There are, however, sanctuaries of unspoiled and less-trodden forests scattered amidst the attention-grabbers. Last Wednesday, a bright, cold, windy day after a week of often soaking rain and sleet, Kiki and I got a chance to experience one of them.

I had her crate lashed into the back of the car the night before, and a day pack of water, snacks, gloves, and a flashlight ready by the back door. At six, just as the sky brightened into twilight, we fired down the driveway and turned east. I had tried to set the car’s GPS to our destination, Wonalancet, New Hampshire; but it insisted on a street address, and as far as I could tell, there weren’t any. Rather like Gertrude Stein’s Oakland, California: there, apparently, is no there there. So I made one up – #1 Main Street. The woman in my dashboard seemed satisfied with that and said, in effect, follow me.

Interstate 93 south of the notches, running as it does down the Pemigewasset River Valley, is pretty straightforward and businesslike (with a newly-posted 70-mph speed limit); but once you turn off toward the east, you sense that suddenly you’re following old colonial routes between long-gone farms, to the sites of mills, town meeting houses, and markets. Ancient oaks everywhere, deep russet this time of year. and rows of 200-year-old maples beside rough walls of glacial boulders.

We passed the shores of Squam Lake, noticing that where the houses are fancier, the speed limit is lower, and finally reached Wonalancet, where my dashboard lady signed off. I recognized the place because, googling it, I’d seen a picture of a white building with a spire, which appeared to be about all there was to it. And about a mile farther on, beside the road, there were the NHPB film crew and my buddy Tom Ryan, with his two new dogs, Samwise and Emily.

Tom’s pretty well known for his best-seller Following Atticus, the saga of a little schnauzer who turned his life around and with him climbed the White Mountain 4000-footers winter and summer. About the time Atticus (Tom is into literary names for his canine companions) died, Tom got pretty sick himself, and was even hospitalized with the threat of multiple organ failures. But he’s since pretty much recovered, lost a ton of weight, and is ready for whatever’s next. Which, that day, was a hike with me and Kiki.

The theme of the walk, which would be filmed by the NH PBS crew for an episode later this season, was hiking for folks like me and Tom, more or less hobbled by age, infirmity, or illness, but still itching to be outdoors and active as much as possible. Tom had chosen the perfect venue, a brief stroll beside a brief river, the Wonalancet, on the Brook Path, which is maintained by the local outdoor club.

The stream (“river” is pushing it a bit) is an idyll straight from central casting – rapids, waterfalls, and long pools of glycerin-clear water. It was high from the recent rains. The dogs, cantering and snuffling everywhere, were in and out of its edges. Emily, a water-lover, eagerly chased thrown sticks into the pools and, emerging and shaking twice, was miraculously dry. Samwise looked on with a sangfroid born of seniority; and Kiki, the smallest of the bunch, declined to compete, affecting indifference and standing or walking, as she often does, between my feet, peeking out.

It’s a lovely walk, the Brook Trail. The water flows fresh and filtered from a glacial cirque only a few miles upstream. The woods were probably disturbed at one time, but hardly show it now. I spotted dozens of holes where I’m sure brook trout lurk, safe from all but the stealthiest approaches by fishermen. It reminded me a lot of the brooks of my youth, and I found myself plotting how I’d fish each spot.

All the way, Tom and I kept up our usual banter; he’s a natural conversationalist, and we hit it off. It was delightful to see the extent of his recovery, his two constant companions, and his convertible Beetle waiting for the spring sun to coax the top down – Sam’s favorite way to ride. Kiki zoomied through the woods from time to time with Emily – rather like somewhat familiar cousins playing. Kiki was going to sleep on the way home, that was certain. There was nothing about the day, the place, the people, or the activity that was not to like. It will go into my journal as another rare golden apple stolen from the gods.