who shot Benny and saved Harold and Art." As Mary rode home in the back seat of her parent's car, she opened the envelope and read, "Dear Mary, Whenever you need a shoulder to lean on, please call me, 689-3923 or write, PO Box 188, Twin Mountain, NH. God be with you, Bill Murphy."

Alice called Mary on Monday and said they were laying off all seasonal workers and that her last check would be in the mail. Sadly, she added, State Park management ordered that Josephine, who stayed in her pen all the time, was to be destroyed. She sincerely hoped that Mary would soon recover from the shock of Johnny's death.

After Thanksgiving, Mary received a letter from Alice. It read, "Dear Mary, Art has fully recovered and is back at work. After nine weeks in the hospital, Harold is reasonably healthy once again, although his face is badly scarred. The County Sheriff's office released a report that said “John W. Tasker's death was the result of human error in the care and feeding of a wild animal.” I hope to hear that you are healthy, and have put this tragedy behind you. Sincerely, Alice".

Heavy winter snow storms kept snowplow drivers like Bill and Robert working around-the-clock for many days and nights. Mary stayed home except to go to the library. She missed Johnny so much that life as she knew it had disappeared. For her, the dark winter days provided no clues as to how she might live without her lifelong sweetheart, and she sank deeper into depression. Old high school friends called, but she had little to say to them.

In April, with gentle rains replacing heavy snow storms, Mary received a letter from Bill. It was a concerned inquiry about her health. Seeing the return address on the letter, Pauline suggested they invite Bill to dinner so he and Robert could have a little shop talk. When she invited Bill, she told him that Mary's spirits were still very low and that she hoped his visit might cheer her up.

Two weeks later, after dinner, Bill and Mary went for a walk and she learned that he had graduated from high school four years ago. As she felt more at ease with him, they found that they both enjoyed reading novels and Robert Frost poetry, swimming, and surprisingly, fishing. When he quizzed her about hiking in the mountains, she admitted to have never hiked at all and had never been to the summit of Mount Washington, by either the auto road or the cog railway. Smiling, she agreed to drive the auto road with him on the next clear day.

A week later a bright blue sunny sky greeted them as Bill's '48 Plymouth climbed the long, steep winding road to the alpine summit of the highest mountain in the northeast. At the Summit House, Mary marveled at the distance she could see in every direction. The granite rock-strewn summit, way above timberline, sheltered small alpine flowers just now emerging from under their snowy cover. As they walked, Bill pointed out the tiny bells of moss plants, drifts of alpine bluets and the occasional white flowered sandworts. Down the slope to the west, reflecting the sun was the “Lake of the Clouds.” Between the summit and the lake a few very low-growing spruce and balsam trees could be seen among the rocks. "They endure some of the worst weather in the world, and survive," Bill said with amazement. As they sat down on a flat rock behind a boulder that blocked the Atlantic breeze, Mary gazed at Bill's thoughtful face. Basking in the warm sun, she smiled and leaned against his shoulder. Perhaps, she thought, I too can survive.


"The author wishes to thank Ruth Abbott of the Bartlett Historical Society and David Emerson, of the Conway Public Library, for supplying old news reports that are the basis of this 20th Century Legend."

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The Willeys and the Willey House

The Willeys and the Willey House
Ben George

When my family moved to Bartlett, NH from Oregon in 1946, I had to learn some new words and phrases – in addition to deciphering New England accents. One phrase was "that gives me the willies". I eventually understood from my young friends that the meaning of "the willies" could range from "creepy feeling" to "really scary feeling". Regardless of the intensity of the feeling, it carried a sense of foreboding and suspense.

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Samuel Willey Jr. and Polly Lovejoy grew up in Conway, where their parents were early settlers of the town. He was born in 1788, she in 1791. They married in 1812 and purchased a farm in Lower Bartlett on the West Side Road near Humphrey Ledge. (The property is currently referred to as the Lady Blanche House.) After thirteen years on the farm and five children, they decided to try the inn-keeping business in Crawford Notch. They bought the Notch House, located 2 miles below the Notch Gate. The road through the Notch was opened around 1785 then upgraded to a turnpike (toll road) in 1804 by investors in Portland, ME.

The Notch House, built in 1793, became The Willey House Inn and Tavern in October 1825. That gave Notch travelers a choice of three inns. Able Crawford's Mount Crawford House was 6 miles south of the Willey House and Ethan Crawford's inn was located 8 miles north of the Willey House. The Willey House was a two story house, which Samuel enlarged, with stables and a barn. A traveler described the Notch in 1793 as follows – "The Notch of the White Mountains …is a very narrow defile extending two miles in length between two huge cliffs, apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of nature. The entrance to the chasm (from the north) is formed by two huge rocks standing perpendicular twenty two feet apart." The Willey House sat on a meadow, at the foot of one of the "huge cliffs" (later named Mt. Willey), on the west side of the Saco River where the Notch opens to a narrow valley. At that time, the valley was full of sugar maples which provided beautiful fall color and maple syrup.

Farmers from northern New Hampshire and Vermont passed the Willey House on the way to Portland Maine, sometimes as many as 75 horse drawn pungs in caravan. However, these were not the potential customers that the Willeys wanted to shelter and feed. They wanted tourists from Boston, New York and other cities, who were seduced by the artists of the Hudson River School and the travel stories of Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne and James. They wished for tourists who came to see the pristine, natural beauty of the White Mountains.

In the summer of 1826, the White Mountains suffered a severe drought. Thin mountain soils dried deep to powder and gravel. As the sun was disappearing over Mt. Webster on the evening of August 27, dry leaves began to rustle and the Willey's wheat field chattered. A stiff, cool breeze replaced the heat and humidity of the day. By midnight, the breeze had become an unusual gale force wind, shrieking through the Notch announcing the coming of a storm. By 4:00 AM Monday morning August 28, a steady, heavy rain was heard on the roof of the Willey House which continued all day, climaxing at 11:00 PM with a tremendous cloudburst. Soon after, mountain sides began to rumble and move. By midnight, clouds were replaced by stars in the clear sky, but the rumble of slides and the trembling of the land continued.

