Robert Rogers – Frontier Hero – White Devil

Legends & Lore: Robert Rogers – Frontier Hero – White Devil

Robert Rogers, or Rodgers (7 November 1731 – 18 May 1795), was a New Hampshire resident and colonial frontiersman. Born in November of 1781 in Methuen, Mass, his family soon moved north to what is now New Hampshire settling in a town Roger's refers to in his writing as Mountalona and today encompassing the towns of Dunbarton and Bow.

His service to the people of New England, particularly in the war known in the colonies as the French & Indian War (in Europe the Seven Years War) is well documented and a study in the fame and controversy that surrounded this remarkable man. Many military historians attribute the seeds of the American Revolution to the ideology, tactics and strategies of the famed Roger's Rangers, started under his leadership. Indeed, one of his favored rangers was John Stark who would later set aside his "Ranger temperament" to become a General in the Colonial Army and utter the famed phrase "Live Free or Die". 

Legend has it - though no documented evidence exists - that, after a brief stint in England where he was feted as a British hero of the frontier, Rogers returned to America and offered his services to George Washington who turned him down for fear that he was a loyalist spy. Rogers in spite joined the British and fought as a loyalist.

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We will, likely, never know if Washington was right about Rogers and the legend may, in fact, be nothing more than revisionist history fostered by the likes of the peripatetic historian Francis Parkman  who  nearly one hundred years after Rogers day, set his sights on rehabilitating Rogers in the eyes of a public that remembered only his final betrayal in his service to the army of King George.

Yet, the legend of Washington's actions - true or not - and certainly the work of Parkman, may contain the seeds of Roger's historic rehabilitation. After all, today Rogers is revered as the father of the Rangers and the Green Berets, while his fellow loyalist Benedict Arnold's name has become synonymous with treachery and betrayal.

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Lest we fall into the Parkman trap of romanticizing the frontiersman, it should be pointed out that Native American’s of the time – with the exception of a few sub-groupings of Algonquin and Iroquois who sometimes fought beside him or served as scouts – referred to him as Wobomagonda, translated to “White Devil” because Rogers and his Rangers could be every bit as treacherous and vicious as any of their rivals - Native or European.

The truth about Rogers probably lays somewhere in between. The Rangers may have been pitted by history against the native indigenous people – but they drew much of their strategies, dress and temperament from the very same people and many historic documents evidence their admiration of their foes.

After the Revolution Rogers returned to England where he died unappreciated and impoverished in London - far from his family and the woods and mountains of his native New England that he loved so much.

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The Republic of Indian Stream

by Wayne D. King

Long before US independence from England the region of New Hampshire now known as Pittsburg was the subject of territorial disputes. First between the British and the French and later between the US and Canada.

The region, known as Indian Stream, encompassed approximately 200,000 acres on the border between New Hampshire and Canada. And its story began long before the formation of a republic during another famous conflict. From 1754 to 1763 Europe and the Colonies were caught up in a conflict between England, under King George II, and France, under King Louis XV. In Europe this period was known in The Seven Years War. In North America it came to be called the French and Indian War. It was a conflict over trade and land.

Prior to the time of this conflict, the region was a well-kept secret of Native people’s and the occasional hunter and trapper. But the conflict brought military parties for both sides into this region, most notably the famous Roger’s Rangers, and word quickly spread both north and south about this extraordinary place with warmer weather, large meadows and fine hunting and fishing. They even found where Native Americans had panned for gold in Annance Gulch. While people were slow to move because of the boundary question, some intrepid souls were willing to trade the security of well establish boundaries for the dream of such a bountiful land and within a few years of the end of the conflict the settlers numbers had swelled to 360 souls. Yet the land dispute continued between the “super powers” even after the powers themselves realigned as a result of the Revolutionary war and the British authorities were replaced by US authorities.

As a result of the land dispute, both governments made demands on the settlers. The Canadian Government attempted to press some of them into military service, while the United States government attempted to collect taxes.

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The continuing roots of the problem lay in the difference between the vagaries of geography and nature and the tendency for men to try and simplify their description of the same. In the early days of the US many a deed set the stage for a land dispute, describing a bound by a particular tree, streambed, rock cairn or other object not inclined to remain static to satisfy the needs of mere mortals. The Treaty of Paris, which ended the American War for Independence, was no different. It set the boundary as "the north western most head of the Connecticut River”. However, three tributaries feed into that part of the head of the Connecticut River and almost immediately each government went about setting the boundary based on the tributary that gave it the most land.

For nearly 60 years the dispute continued to fester and cause no end to headaches for the fiercely independent folks of Indian Stream. They had come here to build a life for themselves based on the rich resources of the land and found themselves caught in a geopolitical struggle reaching far beyond their own boundaries and understanding and finally reaching beyond their patience.

On July 9, 1832, they declared the disputed area to be a sovereign nation - the Indian Stream Republic. Settlers drafted a constitution, detailing the rights and obligations of the citizens; instituted their own court system; issued their own stamps and currency; established a militia; and did all they needed to be an independent nation.

