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Title: Paddle and portage, from Moosehead Lake to Aroostook River, Maine
Author: Thomas Sedgwick Steele
Release date: January 14, 2024 [eBook #72708]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Estes and Lauriat, 1882
Credits: Fiona Holmes and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PADDLE AND PORTAGE, FROM MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE ***
Transcriber’s Note
There are two spellings of the author's name - Sedgwick and Sedgewick.
Both spellings have been retained.
There is a map mentioned, 20 × 30 inches of the canoe courses of
Northern Maine but nothing was found in this copy or any other copy
of the same publication date.
[Illustration:
“Took to his bark upon the pebbled shore,
Those unknown realms of Nature to explore.”
SUNRISE ON ECHO LAKE.]
PADDLE AND PORTAGE,
FROM
MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER,
MAINE.
BY
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
AUTHOR OF “CANOE AND CAMERA,” MAPS OF MAINE, ETC.,
“Hunting is the noblest exercise,
Makes men laborious, active, wise,
Brings health, and doth the spirits delight,
It helps the hearing and the sight;
It teacheth arts that never slip
The memory, good horsemanship,
Search, sharpness, courage, and defence,
And chaseth all ill habits thence.”
JONSON’S MASQUES.
_WITH OVER SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS_,
AND MAP 20 × 30 INCHES OF THE CANOE COURSES OF NORTHERN MAINE.
BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT,
299-305 WASHINGTON STREET.
1882.
COPYRIGHT.
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
1882.
To Lyman B. Goff,
of
Pawtucket, R. I.
Companion on this tour, with
whom I shared its pleasures and its
dangers, its discomforts and
its successes, this book
is affectionately
dedicated,
in token of my sincere regard
and friendship.
Hartford, Conn., 1882. T. S. S.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The start.--Unwarranted assumptions.--Our guides and outfit.--A
flimsy wharf.--Railroading of the old days.--Contemptible deceit toward
dumb animals.--Commencement of fun on the “Carries.”--We
go into camp.--First night in the wilds, Page 15
CHAPTER II.
Moving on.--Pine Stream Falls.--Chesuncook Lake and Farm.--Umbazookus
Carry.--A dry ground sleighing party.--Further experience
with the horse.--A glimpse of desolation.--Chamberlin Lake.--A
vision.--Eagle Lake.--Smith Brook.--Haymoak Falls.--Trout
Stories, Page 36
CHAPTER III.
In rough water.--North Twin Stream.--An Indian paddle for future
use.--Breezes, blankets, cold and ice.--Spider Lake.--Manifold charms
of camp life.--At work with the traps.--Concerning beaver.--We proclaim
our intentions, Page 60
CHAPTER IV.
Osgood Carry.--The pack-horse league.--Novel trick in pedestrianism.--Camp
on Echo Lake.--Hiram tells a story.--Sluicing a dam.--More
concerning beaver.--Camp at the Mansungun Lakes, Page 79
CHAPTER V.
A vision on the lake.--Nichols’ birch-horn.--A midnight hunt under a
cold moon.--Calling the moose, Page 104
CHAPTER VI.
Decrease of our provisions.--Face to face with starvation.--Sore
trials.--Shoeing canoes.--Through the storm.--We sight the waters of the
Aroostook.--“Hurrah!” Page 115
CHAPTER VII.
Redeemed from starvation.--The first habitation on the Aroostook.--Mr.
Botting’s house.--The tourograph astonishes the natives.--Purchasing
supplies at Masardis.--Homeward Bound.--_Au Revoir!_ Page 131
ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. SUNRISE ON ECHO LAKE, Frontispiece.
2. DEDICATION, PAGE 4
3. A BEAVER DAM, 13
4. INITIAL “O,”--LEAVING MOOSEHEAD LAKE, 16
5. OUR GUIDES, 22
6. A SERIO-COMIC, 28
7. THE FIRST CAMP, 31
8. THE BEST MAN TO WIN, 33
9. NIGHT ON THE WEST BRANCH, 35
10. INITIAL “B,” 36
11. CHESUNCOOK LAKE, 37
12. CHESUNCOOK FARM, 38
13. UMBAZOOKUS STREAM, 41
14. PORTAGE, 43
15. OUTLET OF CHAMBERLIN LAKE, 47
16. CHAMBERLIN FARM, 49
17. FACETIÆ, 50
18. HAYMOAK FALLS, 52
19. GOOD SPORT, 56
20. THE DOG, 59
21. INITIAL “E,” 60
22. A COLD WAVE, 63
23. LOW--THE POOR INDIAN, 65
24. DEVELOPING A PLATE, 66
25. “TREES PILED ON TREES,” 68
26. TWILIGHT IN THE WILDS, 72
27. EVACUATION, 73
28. “ON TO THE AROOSTOOK,” 78
29. INITIAL “I,” 79
30. THE PACK-HORSE LEAGUE, 82
31. AT NIGHT BY THE CAMP FIRE, 84
32. “BY DINT O’ PUSHIN’ AN’ HAULIN’”-- 87
33. “FOLLERIN’ HIS SLOAT--HALLOO!” 91
34. “BEAT HIM LIKE AN OLD CARPET,” 93
35. “SAT ALL NIGHT WATCHIN’ IT BURN DOWN,” 94
36. BEAVER DAM--FOUR FEET HIGH--ONE HUNDRED FEET WIDE, 96
37. SLUICING A DAM, 98
38. CHASE BROOK, 101
39. ODDS AND ENDS, 103
40. INITIAL “T,” 104
41. “MOOSE? YOU DON’T SAY SO!” 105
42. “OH, SUCH A PAIR OF HORNS!” 106
43. THE DECOY, 109
44. CALLING THE MOOSE, 112
45. MOONLIGHT ON THE LAKE, 114
46. INITIAL “A,” 115
47. SHOEING CANOES, 117
48. “WOULDN’T TAKE FIFTY DOLLARS FOR IT,” 119
49. MANSUNGUN DEADWATER, 121
50. A SKY PICTURE, 123
51. A TWELVE MILE “DRAG,” 125
52. FROM THE DRY TO THE WET PROCESS, 128
53. CAMP ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, 130
54. INITIAL “W,” 131
55. A WAITING BREAKFAST, 132
56. THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, 134
57. “CAN YOU GET UP A DINNER FOR THE CROWD?” 137
58. BIRD-TRAPPING MADE EASY, 139
59. “SEVENTY SUMMERS,” 140
60. A PEEP AT THE STRANGERS, 141
61. PRESQUE ISLE--CIVILIZATION IN FOCUS-- 144
62. VALEDICTORY, 146
63. FINIS, 148
INTRODUCTION.
On page _31_ of _Canoe and Camera_ I made the following foot-note,
in mentioning the fourth tour from Moosehead Lake through the Maine
Wilderness: “Still another trip can be made from Churchill Lake through
Spider, Echo and Mansungun Lakes to the waters of the Aroostook,
leaving the woods at Caribou, Maine. But the scenery is uninteresting,
and the difficulties will not compensate one for the labor endured,
while woe betide the tourist if the water is low.”
I little imagined, as I penned this paragraph from hearsay, that the
following season I should so thoroughly acquaint myself with its
“difficulties,” and learn from actual experience the _beauties_ of its
scenery.
Yet, in the autumn of 1880, while putting in order my well-worn
camp equipage with no definite plan in view, a letter from my friend
and fellow traveller, Colonel G., gave this _fortunate_ direction
to my fall trip. This letter informed me that the year previous he
had discovered a region unknown to the sportsman and tourist, yet
accessible by canoe from Moosehead Lake, and was rejoicing in the title
of the “Pioneer of the Aroostook.” I could not, therefore, be the first
to explore this route, and so, accepting second honors, began immediate
preparations for the trip.
The oldest inhabitants of Maine _may_ have known a drier season than
that of 1880, but the reader will perceive in the following pages that
a cart, rather than a canoe, might have been used in the exploration of
the greater portion of this unknown region.
THE AUTHOR.
HARTFORD, CONN., 1881.
PADDLE AND PORTAGE,
FROM
MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED AT DAY’S STUDIO, NEW YORK,
FROM
PHOTOGRAPHS MADE BY THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER I.
“Happy the man who has the town escaped;
To him the whisp’ring trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles, preach
Virtue’s and wisdom’s love.”
THE START.--UNWARRANTED ASSUMPTIONS.--OUR GUIDES AND OUTFIT.--A FLIMSY
WHARF.--RAILROADING OF THE OLD DAYS.--CONTEMPTIBLE DECEIT TOWARD
DUMB ANIMALS.--COMMENCEMENT OF FUN ON THE “CARRIES.”--WE GO INTO
CAMP.--FIRST NIGHT IN THE WILDS.