The next morning, Ethan Crawford, looking south from Mt. Willard, saw that the Saco River had become a lake of some 200 acres. He later wrote that his father's farm and sawmill, 6 miles below the Willey House, was largely destroyed by the flood. Able Crawford lost 28 sheep, his grain harvest was swept away and a twenty two inch high water mark was left on the Mt. Crawford House. Indeed, many bridges from Crawford Notch to Conway were swept away and many farms were flooded. In the Notch, slides destroyed much of the turnpike and changed the course of the river. Deep gouges and bare rock face adorned the mountainsides, where trees, soil and stone had been stripped away. A merchant named Barker traveled the next day through the Notch to the Willey House. It took him all day to go over and around 6 miles of rubble. He found the Willey House still standing and dry, but deserted. After spending Tuesday night there, he proceeded to Bartlett Wednesday morning and passed along the mysterious news about the Willey family and the general devastation of the Notch land.

A search party was organized in Bartlett, and reached the Willey House Thursday morning, August 31. They also found the house deserted, but Edward Melcher, a member of the party, wrote, "The track of the slide reached to within three feet of the house and carried away one corner of the barn". Amazingly, the house had survived because a large granite outcropping above the house had temporarily divided the slide into two streams, which reunited below the house. A big, partially submerged, rock near the corner of the house blocked the descent of a spruce tree at the front of the slide causing debris to pile up to the roof of the house. The barn wreckage killed two horses and trapped a yoke of oxen. Several sheep and cows had made their way to a small open space in front of the house, which faced the rubble strewn valley floor. The party claimed that the length of the slide was nearly 3 miles to the top of the mountain. Trees, roots, stone and gravel covered their small wheat field, just north of the Willey House.

Thomas Hart and Stephen Willey (Samuel's brother) found Mrs. Willey and David Allen, one of two hired men from Bartlett, by digging into the debris above the house. Their bodies were terribly mangled and battered, lying under shattered trees and stones. Later that day, Samuel's body was found submerged in the river and pinned down by a barn beam. On Sunday, Eliza, age 13 and Sally, three years old, were found. Eliza was under water, with no bruises, presumably drowned. Sally was underneath three feet of rubble below the house, but above the river. The other hired man, David Nickerson, age 21, was finally found on Tuesday. Three Willey children, Jeremiah, eleven; Martha, ten; and Elbridge, seven – were never found.

David Allen was buried in the Bartlett cemetery with a rough stone marker inscribed – "D. Allen Killed at Willey Slide 1826". The Willeys were buried in the family cemetery in North Conway, with a single gravestone listing all names and ages of family members. The inscription reads: "To the memory of the family which was at once destroyed by a slide from the White Mountains on the night of 28 August, 1826". However, their public memorial was the undamaged Willey House. Although it changed ownership several times, the Willey House continued to serve tourists. Writers of the era wrote poetry and stories imagining the creepy, agitated, frantic feelings of the Willeys as they listened to the mountain slide coming to them, dramatizing their nightmarish tragedy. Some wrote of the beauty of nature becoming a deadly force, some wrote romantic fictional stories of the aftermath.

The Willey House was one of the most popular attractions in the White Mountains until 1899. That year, after withstanding wind, rain and mountain slides, tragedy finally captured the 106 year old Willey House, when it was consumed by fire.

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Fatal Error

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R & R Woodworkers

NH Made Products

Robin Kosstrin and Bob Yanuck started R&R Woodworkers in January of 2002. They decided to make a truly New England product handcrafting their exceptionally comfortable Adirondack furniture from northern white cedar purchased from a small mill in Vermont.
The two comprise the perfect team. Bob, a former carpenter/builder enjoys making furniture with his own personal touch while Robin uses her organizational and social skills on the marketing side of the business.

Both Robin and Bob enjoy research and development, and are very proud of their products, particularly their comfort and classic design.

One ingredient that makes their Adirondacks different from other Adirondacks is the use of 5/4" thick cedar throughout, making them much thicker and sturdier than other similar products. “Northern white cedar is a wonderful wood.” Says Robin, “ It doesn't splinter and is naturally resistant to moisture, decay, and insects!”


Recognizing that these beautiful pieces of craftsmanship are most likely to be used in venues that are exposed to the elements, R&R Woodworkers uses elements that reflect the need for them to stand up to those elements: stainless steel screws, which will not rust, and waterproof glue.

Among their products are chair-sets - one unit with 2 chairs with a table in between; chairs; footrests; rockers - both large and small; end, coffee, and picnic tables, and their new garden bench. The latter is very sturdy, weighing 65 pounds.
If you are an aficionado of Adirondack furniture then you’ll know that not all Adirondacks are the same. Two chairs, side by side that look almost the same can be vastly different in terms of comfort. The angle is a critical factor in the chairs and the bench. We can attest that R&R have the angle right and they are “Spot On” when it comes to comfort. Even the chair backs and seats are shaped for comfort. The bench, while built with a more vertical design, is also extremely comfortable.

According to Bob, one of the most common reactions by a potential customer first sitting in one of their chairs is, "I never knew a wooden chair could be so comfortable!"

One measure of both the quality and the comfort of R & R’s line is the number of local Inns, B&B and other businesses that sport R & R furniture. Of course they know that supporting local folks who are producing a quality product is very important to the New Hampshire economy, but they also know that their customers want comfort. In the classic sense they are thinking globally and acting locally. And the prices are very reasonable.
All the furniture is made in a barn in Jackson, NH – in the heart of the White Mountains. Robin and Bob sell their products at shows such as the Made in NH Expo in Manchester, NH; and the Home, Garden, and Flower Show in Fryeburg, ME, among others. Their show schedule is listed on their website:

They are also available at several gift shops; lumber-yards; and nurseries; and, of course, phone orders and email orders are always welcome. Be aware that the good folks at R & R prize their reputation for producing a high quality line of finished products and for that reason they don’t ship, so you’ll have to make the trip to the White Mountains or one of the retailers that they work with if you are going to be lucky enough to own this line – or they will make a trip on your behalf for a nominal fee.

The Shop in Jackson, NH

R & R Woodworkers
PO Box 548
Jackson, NH 03846
Tel: 603-383-0890
Toll Free: 866-616-9663
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www.RandRWoodworkers.com

Gak’s Snaks

NH Made Products
Windham, NH
NH Mom Psychologist-Turned Entrepreneur Cooks Up a Line of Treats For Children with Food Allergies.

