A Christmas Getaway in the White Mountains: Finding Holiday Spirit in New Hampshire

For various reasons, my Christmas season had failed to fully launch. My mother’s recipe for spritz cookies had yet to come out of its worn folder. My playlists had been leaning more toward moody Bon Iver than merry Burl Ives. My shopping list was alarmingly short on check marks. I needed comfort and joy—and interesting little stores—stat, and I hoped that a quick getaway to northern New Hampshire’s White Mountains region might help me find them. That’s how I came to be sitting in a sleigh with Santa on a frigid Bretton Woods morning, gazing at a chestnut horse’s broad rump through the periscope of my coat’s oversize hood.

I’d considered backing out of the ride with Saint Nick around the grounds of the hilltop Omni Mount Washington Resort & Spa, my stately digs for the night. Clouds and falling snow obscured the Presidential Range, so there would be no majestic mountain views. The temperature had barely climbed out of the single digits. Still, I’d committed. After a few minutes, I pushed the hood back. It wasn’t so bad. Now, I could see the family with two young daughters who had boarded with me, and I could hear the bells on the horses’ leather halters. The grand white hotel with its garland-wrapped columns and red turreted roofs loomed like a winter palace above us.

We tracked across an open field, then turned back and slid along a line of frosted pines. For a moment, the pale sun slipped through a gap in the cloud cover and cast the floaty snowflakes in a shaft of ethereal light. I smelled balsam and woodsmoke. I saw the kids’ smiles. I felt—what was it? Yes, a ripple of genuine good cheer. I’d needed a little Christmas, and already the White Mountains were coming through.

My quest for the festive spirit led me next to the little town of Bethlehem, on the western edge of the White Mountain National Forest. In the post–Civil War years, it gained fame as a clean-air summer retreat catering to wealthy hay fever sufferers. These days, it’s known for its small post office, which gamely processes tens of thousands of in-person and mail-in requests each year for its distinctive holiday postmark, and, increasingly, for the entrepreneurs breathing new life into its Main Street. 

I got a latte at the recently opened Place Above the Notch, a cheery café with a persimmon sofa and a royal-blue roasting machine, then walked to a nearby store that was so new it had no sign. Inside, I met Alyssa Schoenfeld, who said she and her husband had been so taken with Bethlehem’s potential during post-skiing and -hiking stops at Rek-Lis Brewing Company, one of the evolving town’s early success stories, that they’d bought this 19th-century retail building and set out to renovate it. After three years of work, they’d just cut the ribbon on Brown Paper Packages, their tightly curated shop specializing in handmade goods from small New England makers. They were also putting the finishing touches on the upstairs apartment where they planned to settle after moving from southern New Hampshire.

 “We felt a lack of community where we were living,” Schoenfeld said as she rang up the pretty fabric sleep masks I’d brought to the counter. “People here know each other, and help each other, and care about each other. It’s so special. Sometimes, when I’m standing in my window and looking out at the snow coming down … it really does feel like a Hallmark movie.” 

Prop masters for that feel-good film would do well to make their way a few blocks east to Lonesome Woods, the woodstove-warmed purveyor of new and used cabincore essentials that was my next stop. I saw gift possibilities everywhere in the artfully cluttered two-floor emporium: vintage L.L. Bean ski sweaters, retired Appalachian Mountain Club trail signs, classic Pendleton blankets, retro Paine’s log house incense burners, and, from a line of in-house apothecary goods, hand-poured soy candles in a lovely scent called Snow.

Buoyed by my list-busting finds, I headed over to nearby Super Secret Ice Cream, where owner Kristina Zontini greeted me from behind a shiny blue-and-white tile counter. The air was sweet with the aroma of waffle cones, and a “giving tree” in a corner was hung with donations for the local school lunch program. Zontini told me she’d gotten started by selling scratch-made ice cream to friends out of a self-service backyard shed in 2019. Three years later, she opened this airy scoop shop—a secret no more. Her inventive flavors, house-made mix-ins, and commitment to sourcing ingredients from local growers and dairies had earned her store two James Beard Award nominations, and her decision to stay open year-round—cold weather be damned—had earned her the gratitude of her devoted customers.

“I think it’s important for a small town like ours to have vibrant businesses on Main Street,” she said as I sampled Sugar Plum Fairy, a divine concoction of vanilla-cardamom ice cream swirled with chunks of spiced sugar cookies and plum jam made with fruit from her backyard tree. “I didn’t want to bum people out as they drove by.”

If I hadn’t already put my own tree up (I had at least managed to do that), I would have stopped next at The Rocks, a historic estate and nonprofit Christmas tree farm on a trail-veined 1,400-acre forest reserve just west of Bethlehem’s downtown area. Instead, I continued to nearby Littleton, the lively resurrected mill town that has become a shopping and dining hub for visitors on the northern edge of the Whites. I joined the stream of bundled-up pedestrians going in and out of stores and galleries. There was much to admire: upcycled textile mittens in Bella Funk, vintage patterned Pyrex cookware in Just L, and whimsical palm-sized ceramic owls from the League of NH Craftsmen. In the Little Village Toy & Book Shop, I contemplated who might like to receive Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Tales of the White Mountains. (Me!)

