Old Man of the Mountain fell on May 3, 2003. What now?
“I was skeptical at first about what we could do that would be appropriate,” remembers Hamilton, who, although retired since 2005, still promotes the Old Man as a member of the volunteer group. He recalls that those involved with the memorial made a bold assumption early on: that the people of New Hampshire actually wanted a monument, despite some evidence to the contrary: “I think there were like 3,000 people who e-mailed and wrote. The vast majority said Don’t do anything. Like 85 percent or something.”
For many, the Old Man was primarily a natural wonder. To them, any replica would be tawdry and pointless, just as if Old Faithful had stopped erupting and you’d replaced it with a firehose on a timer. Some felt that the rocks at the bottom of the cliff were monument enough.
But others argued that the Old Man was an integral part of New Hampshire’s identity. Along with the rallying cry “Live Free or Die,” it remains the state’s official emblem, evoking the flinty, self-sufficient values on which the state prides itself. It’s also everywhere. It’s on the state quarter, the license plates, the highway signs. It’s on badges and letterhead and seals. If the Old Man is to remain the face of New Hampshire (and it’s blasphemy to suggest it won’t), shouldn’t it have something real–something physical–to represent it?
The Fund members believed so, but they decided to build more than just a replica. The greatest monuments are those that provide visitors with some kind of experience: All the fluted columns and marbles steps in Washington, D.C., for example, don’t hold a candle to the stark power of picking out the names you know on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. If the Old Man were to mean anything to the generations who’d never see it, the Fund would need something like that–something that could make the memories live again.
They found it in a design by Shelly Bradbury and Ron Magers, a design that focuses on the Old Man’s most curious attribute: In a sense, it never really existed. The iconic stone profile was mostly an optical illusion. Up close, the Old Man looked like any other granite formation–jagged and random–but from one angle, it lined up to form something greater than the sum of its parts. Residents of the Notch often talk about the magic moment when, as they drove along I-93, the Old Man would emerge from the chaos of the mountain and then, just as quickly, disappear again.
After passing through a stone gateway, memorial visitors would come across five granite monoliths. From one spot at the head of the trail, they’d line up, and their irregular sides would combine to re-create the Old Man’s illusion: the chin, the nose, the prominent forehead. This trick would be used a second time in miniature at the shore of the lake. Tiny stones along the sides of poles arcing toward the mountain would, from one angle, place a phantom image of the profile back on the cliff where it once stood.
Reactions to the design were mixed. The $5 million price tag gave pause, but so did the fact that owing to the size of the monoliths, the granite blocks would have to be quarried in Vermont. There was also a vocal and persistent minority demanding that the profile be literally rebuilt on the mountainside.
Still, when the Fund members revealed the design in February 2007, they predicted that they could have it built by May 2008, for a fifth-anniversary dedication. They solicited hundreds of thousands of dollars in the first few days and convinced the Rock of Ages quarry to mine the stones on faith. But soon momentum waned, and donations dried up. They lowered their expectations to a May groundbreaking, but the fifth anniversary passed with no construction.
For a moment, everything had seemed to line up for the Fund, but then, just as quickly, it had vanished.
The trail to Profile Lake is still littered with reminders of the Old Man. The old ice-cream stand remains but has gone out of business, and the carved signs along the road advertising “Old Man Viewing” have taken on a funereal tone. From the lake you can clearly see the debris field high up on the mountain. “It’s kind of like a graveyard to me,” reflects Dave Nielsen, who continues his work as one of the fundraisers.