[Illustration]
On the 11th of September I landed at the Mount Kineo House, Moosehead
Lake, fully equipped for a voyage of over four hundred miles through
the wilderness of Maine to New Brunswick. Colonel G., my comrade
adventurer, having arrived a few days previous, had engaged the guides,
canoes, provisions, and other accessories, so there was little to do
save discard the habiliments of civilization.
Two days after, on the morning of the 13th, we started from the Kineo
Dock on the little steamer DAY DREAM for the northern extremity of
Moosehead Lake, at which point we were to bid adieu to civilization and
traverse the remainder of our route alone by paddle and portage.
As the steamer cast loose from the wharf, our interested friends ashore
gave us a farewell cheer that echoed across the waters of the lake.
In these realms of adventure, everybody is one’s friend. Friendship
is spontaneous; good feeling reigns supreme, and people that we did
not know united with people that we did know in their signal-tokens
of “Godspeed”--or, at least, we thought they did. As we passed up the
lake, fashionable ladies and gentlemen waved their handkerchiefs upon
the piazzas of the hotel.
“This attention is pleasing,” remarked the Colonel.
“Pshaw!” I said; “It is warm this morning. Don’t you feel the heat of
the air? They are fanning themselves.”
“Oh!” he said; “I thought they were giving us a farewell.”
Down on Kineo pebble beach some of the guides, who hang around the
hotel while “open for engagements,” were standing in company with a few
of the oldest inhabitants, sweeping the air with their broad felt hats
in a manner wild and energetic. Pointing these out to me, the Colonel
hinted his belief that their actions were intended for us.
“Nonsense,” I said; “more likely they’re doing battle with a horde of
offensive insects.”
Not far from this group stood a party of sportsmen, who fired a volley
from their rifles that rattled over the lake with a harsh, spasmodic
detonation. To me, however, the voice of the report was highly
expressive.
“Colonel,” I said, with a sudden flush of pleasure; “there’s a party of
the boys giving us a send-off.”
“Fudge,” said the Colonel; “do you see that duck flying across the
lake? There’s the worthy object of the honor. They’ve missed it. Some
bevy of girl-admirers have been watching them from the hotel, and
they save their reputation by looking toward us, as if the volley was
intended for a salute.”
“Oh,” I said, collapsing at the Colonel’s retaliatory explanation; “I
thought it strange that we should cause so much trouble.”
In a short while we were ploughing the upper waters of Moosehead
Lake, and the frowning bluffs of Mount Kineo began to fade into the
distance, the rocks, the trees, and other features of its scenery,
becoming indistinct in a haze of deepening purple. As the little
steamer moved onward, lying on the deck among the baggage, we took our
ease, and listened to the predictions of our few companion-passengers,
and studied the glowing eloquence of the cloudless sky, both of which
bespoke the ominous fact of the dry season, and told us with cruel
blandness to rest while we might, as there was in store plenty of
exhilarating exercise upon the “carries” beyond.
While we are progressing to our destination, I will take an opportunity
for a description of our guides and general outfit. This some people
consider necessary, and it is therefore a duty which sooner or later
must be fulfilled.
The guides, for such an extended tour of exploration, had been well
chosen. One of them was an Indian, whose tribe had originated on the
St. John’s River. He lived, however, at Oldtown, Maine. His name was
Thomas Nichols. He was a stalwart man, six feet in height, forty-eight
years of age, and weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds. He was
considered the best hunter in the vicinity, while his reputation in
the manufacture of birch canoes was known throughout the State. He was
dressed in a grey shirt, a cardigan jacket, and a black felt hat, which
made him look like a savage who had fallen into the clutches of some
prowling missionary, and issued from the “conversional brush,” not the
better of soul, but the richer of a complex and indifferent suit of
clothes.
[Illustration: OUR GUIDES.]
We had two other guides, Hiram and John Mansell, who were brothers from
Greenville, Maine, the former officiating as cook, the latter as man
of all work. Hiram was clad in a pair of blue pants with red stripes
at the sides, a souvenir of military life, and looked like a relic of
Bull Run. He wore a jacket of brown duck, with a leather strap about
his waist, to which was slung a long bowie-knife, whose sheath was a
deer’s leg with the hoof attached. He stood five feet five inches in
his stockings--how high with his shoes on we are not prepared to
say--was thirty-one years of age, and weighed just one hundred and
forty-eight pounds, before dinner. His brother John, clad throughout in
grey woollen attire, was twenty-three years old, but as strong as an
ox, and having served a good apprenticeship among the loggers, could
wield an axe with powerful effect.
In addition to the provisions necessary to feed five hungry men on a
five weeks’ cruise, our canoes were further loaded with two canvas A
tents, 6 × 8 feet, a Baker tent, 7 × 9 feet, six iron beaver traps,
five rubber and canvas bags, containing our blankets, rubber beds,
cooking utensils, four Winchester rifles, and a good supply of
ammunition.
Last but not least in importance to the expedition was a Tourograph, an
instrument with which to photograph the scenery along the route. This
apparatus, which was always placed at the head of my tent, was tended
with zealous care from first to last, and many were the cautions given
the guides as to its disposition in the canoe or on the carries.
“All ashore!” cried Colonel G., as we reached the ricketty wharf at
the extremity of Moosehead Lake. This wharf was a sadly dilapidated
affair. As we stepped upon it to transfer our baggage to the shore it
squeaked like a box of compressed guinea-pigs, and bounced and rocked
so beneath our weight that the Colonel declared it had at one time been
an Indian baby-charmer.
Gaining land we strapped our canoes and baggage upon a wagon which
was in waiting, to which were attached a pair of horses, that were
also in waiting, with their goodly snouts immersed in the contents
of a monster bag and snuffing after a handful of oats that had been
lost somewhere in the interior. Then, as our party gave the steamer
a farewell cheer, the Colonel and I led the advance along the sandy
path of the North East Carry, leaving the guides to bring up the rear,
to prevent any loss of the “kit.” As we trudged along, looking to the
right, our attention was attracted to an old road along which ran in
dubious parallel two long rows of disjointed logs, which were soon lost
to sight in the choking wild-growth. These logs had once served as the
tracks of a wooden railroad, extending two miles across the fields,
over which the loggers, in former years, had drawn their supplies
to the Penobscot waters, with the motor power of _oxen_. Theodore
Winthrop wrote, that “whenever the engine-driver stopped to pick a
huckleberry, the train, self-braking, stopped also, and the engine, or
‘_bullgine_,’ took in fuel from the tall grass that grew between the
sleepers.” But few traces of these rails now remain, and horse-power
has been substituted for that of the more patient ox.
As the Colonel and I progressed, we became quite absorbed in commenting
on the features of the route over which we had both travelled so
frequently. The sun shone brightly, the birds were twittering merrily
on the twigs at the side of the path, insects and other nondescripts
buzzed, chirped, hummed, and squeaked with ready avail of the true
American privilege of free speech; but so concerned were we in our talk
that we failed to notice for some time that there was room enough in
the air for other music, which we did not hear. In fact, we missed the
sonorous jolt and rumble of the wagon-wheels behind us. Looking back,
to our surprise, we found that the vehicle was not in sight.
“A break-down,” I suggested; “let us go back and see what has
happened.”
Retracing our way, in a few moments we came in sight of the wagon.
It was standing stock-still in the road. As we ran up beside it, we
found our caravan in a most distressing situation. The horses were
standing before the clumsy wagon as motionless as statues, and with
forward-pricked ears and firmly planted feet were stubbornly refusing
to move a step, while the driver and our guides were dancing around
them with the grace of frantic Zulus, inciting them to energy with the
aid of sticks snatched from the roadside.
“What’s the matter?” we inquired.
“Can’t git the ’tarnal brutes to budge a step,” cried Hiram, desisting
from the chastisement, and dropping his stick upon the road in sheer
exhaustion.
“What’s the reason you can’t? Let me get at them!” cried the Colonel,
furiously.
“Don’t, Colonel,” I pleaded, as my comrade began to pirouette in the
Zulu dance with flourished stick. “There’s no telling what is the cause
of their inability. Perhaps the poor creatures have corns.”
“No, they ’avent; no sir-ee!” cried the driver, meeting my remark with
a howl of indignation. “Nary a spavin, a heave, nur a corn abeout them
ar hosses, I’d hev ye know. Finest breed that was ever raised in Maine;
they cum all the way from Californy.”
“Then why don’t they stir their stumps?” demanded one of the guides in
a voice that made the animals quiver.
“No cross-questioning. At them again with the sticks, boys!” cried the
Colonel. “We’ll put life into them.”
“No, no ye can’t. Thar’s only one thing kin inspire them ar hosses.”
“What’s that?” I asked, breathlessly.
“Oats,” replied the driver, mournfully.
“Then where are the oats? Bring out the oats!” cried the Colonel.
“Aint got none. They’ve all giv out.”
“Then where’s the bag,” I cried, with a desperate idea. “Give me the
bag, and I’ll start them.”
