Like us, our two little dogs have had plenty of experience climbing in the White Mountain range. Our black female miniature poodle has had ample opportunity over the years, of mounting vigorous, time-consuming ascents. Her last big ones were Little Haystack, Moosilauke, and Eisenhower back when she was about tw0 to ten years old. And up until the age of sixteen she climbed the twins, Welch-Dickey with us and our apricot male toy poodle who was then ten. We, and they, are now more interested in modest climbs, finding the ascent to the Rattlesnakes challenge enough for us.

They're accustomed to staying, for the last eight or so years, in the same cottage as a jump-off point for our daily mountain trail forays. They know the place well enough; most years we would stay for a week in both June and September. But Button is now almost nineteen, her memory is failing, she has lost much of her hearing and eyesight, and is readily confused. Although she is still capable of going along on relatively modest walks, she requires carrying a good deal, when she becomes tired.

The pace little Riley takes seems excruciatingly slow at times, but it almost matches the kind of pace I can comfortably sustain with my own failing endurance at 74, so things work out well enough. I don't have quite the strength and capacity of my husband, capable of carrying Button and carrying on himself. And there are times, like a gradual descent, when Riley is tired enough that I will pick him up and carry him the balance of the way down to the trailhead.

This year the weather was dreadfully hot and humid, and the heat took its toll on Button. She was also more disoriented than usual. She will not sleep on a dog bed at floor level, having become accustomed over the years to leaping up on a bed or a sofa to sleep. Now that she no longer leaps she still wants to sleep where she is most comfortable and we lift her to a bed or sofa. And, because her eyesight is so compromised she forgets spacial limits and sometimes falls off. Which she did, on a number of occasions while we were away.

She also suffered from occasional bouts of feeling quite unwell, once having diarrhoea and since she no longer "asks" to go outside when she needs to evacuate, and we're put in the position of trying to guess when it's time, and this further complicated matters. In the wee hours of the night on several occasions she had to be partially bathed, as a result.

She's an excellent traveler, always has been, and it was a relief, finally, to get her back home where her normal routine, and her familiarity with her surroundings helped her immensely, and us as well.

A hiking trip to New Hampshire's White Mountain range just wouldn't be complete without dropping in at the spectacular Franconia Notch to at least visit the Basins. That location aptly demonstrates the capacity and power of water to wear away, over time, tough granite that had already been affected by the retreat of glaciers in an ice age long past.

The initial introduction to the geological site is impressive enough, striding through a forest of trees, great hemlocks and yellow birches, among spruce, oak, pine and underbrush comprised of dogwood and various other shrubs and wildflowers in season.

In the tourist season, usually once school is out for the summer, the area is suffused with people attracted to the guidebook promise of splendidly geological formations of ancient rock, and the accompanying clear mountain stream sliding down from above, over rockfalls and gently sloping, large-area shoulders of sheer granite, gradually rising on the side of mountains. It is the Pemigawasset river that begins its life from being fed in this way, at this site.

A gentle stroll on paved pathways and over rustic bridges brings the curious to the main basin with its carved bowl
of grey granite, pock-marked here and there with resolute green-black lichens, as the clear water swirls around on its voyage, descending and finding its way to the main river, itself snaking through the forested landscape beyond.

Go a little further and you see other, less dramatically-carved, but most beautiful cavities hosting the descending waters, creating their own landscapes over which those who appreciate nature's beauty linger and take photographs to aid their memories of this exceptional experience.

And those who have the endurance and the additional curiosity to climb, can take a trail that will lead them on a steady rising ascent alongside the descending waterfalls, over to the left where can be seen wide grey-brown granite shelves with the water coursing, burbling, and sometimes shouting, spraying and bubbling in its descent. The shelves beckon, to step aside from the rock-strewn and tree-root-interlaced trail onto the creek bed itself, to sit awhile on the dry granite, look about, revel in the beauty that surrounds.

Clamber high enough and the view over the site is spectacular, particularly on the clear, sunny day when an unobstructed, albeit relatively narrow scene is laid out below of the mountain ranges beyond, and their forested sides, bare granite tops glinting in the sun.

When we were there, it was an extremely hot day. We were grateful for a prevailing breeze, and for the areas on either side of the ascending/descending granite slope that offered shade under the trees growing alongside the bank on either side.

The geological features of the Crawford Notch in the White Mountain Range of New Hampshire are impressive enough, but not quite as spectacular as the views of the Franconia Notch, although over the years gone past we spent ample time on an annual basis, exploring both in our ascents of the various mountains contained within that quite wonderful landscape.

Of late, we've spent far more time in and around the Franconia Notch, since where we have been wont to stay, renting a cottage from its owners, handy to the Waterville Valley and the climbing/trail opportunities there - requiring a far more modest physical effort on our elderly part - is closer to Franconia.

But since we drove that way to enjoy looking at the exquisitely beautiful Sabbaday Falls, we went on further to do a modest trail located just off a lake that boasted picnic facilities, where a bridge took us to a two-and-a-half-mile-long trail which we had never been on, previously.

It looked promising at first, veering off toward the mountains from the lake site, but it soon became evident it wasn't going off on too much of a tangent. There was no rise whatever, it seemed to almost skirt the Notch highway, the surrounding forest was juvenile in growth, the understory nothing to be enthusiastic about with the exception of a group of wildflowers I couldn't identify which were quite beautiful.

