My plan was to pull the car over and pretend I was adjusting my bike rack, maybe even act like the bike had been starting to fall off, while secretly taking pictures of the rusted old vehicles lined up alongside the road. I had spotted these relics earlier that day on my way to search for the Beryl Mountain mineshaft, and because I'm a fan of anything that looks like it has a story to tell, I made a mental note to drive the same route home so I could get a closer look at the cars.
The collection obviously belonged to someone, but sitting this close to the road like they were I considered them fair game to spend a few minutes admiring, even if they were on private property. I did my bad acting job of fiddling with the bike rack, but before I'd even switched my phone over to camera mode I saw an elderly woman approaching from the nearest house. I knew I'd been busted. Prepared for an ear-beating about how I should mind my own business - a speech I've long since memorized - I was surprised when it wasn't her tongue that greeted me, but her outstretched hand and a smile.
"Hi, I'm Ruth!"
I recovered quickly enough to introduce myself back, and was soon enjoying a much more pleasant conversation than what I'd been expecting. The cars did in fact belong to Ruth and her husband, and she welcomed me to take as many pictures as I'd like.
There weren't just cars among the tall grass, either; toward the end of the line were miscellaneous rigs that included a couple cranes.
Ruth had such as easygoing way about her I soon found myself spilling details about my day, and how I'd driven to this part of the state in search of an old mineshaft. This garnered an almost grandmotherly concern to make sure I was being careful out there, and she even asked if I was taking care of my body. Guiltily I showed her my legs, which had gotten a bit scratched up during my earlier bushwhacking, but she dismissed these with a wave of the hand as if to say it was real injuries she was concerned about, not boo boos. I had none to report.
We talked a bit more and I thanked her again for allowing me to take pictures, then she went on her way. But before leaving she told me they had many more cars around the corner, and to make sure I checked those out as well. Thinking this day was just getting better by the minute, I drove down the street she'd gestured toward and was rewarded with a property littered with twice the amount of vehicles as before. And I'm not talking junkers like the rusted out Chevettes that used to decorate my driveway, these were cars with personality.
As I was just finishing round two of my photo shoot a golf cart came rolling up, and before I could explain that Ruth had given me permission to take pictures, I was being greeted by her husband, Ralph. Turns out Ruth had woken him from a nap to tell him someone was interested in his vehicles, and always eager for an opportunity to show them off, he'd chased me down. I started apologizing for the disturbance but he stopped me and said it had been time for him to wake up anyway because he needed to take his heart medication, and before I could feel bad about that he winked and told me his heart medication consisted of gin and tonic.
I learned quite a bit about Ralph over the next ten minutes. He is 87 years old, which he said was a good age because when you're older than everyone else, you have more stories to tell than everyone else. He also still keeps plenty active. It wasn't even until the last couple of years that he'd begun to slow down with his work, which at the mention of his eyes lit up and he told me I had to come see his collection of vehicles there.
Starting to feel like I was intruding I hinted at the two hour drive still waiting for me, but Ralph wouldn't hear of it. Next thing I knew I was following him up a long dirt road to a massive sawmill, which I soon found out was the family business. The place was enormous but he didn't want to talk about that, instead he led me behind one of the buildings and to the third installment of his car collection.
In addition to being strewn throughout the weeds, many of the vehicles were inside and protected from the elements. My favorites were these trucks equipped with tank treads, and I enjoyed listening to him tell me the history of these and others I pointed out.
By now I'd given up any hope of making it home on time, so back to the house we went where Ruth joined us in the driveway and we stood around talking like old friends. It was then that I learned the two of them had celebrated their 66th wedding anniversary just the day before. Ralph marveled at how they'd managed to stay married for all those years, and Ruth laughed that yeah, and most of them were even happy ones. He pointed to the house up the road and told me that's where he was born and raised. After a moments thought he reckoned he didn't travel all that far in life, but he followed this up by saying he always enjoyed himself, and by that account he imagined he did alright. I agreed one hundred percent, and had we been enjoying some of his heart medication at that point, we would have clinked glasses.
Talk eventually came back around to his cars again, and I had to pry just a little. Where did they all come from, and what was he doing with them? Ralph is a collector, and although he still buys and sells them from time to time, from what I could tell he isn't in it for money, he simply enjoys being able to look out at his treasures. This led to him telling me a story that turned out not just to be my favorite one of the day, but probably of recent memory.
Not everyone enjoyed his cars as much as Ralph did, and many years ago he received a letter from the town demanding he clean up his illegal junkyard. Well first of all, Ralph didn't consider his collection a "junkyard", and second of all, he didn't want to clean it up. He liked it just the way it was, where he and other people could see it. So he found a lawyer in Claremont who said to give him a check for $100 (a fee that gives me a pretty good idea of how long ago this story took place) and that he'd never have to worry about cleaning his cars again. Ralph wrote him the check, and he waited.
Soon after a letter arrived in the mail, and upon opening it he learned that the lawyer had registered his garage, his barn, and all of his cars as an official museum. The Beryl Mountain Museum.
And the lawyer was right. With this designation, his dozens of vehicles have forever remained protected from harassment by town officials, some of whom just don't have the same eye for beauty that people like Ralph or I have.
The Beryl Mountain Museum can be found at the intersection of Beryl Mountain Road and Saw Mill Road, in Acworth New Hampshire
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