The driver threw me the big oat bag from the interior of the wagon. It
fell into my arms like a collapsed balloon. Taking a position in front
of the horses, I held it at arm’s length toward their noses.
“Now,” I cried to the guides; “get behind the wagon and _push_.
Between two fires the engine cannot fail to move.”
“You’re mad! Tom,” cried the Colonel, with a look of supreme disgust.
[Illustration]
“Never mind,” said I; “there’s method in my madness, as you’ll soon
see;” and he did see, for the next moment the horses, sniffing the oat
bags, sprang forward with a desperate spurt after me. All the way along
the road, I held the oat bag dancing before their eyes like an _ignus
fatuus_. At times, however, the animals half suspected the deceit, and
seemed inclined to lose faith in the feeling of man and lag. This made
our progress rather spasmodic; but they were never suffered to come to
a halt, for at every threatened relapse the guides stood ready to do
propeller-power behind.
“This is Rapid Transit with a vengeance,” cried the Colonel, as he
strode after us convulsed with laughter.
We travelled in this way for some time, until we reached the West
Branch of the Penobscot, where the driver and his dashing equipage were
cheerfully dismissed and we took to the water in our canoes. Thus the
last link between us and civilization was broken. The water was very
low, and we found ourselves ushered into a difficult passage. This was
the dryest season experienced in Maine for many years.
The water courses displayed such masses of huge rocks and uncovered
stretches of gravel beds that, at a distance, one would have thought
them logging roads rather than the beds of large rivers. Constantly we
were obliged to step overboard and lift our canoes over obstructions,
and often we sighed for the aid of horse-flesh, of better calibre,
however, than that we had just parted with.
After two hours of alternate dragging and paddling we shot into the
right bank of the river, and made our first camp half a mile above
Moosehorn Stream. Then
“There was hurrying to and fro;”
the baggage was thrown out of the canoes, the latter were drawn up
on the bank and overturned to dry; the tents were unrolled, the poles
were struck, and two of the guides busied themselves in their erection,
while John Mansell woke the echoes of the woods with the resounding
blows of his heavy axe as he cut the logs and fuel for the camp fire,
and the Colonel and I, seizing our rifles, sauntered forth with
sanguinary strides to decrease the population of the forest game in the
interest of our first meal. When we returned we found everything under
way; the log fire was crackling merrily, before which were squatted
the guides on upturned pails. Around them was scattered in picturesque
confusion our full culinary paraphernalia, consisting of tea and
coffee-pots, kettles, frying-pans, tin cups, bakers, broilers, etc.,
out of which assortment they were selecting the utensils needed for our
meal. They looked like a band of itinerant tinkers.
[Illustration: THE FIRST CAMP.]
Tossing Hiram a brace of partridges the Colonel and I, arranging the
Tourograph apparatus, obtained a photograph of our first camp. Soon
after that supper was announced, after which sleeping accommodations
engaged our attention. Going toward our tent we found that Nichols,
the Indian, had carpetted it as well as those of the guides with
fragrant boughs of hemlock. But our two large rubber beds yet remained
to be inflated. The size of these were 36 × 80 inches. The Colonel and
I began to devise a plan for swelling them without taxing our physical
resources. We soon agreed that the only way out of the difficulty was
the arrangement of a match on time between two of the guides. Hiram
and the Indian seized upon our proposition instantly, and their rival
wind powers were soon tested. Stretching the collapsed rubber bags side
by side, they spread themselves flat upon the ground in similar
positions, and placing their mouths at the apertures received the
signal, and began to blow as if for dear life. The Colonel and I held
our time-pieces in our hands, and watched the struggle with amusement.
They had both powerful lungs and the bags were soon inflated. As they
withdrew from the contest, the veins swelled upon their foreheads
like whip-cords, and their fiery red faces glowed with the color of a
harvest moon.
[Illustration: THE BEST MAN TO WIN.]
“Who wonee?” gasped the Indian, as he passed the sleeve of his grey
shirt across his perspiring face. The Colonel and I consulted, and not
desiring to discourage either of the guides from a repetition of the
act we declared the match a tie.
By this time night had set in. But we did not hasten to bed; no,
indeed. Stretching ourselves before the big log fire we revelled in
the raptures of a scene of which the tourist can never tire--the last
wakeful hours of the camp at night, those hours so rife with merriment,
so rich with unbosomed anecdote, when the first story, springing
from the innocent seed of palpable truth, becomes a prey to those
succeeding ones which bear the hideous stain of doubt. Exaggeration is
wonderfully prolific. “India-rubber yarns” are told in endless variety,
each one being a super-test of the elasticity of the whole. Then some
one falls into the error of telling the truth, and his story is howled
at as being weak and unpalatable. Finally some one tells the “whopper”
of the evening, which bids defiance to retaliation and sends the party
to bed in first-class trim for weird dreams. A bomb-shell of this
kind from the Colonel was the cause of our dispersal, and exchanging
“good nights” we entered our tents. Then, while the camp fire still
burned on, while the bark curled from the trunks of the big birch logs,
while the cedar snapped with its merry crackle, while the shadows of
the leaping flame and smoke danced fantastically upon the ruddy tent
walls--we slept.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
“A band of hunters were we. All day long
Our feet had trail’d the woods.”--STREET.
MOVING ON.--PINE STREAM FALLS.--CHESUNCOOK LAKE AND FARM.--UMBAZOOKUS
CARRY.--A DRY GROUND SLEIGHING PARTY.--FURTHER EXPERIENCE WITH THE
HORSE.--A GLIMPSE OF DESOLATION.--CHAMBERLIN LAKE.--A VISION.--EAGLE
LAKE.--SMITH BROOK.--HAYMOAK FALLS.--TROUT STORIES.
Bright and early the next morning tents were struck, canoes loaded, and
soon we were afloat upon the waters of the Penobscot, hoping to reach
the mouth of the river by nightfall.
Nightfall?
Perish the fond and audacious expectation. It was not until four days
subsequently, after a running battle with difficulties, that we passed
the Pine Stream Falls and entered Chesuncook Lake.
[Illustration: CHESUNCOOK LAKE.]
There is a farm upon this lake. It consists of a wilderness of ground,
and a collection of rickety sheds, clustered like barnacles to a major
“pile,” which you suspect to be the homestead.
There is nothing pretentious about the architecture. It is of a rather
complex order, and the span of life never seemed to me so short as
at the moment I attempted to determine it. Such a view of angles,
horizontals, and perpendiculars never before greeted my eyes. It was
simply distracting. The designing genius must have suffered with a cast
in his eye, or a mind disordered through indigestion.
[Illustration: CHESUNCOOK FARM.]
These farm buildings stand alone in a wild, open tract of country. The
sight of them strikes you instantly as strange and unaccountable. At
first you wonder and half believe yourself in the vicinity of Ararat
and a debilitated ark. Then you shudder and give thought to a terrible
suspicion--a small-pox hospital, perhaps! Finally, unable to reach a
plausible conclusion, you forget you are in Maine, and in generous
sympathy with the glory awarded to all the super-dilapidated buildings
of the lower states, declare at once that the pile must be the old
headquarters of General Washington.
We made a brief stay at this farm, spending most of our time in duck
and plover shooting.
We then paddled across the lake and passed up Umbazookus Stream,
dragging our canoes most of the way. We landed at a carry on the right
bank.
During the previous season, while visiting this region, we had pushed
further up the stream to what is known as “Mud Pond Carry,” sacking our
entire kit to Mud Pond. But a longing for the almighty dollar has since
been aroused in the heart of one Smith, who having erected a house and
barn a short distance from the landing, now transports the tourist’s
canoe and supplies six miles to Mud Pond, across Umbazookus Carry.
As we neared the house we fired a gun in signal of our approach, and
were met by a man and a boy who rushed forth from the adjoining barn.
Then
A party through the Maine wilds bound
Cried “Good man, do not tarry;
But tow us o’er the boggy ground
Of Umbazookus Carry.”[A]
[Footnote A: Copyrighted 1881.]
Whereupon the man and the boy began immediate preparations for the
transport.
Hastening to the woods they soon appeared with four bony animals in
harness that put one more in mind of the rigging of a clam boat than
the trappings of horses. These were attached to two large wooden sleds
made of tree branches, upon which were placed our birch canoes, swung
by an adjustment of ropes to four stanchions at their sides, while the
spaces underneath were occupied by our baggage.
[Illustration: UMBAZOOKUS STREAM.]
These clumsy vehicles, with their strangely arranged cargo, presented a
novel and picturesque sight, which I thought a good subject for the
Tourograph, and “photo’d” before starting. Then, amid the cheering
of our guides, the horses were whipped up, and we were soon underway,
sliding across the logs, bouncing over the rocks, and pitching along
through the mud like a fishing-smack foundering in a storm.
