Red Hill: Grand Views From the Top!

My husband and I were facing an exceptionally small bank account and an enormous cross-country move when I tuned in to a local radio station one afternoon. Instead of the latest in alternative rock, I heard the DJs talking about a contest they were running and marveling at the fact that, after two weeks of clues, no one had found the prize. Twice per week, during the morning program, they would read clues as to the location of a special ticket and, as each clue passed without solution, the prize grew. By the time I tuned in, the ticket was worth a cool two thousand dollars.

I fell immediately prey to the excitement and, thinking myself a clever sort of girl, thought that I could certainly figure everything out before my fellow competitors. I listened carefully to where the previous clues were posted and stopped by one of the participating stores on the way home to quickly scribble down the rhyming couplets that comprised the clues. Then I rushed home and began furiously unlocking each of the riddles, dissecting their double meanings and every nuance. Soon, I realized, the ticket was hidden somewhere in Center Harbor, New Hampshire.

The morning of the next clue, I was crouched with my ear to the speaker, trembling in anticipation, pencil at the ready. I had to work that day and was dog sitting for a friend but I calculated that I could make a run to Center Harbor with the dog immediately after work and have at least an hour and a half before dark fell to search. The moment the clock struck 6, I locked the door to the shop, picked up my husband, and ran to my friend's house to get the dog. Then we drove as fast as we could to the place I had become convinced held the winning ticket, Red Hill.

Every landmark we passed seem to confirm my suspicions: the bells of the church, the town pound, the cemetery, the bicycle sign. The time was nearly 7pm when we rumbled to a stop in the tiny gravel parking lot. Like pilgrims toward a shrine, we climbed the path to the top, passing a marker proclaiming the spot where Henry David Thoreau stopped to rest. When we reached the top, the sun was setting so we searched in a panic around the few sheds and fire tower, looking for an indication that a prize had been hidden there. As the light faded, we finally stopped to appreciate the view which was quickly becoming clouded and dim as a storm rolled in across the Lakes Region. In the dark, we descended the hill, without a flashlight or water or any idea if the way we were following was truly correct. The dog, a brave and confident golden retriever named Ruby, seemed to know the way and seemed just as anxious as we were to get back to the car in one piece. Somehow, we found our vehicle, kissing the hood of the car in thanks, and then we drove home in an exhausted and disappointed silence.

As soon as we got home, I started researching the mountain and its trails and I stumbled upon something called a letterbox that was hidden at the top. After reading everything I could about the box and discussing it with an equally excited Remy, we decided to go back at first light to find it. Again we climbed, my muscles burning from ass to ankle, my heaving breathing attracting mosquitoes. The excitement in my ears drowned out my body's protest as we worked our way up to the top, over unique volcanic rock, past slithering snakes and camouflaged frogs.

Once we had made the summit, I pulled out my compass and set about finding my treasure with the seriousness of a pirate. I stood on a geodetic mark and sighted 100 degrees, 22 paces and then another, sighted 110 degrees, 18 paces, 80 degrees and 20 paces. My heart pounded in my chest as I scrambled down the huge rock and, getting down on all fours, peeked underneath until I found it. A letterbox! My virginal letterbox! In my excitement, I spread out the contents of the box on the dewey leaves: an eraser stamp of the Red Hill fire tower, a red stamp pad, a little artist sketch book and a pencil. I pulled out my own log book and stamp and pad that I had made the night before and traded stamps with them. I checked the box three times, flipping through every scrap of paper, looking for the prize but it was nowhere to be found. Somehow, the discovery of a new hobby was consolation enough for two days' worth of effort. I nearly skipped to the bottom of the hill. Before heading down, however, we actually stopped to take in the breathtaking view from the top of the mountain. Standing in the fire tower on a clear day, you can see nearly all of central New Hampshire, or so it seems. We were rendered speechless by the vista.

A few days later, the radio station made their next and final announcement of a clue. We were already en route to Center Sandwich when they broadcast the last riddle. Since our adventures on Red Hill, we had researched more of the area and thought that we had found another likely hiding place for the golden ticket, Chamberlain-Reynolds Memorial Forest. Unfortunately, hundreds of other people had the same idea and we found the park teeming with every possible assortment of people looking for the prize. We developed a sort of camaraderie as we explored, greeting one another and conveying news of false tickets and updates from the radio station to one another. In the end, a college student found the prize in the cemetery, ignoring a red herring the DJs had planted days earlier that steered people away from the very spot.

The week of effort did little to help fund our move but it did give us a lasting impression of the state we were leaving as well as the opportunity to experience it in an entirely unique way. My memory of New Hampshire will forever be linked to the grand views I had from the top of Red Hill.