Old Man of the Mountain fell on May 3, 2003. What now?
But Gidge’s bill was weak. He had no blueprints and no funding plan, but he made up for that with populist rhetoric. Gidge had been a longtime talk-radio host, and he knew how to get people’s attention. He attacked the Fund on the core issue–money–arguing that no monument built on the ground would ever bring in as many tourists as one on the cliff. He cast the Fund as a group of out-of-touch purists who were too emotionally attached. “And there will be no Vermont granite,” he vowed. “I promise you that.”
But all of this drama was but a tempest in a teacup. Recessionary budget cuts were shutting down prisons and eating into subsidies for foster families, and no legislator wanted to be seen as favoring some monument over that. When news of the two bills broke in the Union Leader on January 16, 2009, public backlash was swift: “GET FOCUSED, PEOPLE!” implored one writer from Derry. “It’s nice to see our lawmakers are focusing in on the important issues of our time, when the state is facing huge deficits and people are losing their jobs by the thousands.” Another writer added, “I am saddened that my children will never gaze upon the Old Man, but the New Hampshire he once represented is long dead.”
The legislative committee rejected Gidge’s bill overwhelmingly. The Fund scrambled to remove its request for money but still hoped for state recognition. Just before the hearing, a rumor spread that an amendment would be added, barring the group from ever receiving state funds. Rather than face that, members removed their bill from consideration. The mood in the State House could be summed up by a remark from Representative Cynthia Sweeney: “People won’t forget the Old Man. It’s just not there anymore.”
Back in Franconia, another summer passed without construction. As the snow began to fall, the Fund tried to reinvent itself. Members abandoned the corporate fundraising approach and changed the group’s name to “Friends of the Old Man of the Mountain/
Franconia Notch,” broadening its mission to include advocacy for the entire state park. They hope now that the move will help them sow the seeds of a grassroots movement among the loyal tourists and locals who were always the Old Man’s base, though it may prove too late for that. New Hampshire has survived almost seven years without its icon; the sense of urgency and necessity is gone. Without the legislators and millionaires, it’s now up to the people of New Hampshire to decide whether a monument is really worth it or whether it’s enough to just stand by and let the legacy of the Old Man of the Mountain speak for itself.
Old Man Tschotschkes
The Old Man may be gone from the cliffside, but he lives on through a slew of kitschy knick-knacks. This bobblehead, for instance, commissioned by the New Hampshire Historical Society, may seem tacky, but it’s got nothing on one maker’s commemorative heat-sensitive coffee mug: The Old Man’s face disappears from the mountain every time you pour a fresh cup.
I Spy Something Granite
The Old Man is unavoidable on New Hampshire’s roadways. License plates, highway signs, and police cruisers all bear his image. No effort has been made to replace them (thus far), although that may be due less to respect and more to the fact that the price of doing so would likely make the Old Man’s collapse the costliest natural disaster in New Hampshire history.
Minted three years before the collapse, the New Hampshire state quarter is a mini-monument unto itself. Not content with merely collecting them, fans of the Old Man have made these coins into medallions and watch faces. With White Mountain National Forest slated to appear on the state’s “America the Beautiful” quarter in 2013, it looks as though the Old Man will miss out on his chance for an encore appearance.