[Illustration: PORTAGE]
The Colonel and I strode ahead with our guns, securing partridges by
the way, closely followed by Hiram’s team. Soon we heard a shout, and
looking back saw his horses rearing and plunging, and the sled stopped
short before a tree.
“What’s up?” we cried.
“This left-hand nag here is a Tartar,” replied Hiram, as he tugged and
jerked at the reins. “I tried to tack and leave that ’ere tree on the
starboard quarter, but I’ll be blamed if he haint sot me into it all
kerchunk on the port bow. Say, gineral!” he yelled, turning ferociously
toward Smith; “what’s the matter with this here animile of yours?”
“Which one? That one?” asked Smith. “I meant to warn ye consarnin’
him. He must be handled mighty gingerly. Takes an ingineer to run him
properly.”
“Why, for sin’s sake?” inquired Hiram.
“He’s cross-eyed, an’ he allers leans hard toward the west.”
“Cross-eyed! Poor crittur,” murmured Hiram, sympathetically, as he laid
the lash along the animal’s ribs. “How’d it happen?”
“Don’t know exactly. Born so, I expect; but I heerd say onst that the
children o’ the people who had ’im afore me dropped a nail into his
feed bag. Don’t know how true it is.”
Hiram struggled desperately with the reins to free the sled, but
without success.
To back the craft would have required more than the entire strength of
the party, so John Mansell’s axe came into play, the tree was felled,
and leaping over its stump the sled was soon bounding on.
After three hours of heavy toil for both horses and men, we completed
the six miles, and arrived at the uninteresting sheet of water called
Mud Pond.
“Jemima!” cried Hiram, as he surveyed the pond and gauged the depth of
the water; “how are we going to get across?”
“Have to dig a channel with our paddles,” said John.
“Me think so--yes!” ejaculated the Indian, as with a miss-step he
almost sank from sight in the mud.
A channel was soon made, canoes repacked, and by dint of hard poling we
reached deep water, and paddled for the opposite shore a mile distant.
On arriving the same difficulties which prevented our embarking delayed
our landing, and at one time it looked as if each man would make his
canoe his camp for the night. But just as the sun set we managed to
land, and pitched our tents in the dark.
Mud Pond Stream being almost dry, we were forced the next morning to
carry our canoes and kit almost a mile, depositing them at last in the
stream which flows through the moose barren bordering on Chamberlin
Lake.
Here we found ourselves in a wild, desolate country. The stream along
which we moved ran through an immense tract of bog, which was dotted
here and there with old stumps reaching for a quarter of a mile in
every direction. This was bounded in the dim distance by a dead wood
forest, which enclosed it completely like a _chevaux de frise_. Within
this was presented a most lugubrious landscape. It was the picture
of a region dead to the world and to itself. The old grey stumps
scattered about seemed like storm-beaten tombstones which marked the
resting-places of perished souls, and the naked, bleached forms of the
trees in the palisade like sentinel skeletons guarding a death ground.
[Illustration: OUTLET OF CHAMBERLIN LAKE.]
Soon with our three canoes in line we entered the waters of Chamberlin
Lake. There we were suddenly startled by hearing a loud splash in the
water, and greeted with the vision of an immense bull caribou, which
sprang up and instantly disappeared in she woods before we could
tender him the slightest compliment at the pleasure of the meeting.
“Confound the luck!” yelled John, throwing aside a rifle in
exasperating disappointment.
“Exceedingly impolite of the beast to decamp so suddenly” said the
Colonel, as we examined the animal’s tracks; “he would have weighed
three hundred pounds, if an ounce!”
[Illustration: CHAMBERLIN FARM.]
Chamberlin Lake is eighteen miles long, three miles wide, and is one
of the largest bodies of water in Maine. At this point, the preceding
year, I turned south through the East Branch of the Penobscot, and
landed at Mattawamkeag on the European and North American Railroad.
This year our course lay directly to the north.
[Illustration: FACETLÆ.]
At Chamberlin Farm we made a brief stay, and purchased an extra supply
of hard tack, sugar, and molasses, as our stores were running short.
Then turning our backs on the lovely peaks of Mt. Katahdin and the
Soudahaunk range, which lay to the southwest, we buffetted the waves of
the lake for six miles, landing at the locks which divide its waters
from those of Eagle Lake below.
Here we went into camp, and the Tourograph was brought into important
requisition while a benign and smiling sun was at its best. And here
we were delayed for three days afterwards, through a go-as-you please
rain-storm, during which we tried the camera while the aforesaid benign
and smiling sun was at its worst, hidden away like an unfortunate
trade-dollar during the storm of repudiation.
When the weather grew favorable, we followed the current of Chamberlin
River one mile down to Eagle Lake below.
[Illustration: HAYMOAK FALLS.]
Some people think of Maine as a state containing only one large lake
with an innumerable number of smaller ponds within its borders, but the
tourist visiting these regions for the first time is daily surprised
by bodies of water which fairly compete with the area of Moosehead.
Eagle Lake is thirteen miles long, with an average measurement of three
wide. Within its bosom it nurses two islands, while the horizon of its
northern extremity is broken by the cone-shaped peak of Soper Mountain.
Our next camp was made at the mouth of a beautiful stream near here,
which writhes under the opprobrious title of Smith Brook. This innocent
sheet of water, which I am certain has done naught to merit the
ignominy it suffers, presents most picturesque beauties in its windings
as far as Haymoak Falls.
There we discovered the skull of a large moose, and extracted the
great teeth, fearing they would be the only souvenirs we should obtain
of that almost extinct animal.
“My!” said the Colonel, as he pried out one of the grinders; “what a
surface for a tooth-ache!”
There, also, we had splendid fishing, and captured many large trout.
The day before we broke up camp we had a run of sport that well-nigh
astonished us, and that night at the evening meal we had a rare fish
feast, served with the following sauce:
“I don’t care whether you believe this yarn I’m goin’ to tell ye
or not,” said Hiram, as he added another vertebra to the pile of
trout skeletons accumulating by his plate; “but it’s true as gospel,
nevertheless an’ notwithstanding, an’ with me the truth is like the
stump of a back tooth--it must cum out. You know, Nichols, where the
old farm road from Greenville to Dexter crosses the bridge at Spectacle
Pond?”
“Me know,” said the Indian, scarcely raising his eyes from the fire.
“Wall, I was guiding for Doctor L. and Squire B. one day in that
region, which happened, by the way, to be a pet fishin’ ground o’
their’n. As we were gittin’ along to the bridge, the Doctor, all of
a sudden, says to the Squire, ‘If you’ve no objections, Rufe, I’ll
slip ahead of you and cast my flies under that bridge, for ten to one
I’ll strike a big fish, as I saw some mighty fine trout there the
other day while crossing to see my patient in the old farm beyond.’
The Squire told him to go by all means, but to have some mercy for
the sport of other people an’ not to altogether clean the brook. With
that the Squire turned around, an’ began to amuse himself at pistol
practice with my old hat that I’d set up for a target on a tree, an’
the Doctor, he pegged down the road like mad toward the bridge. I
stood an’ watched him jest for fun, for he was a comical old duck,
an’ so nervus an’ fussy that I ’spected like’s not to see him tumble
overboard. Reaching the spot he made a dozen or so wild casts, but at
last succeeded in landin’ his flies under the bridge, when he took a
seat on a projectin’ beam, an’ let the current sweep ’em out. Quicker’n
ye could say Jack Robinson, I heard a shout; the Doctor’s rod almost
bent double, an’ he begun reeling in for dear life. ‘I’ve got him,
Mansell; I’ve got him. Come, quick! he’s the biggest fellow I ever
hooked.’ Grabbin’ the landin’ net, I ran over the bank to help him. It
looked for all the world as if he’d ketched a shark, but as soon as I
reached the other side an’ saw the game a flappin’ on the surface, I
give a shout that almost blew me to pieces, an’ rollin’ down on the
bank, I roared until every ’tarnal rib was sore. What d’ye guess had
hold of the old fellow’s line? Why, nothin’ less than a big _Shanghai
rooster_! The animile, as I found out after, belonged to the farm near
by. It had been hatched and raised with a brood of ducks, an’ bein’
quite a water-nimp, as they call it, had strolled into the stream to
have a pick at the Doctor’s flies. I tell ye what, so long as he lives
the Doctor’ll never forgit that bite, for the shock of the discovery
knocked him clean off the beam into the water, where I clapped the
landin’ net on his old bald head an’ fished him out like a drowned rat.
I don’t know how true it is, but they say that ever since he took that
bath ther’ hain’t been another trout seen about the brook.”
[Illustration: GOOD SPORT.]
