Pittsburg, New Hampshire is in the northernmost section of New Hampshire.  It’s here that the headwaters of the Connecticut River flow into the Connecticut Lakes and begin their long descent to Long Island Sound.  Heavily forested and sparsely populated, it is cold and unwelcoming.  If you were a felon looking for a hideout, this would be a good place.  A quiet desolation pervades all aspects of the town.  It’s a hardscrabble, no frills place inhabited by people who work hard to make a living.  There are few paved driveways and no parked Audis.  Gravel, mud, log trucks and skidders  are common along the length of Rt. 3. Lawns are largely ignored, houses are in need of paint.  Austerity seamlessly yields to poverty…it’s hard to tell which is which.  This is definitely Ford country.  The family car here is likely an F-150 which has been jacked up with a lift kit.

Pittsburg is also host to a summertime population of elite sportsman; fly fishermen and kayakers.  It’s very easy to tell them from the locals.  They are fresh, healthy, bright.  They weren’t born defeated, they weren’t saddled with limits. They are in the world and Pittsburg is a pleasant outpost

For the locals living this far from the mainstream, culturally isolated, economically deprived, Pittsburg is a cage. It defines who they are and what they can ever be; loggers, farmers, or loggers, farmers…

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