Mt. Washington Auto Road

I am the vacation planner in my family. I research, compare, price check, and plan our summer vacation around what activities both my husband and I like to do, and what will appeal to our four offspring. This past summer I was researching places in Mt. Washington Valley, in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. We visit the White Mountains nearly every summer, and do the requisite Story Land trip and school shopping in North Conway. This year, since our older kids were fast outgrowing the amusement park scene, I thought it would be fun to drive up Mt. Washington. We had driven by the Auto Road a million times, and always envied those cars that came down wearing the bumper sticker badge of honor This Car Climbed Mt. Washington. I suggested to my husband that we give it a whirl this year. I thought it would be a cheap and pleasant little diversion on our way to North Conway. Little did I realize I was setting myself up for one of the most emotionally scarring events of my life.

The day started out nice enough. We arrived at the base of the Auto Road at lunchtime. We ate our picnic lunch while watching fluffy white clouds sail across the clear blue sky. Behind us, Mt. Washington waited, like a kindly old grandfather, waiting for his grandkids. After our picking up the remnants of our lunch, we piled into the car, with my husband at the wheel. I hummed softly, flipping through a campground brochure, already making mental plans for next year's vacation. My window was open, letting in a soft breeze. Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved car rides. My favorite part of going on vacation is the driving. Therefore, I was not in the least bit worried about a half hour drive up a mountainside.

Looking up at Mt. Washington as we approached the Auto Road gate, I remember thinking, after the Rocky Mountains, it looks more like a big hill. Of course, I had never been on top of any mountain. I had driven through many mountain passes, but I am not a skier or hiker, so there is no reason for me to have been on top of any mountain.

My husband waited at the gate for the attendant. A kindly old man came out of the little wooden gatehouse. I assumed he was a volunteer.

"That'll be $37.00." He said, nonchalantly. I craned my neck to see if he was joking. I knew there was a fee to drive the Auto Road, but $37.00 seemed a bit excessive. After all, we were using our own car and gas. I frowned as my husband forked over half of that evening's dinner budget. This was outright banditry!

"Would you folks like an Audio Tour CD?" volunteer asked, pocketing our cash. My husband nodded.

"Sure."

We took our audio tour and began to climb up the narrow paved road clinging to the mountainside. My husband popped the tour CD in, and a rich male voice, reminiscent of the narrators of Disney cartoons, came over our speakers telling us all about the earliest settlers of New Hampshire. Still fuming about our inexpensive sideshow costing forty dollars, I wasn't really listening to the tour at first. Then our tour guide cautioned us to keep the car in the third gear. Then he pointed out the conspicuous lack of guardrails and warned us against the possible dangers of oncoming traffic.

"Traffic?" I asked, looking at the very narrow road, looking clean and crisp in a fresh coat of blacktop. I turned and looked at my husband.

"Isn't this a one way road?" I asked. He had the temerity to laugh at me.

"No! How do you think cars come back down the mountain?"

"I thought there was a road going down the other side." I explained, innocently. I sounded as stupid as Jessica Simpson talking about tuna fish, just without the great hair.

The Disney narrator continued on, extolling all the virtues of the some general who first thought up the idea to take visitors to the top of Mt. Washington. Apparently, this wasn't a new venture; it was an age old tourist trap. I tried to concentrate on the lovely trees, and the birds, and the views emerging as we traveled higher and higher into the sky. The whole time I was on the lookout for oncoming traffic. I comforted myself with the knowledge that our side of the road was against the mountain, and most likely, it would be the other car that would careen off the edge of the road.

My husband glanced at me, noting I wasn't speaking, and had my camp ground brochure clutched in a death grip.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just watch the road." I said tightly.

Then, horrors of horror a white SUV came veering around a sharp turn, heading strait for us, or at least I thought so. I threw my arms up above my head and prayed God would spare the children. A moment passed, and I didn't hear breaking glass or crunching metal. Glancing at my rearview mirror, I saw the SUV had passed, with no major mishap.

"Honey, the road is fine." My husband reassured me.

We drove along, and I noticed the trees growing shorter. I pointed it out to the kids, explaining we were almost above tree line. Soon there would be only lichen and rocks. As we swerved around a sharp corner, there was the most magnificent, breathtaking view. Mt. Washington Valley lay before us, covered with a gossamer layer of clouds. I smiled, my heart filled with overflowing joy at being alive to see nature's most beautiful pictures. Then, I looked down.

"Holy Crap!" I screeched, staring at the few feet of road between my side of our SUV and a thousand foot drop off the side of a mountain. Our side of the road no longer hugged the mountain. Instead, we were driving along the outer edge of the guardrail-less death trap. In one painful burst of clarity, I remembered I was afraid of heights. Not just a little afraid, but deathly afraid. I had forgotten how much I hated being up high. Normally I avoided ladders, balconies, roofs. Anything higher than a step stool was too high for me. And here I was, perched precariously six thousand feet in the air.

For the rest of the ride I kept my eyes tightly shut. My husband reminded that it had my idea to drive up the mountain. "What do you mean you didn't think it would be so high? It's a mountain!"

"Please keep your eyes on the road." I said, refusing to look out the window.

After a few minutes I thought, "Lorri, you are being melodramatic. You've almost reached the top. How much worse can it get?"

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look up.

The nicely paved blacktop had now turned to a bumpy, rock littered dirt road.

"What happened to the road?" I cried, as the car jostled along. It felt as though we would vibrate right off the mountain. Overhead the friendly gossamer clouds of earlier had turned into giant grey fog, threatening to engulf our family and toss us into the valley below.

"The tour CD said the road would turn to dirt." My husband reminded me. Oh, how silly of me to forget. I guess I was too busy thinking about the possibility of a fiery death, driving up this god-forsaken mountain!

We did make it to the top of the mountain unscathed. Any grand views of the valley below were kept hidden by the gloomy grey clouds. The soft breeze had turned into a chilling wind, making it feel like November, not August. I opted to skip the tour of the weather station, trying to collect my shredded nerves before the harrowing journey down the mountain.

I'll spare you the agonizing details of the return trip.

Back at our campground, we put our new bumper sticker on the car. It fell off a few days later.