Eventually, I made my way to Schilling Beer Co.’s Brewery Pub & Kitchen, set in an 18th-century gristmill above the Ammonoosuc, a river that begins high on the western flank of Mount Washington. In the rustic beamed-ceiling brewpub, I polished off a grilled bratwurst on a pretzel bun, then nursed a crisp Czech-style pilsner brewed at the production facility next door. I was in no hurry. I wanted to savor the conviviality of the stool sitters at the bar, the scent of the wood-fired oven—the glowy gemütlichkeit of it all. It was dark when I finally walked back to my car, past decorated shop windows and fairy-lit trees. By then, I was so awash in goodwill that the sight of the midcentury marquee at Jax Jr. Cinemas made me imagine shouting, George Bailey–style, “Merry Christmas, movie house!”

In the morning, I had coffee by the fieldstone fireplace in the Omni Mount Washington’s Great Hall, the elegant colonnaded lobby that has awed guests since the hotel opened its doors in 1902. The place was already buzzing. A blond toddler in red footie pajamas had gone rogue among the decorated trees, and a woman I assumed was his grandmother was trying to catch up while fighting a wonky stroller wheel. A couple posed in holiday sweaters under the mantel-topping moose head. Families clomped by in ski boots, ready to catch the shuttle to the nearby Bretton Woods Ski Area, the state’s largest. Hotel staff “elves” zipped in and out of the fancy, gold leaf–trimmed Princess Room (originally the private dining room of Carolyn Stickney, wife of resort founder Joseph Stickney), prepping for visits with Santa later that day.

I could have hung there by the fire and lost myself in the happy bustle, but the next stop on my holiday-spirit revival tour awaited. From Bretton Woods, I drove south through Crawford Notch, a steep-sided mountain pass that shadows the Saco River. “It is indeed a wondrous path,” Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote of the route after venturing through it in 1832, and it was still that: wondrous—and transporting. I found myself thinking back to other times I’d traveled this thrilling wilderness road, on sightseeing trips with my parents, now gone, and ski outings with my daughters, now grown. Seasons came and went, but the memories and the beauty of these mountains were indelible.

I passed through Bartlett and turned north onto Route 16, and before long was delivered by a red covered bridge to Jackson, a pocket-size village almost comically brimming with yuletide charm. My home for the night was The Wentworth, a landmark clapboard-and-shingle-covered inn, which at the turn of the 20th century had entertained guests with its casino, billiards rooms, and twice-weekly ballroom dances. These days, the big draws are the area’s abundant opportunities for outdoor pursuits. Those, and the recently renovated inn’s polished mountain-lodge aesthetic—think leather sofas, furry throws, soft pillows, a flickering fire—which encourages après-anything lolling.

After dropping my bags, I set out for a walk, cursing the knee injury that kept me from clicking into ski bindings and exploring the Jackson Ski Touring Center’s nearly 100 miles of Nordic trails (including one challenging route that begins at the backside summit of Wildcat Mountain Ski Area). I passed by two sweet red libraries: the “old,” built in 1901, and the “new,” a reassembled 1858 barn. Near the rock bridge that spanned tumbling Wildcat Brook, I came upon White Mountain Puzzles, headquarters for the iconic jigsaw puzzle manufacturer, and its only retail store. As I browsed the colorful racks, second-generation co-owner Colin Wroblewski told me that his small shop had become a place of pilgrimage for puzzle enthusiasts.

“We just had a guy drive up from South Carolina, load his PT Cruiser with 50 puzzles, and turn around to head back,” he said. “Our customers are very loyal.”

That seemed an understatement. But I saw the deep appeal of traveling to the source, especially at Christmastime. Many of the holiday puzzles depicted nostalgic images of enchanting snowy villages much like the one just beyond the shop’s front door. I picked out a 1,000-piece design that was a collage of vintage ski posters, including images of ads for the legendary Boston & Maine “Snow Trains,” which in the early 1930s started bringing city dwellers to nearby North Conway.

And then, a short time later, I was standing in that very depot. The Snow Trains stopped running decades ago, but North Conway’s striking yellow Russian Revival–style station hasn’t changed much since those excited winter sports pioneers shouldered their long wooden skis and trekked across town to Mount Cranmore, the 1937 Alpine ski area that’s still going strong. The station serves now as both the embarkation point for the Conway Scenic Railroad’s sightseeing excursions, including the popular Santa’s Holiday Express, and an ephemera-filled museum. (The nearby New England Ski Museum has more artifacts from that golden era, such as photos by noted photographer and North Conway regular Slim Aarons.)

I bought stocking stuffers at the North Conway 5 and 10 Cent Store, a downtown fixture since 1939, then headed back to Jackson and ducked into The Wentworth’s snug Alpine tavern, whose walls are papered in green and gold plaid, like a gift. There was—hurray!—cheese fondue on the menu. I settled into a high-backed barstool, feeling all of the warmth of the season, and none of the weight.

In the morning, I started for home. The plows had been through. The roads were good. The surrounding forests of birch and balsam were snow-flocked and still, and the great bulk of mountains stood mighty and white against a cloudless sky. I thought about pulling over to take pictures, but I knew I’d remember these scenes. Besides, I wanted to get back. My daughters would be arriving in a few days. I had cookies to bake and presents to wrap. And when “A Holly Jolly Christmas” came on the radio, I’d turn it up. 

This feature was originally published as “Peak Holidays” in the November/December 2025 issue of Yankee.

Keep Reading: Things to Do in the White Mountains of New Hampshire: Where to Eat, Stay, and Play

Meg Lukens Noonan

More by Meg Lukens Noonan