Of course, neither the US or Canadian governments were content with this solution and chose to ignore the sovereignty of the Republic and to attempt to enforce their own laws upon the citizens of Indian Stream. Even among the citizens themselves there were factions loyal to one side or the other, despite their independence and, as is common in such geopolitical disputes, each side used the divided loyalties to further their own cause.

As one might imagine, despite their noble efforts, forming your own country is a process fraught with peril. Residents of Indian Stream soon discovered some of the difficulties when scoundrels fleeing the law on either side of the Republic sought refuge within the protective confines of Indian Stream. Indian Stream was not well equipped to deal with law breakers . . . their only jail was a large potash kettle which was placed upside down over the prisoner on a large flat rock. Soon other problems began to present themselves: some citizens refused to pay taxes or even their store bills. Canadian officers continued to served writs in the Territory and the New Hampshire sheriff tried to make arrests.

In 1835 a tit-for-tat series of arrests created the catalytic series of events that led to the demise of Indian Stream. Luther Parker, a former leader of the Indian Stream Republic who headed a group known as “The New Hampshire Boys” with pro New Hampshire sympathies, was arrested by Quebec authorities. Luther owned a store in Indian Stream and was accused of threatening a Canadian citizen with a knife during an argument in the store. Luther was freed when friends swore "he wasn't threatening anyone with that knife, he was just whittling."

Shortly after Luther’s release Quebec Justice of the Peace Alexander Rea held a meeting in a local schoolhouse to attempt to convince residents that they should annex themselves to Canada. The meeting was quickly adjourned when Luther Parker and the New Hampshire Boys showed up to break it up.

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New Hampshire authorities lost no time in arresting John Tyler, a pro Canadian resident of Indian Stream. It is commonly believed that this arrest was in retaliation for Parker’s arrest. However, before the sheriff could get Tyler out of the Republic of Indian Stream, a band of pro-Canadian citizens rescued him.

Canada struck back when Rea, issued an arrest warrant for Richard Blanchard, a resident of Indian Stream who was also a New Hampshire deputy sheriff and NH sympathizer. Rea himself attempted to enforce his warrant with several posses from Canada that streamed across the border and arrested Blanchard. But before Canadian authorities with Blanchard had crossed back with their captive, the Indian Stream people were alerted, gathered a crowd, and chased the posses and rescued Blanchard. Emboldened by their success in rescuing Blanchard the Indian Stream citizens were not content to stop with their rescue but in a heated discussion at the store talked themselves into entering Canada to kidnap Rea, which they did. Their efforts appear to have simply been their way of striking back in the midst of incursions into their own sovereign territory as they only held Rea for a few hours. When they couldn’t agree on what to do with him, they simply let him go.

History is littered with the wreckage of small nations who thought that they could use the disputes of two goliaths to assure their own future only to find that when faced with such a problem even long-time enemies will come together long enough to quash the uprising. The kidnapping of Rea set off alarm bells in both Canada and the US and as a result of a communiqué between Lord Gossford of Canada and Governor Badger of New Hampshire, the NH militia were deployed to occupy the territory, with Gossford’s tacit approval.

In January of 1836, Canada relinquished its claim on the Indian Stream Territory. In May of that year the Indian Stream Republic citizens accepted New Hampshire’s authority. Pro-New Hampshire residents remained, and many pro-Canada residents emigrated to Canada. The Indian Stream Republic was incorporated into the town of Pittsburg without dispute of Canadian authorities, although it would be 1842 before the boundary line was officially set and the land recognized as belonging to New Hampshire with the signing of the Webster-Ashburton Treaty of 1842.


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Flame of Love – The Ruth Colbath Story

Legends and Lore
by Theresa Ludwick

There is no human experience that can hold a candle to love. Hearts are enslaved by it, thrones are abdicated for it, and without it, poets would have nothing to say. In the Bible’s Song of Solomon, love is described as “stronger than death.” Yes, love burns. Just ask (if you could) the late Ruth Colbath of Passaconaway, New Hampshire, in whose case love burned for 39 years in the form of a light kept lit each night after her husband left home and failed to return.

Ruth Priscilla Colbath was one of five daughters born to Amzi and Eliza Russell who, in 1831, purchased five 100-acre lots in the town of Passaconaway. The Russell clan were true original pioneers of New Hampshire’s north country, living off the land and what they could gain from their sawmill and store.

Ruth met and married Thomas Alden Colbath and together they farmed the land. When Colbath left his wife, she was 41 years of age. No children are recorded as having been born to the couple.

When Ruth’s father, Amzi, died in 1877, much of the land was sold to pay off the mortgage and back taxes, but the original home and some acreage remained in the family. In 1887, Ruth’s elderly mother transferred ownership of the farm and land to Ruth and Thomas and the three of them resided there together.

One might wonder at the motivation which led Thomas Colbath to leave the farm one day in 1891. Was his mother-in-law a nag? Was life on the farm a difficult drudgery? Was his wife ugly? Whatever the reason, Colbath said to Ruth, “I’ll be back in a little while,” and left, not to return in his wife’s lifetime.