For the parents of the many children suffering from potentially life-threatening food allergies, finding a snack that their kids can enjoy in social situations with other children can be a challenging task. Just ask Jill Robbins. A clinical psychologist and mother of a nine year-old boy, Robbins had trouble finding snacks that her son could eat after he was found to be allergic to a number of foods at the age 18 months. So she started experimenting in the kitchen.

After many years of trial-and-error, she opened Gak’s Snacks ten months ago, providing a resource for other families like her own. At the Gak’s Snacks website and by phone she offers her cookbook and allergen-tested specialized ingredients for those who want to bake, and ready-to-eat baked goods for convenience. Her cookbook, “The Gak’s Snacks Allergy Cookbook: Baked Treats for All Occasions” contains over 100 recipes. From birthday cakes to snack bars to apple pie, there are recipes whole groups or families can enjoy together. The baked goods Gak’s Snacks currently produces are chocolate chip cookies, brownie chip cookies, and apple coffee cake. The cookbook recipes and baked goods are all peanut-free, tree nut-free, egg-free, and dairy-free. They are also made without wheat, and contain no soy except for soy lecithin. "Kids with food allergies ought to be able to have delicious treats and participate in social events that involve food just like everyone else," says Robbins.


In addition to being available through the Gak’s Snacks web site, Gak’s Snacks products are now on the shelves of several markets in New Hampshire, and are also being offered at schools in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Connecticut. This summer the cookies were served to all of the campers attending the summer day camp program at the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. “It’s been great to see schools and camps providing our cookies to their students and campers. That way all the kids can eat the same food together. It’s about inclusion,” Robbins says. Robbins makes it easy for parents and institutions to be enthusiastic about her products: they are whole grain, Kosher pareve, vegan, certified organic, and contain no cholesterol or trans fat. Gak’s Snacks • P.O. Box 491 • Windham, NH 03087 • www.gakssnacks.com • (603) 425-6613 • (800) 552-7172

Farmers' Market

This is a Snippet of a Longer Articles
Written by Christine H. Randall

Ahhhh….summer! Summer in New Hampshire, brings with it an abundance of locally grown fresh fruits and vegetables. For those lucky enough to have a garden, you know that there is no comparison between just-picked, vine-ripened tomatoes and crisp cucumbers, succulent strawberries, and tender, sweet corn-on-the-cob, and the trucked-in produce you typically find available at the grocery store. For those who don’t have a garden or who want to supplement what’s in their own garden, there are about fifty farmers’ markets scattered around the state, selling fresh produce, home-baked goods, and a variety of New Hampshire-made items throughout the summer and into early fall.

Full Article

NH Farmers Markets

Ahhhh….summer! Summer in New Hampshire, brings with it an abundance of locally grown fresh fruits and vegetables. For those lucky enough to have a garden, you know that there is no comparison between just-picked, vine-ripened tomatoes and crisp cucumbers, succulent strawberries, and tender, sweet corn-on-the-cob, and the trucked-in produce you typically find available at the grocery store. For those who don’t have a garden or who want to supplement what’s in their own garden, there are about fifty farmers’ markets scattered around the state, selling fresh produce, home-baked goods, and a variety of New Hampshire-made items throughout the summer and into early fall.

According to Stephen H. Taylor, former Commissioner of the New Hampshire Department of Agriculture, Markets, and Food, farmers’ markets fill an important role in local economies throughout the State. “Farmers’ markets are becoming increasingly important to NH agriculture and to the communities that host them,” he stated recently. “They afford farmers a low-cost venue to link up with consumers, who are afforded a source of fresh, locally grown produce, flowers and other farm commodities. Farmers' markets also contribute to the social fabric of communities by bringing people together in a pleasant, relaxing environment.”

Taylor noted that farmers’ markets have been in existence since at least the Middle Ages, if not before, and they have been a part of American life since Colonial times. In New Hampshire, the oldest continually operating farmers’ market is located in Portsmouth, and, according to Taylor, it is also the largest. Since 1992, the number of farmers’ markets in New Hampshire has grown from twelve to fifty-four in 2005, with more being planned for this year. “This growth is unprecedented,” Taylor said.

Commissioner Taylor explained that a farmers’ market is distinguished from a farm stand by several factors. “A farmers' market, by statutory definition, is a place where two or more vendors gather for purposes of selling agricultural commodities; no vendor may own the physical premises where the market is held. A farm stand is a place situated on a farm or a location leased or rented by a farm for purposes of selling produce of that particular farm; the farm, depending on the local zoning ordinance, may be permitted to sell up to a fixed percentage of gross sales produce purchased for resale from other farms.”

Licensing regulations for farmers’ markets vary from town to town, with some, like Nashua, having fairly involved regulations, and others having none, except in the case of vendors selling New Hampshire wines or prepared foods, in which case special licenses are required from the State Liquor Commission or the State Bureau of Food Protection, respectively.

The following is a list of New Hampshire farmers’ markets originally compiled by the New Hampshire Department of Agriculture, Markets and Food for the 2006 season, sorted by county.

BELKNAP
Laconia Farmers’ Market: Beacon St. East, upper parking lot, next to City Hall. June 24-October 7, Saturdays, 8:30 a.m.-12 p.m. Vegetables, fruits, baked goods, jams, jellies, flowers, crafts, maple syrup, honey, goat cheese and milk and eggs. Rain or shine, 267-6522. btramsay1@aol.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Meredith Village Farmers’ Market: Community Park, Main St. July 6-September 14, Thursdays, 3-6 p.m. Fresh locally grown meat, fruits, vegetables, crafts, maple syrup, baked goods. Demonstrations, music. Rain or shine, 279-9015. gmpl@metrocast.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Sanbornton Farmers’ Market: Sanbornton Historical Society’s Lane Tavern in Sanbornton Square, Rt. 132. June 30-October 6, Fridays, 3-6 p.m. Agricultural crafts, baked goods, dairy, free range poultry and meat products, eggs, fiber goods, crafts, flowers, fresh fruits, berries, herbs, honey, jams, jellies, potted plants, processed foods, seeds, syrup, vegetables, woods crafts and products. Local entertainment; fresh produce cooking demonstrations. Rain or shine, 528-1990. sfm@shakerwoodsfarm.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; www.lanetaver.org/sf.htm.

