For some reason still unbeknownst to me, I decide to do a day-trip speed vacation to the western side of the White Mountains. Usually I go to the eastern side or to the Green Mountains or to the Adirondacks or up to Maine. But I have not been up to Franconia in about two decades, so it's time. What have I been missing, I wonder?
It starts with three days of unblemished weather being predicted for New England. This is a first for the summer as up to this point we have had rain (sometimes hours of downpours) every other day. I make a list of things to do on the western side of the mountain range, mostly of things I have not done before, and I come up with these: The Basin ("ten minute hike to scenic swimming hole"), Boise Rock (boulder with weird overhang where a guy killed and skinned his horse during a blizzard then hunkered under the outcropping inside the hide to save his own life), Profile Lake (where the Old Man in the Mountain used to be but fell down years ago) to kayak (been here, haven't kayaked here), Flume Gorge (touristy), Lost River Gorge (also touristy), Hobo Railroad (a lot of hype for a simple train ride), and the Polar Caves (which I've done several times but they're kind of interesting).
The Basin is not a ten minute hike from the parking lot; it is more like sixty seconds. It isn't a swimming hole as much as it is a glorified, water-filled pot hole. Worth a trip but only because it's free. Boise Rock is literally on the highway. It's a brief turn-off from the highway, park the car, snap some pictures, and move along, but the legend behind it is creepy enough. When I arrived at 8:25 a.m., it was deserted and impressive and, yes, eerie and haunting. Two bucket list items down in less than twenty minutes.
I pop back into my car and head north for Profile Lake with the plan to put the kayak in for maybe forty-five minutes (I even have a change of clothes in case I get too wet while paddling). Apparently I have forgotten that Profile Lake is about 1/10th the size of the pond in my town where I kayak for fun. I size "the lake" up (or down) and decide that kayaking here is not worth the thirty minutes it might take to row row row my boat around its perimeter. I drive on by and continue to the long-gone site of the Old Man, say some brief words of wisdom, then head for the Flume.
The gorge itself is awe-inspiring. The walls stretch high, and the water is active even though it is well past spring thaw. There are a couple of wooden bridges along the path, and I speed-walk my way through. Today is not the day to learn about the flora; today is a day to take pictures and move along. There's one part of the trail that is downhill and rather unexciting just past Liberty Gorge (part of the Flume system), and I'm the only one around, so I jog through with my camera banging up against my rib cage.
Next stop is Lost River Gorge, which has super-skinny parts of its boardwalk trail, and it also has a series of caves that I almost attempt then think better of it when I hear people in the caves complaining of darkness and harrowing turns. I am wearing sunglasses; this is not proper cave-wear. The series of waterfalls and the amazing sound, though, make for spectacular pictures and decent videos. There's even a suspension bridge to cross for (mild) adventurers who opt through the additional forest path.
I don't know why I decide to ride the Hobo Railroad, but I eat my lunch in the parking lot, buy a ticket for the eighty-minute ride, and have a relaxing trip on the train. I am seriously disappointed that there's no real scenery to be had. We cross a few dry river beds and some tarred roads, stop at a golf course, then head back the same way.
Yawn. It is a nice break, but I feel the clock ticking away. If you have little kids, maybe this is for you, but the Hobo Railroad should be renamed the NoGo Railroad. Don't. Just don't.
Because I've sped through most of my day, I still have enough daylight to go through the Polar Caves. This is the only part of my trip that will be a true repeat performance.
WHY I choose to go through these caves, especially alone, is beyond me because I am wickedly claustrophobic. I just avoided those caves at Lost River two hours prior, so I don't know what makes me think this is a smart idea.
I change out of my sunglasses so I can partially see in the caves. I only avoid two of the caves, one because I would have to squish my entire body (and face) against two sheer cliff walls for about thirty feet before making a tiny hairpin turn to get to the ladder leading out of the cave, and I would die of a heart attack or panic-spurred self-asphyxiation halfway through. The other one I avoid because it's the last one and I'm pretty much exhausted by now. I do, however, trade off the two caves for a ninety-step climb to the Raven's Perch near the top of the sheer rock face above all the caves.
I am glad I go through the Polar Caves, though, because in the second to last cave I catch up to a family with four adolescent boys. As I come around the corner, just as I am bending down to squeeze through a particularly tight section of the cave, one of the boys near the front whines, "Mom! Jack FARTED!" The mom, who realizes that now we are all stuck inside the cave with Jack's gas, looks back at me and makes a face of absolute embarrassment.
I smile back at her. "I'm a middle school teacher," I assure her, "and I'm immune to adolescent boy farts. Don't worry about me!"
With this excellent ending to my madcap speed vacation, I am back to my car, on the road, and complete my entire mission in eleven hours, door-to-door. The best part of it all is that I now feel no great need nor desire to ever do that again.