This turned out to be the least attractive by far, of the trails we took this year, although once out of the forest again, and back where we started, at the lake, under the brow of the mountains standing grandly before it, the more immediate scenery more than made up for the disappointment of the hiking trail.

Thirty-five years ago when we first introduced our children to trekking in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, our youngest son was firm about his intention; which was to complete a destination once begun.

In other words if we set off to do a circuit, the circuit should be completed, for maximum satisfaction and to ensure we missed nothing. If we set off to achieve an ascent, we should continue until we did just that, regardless of the effort and time involved. And for the most part, we did just that.

This time, however, we had our granddaughter with us, and her enthusiasm for completing a trek was rather lukewarm at best. And since we are 35 years older than we were when our youngest son was her age, we aren't completely averse to halting an ascent when we're getting rather weary of the effort.

The last time we decided to do the Drakes Brook trail in the Waterville Valley was years ago. And it had been in the early spring, a very wet spring at that. We had made our way on the trail to the point where you are required to cross over the brook to get to the opposite side, where the trail rises moderately-to-steeply, until the Drakes Brook falls are reached. That last time there was no way we could conceivably cross; all the boulders in the brook we were meant to step upon to achieve the crossing were well under water, water that was moving swiftly and deeply. So we had turned back, disappointed.

This time we were there in mid-July, and the water level was markedly down; no problem crossing over the brook to the opposite side, clambering up the stones helpfully placed to form 'steps', then proceeding upward to the falls, which we knew from experience, would be dry and fairly unspectacular. We knew that we were a literal stone's throw from the falls when our granddaughter suggested, why continue?

Since we were tired, and not surprisingly so, since one of us was carrying our 19-year-old miniature poodle for whom it was simply too much of a physical struggle to continue on her own, we acquiesced, and turned back. The trail itself is quite beautiful, and we were glad we had the opportunity to take it again after so many years. There are areas where it becomes quite boggy and a few bypasses are required, but it's well worth the effort.

We didn't feel we missed much, opting to turn back before getting to the falls. We'd passed another hiker returning from the falls whose comment about the paucity of water falling over it was anything but spectacular we had taken note of.

Early settlers in the area of the White Mountains of New Hampshire had a marvellous landscape. In particular, there was one that was easily accessible, requiring no arduous, time-consuming trek to get to. All it took was a relatively short and easy walk through a woodland glade, a bit of a rise through the forest, and suddenly there it was, a wonderful, crystal-clear mountain stream.

It became a commonly-enjoyed Sunday outing, after church, to visit the site. And it was named after the Sabbath. That mountain stream that presented as the geologic terrain changed to an ascent, creating a waterfall of lovely dimension and effect, was named Sabbaday Falls.

We visited it often, over the years, with our three growing children in tow, in the Crawford Notch. And this time, with our granddaughter, we visited it after a long hiatus in our mountain-trekking experience.

It was as breath-takingly lovely as we recalled, and more. A truly wonderful place that nature has blessed with an abundance of beauty.

We devoted one afternoon to the usual drive down to Antique Alley, usually undertaken on a rainy day when we would be shut out of a daily trail ramble, but on this occasion, because of the extreme, debilitating heat and humidity. The drive was uneventful but picturesque, with scenes of heavy mist rising from mountain valleys, and peaks marching across the landscape.

Incomparably beautiful; one wonders whether the residents value their own natural surroundings that put visitors to the area in awe of nature.

Our usual forays, on the lookout for newly-opened and, unfortunately, newly shuttered antique shops gain us random treasures, and always have over the decades we have engaged in these searches. We always feel great regret to see yet another shop or group shop close, but the last few years has been very difficult for antique dealers to remain afloat, given the country's financial crisis.

We always seem to be able to rely on what has become a steadfast presence, the two Parker-French group shops. Replete with cast-off junk, among the offerings is to be found, if we're fortunate, items of true antique, artistic and creative value. All together, we managed to find no fewer than five small paintings in oil and watercolour that we were impressed with enough to purchase for our collection.

On arrival at home, they are usually taken apart, the frames refurbished, the matting replaced if needed, and signatures and dates sometimes discovered, if not present on the painting itself. This time, an exquisitely-painted portrait of a woman had a familiar signature on its back, "G. Perkins"; undated, but judged to have been produced in the closing years of the 19th Century.

Some detective work on the Internet confirmed suspicions that this was an usual watercolour by Granville Perkins whose oeuvre was generally comprised of landscapes, including many of New Hampshire's White Mountain range.

Never know when one is liable to come across yet another treasure....

We partially retraced our drive from the day before, back to the incomparably spectacular Franconia Notch. With its majestic views and craggy mountainsides and attainable mountain peaks. Familiar to us as a place where over the decades we had taken our children, when we were all younger and relatively easily ascended peaks like Lafayette. Climbs we have long since abandoned as far too strenuous, but which we recall with fond memory of a time past.

We were headed for The Basins, which we visit every year. Not to climb high above and on to trails that meander and ascend into the mountains as we were once wont to do. Merely to push ourselves to a relatively minor climbing experience, following the Pemigawasset as it tumbles down the mountainside from where it begins, to swell the river of the same name, far down below.

Our perch at various selected points on the smooth, granite raceway gave us ample and fabulous views of the valley below.

It was a breathtakingly hot day, not much relief from the searing sun, but enough to give us shelter under overhanging trees. We were grateful for a wisp of a wind. The water tumbled down over the boulders strewn on the raceway, crystal-clear and cool, an ephemerally beautiful scene, we always hope to capture in our memory yet never quite can, without the aid of photographs.