True to love’s form, Ruth is said to have left a light on for her husband in hopes of his return. For 39 years, she waited, in the meantime caring for her mother, running the farm and becoming the first postmistress of the Passaconaway Post Office, a position she held from 1891 to 1906. In 1905, Mother Eliza passed away, and Ruth kept up her lonely vigil, struggling to get along as best she could.

Finally, in 1930 at the age of 80, Ruth Priscilla Colbath’s life and light were extinguished. She never saw her dear Thomas again, never bore his children, and never got the chance to cuss him out for leaving. Surprisingly, however, Colbath did return three years after her death (knowingly or unknowingly) only to find an empty house and land that had been divided and bequeathed to four of Ruth’s cousins.

Thomas Colbath gave no rational explanation for his departure 42 years earlier. He claimed to have remained in the Passaconaway Valley for about a year, and then begun to wander farther away. With the passage of time, ashamed and embarrassed, he could not bring himself to go back to his wife. His return in 1933 was as mysterious as his departure and, after a little while, he left again for parts unknown.

Ruth Priscilla Colbath was buried in the village cemetery along with the rest of her family, not far from the house. Did Thomas ever visit her grave? Did he ever kneel beside it and speak penitently to his faithful, wounded wife? Was he ever sorry that he abandoned so true a partner and so potential a love? Lastly, did he ever consider the cost, in kerosene, of her devotion? Let’s hope so, the rat.

(The Russell-Colbath House is located on the Kancamagus Highway in the White Mountains and is a registered historical site. Admission is free, though donations for its upkeep are accepted and appreciated.).

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Schussing A Conundrum

Just Where is the Birthplace of Skiing in America?

By Theresa Ludwick

My laptop was firmly in place. I lowered my glasses and gripped my keyboard with the readiness of an Olympian. Before me, clean, pristine whiteness waited for the swish of words as I began my article, to be entitled, The Birthplace of Skiing in New Hampshire. I breathed deeply in preparation of the plunge, my body leaning forward, and at just the right moment, I pushed myself off, schussing down the page in a straightforward line.

Suddenly, I was confronted by one obstacle after another in rapid succession as my course forced me to slalom. I leaned toward the right, passing a flag that said, “North Conway.” I leaned toward the left and “Jackson” came into view. Left again and I read “Hanover.” Right: “Berlin.” Before I reached the bottom, I was on my behind, clinging to my laptop, my fingers splayed over the keyboard helter-skelter, my glasses askew. I rose lamely to my feet and gazed back at the crest of the hill, then settled gingerly on the Delete button, dangling my feet all the way back to the top.

When the question is asked, “Where is the birthplace of skiing in New Hampshire?” a number of respondents raise up proud cries of “Here!” Foremost among them are the aforementioned North Conway, Jackson, Hanover, and Berlin, and indeed, each place has its ski poles firmly planted in the permafrost of New Hampshire skiing lore. Even so, to definitively point to one location as the “birthing room” so to speak, of New Hampshire skiing, is like pointing to where the first snowflake of ski season falls.

It is much easier (and the route this author has chosen) to consider Mt. Washington Valley, overall, as a nursery of sorts to the pastime that has garnered the distinction as New Hampshire’s official sport. Each area contributed to the state’s early schussing movement and, in its own way, was unique and innovative. Their contributions are extensive, and amount to way more than a hill of beans (make that snow).

Long before businessmen in suits and ties got their fingers in the New Hampshire ski resort pie, Scandinavian immigrants in warm woolen layers were playing and competing against one another on these utilitarian apparatuses originally intended for transportation over snow (the oldest ski in existence dates to 2500 BC, pulled out of a peat bog in Sweden). These workers began arriving in Berlin in the 1840s to build the Atlantic & St. Lawrence Railroad. When the logging industry took off there, many chose to stay.

By 1882, the now called Nansen Ski Club had been formed (though unsubstantiated claims put the date 10 years earlier), making Berlin home to the oldest ski club in the country. The club’s name honors Fridtjof Nansen, a nineteenth-century Norwegian Arctic explorer and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. Club members took part in cross-country and ski-jumping activities in Norway Village and later at Paine’s Meadow, where jumpers were competing at Berlin’s annual Winter Carnival as early as 1906. Numerous records were set there in the early years of the sport. In 1922, the Nansen club joined with several other clubs to form the Eastern Ski Association.

In 1910, the Dartmouth Outing Club was established in Hanover by a Dartmouth College student named Fred Harris. While today, the DOC is an umbrella organization for the school’s year-round sports, it was originally founded to encourage competitive skiing and snowshoeing. Inspired, other colleges started forming their own ski clubs and intercollegiate competitions soon followed.

The DOC sponsored its first winter carnival in 1911, and has not missed a year since 1918, when a coal shortage decreed its cancellation. In 1935, the DOC introduced the first “J-bar” cable lift to the skiing world.