* * * * *
“Which puts me in mind of another fish story, in which I and an old
schoolmaster friend of mine are concerned,” said the Colonel, as Hiram
concluded. “Out trouting once we suddenly met on our way to the brook
a dog, which sneaked out from a patch of woods and began to follow in
a close trot at our heels. We were taken somewhat by surprise at his
appearance, because of the loneliness of the country, for there was no
house within miles of us, and we were puzzled to think where he had
come from. He looked the picture of starvation. His skin was literally
hanging on him, and the body was so thin and sunken that we almost
heard his ribs playing a bone chorus as he jogged behind us. We fed
him with a portion of our lunch, which he devoured greedily. Finding
himself favored, he followed us to the trouting ground. Spying out a
beautiful quiet brook we sat down on the bank and cast our flies.
The sport was instantaneous, and for a while continued and exciting,
during which time the Professor had the good fortune to capture some
half-dozen trout, which equalled in weight and beauty anything I had
ever seen. When the luck was on the wane we reeled in our lines, and
turned about to gather together our ‘catch,’ which during the sport we
had thrown behind us on the grass. Suddenly the Professor gave a gasp.
‘Great heavens!’ he cried; ‘My half-dozen beauties! Where are they?’
We searched the bank, but they could not be found. ‘Is it possible
that any one is prowling about these parts and has crept behind us and
stolen them?’ he said. ‘I don’t think that likely,’ I replied. At the
same time my attention was attracted to an object lying at the base of
a tree. It was our dog--thin, starved and miserable-looking no longer,
but swelled out as fat as a potato-bag, and wagging his tail, and
smacking his jaws in heavenly transport. ‘Professor,’ said I; ‘look!’
‘What! _Another dog!_’ gasped the Professor. ‘No, the same dog with
variations,’ I said, ‘thanks to the expansive properties of trout, a
little rosier in health.’ The Professor guessed the truth and gave a
groan. He danced about like a lunatic and kicked the dog until it began
to snap at his legs. Then with a heavy heart he packed his traps and we
left the animal at the tree enjoying its siesta. ‘Fate could not harm
him--he had dined that day.’”
Rare treats, these fish feasts. Rare tack, these fish stories. But,
reader, beware of bones.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
“But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid it’s gay creation, hues like hers?”--THOMSON.
IN ROUGH WATER.--NORTH TWIN STREAM.--AN INDIAN PADDLE FOR FUTURE
USE.--BREEZES, BLANKETS, COLD AND ICE.--SPIDER LAKE.--MANIFOLD CHARMS
OF CAMP LIFE.--AT WORK WITH THE TRAPS.--CONCERNING BEAVER.--WE
PROCLAIM OUR INTENTIONS.
Early on the morning of September 23d we continued down Eagle Lake and
through the “Thoroughfare” to Churchill Lake. Then a change came o’er
the spirit of the weather. It grew suddenly colder, and as our three
canoes prowed into the lake a sharp breeze sprang up which ruffled its
usually calm surface into a restless quiver. As the breeze increased to
a “blow” the waves were lashed into white caps, and then into billows,
until our fragile birch-barks were tossed about like corks.
Each breaker seemed ready to engulf us; but we shipped little water,
for the inventive genius of the Colonel had devised a novel covering
for the bows of our canoes.
It consisted of a strip of white canvas extending aft about two feet,
which was stretched and secured to a brass hoop arched across the
canoe, and fastened with brass pins or pegs.
This made the bow of the canoe resemble the fore-part of an immense
Chinese shoe. All articles liable to damage by exposure were thus
secured from the spray of the waves and passing rain showers. It proved
a capital nook for the storage of the camera, guns, ammunition, etc.,
and was quite a suggestion to Nichols, who was an old canoe maker.
Our course lay through the Eastern arm of Churchill Lake, a distance of
only six miles, the larger body of these waters lying to the north, and
having for their outlet the Allaguash River.
At one o’clock we beached our canoes and erected our tents at the mouth
of North Twin Stream.
As we supped that night on broiled partridge and stewed duck, we little
dreamed of the hardships which lay to the eastward, between us and the
waters of the great Aroostook River.
Since leaving our camp on Mud Pond Stream, Nichols had been hard at
work at odd moments on a long paddle. From a rough maple log-split, it
had gradually been shaped into a thing of beauty, and now with pride
was being curiously ornamented with all the artistic execution of which
the Indian’s deft hand was capable.
“Me beat you, boys, when I get to the ‘Roostook,’” said Nichols, with
a sly twinkle of his eye, as from under his black felt hat he cast a
triumphant look at the other guides.
“But perhaps we shall never get there unless it rains,” said John.
“Me think so, too,” chimed in Hiram, trying to imitate in tone of voice
the Indian’s favorite expression.
“When the ‘Pioneers of the Aroostook’ pushed through this country last
season,” said the Colonel, glancing at me with an air of superiority,
“we experienced no difficulty in continuing our voyage one mile above
to Marsh Pond. On examination, since landing, I find we shall be
obliged to ‘carry’ around the obstructions, and it will detain us a
day.”
[Illustration: A COLD WAVE.]
That night we found use for all the spare blankets in camp, and John
was repeatedly aroused to replenish the fire.
“What’s the matter, Colonel?” I asked, as gazing out from under
my warm blankets on the morning of Sept. 24th I discovered my
_compagnon-du-voyage_ dancing before the fire and rubbing his hands
with “invisible soap.”
“Well, you just turn out and see. There is half an inch of ice in our
camp pails, and a fair chance for skating on the Lake. We shall have to
take to snow-shoes, if this weather holds on.”
The tents, stiff with frost, were packed in bags, and in “Indian file”
at the right of North Twin Stream we started for Marsh Pond, each man
burdened to the utmost. Again and again we repeated our trips, between
lake and pond, sinking in the mud one instant, slipping on some frosty
rock the next, and not until late in the afternoon were our canoes and
the last loads of our kit safely landed at Marsh Pond.
Paddling through this water, its name being typical of its character,
we ascended a small stream at its head on our way to Spider Lake.
“Me think it getting dark, boys,” said the Indian, “and we better make
camp at once.”
[Illustration: LOW--THE POOR INDIAN.]
So hauling our canoes on shore we cast about for the most desirable
spot.
There was no choice; it was an immense swamp in whatever direction
we travelled. We sank almost to our knees in the moss and decayed
underbrush. Once the Indian, floundering in the mud with our
tent-poles, disappeared completely from sight, and we might have lost
him, but the poles sticking up like bare flag-staffs through the dense
brush which masked the marsh pools, disclosed the spot where he had
sunk from view. When we dragged him out, he looked like a muskrat.
[Illustration: DEVELOPING A PLATE.]
“Nichols is trying to discover an underground road to the Aroostook,”
said Hiram. “Guess he’s given up all thought o’ usin’ that long paddle
on them ’ere waters.”
This place proved the worst camping ground of the whole trip, but
despite this fact it had its charms. The tourist soon grows to despise
the consideration of personal comfort, when self-sacrifice is required
to bring him in direct association with the nature which infatuates
him. He becomes like the poet or painter, a creature purely spiritual,
who raves in the rapture of exalted soul while his boots ship water by
the gallon, while scarcely a rag hangs to his back, and low-dwindling
provisions place him on rations intimate with starvation.
Thus it was with us. Our surroundings were unpleasant, but apart from
this, as we saw them, interestingly picturesque.
[Illustration: TREES PILED ON TREES.]
Here we were in the presence of a great dead forest. Across the pools,
the rocks, and the brush growth lay the trunks of monster trees
prostrated by the winds, storms, and decaying processes of nature.
Trees were piled on trees in huge, insurmountable barriers, each one
bearing on the other with a crushing force that tore through the
limbs and logs, and pressed the massive pile down deep into the soft
vegetation of the marsh.
All was grey and lifeless. It seemed as if nature had lain
unresurrected since the Deluge, and that the trees had twisted about
and embraced each other in their dying agonies. All was dead! dead!
dead! The only sign of life upon them was the deep moss that flourished
on the decayed and weather-beaten trunks; but this was like the grass
above the grave.
The next day for lack of water we dragged our canoes through the
remainder of the river to Spider Lake, and camped on a high ledge of
rocks on the Southern shore, its dry and picturesque position being in
delightful contrast to our last quarters. This lake, three miles long
and half a mile wide, set among these forest depths like a jewel in a
ring, reflects ten mountain peaks on its surface.
On our way to camp we examined a point of rocks jutting far out into
the lake, whose curious construction attracted our attention. It was a
perpendicular pile of corrugated stone crowned with a tall growth of
spruce trees, which swept like Indian head-plumes to a hill-top beyond.
The rocks at this time arose fifteen feet from the water, but their
well-worn sides indicated their covering in any but a dry season. At
their base we discovered deep, subterranean cavities, made by the
action of the water, and into these with curiosity we pushed our canoes
bent on a full investigation. Some were only slight excavations,
suggesting the dwelling-places of large trout, or the coverts of
the fur animals abounding in the vicinity, but there were others of
considerable space, into which we passed without difficulty. Within
all was gloomy and damp, and the motion of the water against the cold,
slimy walls made a strange phase of music which echoed mournfully
through the caverns. They seemed like the abodes of spirits; we could
scarcely repress a shudder at the weird effect of the scene.