Tilton Farmers’ Market: East Main St. across from Police Department. June-October, Wednesdays, 3-6 p.m. Fruits, vegetables, bedding plants, seasonal plants, pumpkins, maple products, honey products, pies, jams, jellies, baked goods, craft items. Rain or shine, 286-8668. info@tiltonmainstreet.org.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

CARROLL
Jackson Area Market: Jackson Village. Summer, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Vegetables, fruits, arts and crafts. Shine only, 383-6277.

North Conway Farmers’ Market: Gibson Center for Senior Services. July-September, Tuesdays, 1-5 p.m. Vegetables, fruits, arts and crafts. Rain or shine, 383-6277.

Sandwich Farmers’ Market: Samuel H. Wentworth Library, under the Pines, Rt. 109. June 24-September 30, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Locally grown and certified organic produce, fruits, berries, maple syrup, baskets, baked goods, seasonal demonstrations, plants, more. Old Home week in August. Rain or shine, 284-7163.

Wakefield Farmers’ Market: Corner of Rt. 16 and Wakefield Rd., opposite Palmers Motel. May 27-October 7, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-3 p.m. Local vegetables, fruits in season, baked goods, fudge, plants, pottery, wood, fiber art. Demonstrations 10-11 a.m. Rain or shine, 473-8762.
www.wakefieldmarketplace.homestead.com.

Wolfeboro Area Farmers’ Market: 35 Center St. across from DeVylder’s Market. June 22-September 28, Thursdays, 1-5 p.m. Organic vegetables, goat’s milk products, jams, jellies, baked goods, cut flowers, herbs, herb products, eggs, honey, maple syrup, potted plants, wool. Weekly educational demonstrations and events. Rain or shine, 323-3369. telemark@ncia.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

CHESHIRE
Jaffrey Farmers’ Market: Monadnock Plaza, Rt. 202. July-September, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Produce, flowers, plants, jams, jellies, maple syrup, baked goods, limited crafts. Rain or shine, 532-6561.

Keene Farmers’ Market: commercial parking lot off Gilbo Ave. May-October, Tuesdays and Saturdays, 9 a.m.-2 p.m. Fruits, vegetables, herbs, plants, flowers, maple syrup, honey, baked goods, crafts, jams, jellies, eggs and soap. Rain or shine, 446-9474.

COOS
Colebrook Farmers’ Market: 84 Colby St. July-October, Saturdays, 8 a.m.-12 p.m. Vegetables, fruits, berries, baked goods, maple products, pickles, jams, jellies, wool yarn, crafts. Rain or shine, 237-4430.

Lancaster Farmers’ Market: Centennial Park. June-October, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Certified organic produce, fresh local produce, goat cheese, eggs, baked goods, pesto, jams, jellies, cut flowers, plants, maple syrup, free range chickens, honey, fruits, berries and cider. Rain or shine, 586-9832. lancasterfarmers@aol.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; www.NorthernNHFarmersMarket.com.

GRAFTON
Canaan Farmers’ Market: On the Park, U.S. Rt. 4 & NH Rt. 118. June 20-September 26, Tuesdays, 3:30-6:30 p.m. Locally and vendor grown produce, meats, baked goods, maple products, fine crafts. “Primavera” markets, Saturdays, May 20 & 27; Harvest Market, Saturday, October 7, both of these markets are morning markets, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Rain or shine, 523-4337. kushwood@valley.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Enfield Farmers’ Market: Huse Park, U.S. Rt. 4 & Main. Late-June-early October, 3-6 p.m. Fruits, vegetables, maple, honey, baked goods, meats, yarn, soap, flowers, eggs, chicken, jams, jellies. Weekly entertainment; Cheese Day is August 9. Rain or shine, 632-7197. info@shakerhill.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it , EVA@interdial.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it , www.Enfieldmainstreet.org.

Lebanon Farmers’ Market: Colburn Park, downtown Lebanon. June-September, Thursdays, 4-7 p.m. Locally and organically grown produce, breads, baked goods, poultry and meat products, eggs, cheese, prepared foods, hard cider, crafts, jewelry, soaps, woolens. Live music at every market and community booths. Rain or shine, 802-649-2724. franny@valley.netThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it , www.lebcity.com.

Littleton Farmers’ Market: Cottage St., Senior Center parking lot. June 18-October 8, Sundays, 10 a.m-1 p.m. Fresh local produce in season, meat, eggs, poultry, maple products, preserves, baked goods, prepared food, perennials, cut flowers, honey, crafts, wood products. Entertainment and demonstrations through the season. 444-777/0248. info@littletonmainstreet.orgThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; www.littletonmainstreet.org.

Lower Cohase Farmers’ Market: Rt. 302, Woodsville. June 15-October 15, Wednesdays, 11 a.m.- 2 p.m. Seasonal produce, melons, eggs, baked goods, crafts, flowers, plants. Rain or shine, 838-6425.

Plymouth Farmers’ Market: Church of the Holy Spirit Community Life Center, Highland St. June 22-September 28, Thursdays, 3-6 p.m. Corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, beans, peas, lettuce, beets, melons, cut flowers, meats, eggs, soaps and baked goods. Rain or shine, 536-3823. longview175@adelphia.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

HILLSBOROUGH
Amherst Farmers’ Market: Amherst Village Green. June 1-October 5, Thursdays, 2:30-6:30 p.m. Locally grown & organic produce, fruits, cut flowers, herbs, wine, seafood, milk, cheese, baked goods, preserves, soaps, potted plants, other specialty items. Rain or shine, 249-9809, grdnprty1@aol.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Bedford Farmers’ Market: Rt. 101 to Wallace Rd. to Benedictine Park. Summer, Tuesdays, 3-6 p.m. Organic and locally grown produce, wine, fish, venison, baked goods, cut flowers, cheese, fruits, apples, strawberries, blueberries. Family events and celebrations, local musicians. Rain or shine, 494-8190. info@bedfordfarmersmarket.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it , www.bedfordfarmersmarket.com.

