and their grounds slowly returned to forest. Once one could have seen perhaps twenty
large hotels from the summit. Today there is just one, the Mount Washington, still
imposing and festive with its perky red roof but inescapably forlorn in its solitary
grandeur. (And even it has staggered along the edge of bankruptcy from time to time.)
Elsewhere across the spacious valley far below, where once had proudly stood the
Fabyan, the Mount Pleasant, the Crawford House, and many others, today there were
only forest, highways, and motels.
From beginning to end the great age of the resort hotels in the White Mountains lasted
just fifty years. Once again, I offer you the Appalachian Trail as a symbol of venerability.
And with that in mind, I went off to find my friend Bill and complete our walk.
I've had a brilliant idea," said Stephen Katz. We were in the living room of my house in
Hanover. It was two weeks later. We were leaving for Maine in the morning.
"Oh yeah?" I said, trying not to sound too wary, for ideas are not Katz's strongest suit.
"You know how awful it is carrying a full pack?"
I nodded. Of course I did.
"Well, I was thinking about it the other day. In fact I've been thinking about it a lot
because to tell you the truth, Bryson, the idea of putting that pack on again filled me
with"--he lowered his voice a tone--"fucking dread." He nodded with solemnity and
repeated the two key words. "And then I had a great idea. An alternative. Close your
eyes."
"What for?"
"I want to surprise you."
I hate having to close my eyes for a surprise, always have, but I did it.
I could hear him rooting in his army surplus duffel bag. " 'Who carries a lot of weight
all the time?' " he continued. "That was the question I asked myself. 'Who carries a lot of
weight day in and day out?' Hey, don't look yet. And then it occurred to me." He was
silent a moment, as if making some crucial adjustment that would assure a perfect
impression. "OK, now you can look."
I uncovered my eyes. Katz, beaming immoderately, was wearing a Des Moines Register
newspaper delivery bag--the kind of bright yellow pouch that paperboys traditionally sling
over their shoulders before climbing on their bikes and riding off to do their rounds.
"You can't be serious," I said quietly.
"Never been more serious in my life, my old mountain friend. I brought you one too."
He handed me one from his duffel bag, still pristinely folded and in a transparent wrapper.
"Stephen, you can't walk across the Maine wilderness with a newspaper delivery bag."
"Why not? It's comfortable, it's capacious, it's waterproof--near enough--and it weighs
all of about four ounces. It is the Perfect Hiking Accessory. Let me ask you this. When
was the last time you saw a paperboy with a hernia?" He gave a small, smug nod, as if he
had stumped me with that one.
I made some tentative, preparatory shapes with my mouth prior to saying something,
but Katz raced on before I could get a thought in order.
"Now here's the plan," he continued. "We cut our load down to the bare minimum--no
stoves, no gas bottles, no noodles, no coffee, no tents, no stuff sacks, no sleeping bags.
We hike and camp like mountain men. Did Daniel Boone have a three-season fiberfill