Jackson claims the distinction of being the first official “ski area” in the state. Originally called Moody Farm, the humble ski lodge now known as the Whitney Inn has been in operation since 1935. To many, it is considered the home sweet home of New Hampshire’s ski resorts. In 1948, the skiing hill was extended and christened, “Black Mountain.” It was here that Carroll Reed, a ski fan and member of the Boston-based White Mountain Ski Runners, conceived and established the Eastern Slope Ski School, which opened in the winter of 1936 (the first US ski school, interestingly, was established by a woman – Katherine Peckett – in 1929 in Franconia). Reed imported ski instructor Benno Rybizka from Hannes Schneider’s St. Anton Ski School in Austria.

The country’s first overhead T-bar cable lift was installed at Black Mountain in 1935, designed by George Morton who later (1938) invented and installed the Skimobile at Mt. Cranmore in North Conway. Two years later, the rope tows were exchanged for shovel handles, making the trip to the summit easier. In 1957, Black Mountain was the first to offer skiers fabricated snow through use of a snowmaking system. In comparison to today’s multi-million dollar resort/recreation establishments, Black Mountain holds its own as a rustic, inviting ski lodge and large slice of New Hampshire skiing history.

In 1939, after moving his ski school to North Conway, Reed imported another Austrian (this time Hannes Schneider himself) to head up the school at Mt. Cranmore. Schneider and his family left Austria after the country was taken over by Nazi Germany and made his home in the North Country, devoting himself to the school and improvement of skiing conditions on Cranmore. In fact, it was Schneider who introduced the idea of “groomed” ski slopes to the area. The year before Schneider arrived, George Morton’s Skimobile was mounted up the side of Mt. Cranmore. This special railway, pulled by strong metal ropes, was a new way to transport skiers to the summit, and was only the second of its kind in the US.

The ever-resourceful Carroll Reed opened his second ski shop (the first was in Jackson) and, with the advent of the ski trains back in 1932, North Conway eventually became the new center of the Mt. Washington Valley ski industry.

Numerous innovations and firsts occurred throughout New Hampshire in the youth of American skiing. For an extensive list of these and other important historical ski dates, check out www.skiinghistory.org/historicdates.

Ed’s Note: We are most grateful to Jeff Leich, Director of the NE Ski Museum in Franconia, NH for helping us to vet the facts in this article and for providing us with these truly memorable photos. If you have never had the chance to see the Ski Museum it is well worth the trip.

Getting closer and closer

Written by Joe Dambach
To train for the Newton’s Revenge bicycle race up the Mount Washington Auto Road, I would drive to the base of Mount Kearsarge in Warner, New Hampshire. On an early Saturday morning in June, I was the first one on the mountain. The summit road ascends 3.5 miles through the park's 5,000 thickly wooded acres.

A half mile into my ride I noticed something on the road. As I looked at it, my thoughts shifted from deer to coyote to dog to…? The animal was walking---traveling the same direction---up the mountain. Sitting on my road bike, I was a quiet rider, making virtually no noise at a steady 4.5 mph pace. I was not far enough into the ride to be breathing heavy.

After staring at this animal for a few seconds, I realized it was a large cat. A mountain lion (also known as cougar). His body had a uniform tan-brown color and a long tail. The tail sagged down and then curved back up, creating a smiley face arc. I continued to pedal in awe, maintaining my cadence, when I realized I was closing the gap. I was getting closer and closer.

Then it dawned on me, if I got too close, he could turn and attack. If so, I'd be defenseless. First, my feet were clipped into the pedals, practically locking me to the bike. Second, the road was so steep, it would take me several seconds to maneuver a u-turn (without falling over). By that point, the mountain lion would have leapt onto my back, his jaw biting and then snapping my neck. He was certainly large enough to take me down, like a scene from an African wildlife show where a lion takes down an antelope---with ease. I imagined him dragging me off into the woods, bike in tow.

So I did the only thing I could think of, I yelled, a deep roaring AHHH! The mountain lion jumped into the air, while turning his head to see what just spooked him. He leapt several feet off the ground, landed, and then took off into the woods with two long cat hops. As he ran into the woods, he stole one last glance at me, with a look on his face like: what the bleep was that? I continued up the mountain without breaking stride, albeit looking over my shoulder often.

Joe Dambach lives in Hooksett, NH

Franconia Notch and the Women Who Saved It.

By KIMBERLY A. JARVIS

A case study of early-twentieth-century grassroots preservation and the role of women in the American conservation movement

The "heart of New Hampshire," the 6,000-acre Franconia Notch nestled deep in the majestic White Mountains, was a well-loved summer resort and tourist destination in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. When in 1923 a devastating fire destroyed a famous grand hotel-the Profile House-and its owners decided against rebuilding, lumber companies eagerly moved in to evaluate the timber in the region. A vigorous campaign to save the pristine Franconia Notch wilderness rapidly galvanized around the efforts of the Society for the Protection of New Hampshire Forests, the Granite State's premier force dedicated to conservation. Support poured in from local, state, regional, and national sources as the Franconia Notch campaign gathered steam in a bid to acquire and preserve the Notch. The New Hampshire Federation of Women's Clubs was a particularly spirited participant-and a key to the campaign's success. In 1928 the effort culminated in the creation of Franconia Notch Forest Reservation and War Memorial, today's magnificent Franconia Notch State Park. Franconia Notch and the Women Who Saved It is the story of this remarkable grassroots movement. Author Kimberly A. Jarvis applies meticulous scholarly skills to new archival material from the New Hampshire Federation of Women's Clubs and weaves her findings into the dynamic conversations now being carried on among environmental historians and scholars of New England regional culture. Her unique focus on the impulses that inspired early-twentieth-century women's clubs to become involved with this particular regional conservation campaign-and with conservation efforts and nature study generally-is a significant contribution to White Mountain literature and women's studies. Scholars, students, and readers who love nature and history will find much to admire and absorb in Franconia Notch and the Women Who Saved It.

