This is apropos of almost nothing, except that it started off my day with a pleasant reflection: that, for all the deregulation promulgated by the oafs in charge of such things in Washington, the American public is going to do the regulating with its choices. I can’t imagine, for example, going back to a sedan or SUV that gets less than 30 miles a gallon, when this little beauty goes like smoke, does everything I can reasonably ask of it, and delivers an average of just under 50 miles a gallon.

But I’m sounding like my father, who never tired of showing me the records he kept of the gas mileage he achieved – with the help of an engine vacuum indicator add-on – in his Eisenhower-era Chevys. The real reason I was at the mountain, along with the film crew, was to interview a couple of hard-core hikers about to set off up through Tuckerman Ravine to be married at the summit. If they and I both made it, I’d witness their nuptials and chat with them afterward, before they headed back down the mountain – on foot, naturally – to get to the reception. The icing on the cake for me was another chance to ride up and down the mountain on my old friend, the cog railway.

Mount Washington’s been a draw for adventurers and tourists for over 350 years. The first known ascent of this huge pile of rock was way back in 1642, by “an Irishman,” Darby Field. It’s amazing to me that, only 22 years after the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, Europeans had already penetrated this far inland and were taking the time to climb mountains.

It’s also equally surprising that the cog railway has been around only a bit less than half that time. It will celebrate its 150th anniversary next year. And as long as we’re almost-halving, I’ll note that I first saw it 63 years ago, in September of 1955. My friends and I were pretty hotshot hikers in those days. Standing at the top of the rails, I remarked that the train moved pretty slowly. A person standing beside us bet that I couldn’t run down the tracks and back up as fast as the train. How much? I asked him. He named the exact amount the weekend was going to cost me – 20 bucks – so, while my pals kept an eye on my benefactor, down I went. Coal smoke over everything; the trains belched great clouds of it. By the time I got back to collect my twenty, I was sooty halfway up my calves. But I was temporarily solvent.

The basic technology of the Cog hasn’t changed much in 150 years. It’s still a steel cog wheel underneath the engine grinding its way up a ladder of steel pins between two rails in the middle of the track. There’s been a major change in the propulsion system, however, since President Grant rode up the mountain. The smoke-belching coal-burners (1 ton of coal and 1000 gallons of water per ascent) are being replaced by the latest in ecodiesels (18 gallons of diesel and French fry fat per trip). Traditionalists may decry the loss of the picturesque, but there’s no defending it anymore. Plus, the diesels are faster and cheaper, and allow passengers a longer time on top.

The scene at the base station of the railway was more lively than usual today, with a “Steampunk Festival,” multiple vendors, and a miniature steam engine builder. Employees affected Victorian costume, and actors representing Sylvester Marsh, the incredibly inventive and persistent builder of the railroad, and his wife strolled about regaling tourists with facts and information about the operation. Old Peppersass, the original inclined-boiler wood-burning steam engine, perched on its pedestal as usual in the middle of the yard. Inside, folks could watch clips from the documentary the crew and I made a few years ago.

The wedding couple departed Pinkham Notch for the summit in a pouring rain; only about five hardy souls climbed with them. The rest of the party clambered aboard an 11:30 train to meet the climbers and the justice of the peace (a hiking guide who doubles in brass as a wedding officiant). The hikers had come up the mountain like a cavalry charge and beaten the train by a mile. The clouds had thinned; so as soon as we all gathered in the wind shadow of the Sherman Adams summit building, the happy couple faced exchanged vows and rings, kissed, and it was over. We piled onto the waiting train and, to the lame jokes of the brakeman, rumbled back down to our lives – the newlyweds to their life, the wedding party to an evening reception, the film crew to Durham, and I west toward the Vermont border at Moore Dam.