Small Town, Big History (Gorham, New Hampshire)

Rocking and rolling on the ferry out of Vinalhaven, Fritz and I decided it was time to get high. So I set his six-cylinder sails for Mount Washington.

Specifically, the Mount Washington Auto Road, a 7.7 mile pathway to the summit of the Northeast's highest peak.

Yes, well...

As we headed east, hurricane Beryl's remnants augured-in from the west. Siri sounded the alarm: tornado watch! To which the National Weather Service added: flood alert!

Guiding a 1000-pound motorcycle down curving mountain roads in pouring rain behind a logging truck is only fun in the sense that root canal surgery is Orin Scrivello's idea of a good time.

We made it as far as Gorham, New Hampshire. A town of some three thousand souls.

Not to be confused with Gorham, Maine. Or Gorham Illinois, Kansas, New York or North Dakota. And just in case you are confused...

Passé Simple

Gorham, New Hampshire was christened in 1836 by a homesick settler and distant relative of the Gorham family's Maine-based genetic subsidiary.

It's not known if the 153 subsistence farmers and small-time loggers scratching a living in the foot of the White Mountains knew what Miles Lot was up to nomenclature-wise, didn't care or both.

There's not a lot to see in present-day Gorham. It's what's I call a "pass through town" – a once-prosperous settlement that lost its raison d'être and gained a highway (that wasn't obsoleted by an Interstate).

Today's Gorham makes its living by luring truckers, drivers, bikers and hikers heading to Berlin or Mount Washington to stop for food, gas and/or accommodation.

Yesterday's Gorham made bank thanks to the 1851 arrival of the Grand Trunk Railroad (not to be confused with the Grand Funk Railroad).

Passé Composé

Starting in 1851, the Atlantic & St. Lawrence Railway line transported huge quantities of Canadian crops and no small amount of livestock to America's eastern seaboard – straight through Gorham, New Hampshire.

Sitting at the mid-point between Montreal and Portland's ice-free port, the then-tiny town was the ideal location for railcar storage and repair.

The Atlantic & St. Lawrence Railway also had its eye on the tourist trade. They upgraded the road from Gorham to Mount Washington, subsidized the Glen Bridle Path to the summit and built the Alpine House Hotel.

The Alpine was one of many hostelries erected during Gorham's golden era, when the town found fame and fortune as "The Gateway to the White Mountains."

In that same fifty-year time span, Gorham's logging industry leveled-up tenfold, feeding the mills in nearby Berlin with eight million board feet of processed wood for paper and pulp per year.

The land and mill-owning Libby clan became Gorham's first family. Charles Libby built the 1880 home above and rows of identical houses for his company's largely French Canadian workers.

Passé Antérieur

Gorham had a damn good run – right until the Depression of 1930. The economic cataclysm knocked the stuffing out of the pulp and paper industry. Following a brief recovery, Gorham's logging-based businesses went into permanent decline.

The town's glory days had already started to fade. The rise of the automobile killed passenger rail service and Gorham's grand hotels (four-wheeled tourists opted for short stays in cabins and motels).

Imparfait

Throughout Gorham's history, throughout all of early America, raging fires destroyed a large percentage of historic buildings.

Some were rebuilt – only to be consumed by flames for a second or third time.

Some made it to present day, finding new uses. Others, like the abandoned Gorham United Methodist Church, are too important to tear down like an old Pizza Hut. Or any other way.

Not that the tourists and truckers passing through Gorham care.

Nor, I suspect, most of its residents: low-earning service workers focused on feeding their families.

I can't say I blame them. It takes time and imagination to gain even a basic appreciation for the tragedies and triumphs, hardships and happiness, cherished dreams and failed schemes that formed our physical and cultural landscape.

Taking the time to explore “pass through” Gorham taught me that even the most humble places resonate with profound echoes of the past.

Sometimes the harder they are to find, the more beautiful – and bittersweet – they sound. Thanks for the break, Beryl.

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