"Franconia Notch and the Women Who Saved It is a masterful study of the origins of American landscape sensibilities and the changing meanings of the White Mountains. Using the campaign to save Franconia Notch as a focal point, Jarvis systematically traces the formation of a conservation ethic in this eastern context and identifies a new cast of characters in the conservation story."-Richard Judd, Professor of History, University of Maine

A wild, rugged, forested Franconia Notch is an important symbol for New Hampshire, but it was almost stripped of much of its natural beauty early in the Twentieth Century. In this engaging and thoroughly researched book, Kim Jarvis tells us how and why people from all walks of life worked together to preserve one of the most scenic spots in the eastern United States."-Kurk Dorsey, Associate Professor of History, University of New Hampshire

"Indispensable reading for anyone interested in the rise of New England conservation, or more broadly, the national attempt to save America's threatened wilderness landscapes in the early twentieth century."-Michael Lewis, Salisbury University

University Press of New England
Paper $25.95
232 Pages 6”x9”
Www.upne.com
KIMBERLY A. JARVIS is Assistant Professor of History at Doane College in Crete, Nebraska. She specializes in the study of women and the conservation movement in the United States and is the author of journal articles and conference papers

White Devil - Robert Rogers and Roger's Rangers

Few New Hampshire citizen’s played a more unique and controversial role in the pre-revolutionary period of America than Robert Rogers.

Robert Rogers, or Rodgers (7 November 1731 – 18 May 1795), was a New Hampshire resident and colonial frontiersman. Born in November of 1781 in Methuen, Mass, his family soon moved north to what is now New Hampshire settling in a town Roger's refers to in his writing as Mountalona and today encompassing what is likely portions of the towns of Dunbarton and Bow.
His service to the people of New England, particularly in the war known in the colonies as the French & Indian War, (in Europe the Seven Years War) is well documented and a study in the waxing and waning fame and controversy that surrounded this remarkable man.

Many military historians attribute the seeds of the American Revolution to the ideology, tactics and strategies of the famed Roger's Rangers, started under his leadership. Indeed, one of his favored rangers was John Stark who would later set aside his "Ranger temperament" to become a General in the Colonial Army and utter the famed phrase "Live Free or Die".


White Devil is a book that provides a balanced and thoughtful look at this fascinating historic figure from the perspective of the lead-up to, and aftermath of, the historically significant and savage, bloody attack on the village of Saint Francis, Quebec.

With British tempers stoked by the 1757 French-led, Indian massacre at Fort William Henry, calls for retribution reached a fevered pitch throughout the colonies. The task of exacting that retribution fell to the Rangers. In what was unquestionably one “war crime” in response to another Rogers was ordered to exact revenge by leading a hazardous search and destroy mission against the Abenaki Indian village of St Francis, far behind enemy lines in Canada’s St. Lawrence Valley.

Against all odds, Rogers and his men fulfilled their perilous orders, only to be faced with the even more daunting prospect of a grueling retreat. Between them and safety lay some 200 miles of unforgiving wilderness. It was a nightmarish journey home. Vengeful French and Indians were soon in hot pursuit. The rangers who evaded them faced other unforgiving enemies. Winter was closing in, and their rations were soon gone: crazed with hunger, some resorted to cannibalism in a desperate bid for survival; those who finally reached safety were truly the walking dead.

St. Francis expedition won Major Rogers’ heroic status throughout Britain’s empire and the moniker “White Devil” among the Abenaki. Today, competing historical views of the events surrounding the attack on St. Francis depict Rogers and his Rangers in much the same dichotomous view.

Without romance, and with a revealing understanding of the emblematic nature of the St. Francis massacre, author Stephan Brumwell draws upon meticulous archival research and first-hand knowledge of the rugged region where these dramatic events unfolded to create a gripping account of the events. Brumwell weaves together the testimonies of eyewitnesses—British, French and Indian—to tell a powerful and moving true story from North America’s violent colonial frontier.
,
Stephan Brumwell is based in Amsterdam. A former newspaper reporter, he received his Ph.D. at the University of Leeds. Brumwell is the author of an acclaimed book about ordinary soldiers who fought the French and Indian War called Redcoats: The British Soldier and War in the Americas, 1755-1763, as well as many journal and magazine articles. A recipient of the Authors’ Foundation Elizabeth Longford Grant, he lectures regularly in the US and the UK.

