Today’s adventure involves
a trip to Brookline, New Hampshire, to hike Bear Mountain.
Getting there is no easy
trick as I encounter a roadblock not even a mile and a half out of my
driveway. I keep forgetting that there
is road construction near the high school, my cut-through to the major
highways, but also my way to avoid the interstates and pretend I’m on a
leisurely road trip.
My brilliant idea to cut
through back roads sours when I hit every flipping red light from here to
Lowell (feels like every red light in the whole world). Driving down the boulevard along the
Merrimack River, the only “highway-like” part of the ride, some thug in a black
Cadillac keeps running into my lane at fifty miles per hour almost as if he is
purposefully trying to run me off the road.
He’s a city dweller, though, and I lose him as I drive across the bridge
and embark on my country jaunt.
The most entertaining
thing about driving through Tyngsboro and Dunstable and Pepperell would be the
speed limit gamut. In the course of mere
miles, the speed limit changes from 45 to 25 to 35 to 30 to 40 to 45 and back
to 25. Some of these changes are not
even posted, and I have to trust my GPS, and the cars both in front of and
behind me riding my ass to help me gauge the correct speed. And, please, don’t even try and push these
limits because there are cops in every nook and cranny, and out here in the
sticks, there are a lot of nooks and a lot of crannies.
For some strange reason,
every town along this two-state trip has built its fire station on route 113,
my main thoroughfare to Brookline, NH.
Of course, wherever there is a fire station, the speed limit drops back
to 25 mph. Apparently the key to any
good fire station is a slow passing zone.
I believe that I am still in Massachusetts when I see construction on
the side of the road being overseen by a flagman. Honest
to goodness, a genuine flagman! I
didn’t realize I’d already jumped the state line, but I am wrong. I am still in Massachusetts. The police do every single minor and major
public works assignment in Massachusetts because it’s a giant scam. Then I remember that there are no available
cops to be flagmen because they are all sitting in brand new cruisers along
route 113 waiting to bag an old guy driving 27 in a 25 mph speed zone.
Driving along my merry
way, I somehow get myself momentarily lost.
Honestly, this isn’t my first trip out here; I’ve gone this way several
times on my way to and from Franklin Pierce College for lacrosse games. I also need to admit that it’s an easy plan
to get where I’m going: 113 to 119 to 13.
It’s not fucking brain surgery. I
end up cutting through farmland to route 130.
Okay, not on my planned directions, but it spills out right near my
destination, so it’s all good, and I accidentally cut ten minutes off the
commute.
The marvelous twist to
this hike is that nearly two decades ago, Paul Andres purchased Bear Mountain,
moved into a house at the summit, then turned the rest of the mountain into
trails full of art. More than
seventy-five sculptures cover 140 acres of old ski slopes, new bike trails, and
a combination of old and new walking trails.
The place is, in one
simple word: amazing.
The contributing artists
are from all over the world, but that’s not the most interesting fact. The art is created out of granite and steel,
all done during yearly symposiums right here on the mountain. How they manage to get the stuff where it
needs to go along the trails is a conundrum of epic proportions. Some of the trails are remarkably tight, so
even small cranes couldn’t fit.
These sculptures are
weighty. The largest, The Phoenix, weighs
something crazy like eleven tons, and it appears as we break through the tree line
from a trail right at the summit. The
views from here, even this far south of the Presidential Range (for we are
barely over the Massachusetts border), are breathtaking. I used to live in a nearby New Hampshire town
(okay … village), and intermittent views of the mountains aren’t unusual, but
this is simply spectacular.
After hiking for about
three hours and weaving in and out of trails, we still have not seen every
single sculpture. We have, though, seen
many, perhaps even most, of the sculptures as I have taken one hundred photos
by the time I reach my car in the lower lot.
We’ve also seen the owner’s house (from the outside) sitting as King of
the Mountain amongst the sculptures, and we’ve seen the artist’s studio (from
the outside – no artists are in residence right now).
Near the studio a little
way into the woods, a modern take on sculpture features a naked man in a fetal
position. Hey!, I think to myself remembering my weekend adventure to Walden
Pond, it’s naked Henry! We have found Henry David Thoreau fresh out
of Walden Pond. Okay, so maybe it
isn’t Henry David, but it’s a little like déjà vu and is both hysterical and
disturbing all at the same moment.
Joined by some people with
small children, we stop to eat wild blueberries, and to examine mushrooms and
moss. The children and I touch the different
statues, noting the strange textures and designs. (No, I do not know these children, but, true
to my Pied Piper self, I am a bit of a magnet.) Thanks to the addition of these
little people with three-year-old legs, we stroll down the old summit road to
get back to the lot, opting to avoid the steep trails down that somehow didn’t
seem so bad coming up.
All of our cell phones are
nearly dead, which is ironic since there is a cell tower on the top of Bear
Mountain, a structure we passed twice on our hike. I reach the car just in time to plug in as I
have less than 7% battery life left.
Despite having two navigational systems, I still get lost on the way
home, heading down 111 instead of 119.
No biggie. Again, I accidentally
cut time off my trip. I only pull over
once to allow a truck to barrel past me – I mean, I’m doing 32 mph in a 25 mph
speed zone where I have already spotted multiple police cruisers; let the truck
get the ticket.
Not four miles from my
house, I consider shutting down the WAZE app on my phone but think better of
it. The app pre-warns me to police
reported ahead, and I am able to avoid a ticket as he has bagged himself a
primo hiding spot in a cul-de-sac.
The hike is amazing, the
art is better, and spending time with friends is the best. These things are also exhausting. It’s mid-afternoon when I pull into my
driveway, and the only things on my mind are showering off the bug spray and
taking a nap. I can think of worse ways
to end an adventure, but I cannot think of any better.
