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Randolph's Greatest Storm It had been 117 years since New England was hit directly by a major hurricane. Most of the time, such storms moved north offshore past Cape Hatteras before veering out to sea. The Weather Bureau had come to believe that hurricanes never hit New England. Alas the experts were proved wrong on Wednesday, September 21, 1938 when a strong category 3 hurricane (names were applied beginning in 1950) continued due north at an accelerating speed following a trough of low pressure near the coast. High pressure over the ocean prevented a seaward turn. Traveling at 70 mph, the 120 mph winds smashed without warning into Long Island and proceeded north and northwest up the Connecticut valley and across Vermont into Canada. A pool of cold air to the west allowed the hurricane to maintain its intensity much farther inland than usual. The fast forward speed enhanced the wind velocities and storm surges east of the track (Blue Hill Observatory near Boston 186 mph, Mt. Washington 157 mph), and reduced them to the west. Except for flooding rains, most of the 600+ fatalities and 400+ million (1938) dollars damage occurred east of the track. I, age 11, was with my parents at our summer cottage on Randolph Hill. My father, an astronomer and physicist, was a self-taught "weather fan." He realized on that fateful morning that something unusual was impending. The uncharacteristically high temperature (mid 60's), fitful gusts of wind from the east and squally bursts of rain with very small drops convinced him that the hurricane, which he had heard mentioned on the radio news, was headed our way. Conditions worsened steadily through the day and the barometer fell precipitously. He began to worry about the safety of our house, especially when my mother, resting with a minor ailment, was fascinated as she watched the windowpane over her bed bowing in and out with the wind gusts (not a wise observation). He succeeded in closing and securing the shutters on the east and south windows that the wind hit unimpeded, blowing across a large open meadow. The noise was overwhelming, screaming and rattling and roaring through the trees behind the house. I was both scared and fascinated. My father estimated the peak wind gusts to be around 90 mph. The worst was over by around 8 p.m. as the barometer bottomed out at 29.02 inches and the diminishing wind shifted to the southwest as the storm center passed about 100 miles to our west. Fortunately our house suffered no damage, but the region was left without power for several days. The next morning dawned clear and I have never forgotten the sight of Howker Ridge on Mt. Madison; on large sections all the trees were lying flat. The damage to the White Mountain forests was appalling, especially in areas like the Pemigewasset Wilderness nearer to the path of the storm center. Many trails were so badly damaged that they were never reopened, including the RMC's Cascade Ravine Trail. The old birch-bark Perch was destroyed (replaced in 1948 by an open front log shelter). The Forest Service closed large sections of forest for several years because of high fire danger in the slash; luckily there were no serious fires. We were scheduled to leave Randolph on September 22 so that my father could meet his first classes at Princeton. We delayed a day and had to drive west to Burlington Vermont before we could find an open route south to New Jersey via the Hudson Valley.
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