White Devil – by Stephan Brumwell, Da Capo Press Eleven Cambridge Center, Cambridge MA 02142. Paperback · $17.95 · ISBN: 0-306-81473-0 · 335 pages

Eastern Larch - Tamarack

Most children learn that conifers are often called "evergreens" because they don't loose all their needles in the fall. However there is one beautiful exception to this rule. . . the Larch also known as the Tamarack. Every fall the Larch paints the landscapes it inhabits with a beautiful yellow as it loses its needles. 

Larch is not a major commercial timber species. However, in recent years its appeal has increased particularly for use where dampness is an issue (decks, sills, walkways, bridges, posts, poles, mine timbers, and railroad ties). In the US it is still used primarily for pulpwood. Unlike most other conifers, it is a goood fuelwood because of its density. 

Food For Mammals: Snowshoe hares feed on twigs and bark; porcupines love the inner bark; red squirrels the cones; mice eat the seeds. Though the porkys love the bark it seems to taste bad to deer and moose, who avoid it even in the worst of winters. 

Bird Food: Larch is a food source for some species of Grouse, Pine Siskin, Crossbills, and some other birds. 

Native Americans used the roots for making cord, they also used the wood for arrow shafts, and the bark for medicine. The roots were specifically used by Ojibwe people for sewing the edges of canoes and making woven bags. Native also taught the first european settlers to use the soft needles for pillows and mattress stuffing (though they rarely used such things themselves).

Medicinally the inner bark was used to treat depression.

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The North Star: Bette Davis

By Barbara Bald

Like so many other visitors, Bette Davis came to New Hampshire seeking rest and relaxation. And like so many others not expecting to stay, Miss Davis fell in love with the state and decided to make it her home.

Born on April 5, 1908 in Lowell, Massachusetts, her parents, Harlow Morrell Davis and Ruthie Favor Davis, christened her: Ruth Elizabeth Davis. (Her stage name came from the Balzac novel “Cousin Bette.”) Unfortunately, after her father completed law school, the family separated and when Bette was ten, their divorce became final. Her mother worked tirelessly as a housekeeper, nursemaid and housemother at a school to support the family. She struggled to become a professional photographer and was eventually able to enroll Bette and her sister (Barbara Harriet Davis) into a boarding school, Cushing Academy in Massachusetts. Upon her graduation, Bette (age 20) entered John Murray Anderson School of Theatre in New York City.

By 1929 Miss Davis had made her Broadway debut in “Broken Dishes” and in 1931, having moved to Hollywood for a screen test, she made her first film “Bad Sister.” After six small films with Universal Pictures, Bette signed a seven-year contract with Warner Brothers Studios. Her role in “The Man Who Played God” started her on her way to stardom, and her role in “Of Human Bondage” earned her critical acclaim. Bette won her first “Best Actress Oscar” for “Dangerous” in 1935, and with her eyes on excellence, she won a second Oscar for “Jezebel” in 1939. At the age of 31, completely exhausted from having made two major motion pictures in one year, Bette took her mother’s advice and vacationed in the community of Sugar Hill, New Hampshire.

A sleepy little town, just north of Franconia, Sugar Hill has a town hall, historical museum, library, meetinghouse, fire department, golf course and numerous inns that offer folks a slower pace. Were you to ‘Google’ the town, you’d find frequently visited places like Harmon’s Cheese Store, The Sugar Hill Sampler and Polly’s Pancake House. While some things have changed in the town since the 1940’s, most businesses remain the same, having changed only names or ownership.

Miss Davis came to the resort called Peckett’s-on-Sugar-Hill, (an elegant hotel and first resort-based ski school in the country). The celebrity booked a room at the Caramat (now the Sugar Hill Inn) run at the time by Mr. and Mrs. Richardson. According to once owner Orlo Coots, Bette loved the room that now bears her name, because of the light coming in from three sides. He adds that even after she built her home in the town, she often sought solitude in that room, and the dining room always anticipated her visit.

Just why did the legendary Miss Davis, who could live anywhere, choose a New Hampshire home? As Mr. Coots sees it, New Hampshire offered Bette anonymity and a chance to experience a private, non-Hollywood life. In his words, ”She was not on a pedestal in Sugar Hill. Here she was just another person living on Blake Road. How can being a movie star, playing the role of someone you are not, possibly compare to the real life drama of raising children and tending sheep?” According to the Littleton Courier, Miss Davis “…. was completely in love with the mountains of New Hampshire.” She loved the beauty, the openness and the snow. As Bette put it,” A New Englander never forgets New England, the change of seasons and these mountains that really make you feel like you belong here. You don’t get that personal attachment to the gigantic, barren mountain ridges out West. I guess I’ve just got the New England blood in my veins.”

The following year she purchased a ten-acre farm abutting Peckett’s property, hired a Hollywood crew of ten and enlisted the services of Mr. Macomber to build her new home. This architect had worked on all her houses in the past 4 years and built houses for other stars such as Errol Flynn and Eddie Albert. While Miss Davis had purchased other homes, this was the first one she actually built.