[Illustration: TWILIGHT IN THE WILDS.]
Many times afterward did we recall with pleasure the
delightful experiences of our sojourn at Spider Lake. The charming
comforts of a dry and well-pitched camp, the exhilarating sport by
the trout pools among the rocks not twenty feet from the tent door,
the partridge-shooting in the woods, the ducking on the lake, the
adventures of exploration, and the grand scenic surroundings which we
still admire in the souvenirs afforded by photography, have made those
too fleeting hours “red-letter days” in our memory.
[Illustration: EVACUATION.]
“You are not proposing to desert this lovely camp so soon?” I said to
the Colonel, as we stood in the tent door gazing out on the lake some
days later. “It seems a pity after spending so much labor about the
camp to leave at once.”
“Well, we cannot tarry long; we little know what is before us if the
water courses remain dry; our birch canoes will not endure the strain
much longer,” was the Colonel’s reply. And so we bade farewell to this
charming spot.
At night we reached Logan Pond. Before our tents were in position we
were overtaken by a drenching rain storm, which we fought through with
philosophical patience, hoping it would increase the water along the
route. It takes true grit to endure without complaint a rain-storm in
the woods, and one must have an abundance of cheerfulness to keep from
murmuring.
“You had better set those beaver traps to-night,” said the Colonel to
the Indian, as he stood drying himself before the fire, and turning
about from one side to the other like a roasting turkey.
“Yes, me think so, too,” replied Nichols; and suiting the action to the
word, he soon started off down the hill with the iron traps over his
shoulder, I following him, bent upon investigating all the mysteries of
wood-craft.
“You see beaver house over there?” whispered the guide, as we reached
a mud dam at the outlet of the lake, at the same time pointing out to
me a cone-shaped knob of mud and sticks about ten feet high and six
feet in diameter. “One, two, three beaver live there, and me set traps
to catch one to-night. Beaver build house with door; then build dam and
raise water to cover door to house.”
Slipping into the woods the Indian soon returned with a cedar pole ten
feet in length and four inches in diameter at the butt. With his axe he
split this, and slipping over it the chain ring of the trap, secured it
in position by a wedge. The trap was then opened and lowered carefully
into the water, and after driving the pole into the mud, the upper end
was made fast with twisted grasses to a neighboring tree.
What was our joy on arising the next morning to see Nichols returning
from the pond lugging a fine beaver of over forty pounds’ weight, held
in position on his shoulders by a withe of cedar bark encircling his
forehead.
“Me lost another beaver,” said the Indian, as he dropped the heavy
animal before the tent door for our examination, and wiped the
perspiration from his dusky forehead. “Beaver cut pole in pieces
and run with trap. Me hunt pond all over, but no find him;” and he
displayed as much sorrow over the loss as if it had been a small
fortune.
The fur of the animal was in excellent condition. He was three feet in
length, with tail 5 × 12 inches, half an inch in thickness, and covered
with black, shining scales of leather-like toughness.
“Is there any truth in the story, Nichols, that the beaver uses his
tail to build his dam?”
“No! no!” replied the guide, as laying the animal across his lap he
commenced to rob him of his “jacket.” “No beaver do that. He use tail
to make noise to other beavers. It slap on water, make sound like
pistol, and give alarm. Beaver push mud and stones from bed of river
with front feet to make dam, and when build house walk up straight on
hind feet, and hold to breast sticks and stones with front feet. No one
hunt beaver who tell such stories.”
The animal was soon dressed and stewed for our breakfast. Its taste was
similar to that of corn beef, but of a much more delicate flavor, the
liver being reserved as a choice dish for the next meal. The tail was
one mass of solid fat, which only the Indian, after toasting it before
the fire, could digest. The skin was stretched on a hoop four feet in
diameter laced with strips of cedar bark, a shingle of wood being used
in spreading the skin of the tail.
“Me no like this,” said the Indian, arising after the completion of his
work. “In my tribe, brave trap beaver; squaw dress him.”
“Which is a much superior way,” observed the Colonel. “Thus all
the world over the gallant brave saddles upon the poor woman
the undaintiful share of the work. A great pity, Nichols, that
circumstances in your life have abolished the custom, as far as you are
concerned.”
“Me think so; yes,” replied the Indian, with just the faintest idea of
what the Colonel meant; and as he turned to wash the grease and blood
from his warrior hands he looked the picture of dignity dethroned.
After a few days tarry we pushed on across Logan Pond, made half a mile
carry to Beaver Pond, and camped on Osgood Carry at the head of the
last water.
“What do you find so interesting?” I inquired of the Colonel, as I saw
him examining minutely the side of an old tree not far from the tents.
“Oh! nothing special, except a record I made last year regarding the
‘Pioneers of the Aroostook,’ which the winter storms have failed to
obliterate.”
“Then, before we go, we had better leave some relic of this tour,” I
said.
Accordingly a photographic plate which had been spoiled by sudden
contact with the light was drawn from my Tourograph, and scratching the
names of the party on its surface, we nailed it to the tree for the
benefit of the next comer, adding as a suggestion of our destination
“ON TO THE AROOSTOOK!”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
“The wise and active conquer difficulties
By daring to attempt them: sloth and folly
Shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard,
And make the impossibility they fear.”
OSGOOD CARRY.--THE PACK HORSE LEAGUE.--NOVEL TRICK IN
PEDESTRIANISM.--CAMP ON ECHO LAKE.--HIRAM TELLS A STORY.--SLUICING A
DAM.--MORE CONCERNING BEAVER.--CAMP AT THE MANSUNGUN LAKES.
Imagine the difficulties we surmounted in our passage across Osgood
Carry to Echo Lake.
With the exception of an occasional beaver, duck, partridge, or string
of trout captured on the way, we were obliged to carry provisions
sufficient for five men, who never failed in their attendance at
meals three times a day, and with appetites which only wood life can
stimulate.
Add to these provisions the weight of three tents, three blankets
for each man, rubber beds, personal baggage, cooking utensils, guns,
ammunition, rods, a Tourograph with seventy five glass plates, and
three canoes weighing from eighty-five to one hundred pounds each and
you have an idea of the toil and hardships of a tramp through this
wilderness.
This “Carry” is the water-shed of the St. John’s and Aroostook Rivers,
and passes over a succession of hills, through swamps, and wind falls.
Although one trip across is but two miles, a return for a second load
makes four, and four trips carrying during half the time all one can
bear on his shoulders makes sixteen miles, a fair day’s tramp in a
country where not even a “spotted line” guides the traveler to his
destination.
At the time of our appearance there, the ground after the recent rain
was in a soft, soggy condition, which made the way slippery and tedious.
As we pushed forward loaded down with our traps, frequently did a
misstep send one of our number “to grass,” and smother him among the
articles which constituted his burden. Our progress, as Hiram observed,
“was slower than cold molasses.”
For every step taken forward we slipped two backward, until the idea
was suggested to us of turning about and walking in the opposite
direction, that we might travel faster.
“Me fix your load for the ‘Carry,’” said Nichols to me, as I started
off with what I supposed I should be able to transport without halting;
“I show you how to fix pack.”
Stepping aside into the woods he cut from a cedar broad strips of bark,
and passing them about my chest outside of my arms, fastened them to a
roll of blankets on my back. On top of this he mounted my Tourograph,
and held it in place by another strap across my forehead.
Like a horse being harnessed, I stood motionless, while he placed my
rifle on one shoulder, my shot gun on the other, and hung to them an
iron tea kettle, cups, and various other cooking utensils.
Everything ready, and having burdened himself with a much heavier load
arranged in like manner, we started off up the side of the mountain in
search of Echo Lake.
[Illustration: THE PACK HORSE LEAGUE.]
It was hard work. Soon I was boiling with perspiration, and the Indian
puffing like a grampus. It seemed like a veritable “first of May” in
the wilderness.
[Illustration: AT NIGHT BY THE CAMP-FIRE.]
Occasionally as a fallen log crossed our path we could relieve our
aching shoulders by resting the load thereon, but never for a moment
did we change its position.
Then on we would tramp, over rocks and through the mire, the stillness
of the woods unbroken save by the crackle of twigs beneath our
footsteps, or the occasional grunt of the Indian guide.
From early dawn until late at night, dividing our party at times into
sections, we labored with our baggage, transporting it but half the
distance, from whence it was forwarded by a second relay of guides the
remainder of the way, and landed in safety at our camp on Echo Lake.
In this vicinity we discovered in the crotch of an aged tree an old
folding canvas canoe. This the Colonel, with a burst of delight,
recognized as one deserted by the “Pioneers of the Aroostook” in their
excursion of the previous year. Running short of provisions they had
been forced to abandon it, and make for the settlements as quickly as
possible in their other two.
