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The Pike Log: Random Entries About Making His Story Mine

I See the (New) Starting Line

From a squiggly black line on an 1875 map to the real deal: Instead of prettily meandering through a colonial village on its way to 15 Mile Falls, Trout Brook now empties into the river much higher up the hill thanks to the dam built in 1954. Behind me New Hampshire's Presidential Range defines the skyline.
It was so early that March morning fog sat on Moore Lake like a giant cotton puff, hiding not only the snow-capped Presidentials but also the ice blue of the dammed up Connecticut. Unlike the '90s when it took equipment to break into Asbury Park's Casino Arena and Palace Amusements to find forgotten stories, here all I had to do was waited patiently. This ritual, my life-long ritual, was waiting for the story to begin.

But, really, it already had. At my back were the last of the sugar maples where just two generations ago my family once boiled sap into syrup. Thanks to Carolyn Kinne Grass I now have stories to go with previously unidentified photographs of the sugaring off parties thrown by my great uncle.

So, as I waited for my hiking buddies, Sharon and Pat, to drive down High Street to join me at the boat launch ramp, I watched the race Mother Nature set between the chilly spring wind and the climbing sun.

What chapter might be revealed about the colonial village were all the Pike men, and the women who married them, had lived from the late 18th century until 1954?







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