Hancock Farmers’ Market: in the horse sheds behind the church. Mid-May-mid-October, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Vegetables, fruits, certified organic produce, pickles, buffalo meat, honey, handicrafts, baked goods, soups, perennials, flowers, maple syrup, soaps, kettle corn, quilts, yarns, preserves, cider (in season). Weekly musical, craft and cooking events; announcements in local papers and sign board. Rain or shine, 525-3788. cdaloz@worldpath.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Manchester Downtown Farmers’ Market: Victory Park, Concord St. & Pine St. June-October, Thursdays, 3-6:30 p.m. Vegetables, herbs, flowers, eggs, meat, baked goods, certified organic vendors, soups, maple products, strawberries, blueberries, apples, pears, peaches, melons, dried flowers, wines. Weekly demonstrations of cooking, music, children days, food sampling. Rain or shine, 679-8101. charliereid@ttlc.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Milford Farmers’ Market: TD Banknorth, lower lot, South St. Late-June-early-October, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Locally grown fruits, vegetables, flowers, herbs, plants, baked goods , jams, jellies, maple syrup. Rain or shine, 673-5792, mosseyapples@aol.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

New Boston Farmers’ Market: Town Common at the gazebo, Rt. 13. July-October, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Local produce, baked goods, eggs, flowers, jams, sweets, honey, maple syrup, herbals, fresh fish. Rain or shine, 487-3577. harveyhouse@earthlink.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Peterborough Farmers’ Market: Depot Square Park. May 24-October 4, Wednesdays, 3-6:30 p.m. Starter plants, vegetables, herbs, fruits, cut flowers, bouquets, perennials, eggs, poultry, lamb, goose, duck, herbal products, baked goods, pickles, preserves, honey, maple syrup, goat cheese, raw fresh milk, raw fresh goats milk, jewelry, soap, candles, hand knit sweaters, mittens, scarves, felted bags, other items felted. Rain or shine, 547-2108. greenfieldgardens@verizon.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Weare Farmers’ Market: Town Gazebo. July-September, Fridays, 3-6 p.m. Seasonal fresh fruits, produce, certified organic goods, fresh baked breads, pies, jams, jellies, pickles, goats milk soaps, lotions, fresh garlic, compost, flowers, potted plants. Vendor demonstrations, educational events, music. Rain or shine, 529-0782. wearefarmersmarket@hotmail.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Wilton Downtown Marketplace: 48 Main St. June-September, Fridays, 3:30-6:30 p.m. Produce, New Hampshire made and produced products. Free corn on cob while in season! Harvest Fair, September 16, 10am-2pm. Rain or shine, 654-3020. WMSA@tellink.netThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; www.mainstreet.wilton.nh.us.

MERRIMACK
Concord Farmers’ Market: Capitol St. June-October, Saturdays, 8:30 a.m.-12 p.m. Fresh produce, crafts. Rain or shine, 796-2654.

Contoocook Farmers’ Market: Main St. July-September, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Pies, jams, jellies, maple syrup, eggs, vegetables, plants, compost, bread, berries. Rain or shine, 746-2874.

Franklin Community Farmers’ Market: Unitarian Church parking lot, Central St. June 27-October 3, Tuesdays, 3-6 p.m. Produce, natural meats, wool, fiber products, honey, maple syrup, jellies, jams, ice cream, baked goods. Rain or shine, 934-3229.
cindytaylormidwife@yahoo.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Henniker Farmer’s Market: Community Park, Main St. July 5-October 11, Wednesdays, 3-6 p.m. Vegetables, fruits, maple syrup, honey, crafts, body products, flowers, homemade dog biscuits, eggs, pork, chicken, composting red worms, baked goods. Live music periodically. Rain or shine, 428-7490. info@hennikerfarmersmarket.usThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; www.hennikerfarmersmarket.us.

Pittsfield Farmers’ Market: Dustin Park. Mid June-mid October, Thursdays, 3-5:30 p.m. Local farm fresh vegetables, fruits in season, baked goods, bread, jams, jellies, soaps, cut flowers, annuals, perennials, herbs, specialty products. Rain or shine, 435-7695. nan@adamsonhouse.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Wilmot Farmers’ Market: Wilmot Town Green, near bandstand. July 1-September 30, Saturdays, 9 a.m-12 p.m. Vegetables, baked goods, meats, maple syrup, plants, cut flowers, honey, jams, jellies, herbal soaps, crafts, wool products. Local entertainment. Rain or shine, 371-0849. www.wilmotfarmersmarket.com. information@wilmotfarmersmarket.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

ROCKINGHAM
Deerfield Farmers’ Market: Old Center Rd. Early summer-early autumn, Fridays, 3-7 p.m. Fruits, vegetables, crafts, meats, jams, jellies, baked goods, plants. Hay rides, music, magic. Rain or shine, 463-8812. deerfieldfarmersmarket@hotmail.com.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Exeter: Swasey Parkway, June-October, Thursdays, 2:30-5:30 p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

Hampton: Sacred Heart School parking lot, Lafayette Rd., June-October, Tuesdays, 3-6 p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

Kingston: The Plains, Main St., June-October, Tuesdays, 2:30-5:30 p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

Nottingham Farmers’ Market: Blaisdell Memorial Library parking lot, 129 Stage Rd., Mid July-mid September, Sundays, 1-4 p.m. Fresh local produce and plants. 679-8484.

Stratham: Stratham Hill Park, June-October, Wednesdays, 2:30-5:30 p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

STRAFFORD
Barrington Farmers’ Market: Rts. 9 & 125, across from Calef’s Country Store. May-October, Saturdays, 8:30 a.m.-12 p.m. Fruits, vegetables, plants, cut flowers, eggs, mushrooms. 749-0377.

Dover: Henry Law Park, June-October, Wednesdays, 2:30-5:30 p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

Durham: Pettee Brook Lane parking lot, June-October, Mondays, 2:30-5:30 p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

Portsmouth: City Hall parking lot, Junkins Ave., May-November, Saturdays, 8 a.m.-1p.m. Featuring locally grown products, certified organic products, prepared foods, baked goods, arts and crafts. 778-6003 (in season hotline).

SULLIVAN
Claremont Farmers’ Market: Broad Street Park. June 1-October 12, Thursdays, 3:30-6:30 p.m. Produce, fresh bread, baked goods, eggs, flowers, fudge, herbs, honey, jams, jellies, maple syrup, meats, plants, seed, soaps, handcrafted clothing, quilts, gifts. Free entertainment, children’s activities weekly, and Celebrate NH Farmers’ Market week. Rain or shine, 542-8687. claremontmarket@aol.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; www.claremontmarket.org.