That night about the camp-fire the Colonel told us the story of their
privations, and how their final meal consisted of nothing but the
boiled bone of a salt ham seasoned with the last crumbs of hard-tack.
This story suggested others of the same kind, and many and interesting
were those retailing the experiences of our guides. I give the
following, told by Hiram, of the man who was the first to make maps of
Moosehead Lake and its vicinity. It gives an idea of the rigors and
danger incident to a journey through the woods of Maine in the dead of
winter, and may not be uninteresting:
* * * * *
“Ye never heerd me tell about the man who fust tried to make maps o’
these ’ere woods, did ye?” said Hiram, as he tossed an extra log upon
the fire. “Wall, it’s a long story; but I’ll try an’ load the cart’idge
so the bullet won’t go far, as I see Nichols a-blinkin’ over there
like an’ owl at high meridian. It was ’long about the Autumn of 1870,
if I remember right, that a feller by the name o’ Way cum up from down
below an’ took board in Greenville, foot o’ Moosehead Lake. He was
quite a spruce lookin’ chap for these ’ere regions, an’ though still
under twenty-one years of age, had seen a deal o’ the world in his
little day. Wall, Johnny (that was his name,) had come to rough it,
an’ take his chances for life with the rest of us, though it was said
he’d heaps o’ money, an’ mighty fine fixins’ at home; but he was one
of them advent’rous splinters as are allers flyin’ round a-wantin’ to
see more an’ more, an’ git into wuss an’ wuss every step they go. Us
boys was mighty busy that year a-loggin’, an he enj’yed the fust winter
so rattlin’ well among us that he cum back the next season. When the
snow got good an’ deep in Jan’wary, an’ snow-shoein’ was just fine, we
two arranged a huntin’ trip an’ started out with our rifles an’ all
the provishuns we could truss on our backs toward Chamberlin Farm. We
hunted about there some days, but finally made a hand-sled, strapped
our kit on to it, and by dint o’ pushin’ and haulin’ made our way over
the fruz surface o’ Chamberlin and Eagle Lakes to Smith Brook. Next day
we pushed on to Haymoak Brook an’ as it cum on to rain we built a hut
of bark and camped.
[Illustration: “BY DINT O’ PUSHIN’ AN’ HAULIN’--”]
“Johnny was a restless feller, an’ fur all tired out with the pull
through to camp, thought if we were goin’ to stay long and hunt we’d
better lay in more provishuns. He was a plucky little feller, too, an’
’though not much used to the woods, could foller a ‘spotted line’ with
the best o’ ye. So he made up his mind to switch back to Chamberlin
Farm an’ git enough provishuns to last out the trip. I thought this a
rather crazy freak, for I felt pretty sartin we could manage to pan out
with what we had. But Johnny wanted to be sure. Like all city fellers
he had a peevish bread-basket, an’ fur all he’d spirit enough to rough
it in other ways, he couldn’t weather the trial of goin’ without his
straight meal no-how. I did all I could do to hold him back, but it was
no use; then I offered to go back with him, but he was bent on doin’
the trip alone, an’ leavin’ me to rest in camp. So, after buryin’ his
part o’ the kit in the snow, he stood ready to start.
“He did’nt want to go back the same way we had come, but had planned
to skirt round back o’ the lakes, you know--a mighty unsartin kind of
bizness, boys, for a feller raised in a hot-house.
“But he plead so hard I finally give in to him, an’ with the point o’
my ramrod I marked out his course in the wet snow. Says I, ‘You see
here, Johnny, that mark I jist made goes across Haymoak Lake to Stink
Pond. Now don’t you forgit it,’ says I, ‘to keep right on your course
to Fourth Lake, for that there line leads into Little Leadbetter Pond,
an’ by a foot-track, will take ye to Chamberlin Lake, an’ then yer all
hunk. There’s an old log camp on the Leadbetter, right there,’ says I,
diggin’ the rod into the snow. ‘Don’t go further than that to-night.
Camp there, no matter how early ye reach it; lie over till mornin’ an
then push on.’
“It was the wuss snow shoein’ I ever did see, and I ought not to’ve let
the boy go, but I’d said yes, an’ I’m not one of them fellers who goes
back on his word.
“I buckled on Way’s haversack, filled it with graham bread, stuck his
hatchet in his belt, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and with many
misgivin’s saw him disappear in the woods. After he’d left I commenced
to get kind o’ nervus like, an’ wish I hadn’t let him go. Afore night
I begun to feel terrible skittish about him. I lit my pipe, cleaned my
gun, cut boughs and bark from the trees to make our camp more snug, an’
tried by fussin’ round to git the lad out o’ my mind; but ’twant no
use--it didn’t work wuth a cent. So buryin’ the balance of our kit in
the snow I started back to Chamberlin Farm by the old path and camped
that night on Haymoak Lake, reaching the farm the next night.
“You will bet boys I was scared to find that Way had not got in, but I
thought p’raps he was restin’ at the old log camp I had pinted out for
him on the Leadbetter. John the “toter” came along the next morning
from the logging camp--don’t you think, he had’nt seen a hair of
him either. Wall, the way I got into them snow-shoes was a caution--the
deer’s hide was gathered over my toes and heels quicker than a trout
takes a fly, and I was a-slidin’ off into the woods like mad. I kept
goin’ and goin’ hour arter hour, as if the devil hisself was arter me;
it was the best time I ever made on snow-shoes, even on a moose track.
“At 2 o’clock I reached Way’s camp of the night before, and follerin’
his ‘sloat’ (track) I kept on arter him and in two hours saw him
stumblin’ along through the snow in front o’ me like a lost sheep. I
give a shout of joy, and then a wild halloo, as I dashed on arter him.
But he plunged on without turnin’ a head--he did’nt seem to hear me. I
hailed him agin with no better effect, ‘Somethin’s up. He’s not hisself
by a long sight,’ I said to myself; an’ the way I put forrard through
that snow would have done honor to a pair o’ the seven leagued boots.
Jist as I come up with him, an’ was about plankin’ my paw down on his
shoulder, I heerd him give a gasp, an’ then he stumbled an’ fell in a
parfect heap at my feet.
[Illustration: “FOLLERIN HIS SLOAT--HALLOO!”]
“‘Johnny! Johnny!’ says I, ‘Brace up. Hiram’s here, and yer all safe.’
But he was so far gone, he skarce knew me. To his belt was tied a
partridge; but this was all the provishuns he had left, an’ with his
half froze hands he could but jist hang on to his rifle. I took his
gun an’ haversack, an’ goin’ before broke down the big drifts with my
snow-shoes, an’ cleared a track for him to foller. But he was so weak
an’ benumbed with cold, that every little while he dropped in the snow
like a wounded animile, an’ begged me to let him alone.
“‘Hiram,’ he moaned, ‘I can go no further. I am so tired. I feel so
sleepy. Go on yourself, an’ leave me here.’ But I warn’t a lad o’ that
kind. I knew pesky well what that there sleepiness meant; it meant
nothin’ less than a closin’ of eyes once an’ forever; he would have
been cold, stiff, stone dead in half an hour. It didn’t take me more’n
a brace o’ minutes to find a remedy for this. Whippin’ out my old knife
I cut down a stick from one o’ the young trees on the road, an’ the way
I laid it round that poor feller’s body would have been a sight for the
chicken-hearted, I tell ye. I beat him like an old carpet until his
bones were sore. I fairly warmed him, which was jist what was wanted;
an’ what with whippin’, kickin’ him, an’ at times cartin’ him along on
my back, we soon made mile after mile on our way.
“Those were long hours flounderin’ on through the snow; but at last we
reached Chamberlin Farm, though to tell a gospel truth I felt we never
would git in.
“As luck would have it there was a doctor there from East Corinth, an’
with his help we were soon at work with snow gittin’ the frost out of
Johnny’s hands an’ feet, an’ pumpin’ life into him. In a week he was
up an’ about, good as new, an’ hunted with us till the followin’ April
afore goin’ out o’ the woods.
[Illustration: “BEAT HIM LIKE AN OLD CARPET.”]
“As I learned from him arterwards, Johnny had lost his way between
Fourth Lake and Leadbetter Pond. The snow there was over three foot
deep, an’ as the rain had clogged his snow-shoes he turned into an old
loggin’-road that he diskivered an’ this took the poor feller right
smack off his course. He follered the old road till dark, an’ not
comin’ across the old log cabin I told him about, made for the base
of a decayed tree, which he reckoned was fifty foot high at the least.
This he set fire to, an’ sat all night watchin’ it burn down. Fallin’
asleep towards mornin’, when he woke up he found the merk’ry had gone
a long way below zero, an’ that his feet, though wrapped in four pair
o’ socks had both frozen. What the poor feller suffered till I found
him must have been terrible. Afore leavin’ Greenville that Spring,
John Way made the fust of a lot o’ maps o’ Moosehead Lake an’ all its
surroundin’s. Arterwards he jined these all into one, which I used to
sell on the boats, and this is the orthority for nearly all the late
maps of these ’ere regions.”
