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Thoughts on the second Berlin trip:
When it comes to mountains, New Hampshire is a land of hyperbole. The seven hundred-foot granite crag that overhangs Berlin, down whose sheer sides idiots with death wishes occasionally ski, would anywhere else in New England be a major location: photographed, the center of a state park, climbed by innumerable trails and boy scout troops. Here, though, with the five thousand foot bulk of mounts Madison and Adams dominating the horizon to the south, the sides of their corries still festooned with patches of snow, it’s hard to be impressed by Mt. Forist. It’s harder still to be impressed when you get back to New Haven from the very foot of those mountains in one sunny day: East Rock, by comparison, is simply titchy.
( Snow )
When it comes to mountains, New Hampshire is a land of hyperbole. The seven hundred-foot granite crag that overhangs Berlin, down whose sheer sides idiots with death wishes occasionally ski, would anywhere else in New England be a major location: photographed, the center of a state park, climbed by innumerable trails and boy scout troops. Here, though, with the five thousand foot bulk of mounts Madison and Adams dominating the horizon to the south, the sides of their corries still festooned with patches of snow, it’s hard to be impressed by Mt. Forist. It’s harder still to be impressed when you get back to New Haven from the very foot of those mountains in one sunny day: East Rock, by comparison, is simply titchy.
( Snow )