The architect stayed at Lee’s Hotel in Littleton while he added a kitchen, service porch and bedroom to one of the oldest colonial homes in the area. Bette and her mother visited the cottage to supervise the construction of “Butternut,” a structure they designed to replicate an old New England farmhouse. A walk inside would have revealed hand-hewn beams, two hearths at the center, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, comfortable furniture and a myriad of antiques the star and her mother purchased in Littleton. The kitchen held a large round table, Glenwood cook stove, rocking chair and hurricane lanterns. Contractor James Viette of Littleton built an adjoining barn from dismantled buildings such as the Easton Post Office. The silo, which he added from the old Vermont barn, still houses a spiral staircase to the second floor and an observation area.

Home was very important to Miss D (an affectionate nickname). In her words about Butternut to the Courier, “A home like this gives you something to think about. Life becomes dangerously dull if one thinks only of his or her work, you know.” To Charlotte Chandler, author of her most recent biography, she added, “Wherever I am, I think of the place I am in as my home, and I can’t stand disorganization.” Butternut certainly satisfied that homebody instinct and was the epitome of organization. Her new home was described as “Bette’s Shangri-la” away from Hollywood three months of the year.

There was apparently more than one love affair in the making at Peckett’s-on-Sugar-Hill. During her first visit to the resort, Bette met Arthur Farnsworth, then assistant manager and ski instructor at the resort. Described in “White Mountain Sketches” as a Vermont boy having a “genial manner and friendly smile,” Mr. Farnsworth had studied music and then became a skilled pilot and aircraft engineer. After vacationing in Sugar Hill, Farnsworth accepted the position at Peckett’s. Local papers reported seeing Bette (previously divorced from bandleader Harmon O. Nelson) spending lots of time with Farnsworth at theatre events, dances and area outings. There’s even a bronze plaque at the end of Bridal Veil Falls trail that reads, “To Arthur Farnsworth: the keeper of stray ladies.” Rumor has it that Miss Davis had the 1939 sign placed there for Farnsworth (“Farney”), whose job it was to entertain and ensure the safety of resort guests. Possibly, Bette would “accidentally” stray from trails so that he could find her! Despite the couple’s denial of romantic intentions, they married on New Year’s Eve in 1940 at a friend’s Arizona ranch.

Bette’s biggest tribute to the North Country was the world premiere of her movie “The Great Lie”, also starring George Brent and Mary Astor in Littleton on April 5, 1941. Indeed, Littleton had never seen such fanfare! The day began with a band playing, majorettes twirling, and hundreds of spectators lining the streets. Celebrities and writers arrived in Littleton on the New Haven train and were escorted to Thayer’s and Lee’s Hotels. Under the direction of Will Dexter of Hildrex Farm (now Polly’s Pancake House), morning activities included a Sugaring-off party at Valley Station, a press trip to Cannon Mountain for a Tram ride, Grand Slalom and Ski Review. Afternoon brought a cocktail party at the Iron Mine Inn with Bette serving as hostess with her mother Ruthie attending in her fur and gloves.

After an evening buffet at Thayer’s, Miss Davis, Governor Blood and other celebrities led a torchlight parade of 50 cars to the Premier theatre (now Jax Jr). With the streets scrubbed, town decorated, 1000 red flares lining the way and spotlights mounted high on rooftops, a 34-piece band from Plymouth State Teachers’ College and a Boys’ Choir under the direction of Dick Whiting accompanied the procession. In Hollywood fashion, Bette waved to fans from a Cabriolet convertible.

The evening offered an elaborate Birthday Ball for Bette’s 33rd birthday. The stage of the Littleton Opera House held a large replica of Butternut Lodge with trees, native plants and a white picket fence. A 200 lb. Plaster of Paris cake with candles (measuring 6ft. feet in diameter and 5ft. high) greeted guests. Governor Blood received the first piece of the real dessert, a 100lb. cake! Official Bette Davis buttons were sold for the occasion, $1.50 was charged for balcony seating and a “Hillbilly” band played in the streets for folks who could not get into the affair. Indeed, Littleton got a taste of Hollywood in more ways than one!

Bette Davis brought more than glamour to the North Country. Like the energetic, independent women
she played in film, she shared some of her time and values with the community. Her souvenir booklets from the Premiere raised $2500-3000 for the Golden Rule Farm for Boys and the Littleton Hospital. A year earlier she had joined Peckett’s Riding Club, and in 1940 presented awards to the equestrian winners at the Sugar Hill-Franconia Horse Show. Somewhat later, at a 1947 Costume Party held at the Franconia Town Hall, she helped the Franconia Ski Club raise $400. Bette began charging ten cents for her signature with proceeds going to the Red Cross, and she modeled gowns for them at a Red Cross auction at the Franconia Work Room in Sugar Hill that raised $1500. Nancy Aldrich (daughter of the Richardsons, now co-owner of Polly’s Pancake House) remembers when, as a child of ten or eleven, she even saw Bette model a T-shirt and skirt to be raffled off at some auction, then change into her own street clothes!

