During the summer of 2013, Southern New Hampshire endured some oppressive hot and humid days.
However, on one day in early August, a Canadian cold front passed through the region and delivered a mass of crisp, cool autumn air.
By noon, the sky was the deepest blue of the summer with visibility that stretched from the Berkshires to the skyline of Boston.
Like a powder day in Jackson Hole or when the surface up at Mavericks, many of the hiking faithful had left work early to embrace this glorious day on Mananak.
On the summit as I stood, or the wide floor of plain and flood, seemed to me the towering hill was not altogether still, but a quiet sense conveyed if I aired not, thus it said,
many feet in summer seek betimes my fire-appearing peak.
Mananak is a mountain strong, tall and good my kind among, but well I know no mountain can measure with a perfect man.
For it is on temples writ, adamant is soft to wit, and when the greater comes again, with my secret in his brain, I shall pass as glides my shadow, daily over hill and meadow.
Mananak is one of the most beautiful mountains in the world.
Mananak is one of the most beautiful mountains in the world.
Every morning I lift my head, gaze or in New England under spread, south from St. Lawrence to the sound, from Catskill East to the Seabound, anchored fast for many an age I await the bard and sage,
who in large thoughts, like fair pearl seed, shall string Mananak like a bead.
Comes that cheerful troubadour this mound shall throb his face before, and when, with inward fires and pain, it rose a bubble from the plain.
When he cometh, I shall shed from this whispering in my head.
