Mount Washington in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, with its bitter cold, freezing fog, heavy snow and the fastest wind ever observed by man, is the home of the "world's worst weather". It also has its share of fine days from April to October. Since its foundation in 1932, the intrepid staff of the Mount Washington Observatory have been there in the thick of it, living and working in one of the planet's most extreme places The mission of the non-profit Mount Washington Observatory is to advance knowledge and understanding of the natural systems that create earth's weather and climate. This is achieved by operating its unique mountaintop weather station, collecting and analysing meteorological data, performing scientific research, delivering educational programmes, and interpreting the heritage of the Mount Washington region. Did I mention it also has cats?
In summer, mean daily temperatures are pleasant enough, though not much higher than they are in the UK this December week-end, at 12C to 15C. The highest temperature ever recorded there is only 22C (or 72F if you prefer). It snows for a third of the year, with mean daily temperatures below freezing for the six months from November to April. In the bleakest winters, blizzards are frequent (see above) and temperatures can drop as low as -44C. I've experienced temperatures of -32C in Moscow so I can only shiver at the thought of what -44C must feel like. It's comparable to Antarctica. Needless to say, the area is completely out of bounds to hikers and the Observatory is closed to visitors for those spectacularly cold six months of the year.
But the cats, you ask. I first became aware of the Mount Washington Observatory Cats when I was working in New York in the 1990s. A work colleague had a poster of Inga the cat with icy fur (see below) on her office wall and I enquired where I could get a copy. She told me all about Mount Washington, its weather station and its history of cats, and I subsequently ordered two copies of the lovely Inga poster from the Observatory website, one for my cat-loving elder daughter and one which I still have framed in my house in Blackpool.
Inga was perhaps the first Mount Washington cat to gain nationwide fame thanks to the posters, postcards and other promotional items bearing her image, but cats had been a regular part of Observatory life since the institution was established back in the 1930s. They were initially brought to the weather station to keep the local rodent population in check, but soon became indispensable as company for the isolated staff of the Observatory.
Tikky was the first resident feline, a tailless cat. Apparently dogs were tried out but were just too much trouble, and within a few years cats reigned supreme, the archives recording a roster of kitties including Elmer, Manx, Blackie and the fancifully-named Ammonuisance (that's scientists for you).
Occasionally the cats might decide to leave the Observatory in search of a more comfortable existence down in the foothills, but they were usually spotted en route by hikers who would return them protesting to the summit.
Quite often there was more than one cat in residence and pregnancies were not unknown. Crazy Cat, a scamp or a rescue animal, was the Observatory's feline talisman for much of the 1960s. She gave birth to a litter of three kittens (father unknown) and when she finally disappeared one foggy night never to be seen again, one of her offspring, Pushka, took on the role of top feline resident. The other kittens were found good homes down in the valley. Pushka roamed and ruled his summit world for fifteen years and made sure that he sired a successor through Blackberry (whose five kittens were named Strawberry, Blueberry, Raspberry, Boysenberry and Beriberi (scientists again)!
Strawberry it was who became the Observatory's next chief mouser. A huge fluffy beast with a magnificent fox-like tail, she would roam the buildings and neighbourhood to the delight of all who visited the summit.
And then there was Inga, a calico cat of great beauty and intelligence. Of course the Observatory cats were free to wander outside during the balmier months but were kept shut in, often against their better natures, during the freezing periods of snowstorms and blizzards. Inga, however, of all the cats, was the one clever enough to figure how to trip the door-latch and she would often nip out on winter days to take the frosty air, which used to annoy her human colleagues because she never shut the door after her, but which led to the magnificent photograph of her icy fur and whiskers.
Inga sadly didn't live to celebrate the millennium and her passing was mourned by many who had come to know and love her. The post of resident mouser was taken up by Nin (named after the writer Anais Nin), a stray who had turned up at the house of one of the weather station scientists. He used to run with the ravens, outstare foxes and hike happily around his elevated environs for a decade or so until retiring in 2007.
When Nin stepped down from mountain duties, an election was held to appoint his replacement. A local animal rescue center nominated three of the cats in its care and Marty won the contest, polling more than half of the 8.000 votes cast. A fluffy black creature with emerald eyes, Marty (see below) quickly became a valued member of the summit community. The story of his tenure, including a short video, is told in this link: Marty He kept the residents of the Observatory entertained and mouse-free for a decade until he died of a sudden illness during the Covid pandemic.
His successor is a gray named Nimbus. May he live a long and happy life on the mountain. I thought the story of the cats worthy of poem. It's still a work in progress which will appear here below as soon as possible - so check back in a few days.
Mount Washington Observatory Cats
In the meantime, as a Christmas bonus, here's a second poem, prompted by the winds that have been battering the jewel of the north recently. Because of its shape and content, I though the title suited.
Deltasonic
It started before first light brokewhen we were mostly snug in sleep,a distant rumble, thunderous perhapswhich by breakfast time swelled itselfto a constant roar, rattling us as it rolledthrough morning streets sounding ominous like heavy tanks (and who could forget once feltand heard that terror) advancing like unrelenting heavy tanksin invasion formation out on the crush and yet there was nothing to seewhen we peered through the windows. That was until bicyclesand bins, mailboxes, fence-posts, broken bushesbegan hurtling along, then tv aerials, roof tiles,dogs, cats, cars, whole trees came bowlingthrough the air. In a crescendo of noisehouses, streets and parks all peeled up.We were being blown away towardsgoodness knows where,Oz perhaps.
Thanks for reading, have a merry old time. đŸŽ„ S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
