A day and night was it lately my privilege to spend upon this mountain, accompanied by a poet-friend. We started at an early hour, equipped in our brown fustians, and laden with well-filled knapsacks, one with a hatchet in his belt, and the other with a brace of pistols. We were bound to the extreme summit of the peak, where we intended to spend the night, witness the rising of the sun, and return at our leisure on the following day. But when I tell you, that our course lay right up the almost perpendicular side of the mountain, where was no path save that formed by a torrent or a bear, you will readily believe it was somewhat rare and romantic. But this was what we delighted in; so we shouted “Excelsior,” and commenced the ascent. The air was excessively sultry, and the very first effort we made, caused the perspiration to start most profusely. Upward, upward was our course; now climbing through a tangled thicket, or under the spray of a cascade, and then again supporting ourselves by the roots of saplings or scrambling under a fallen tree; now, like the samphire gatherer, scaling a precipice; and then again clambering over a rock, or “shinning” up a hemlock tree, to reach a desired point.
Our first halt was made at a singular spot called Hunter’s Hole, which is a spacious cavern or pit, forty feet deep and twenty wide, and approached only by a fissure in the mountain, sufficiently large to admit a man. Connected with this place, is the following story.
Many years ago, a farmer, residing at the foot of the mountain, having missed a favourite dog, and being anxious for his safety, called together his neighbours and offered a reward for the safe return of his canine friend. Always ready to do a kind deed, a number of them started in different directions for the hunt. A barking sound having been heard to issue from this cavern, it discovered that the lost dog was at the bottom, where he had most probably fallen while chasing a fox. “But how shall he be extricated from this hole?” was the general enquiry of the now-assembled hunters. Not one of all the group would venture to descend under any circumstances; so that the poor animal remained a prisoner for another night. But the next morning he was released, and by none other than a brave boy, the son of the farmer, and playmate of the dog. A large number of men were present on the occasion. A strong rope was tied around the body of the child, and he was gently lowered down. On reaching the bottom, and finding by the aid of his lamp, that he was in a “real nice place,” the little rogue concluded to have some sport; whereupon he proceeded to pull down more rope, until he had made a coil of two hundred feet, which was bewildering enough to the crowd above; but nothing happened to him during the adventure, and the dog was rescued. The young hero having played his trick so well, it was generally supposed, for a long time after, that this cavern was two hundred feet deep, and none were ever found sufficiently bold to enter in, even after a fox. The bravery of the boy, however, was eventually the cause of his death, for he was cut down by a leaden ball in the war of 1812.