I remember being surprised and excited at the thought that in New England you could drive just a few minutes from one state and all of the sudden be in another state; it certainly didn’t work that way in Alaska, and even in Colorado or Arizona, the neighboring states were far enough away that it was a trip to get anywhere. It seemed pretty exciting to be able to get in the car at Logan airport and be in New Hampshire about an hour later, and into Maine even more quickly than that.

My first trip to New Hampshire was in 1985, for my dad’s college reunion at Dartmouth, and I’ve returned over the years to visit Scott when he attended Dartmouth (though the one-two punch of tonsillitis and mono during that October break trip to Hanover didn’t leave such a great impression). I loved being on campus with Scott, who knows the ins and outs of the history and architecture of the campus better than anyone, and I have fond memories of the bookstore, the library, and the idyllic surroundings of the Hanover area.

After college, trips to New Hampshire were usually centered around the Mt. Washington Road Race, which my dad runs annually around the summer solstice. The photo above is a self-portrait, taken atop Mt. Washington as I wait for the runners to arrive so I can then drive a car-load of tired men and women back down to the parking lot at the bottom. It’s always a fun trip, staying with the Swensons at their house in North Conway or over the border at their cabin in Fryeburg, Maine.

Trips to used postcard shows when I lived in Connecticut and visits to Portsmouth and the beach with Aimee when we lived in Boston were always a nice change of pace, and I’m sure we’ll be back to the Granite State before long.