Route 3 Odyssey

At 6 a.m. on Thursday, October 7th, I walked through a frosted Plymouth morning under an electric blue, sunrise prefacing sky, to my little blue Toyota parked on Pleasant Street. The world seemed nearly silent with only the slightest breeze.Like many students at PSU, I haven’t seen much of the large part of New Hampshire existing beyond Lincoln and Franconia Notch. I headed north on Route 3, excited to see how close to Canada I could get without being late for my 12:30 class, and without getting off Route 3. As the sun crept in over the hills to my left, the light unveiled a blanket of delicate white frost on the browning grasses, and a fog skirting the hills. A cousin fog lingered over the Pemigawasset River lying next to the road.I was surprised at the steadiness of traffic entering and leaving town as I drove towards Thornton and Woodstock. I have always enjoyed the early morning, and each time I slowed to gawk at my surroundings, I would look in the rear view mirror to see the driver of a pickup truck, glaring at me, pressing 50mph. As I neared the town of Lincoln, the last of my morning grogginess was chased away by the direct sunlight hitting the trees to my left. They seemed to undress, and colors woke up with a shocking contrast to the hues that were present in the dawn light. I could use nearly every color name that Crayola has given me to describe the foliage that was being spotlighted.”Stop in, Say hi & Eat pie” the Sunny Day Diner on Route 3 entering Lincoln called out to my hungry stomach, and I was in the door ready for coffee and blueberry pancakes. The counter was littered with homemade muffins and cookies. The glass-fronted coolers behind the bar were stocked with pie. There were a dozen people eating breakfast and one conversation involving everyone. In the half hour I sat on a bar stool enjoying my fluffy and steamy diner pancakes, the conversation covered the crazy New Hampshire weather (how soon will it snow?), the Red Sox (of course), local traffic, and how many cups of coffee Joe (sitting next to me) would drink in that hour. A glass of orange juice was $2.50 because of the hurricane in the south. The special of the day was banana French toast with maple walnut sauce and turkey sausage for $6.50. I daydreamed about that meal for the rest of my adventure. The Phantom Gourmet recently rated the Sunny Day Diner an eighty-four out of a possible100 points. I have no scale, but it certainly gave my day a happy start. As I continued north through Franconia, I pulled over at the Indian Head resort and admired the smooth stone profile gazing into the heavens. Approaching the attractions at Franconia Notch, the Flume Gorge, The Aerial Tramway, the Basin and Boise Rock, Route 3 merges with Route 93 north, and for a few miles becomes the “Franconia Notch Parkway”. I got off at Exit 35 and continued on Route 3 past Bretton Woods. As I entered Coos County, I was shocked by the views. I am an outdoors enthusiast, and have traveled around the world, but have never been easily impressed by a location’s aesthetic appeal. I laughed out loud at the huge impression the beauty of my home state was making on me as I cruised through the town of Carroll and into the Great North Woods Region. As I gawked at the foliage, the presidential range mountains, the old homesteads, and the farms. A short line of cars formed behind me. The speed limit was 55, I was going 60 and a looming farm truck urged me to press my accelerator closer to the floor. I passed a “Break For Moose” sign and twenty seconds later: “WHACK!” a large, gray, and fast moving pheasant flew out of the woods and straight into the driver’s side of my elderly Toyota Tercel. It hit with such force that my car swayed slightly, as though a gust of wind had crossed the road. Its neck broke on impact, so it didn’t even bounce off into my periphery, it just fell straight down on the double yellow line in the middle of the road. It happened so fast that I didn’t so much as cringe or move my right foot to break. I looked in my rear-view to see the tailgating farmer behind me laughing all the way into Whitefield. My favorite moment of this drive was the long downhill descent into the town of Lancaster. As I neared town, I was accompanied by the Connecticut River, which swoops in from the left and runs beside Route 3. I stopped at the Shaw’s Supermarket in Lancaster to purchase a disposable camera. When I returned to my car, I notice a golf ball sized dent in front of my driver’s side door, the signature of a dead pheasant’s cranium. The strangely sweet, but still offensive smell of the Wausau Paper Mill drew me into the town of Groveton. As 9 a.m. became 9:15, I stood on a white covered bridge crossing the Upper Ammonoosuc River and watched the Mill’s stacks fill the sky with thick white smoke. Just behind the factory, an antique locomotive and train station ticket office stood, farmhouse red, negating the factory smell with its welcoming presence. As I neared Vermont, houses became more spread out. For miles there would be one house, then nothing, followed by a farm and a trailer living community, then things would return to just colorful foliage. I crossed into Vermont in the town of Columbia. I decided that the Lyman cemetery was a good turn around point for my day. I pulled over under a sign announcing “Mostly Muffins, 5 miles”. I crossed into the small hillside cemetery lined by a white wood rail fence, dazzled and awestruck by the bleach white and grey, granite grave markers set against the yellows and reds of the autumn leaves. Never have I seen such a lively graveyard. There were less than fifty graves and to my surprise, all souls had been laid to rest over 150 years ago. At 9:37 a.m. I blew a kiss to a child buried in the center under an oak tree, grinned, and headed back to PSU, arriving just in time for class.