Cornish Farmers’ Market: Cornish Flat. May-October, Saturdays, 9 a.m.-12 p.m. Seasonal produce, baked goods, bread, organic meats, crafts, maple products, plants. Apple and pumpkin festivals. Rain or shine, 542-6323. ara8@earthlink.net.This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Newport Farmers’ Market: on the common, North Main St. June 9 - October 13, Fridays, 3-6 p.m. Fruits, vegetables, plants, flowers, breads, pastries, cookies, candies, soaps, meats, eggs, preserves, wool products, food concessions. Rain or shine, 863-4847.
newportfarmersmarket@adelphia.net.

Franconia Falls, The Wilderness Trail, Lincoln NH

Long considered one of the best swimming spots in America, Franconia Falls is a 7 mile round-trip hike or bike through a piece of New Hampshire history. The hike is an easy one, beginning with a walk over a suspension bridge and along an old railroad bed that once carried logging trains in and out of the Pemigewasset Wilderness. For the adventurous hiker or biker there are the last remaining signs of an old logging camp at a discernable clearing on the left about 1 mile from the trailhead.Stop and explore and you may just discover a treasure or two. Take the 3.5 mile trip by bike or on foot along the old railroad bed of the Wilderness Trail or the newer access trail along the north side of the East Branch of the Pemigewasset River.




What makes Franconia Falls so special? Start with the trip into New Hampshire history. Then add a section of Franconia Brook that the waters of the millenia have carved into the rocks forming graceful rounded patterns and the best natural slide around. Just up the river about 200 yards from the flume is a quiet pool with cliffs for jumping, dive at your own risk!


Hikers and Bikers:
Skill Level: Novice to Intermediate - Only the last 1/2 mile is moderately difficult. We recommend that all but the most experienced cyclers leave their bicycles at the junction of the Wilderness Trail and the Franconia Brook Trail and hike the last half mile.
Surface: Old railroad bed, Mountain bikes recommended but not absolutely necessary. Smoother biking on the access road north of the river.

Round Trip Distance: 7 miles
Park at the Wilderness Trail parking lot 3 miles north of Lincoln along the Kancamagus Highway. National Forest stickers required and available on site.


Ratings:
Cleanliness: 4 Swimmers and hikers are conscientious about cleaning up but this area gets heavy use.
Clarity: 5 Just as pure as it gets and cold!
Kid Factor: 5 waterslide, cliffs, pools.
Beauty: 5 Just plain spectacular.
MapSearch
Lincoln Woods, Rte 112 Kancamagus Highway Lincoln
NH
03251
Grafton USA

Fat Bob’s Ice Cream

Rte 25, Warren, NH
Udder Madness! Fat Bob’s does almost nothing but ice cream and they do it well. A hot day in the Heart of New Hampshire will find people coming from miles around to savor the flavor of some of the most exotic flavors of ice cream around. Telephone: 603-764-9047

MapSearch

Rte 25 Warren
NH
03279
Grafton USA
Email: EmailEmail This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it
Website
Phone: 603-764-9047

Kancamagus Highway Rte 112

Known affectionately to local folks as the "Kanc", this road offers some of the most stunning scenery in all of New Hampshire. So that you won't immediately be tagged as a visitor the correct pronounciation of the road is: "Kank - uh - mog - us". The road winds from the town of Lincoln on the southern end to Conway on the north with many lookouts in between.

If you are traveling to Bartlett or looking for a road that will take you over into the Crawford Notch region, Take the Bear Notch Road which diverges north in Passaconaway and bear left onto Rte 302 in the town of Bartlett ( Bear Notch Rd. not maintained for winter travel).

For Bicyclers:
The Kancamaugus is not for the faint of heart. Long steep upgrades and downgrades will have you panting with exertion and yelling with glee but don't forget that a lot of folks drive this route and chances are they are paying more attention to the scenery than they are to the road so be cautious.

Moose Alert!
This road may be populated by extremely large and beautiful creatures!

A Trout Bum for a Father

By Kirsten Giebutowski

The bobbin hangs from the unfinished fly, waiting to be taken up again, as my father reaches for a bag of feathers. He’s not in a hurry but he’s not dawdling either. He’s been tying flies for almost fifty years, so he doesn’t have to tell his left hand to hold the lemon wood duck flank 

feather securely as he winds the black thread around it with his right. His hands know what to do. He just keeps an eye on them to make sure they’re doing it. He has a theory that this feather’s important—when it comes off the trout seem to lose their appetite—so he takes care in the binding.

      

      

The streams the finished fly will float on are frozen outside his door, but in his mind he can see them running. February’s a good month for anticipation. The worst cold past, nothing but spring ahead and another season fishing with his daughter. This fly’s for her, which is to say, for me. He knows I like the Harris Special, so he’ll tie a few more and some Woolly Buggers, too. He has to tie plenty because he knows I’ll lose some, will likely send some up to unreachable branches where they’ll stick fast like the burrs our dog Pippin collects during grouse season and break off when I tug at the line. That’s okay, my father thinks. Out on the stream is a good place for laughing at your own foolishness. For one thing, it’s likely no one will be there to witness whatever dumb thing it is you’ve just done. If you drop your backcast, or accidentally snip your fly off just after you’ve tied it on, or drop your fly box in the stream and go chasing after it, half running - half swimming, scaring off all the fish in a twenty-yard stretch, well, it’s likely only the trees and the stream and maybe some birds will be watching.

            Follies like these don’t describe my father out on the stream. They’re mishaps of mine that he knows about. Perhaps he thinks of them from time to time, just as I think of him tying flies one night in February. I’m not there—I’m his grownup daughter who has to cross half the country to fish with him—but I’ve witnessed the scene often enough to imagine it. I grew up, after all, with a trout bum for a father. Oh, he taught math, too, and there was evidence of that in the house, textbooks lying around, calculators, student papers riddled with corrections, but all of that seemed somehow less salient than evidence of my father’s other occupations. Maybe because a finite math textbook doesn’t creep up your nose like a sink full of fish guts does, doesn’t chill your 

fingers like the trout you fetch from the freezer for dinner, isn’t something you bite into—carefully, when you’re a kid fearful of lodging a bone in your throat—only after drowning it in tartar sauce to mask the strong and salty, fishiness of it. Then there are pictures I have in my head: my father repainting his canoe in the yard; turning the dining room table into a worktable for building fly rods; and of course, winding that bobbin around a hook in the evenings, adding to his store of flies.