Outside of New Hampshire, Miss D’s community involvement expanded globally. She was instrumental in founding the Hollywood Canteen for servicemen during WWII. Likewise, she shared the stage with Bob Hope, Jimmy Durante and Frank Sinatra in raising money for the War Bond Effort in 1943. Tireless as she was on any undertaking, she is credited with raising $2 million in 2 days for the same cause on a Missouri/Oklahoma tour. In 1980 Miss Davis received the Distinguished Civilian Service Medal, the Defense Department’s highest civilian award, for establishing the Canteen.

“Nothing gold can stay,” says Robert Frost, and such was the case with Bette and her love of the North Country. Just how do we close this love affair with the state? Bette’s dream of building a playhouse behind Butternut and organizing her own repertory theatre to tour the country never materialized. After twenty years Butternut transferred to Ross Coffin of Peckett’s-on-Sugar-Hill. The house, barn and 110 acres sold for $20,000, well below the cost of building it. Until 1967, when Peckett’s closed, they used it for recitals and to entertain guests. Today, son Bob Peckett is official caretaker of the property for its owners, and Franconia Notch Vacations rents the estate to guests for $2148 per week.

When the contents of the house went on the market, Bette’s 1903 Steinway became the property of the town of Sugar Hill. With broken soundboard, separated ribs and antiquated hammers, the piano arrived at the Sugar Hill Meeting House in 1970. It sat in its permanent home for 28 years until a $5000 grant from the NH Council of the Arts and a matching grant from the town helped refurbish the piano. Since July of 1999, when pianist Bernard Rose played it at the 21st White Mountains Summer Music Festival, the piano has played at a series of Bette Davis Seminar Concerts that reveal the role of the piano throughout different historical periods and musical settings.

While the North Country had a way of opening Miss D’s heart, and Hollywood distance between Bette and Farnsworth fanned their romantic flame, the hectic pace and rigors of professional life finally ruined marital bliss. In the Chandler biography, Bette recounted that because of her frantic schedule, she never really got to know her husband Arthur Farnsworth . When they did interact, she realized they weren’t very compatible and admitted arguing a lot. Three years later, “Farney” mysteriously collapsed on the streets of Hollywood from what authorities called a previously received, unexplained head injury. Bette made it to his side and remained with him until he died two days later.
Bette later went on to marry and divorce artist William Grant Sherry with whom she had a baby girl, Barbara Davis Sherry (BD). She then married her 4th husband, actor Gary Merrill and moved to Maine. She adopted a little girl, Margot (who turned out to be brain damaged at birth) and a little boy Michael. She divorced one final time in 1960, never to marry again. She attributes her failed relationships with men to the desertion of the man she desperately loved and strove to please, her father.

At the age of 75 Miss Davis developed breast cancer and in 1983, shortly after a mastectomy, she suffered a stroke. Her assistant, Kathryn Sermak, became her loyal caretaker and constant companion. Though doctors told Bette she would never work again, she went on to prove them wrong, acting until her death. On October 6, 1989, after being honored at the San Sebastian Film Festival in Spain, Bette Davis, 81, died at the American Hospital in Neuilly-sur-Seine, France. Author Chandler captures Bette’s ‘never-give-up’ spirit when she recounts that Bette did not want to disappoint her fans and leave them with the last image of her boarding an airplane in a wheel chair. Noted for her quote, ”Old age ain’t no place for sissies,” Miss Davis struggled to rise and made it into the plane without a chair!

Bette bequeathed all her possessions to her loyal friend Kathryn Sermak and her adopted son Michael, now a lawyer. Because of a scathing book her daughter had written about her, Bette had disinherited “B D” who never contested the will. In 1997, Michael and Kathryn established The Bette Davis Foundation, a non-profit organization that grants scholarships to college students that duplicate Bette’s quality in the craft. With more than 100 films and 10 Oscar nominations to her credit, Bette paved the way for other actresses in Hollywood. She was the first woman to be president of the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences and the first woman to receive the American Film Institute’s Lifetime Achievement Award. Bette’s gravestone appropriately reads: “She did it the hard way.”

Besides a classic piano and a Shangri-la estate for vacationers, what was the grand dame’s final legacy to the town of Sugar Hill? In the end one might call the relationship between Bette Davis and the town symbiotic. While the town provided a sample of country living and temporary escape from notoriety, Miss Davis left residents and visitors with a taste of Hollywood’s glamour and a lifetime of memories.

Heart of New Hampshire wishes to thank the many folks of Sugar Hill who shared information and memories for this article. A special thank you goes to the Sugar Hill Museum whose summer/fall exhibit entitled “Bette” helped this legend come alive. Located on Rt. 117 Main Street, Sugar Hill, the Museum is open Thursdays through Saturdays from 1pm to 4pm with free admission or donation. For additional information or special tours, visitors may contact Winnie Harwood at 823-8431 or visit the Web Site at www.franconianotch.org.

For more on Bette Davis visit:
www.BetteDavis.com (the Official Web Site)
The Woman Who Walked Home Alone by Charlotte Chandler
Fasten Your Seat Belts by Lawrence J. Quirk
The Movies of Bette Davis by Gene Ringgold
This ‘n That by Bette Davis

Reprinted with permission

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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