        

    These images are more immediate to me than ones of my father bent over a page of equations. His outdoor self just found more vivid expression. When I was growing up, he wasn’t outdoors only to fish but for all sorts of other reasons—to garden, pick berries, search for mushrooms and wild leeks, tap trees for maple sugaring, hunt birds and deer. I went along with him now and then on most of these adventures but fishing was the most fun. I think, for a child, just handling a fishing rod can be exhilarating; for me it was. Following my father down to the edge of the water with my spinning rod in hand gave me a sense of importance, gave me the feeling that I was there to accomplish something and I had the tool with which to do it. My child self liked the weight of the rod that became an extension of me and lent me a reach I didn’t otherwise have. I liked the satisfying plunk of the lure as it hit the water and the neat clicking sound as I reeled it in, more often than not without a fish on the end. My father must have told me then what he can’t resist saying occasionally now, “That’s why it’s called fishing and not catching.”

            Somehow when I hit high school, my interest dwindled and I spent more time reading whatever book I’d brought along than fishing. Maybe I grew impatient with not catching enough fish or maybe I was just distracted by life’s other possibilities, the things that hadn’t happened to me yet but were happening to people in the books I was guzzling, not one of whose heroines had met her beloved while she was out fishing. My father didn’t complain in that span of time when I couldn’t be persuaded to go fishing with him more than once or twice a year and sometimes begged off going entirely. When I returned to it a few years out of college, he was beside himself with happiness and he has been that way since.

            The Upper Connecticut River, in Pittsburg, New Hampshire has been our favorite place to fish together since I started fishing again. Even after fishing there for almost ten years, the Great North Woods area still retains much of its mystery for me. The further north we drive, the more likely we are to spot moose by side of the road, and twice we’ve seen a black bear on our drive up. Sometimes my father has to poke me because I’m not a morning person by nature and I find the only way to stave off hunger pangs is to remain at least half asleep. We don’t eat our breakfast until we get closer to where we’ll fish. One day waiting for my eggs I read a history of Pittsburg, crammed in small type on my placemat. Both Canada and the United States claimed ownership of the area for years after the American Revolution. Not wanting to pay the taxes or serve in the military of either country, residents established their own nation in 1832, the Indian Stream Republic, and lived by the rules of their own constitution for four years before joining the United States.

            My father and I have had the most luck fishing the Upper Connecticut at a spot we call “the meadow” because we have a long walk across one to get to the water. I have crossed the meadow with my father in all weathers, including cold weather when there is still a foot of snow on the ground and we have to wear long underwear under our waders and winter jackets over them. After a spring doing that, I vowed never to cross the meadow before May. The last time I was there was Father’s Day weekend, and the meadow was lush with tall grasses and wildflowers. Once we were out on the river, a flock of Canada geese passed over our heads and cedar waxwings flew back and forth across the water. My favorite bird, the red winged blackbird, was there, too. My father pays little attention to birds when he fishes, unless they’re ducks (which he hunts) or great blue herons (you’d have to see those every day to pass by the sight of one). He rarely lets his eyes stray from the surface of the water. No doubt that’s one of the reasons he catches more fish than I do. Our first day at the Meadow on Father’s Day weekend he caught two rainbows and I caught nothing. But on our way out, I had the satisfaction of spotting a deer before he did. She stayed frozen, evidently hoping we wouldn’t notice her, until we had almost passed her. I almost never spot an animal before my father does. He is a man who drives 55 miles an hour down a country road and suddenly stops and backs up a hundred feet to get a better look at a mushroom he’d spotted on a tree. When I do see an animal before he does, it delights him.

The next day was mine to catch something, and it began as most of our fishing days do, with me muttering a stream of complaints as I forced my feet into the felt-soled wading boots. My father chuckled. We never tire of the joke of how long it takes us to get into our gear. The walk across the meadow felt endless to me that day. I was aware that breakfast was still a couple hours of fishing away. I was aware of all the weight I was carrying. My vest was heavy with fly boxes, various weights of line, an extra reel, a folding metal wading stick for fast water, and the net hanging off it bounced on my back as I bounced along. The boots at the end of my waders felt heavy, too. With each step I flung out a weighted foot and let its momentum carry it until it dropped. Slowly I hauled my cumbersome body across the meadow to the river’s edge and stepped down, letting the weight of my gear lower me.

            My father took a spot upstream from me, no doubt because he sensed the fish might be further down. I waded in and felt, as I often do, pleasure in the act of striding out to meet the fish. You lose that in a canoe, which isn’t to say fishing from one doesn’t offer its own fun. But I like wading into the stream above all else and feeling the coolness of the water through my waders. The current that day was just strong enough that I could feel the strength of my own legs against it and I stood there like a tree, dividing the water that rushed past me as I raised my rod. Then I was using my whole body, fighting the current with my lower half and lassoing the air with my upper. If I had roots like a tree I also had branches that reached out, my rod and line an extension of me, seemingly endless until the fly hit the water, closer to me than I expected - I always think my cast will go farther. When it didn’t land where I wanted it to I glanced upstream. My father was too absorbed in his own graceful casting to notice, but I could hear his voice in my head. “Fish it out,” he’d have said if he were closer.

            I remember when I thought I’d never be able to cast with a fly rod. When I came back to fishing one summer in my twenties, I left my spinning rod behind, and my father set himself the task of teaching me to cast with a fly rod in our yard, far enough out back that I hoped no passing cars could see us. At twenty-five I still wasn’t past feeling embarrassment, and I knew I looked ridiculous bending this way and that, handling my rod like a child casting spells with a plastic wand. I threw it around impatiently, fearful with each cast that the dummy fly on the line would whip back and hit me in the face, wondering whether I’d ever get the hang of it. But my father took me out on the stream, and I started to loosen up with the rod and to feel more confident. I remember him getting excited and telling me I was a natural. I knew he wasn’t an impartial judge, but I never minded when he said that.

            My mother was away that summer, and I started going up more weekends to keep my father company, but also because I was starting to like being out on the water and to like this new identity I’d taken on as a fly fisherman. I was living in the city at the time, working in a job that didn’t inspire me, and I’d fallen prey to the disease of consumerism to ease my ennui. A new identity meant, in part, new stores to visit. My favorite was Orvis and I would rush there after work and browse through the whole store looking for a piece of it to take away. For a while I coveted one of their vests and considered all the models carefully, with their various configurations of pockets. But I knew I couldn’t really afford one, so I walked around listening to conversations in the store, instead, feeling myself part of a new club that gave me license to be there. I know there are plenty of women who fly fish, but there never seemed to be any of them in the store, and I remember thinking that being the only one gave me some small sense of what it must have been like years ago for women to infiltrate traditionally male domains for the first time.

            While I was taking the measure of mesh versus cotton and fancying myself some sort of ridiculous pioneer a hundred years too late, my father was probably out fishing. He’s generally too busy being a fisherman to sit around thinking about what it means to be one, though he does read a whole lot of books and magazines about the sport. Every Christmas growing up I’d give him a fishing book, but it was always a risk figuring out what he hadn’t read. The best gift my mother and I probably ever gave him was a fishing vest. I don’t know how he ever managed without a vest but somehow it didn’t occur to him to buy one. He’s always been reluctant to buy things, especially for himself, always been the sort to wear his clothes past the point where the fabric wears thin and the holes can’t be hidden, been the sort to wear them straight through to the disintegration phase. I’m surprised his vest hasn’t disintegrated by now. It’s at least twenty five years old and he keeps it so loaded with tackle I can barely lift it with one hand. How a man like this ends up with a daughter who hankers for a fancy vest a few weeks into taking up a fly rod I just don’t know.

            I imagine it confuses him, too, but he offers no criticism and drives us three hours north to fish whenever I visit. On a typical day, after fishing all morning, my father and I get sandwiches at Young’s, Pittsburg’s general store, and eat them on the tailgate of the truck at our next fishing spot. The sandwiches aren’t fancy but even your run-of-the-mill sub with iceberg lettuce and pale diced tomatoes tastes delicious after you’ve been on the stream a few hours. Visiting the store has somehow become part of our fun, perhaps because it feels now like a kind of ritual to walk in there with our waders on and stand at the deli ticking off the ingredients we want in our sandwiches. While we wait for them, I walk around the store, looking for places to focus my acquisitive gaze. Once when we were checking out, my eye fell on some magnets near the cash register. How perfect it’d be, I thought, to have a magnet for my refrigerator with a fish leaping on it that said “Pittsburg, NH,” but when I picked it off the board and showed it to my father, he said, “That’s a largemouth bass. They don’t have largemouth bass up here.” For most of my life I had looked at people who visit the countryside from the city with a certain condescension. I would not allow friends I met in college who were from cities or suburbs but summered in some rural place to claim the countryside as their own. It belonged to real country folk like me who lived there year-round. But then, poised to buy a magnet featuring a fish I didn’t even know wasn’t local, I found I had become the kind of person I’d felt superior to my whole life, and I had to laugh.

            Outside the store lay one of the best cures I have found for the disease of consumerism, for the self-absorption of thinking about such things, or for too much unproductive thinking of any kind—a good river to fish. And that’s where I found myself now after the long walk across the meadow on the second day of our Father’s Day fishing trip. After a handful of casts I gave up on the streamer I had on from the night before and tied on a Harris Special. The Harris Special originated in New Hampshire and I’m fond of it in part because it was one of the first flies I could easily identify, with its orange bucktail throat and silver tinsel body. As often as not I catch trout on it, but I persist in believing it lucky. As I wet the knot with my tongue and tightened it, I gave way to superstition and felt sure I’d catch something, even if it took some time.

And then I passed into the state I most like to be in out on the river, the state where I become so absorbed in what I’m doing, so lost to the world beyond my fishing rod, that when I become aware of my surroundings again and pause between casts to look around, what’s around takes me by surprise. I always hope to get to that point where I lose myself on the river, and I had lost myself now. I had lost myself but I knew where I was, alive to the water around me and the sky and the view downstream. Between casts I watched cedar waxwings landing in trees on the opposite bank, the bright yellow tips of their tails like exclamation points in a rich green paragraph. Pay attention to all this beauty, they seemed to say, and I did.

That state of receptivity doesn’t last forever. After a while I could feel my casting arm tiring and my thoughts turning to breakfast. Just as I was about to give up and walk upstream to suggest it, I felt a tug on my line. It wasn’t a big tug and it wasn’t a big fish, but I felt the quickening I always do when I have a fish on and I shouted to my father as I pulled a small brook trout out of the water. I could dimly hear his congratulations from upstream as I freed the fish from the hook and pointed him upstream before taking my hand away. And then he was gone, the surprise of his leaving as great as the surprise of his tug on my line. My father and I hardly ever keep our fish, even when they’re big enough. Our pleasure is not in the acquisition but in the encounter with something wild that lives in what seems sometimes like our own world at its best and sometimes like another world parallel to ours.

I take pleasure, too, in the glimpse I get of my father when we’re out fishing. Not that he’s such a terrible guy in other circumstances, but when we go fishing, his best qualities show themselves as vibrant and elemental as the red spots encircled with blue on the prettiest brook trout. Almost nothing puts him out of humor on a fishing day, not even me closing the truck door on the fly rod he built me and snapping it beyond repair. He’ll show me how to tie the same knots trip after trip without sighing and untangle my line when I get close to stomping my feet like a frustrated child. He has more energy outdoors, too. When we have to cut through woods to reach the water, I swear he moves faster than he does on a paved road with no obstacles. He’s been a fisherman since he was a boy and never grown tired of it. All his adult life he’s fished the same waters in New England and never grown tired of those. He seems to draw from a bottomless store of wonder that is surely a measure of the depth of his love for the sport. I could have been born to another father with another passion or perhaps no passion at all, so I consider myself lucky. The beauty of what we experience out on the water is something I think any father would wish for his daughter, any daughter would wish for her father and, for that matter, anyone who loves another human being would wish for them.