[Illustration: “SAT ALL NIGHT WATCHIN’ IT BURN DOWN.”]
Beautiful Echo Lake, the head-waters of the Aroostook River, charms
one at once by its picturesque location. High mountains encircle it,
which make the peculiar reverberation from which it takes its name,
and breathe into the soul that sense of solitude so delightful to the
spiritual nature.
We spent three days here hunting and trapping, and added three beaver
to our collection of furs and stock of provisions, which latter was now
rapidly decreasing.
On breaking camp we explored the outlet of the lake, and, finding the
stream very dry, were obliged to build dams in order to sluice our
canoes through this country to the Mansungun Lakes below.
“I tell you that water is cold,” said John Mansell, as he waded ashore
after putting the last mud and stone upon a dam opposite the camp. “You
don’t call this a canoe tour, do you, Hiram? I should call it going
overland to New Brunswick. Never did see such a dry time in my life.”
The water having greatly increased during the night, we loaded our
canoes and placed them in line above the dam, each man, with the
exception of the Colonel, being in his customary position.
“Are you all ready?” yelled the Colonel, standing on the top of the dam
below us.
“Ready!” was answered; and with the blade of his paddle he threw the
mud and rocks to the right and left, and the pent-up waters of three
days’ detention swept us down the stream a long way on our voyage. The
Colonel, dashing through the woods, regained his canoe at a bend in the
river.
[Illustration: BEAVER DAM--FOUR FEET HIGH--ONE HUNDRED FEET WIDE.]
But gradually the water receded from under our barks, and we were again
forced to take to the stream and lift our canoes over the cruel rocks,
until we reached a broad expanse of the river below.
This pond was the result of an enormous beaver dam four feet high and
one hundred feet wide.
[Illustration: SLUICING A DAM.]
“We better set our traps,” said Nichols; “many beaver here; me catch
some to-night, a family of nine,” the Indian’s accuracy regarding the
points of wood-craft being at times wonderful.
“But we cannot proceed without water,” said the Colonel, observing the
stream very dry below.
We therefore set our traps and cut the dam to the width of over ten
feet, through which the water rushed with velocity, and floated us
quickly to the Third Mansungun Lake. We were detained only by a few
fallen trees, which the axe in the brawny hands of John Mansell soon
cleared.
Before it was light the next morning the Indian’s canoe was far away on
the lake for an examination of the traps; he soon returned with four
immense beavers, whose aggregate weight fell not short of two hundred
pounds.
“Me footed two more,” said the guide, exhibiting the webbed feet of the
animals in corroboration of the fact; “but they very quick--they get
away. I see dam we cut last night, and it now just good as new.”
“Good as new!” we echoed. “Impossible.”
“True as me stand here,” said Nichols, at the same time glancing
anxiously into the stew pan, to see if we had left him any beaver meat
for breakfast. “Beaver, they fell tree in night ten inch thick, gnaw it
in lengths three feet long, plant them at cut, and heap with much bark,
mud and sticks. Build dam up in one night. No think it myself, if not
see it with own eyes. You go see, too.”
Astonishing as it may seem, the Indian was perfectly correct in his
statement.
After our toil on Osgood Carry and the stream below, we rested over a
week on these Mansungun Lakes. The third Mansungun Lake, on which we
first camped, is five miles long and two wide. This is connected by a
narrow outlet with the second Mansungun Lake, which is about the same
size as the other, while the first or lower lake is the smallest body
of water, being about two miles long and one wide. I fished and hunted
in short excursions from camp, and, with Tourograph over my shoulder,
I was constantly in search of the picturesque. Nichols had discovered
a brook (the name of which we afterwards learned was Chase,) tumbling
down the side of a mountain near our camp, and as falls were a
rarity on the route I spent half a day in this gorge.
[Illustration: CHASE BROOK.]
About this region we had rare success in our hunting and trapping, and
with many skins stretched on the drying hoops about camp, and fresh
animals coming in to add to the stock, our quarters gradually assumed
the appearance of a Hudson Bay trading-post.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
“’Tis night upon the lake. Our camp is made
’Twixt shore and hill beneath the pine-trees’ shade.
’Tis still, and yet what woody noises loom
Against the background of the silent gloom;
One well might hear the opening of a flower
If day were hushed as this.”
A VISION ON THE LAKE.--NICHOLS’ BIRCH-HORN.--A MIDNIGHT HUNT UNDER A
COLD MOON.--CALLING THE MOOSE.
Two days afterwards the Colonel and Hiram, returning from an excursion
down the lake, drew their canoes up on the shore, and entered the camp
looking as sorrowful and dejected as a couple of jilted lovers.
“What’s the matter?” I asked with alarm, for John Mansell happened to
be out also, and the fear struck me at once that something might have
happened him.
“Matter? you would not ask it if you had been with us to-day and seen
the moose,” replied the Colonel sadly.
[Illustration: “MOOSE? YOU DON’T SAY SO! WHEN? WHERE?”]
“Moose! you don’t say so! when? where?” I exclaimed, and in this
frantic query I was joined by the voice of the younger Mansell, who at
that moment suddenly appeared behind us from the woods.
The Colonel’s voice choked itself in a feeble struggle at reply, and
stacking his Winchester against the back of the tent, he threw himself
with a disconsolate air down upon his bed. But Hiram, less crushed by
the evident misfortune, kindly obliged me with a graphic detail of the
trouble.
[Illustration: “OH, SUCH A PAIR OF HORNS!”]
“It was down on the second Mansungun Lake. We was paddlin’ up that
stream to the right, where we shot the mink yesterday, and the Kernel
was whippin’ the stream with his fly rod, when all of a sudden we heerd
a crackin’ of the bushes, and then out on the edge o’ the bank stalked
one of the biggest bull moose I ever did see. He’d have weighed more’n
a thousand pound, Nichols, sure as I stand here. Oh, _such_ a pair of
horns!” and the guide’s arms were raised in a tremendous gesture.
The Colonel groaned, and raising himself on one hand he swept the other
frantically through the air and gave us a magnificent idea of the
spread of the horns from tip to tip.
“Then,” continued Hiram, “up started the Kernel, and slingin’ his rifle
to place he pegged in the lead afore ye could count a brace o’ winks.
Did the bull drop?--no--didn’t even give a quiver, for the ball cut
wide. Did he turn flanks and tear off--no sir-ee; he waded nearer and
nearer to us, till he was only _eight rods off_ at the most. ‘Pepper
him agin, Kernel, and fire low,’ I whispered, a-tryin’ to steady the
canoe. Then bang! went the Kernel agin, an’ with a thunderin’ snort the
bull wheeled ’round, and went smashin’ away through the woods.”
“An’ you missed him clean?” said John.
“No! not the last shot, that hit him somewhere in the neck, for we
found his blood on the ground afterwards, but the first ball cut the
alders three foot over his head. It was the queerest thing you ever
see. Why! I was so sure of him, that I was figurin’ how I was goin’ to
get the carcass back to camp, an’ smackin’ my lips over the steaks.”
“Oh! don’t speak of it! don’t speak of it! I shall _never_ have such
a chance again as long as I live; no, never! never!” and the Colonel
threw himself back on his blankets with a groan.
I smiled for an instant. I could have “Pinafored” him then and there
upon the spot. It was a glorious chance, but his gun was standing close
beside him and I did not dare.
“But it’s something to have _seen_ one, in his native wilds,” I
remarked, trying my best to comfort him; “the animal will soon be
extinct in this country.”
It was of no use, and I think that lost opportunity threw a veil of
sadness over the Colonel’s mind for the remainder of the tour; at any
rate, it was a delicate subject to touch upon afterwards.
“If moose so near,” said Nichols, one day, “me better make horn and
call moose to-night; no try, no get him.”
We thought this a good scheme, and with the approval of all the Indian
tramped off into the woods, and soon returned with a large piece of
birch bark. Shaving the edges with his knife, he warmed it over the
fire, and proceeded to roll it up into a great horn two feet in length,
tapering it from six inches to one in diameter, and fastening the edges
with wooden pegs.
Nichols and I were the only ones who went out on the hunt. Preparing
ourselves after the evening repast, we stepped into our canoes at 7.30
o’clock. It was not a remarkably severe night, but as I knew I should
be obliged to remain for a long time in almost motionless position, I
took precautions to wrap up extremely well, and before I returned, the
night chill had penetrated through it all to the very vicinity of my
bones.
[Illustration: THE DECOY.]
“Most ready?” asked the Indian, as in this clumsy and uncomfortable
attire I rolled, rather than seated, myself in the bottom of the canoe.
“Yes; all ready, Nichols!” and throwing the birch moose horn into the
craft we paddled out into the lake, with the best wishes of the rest
of the party from the shore.
“If we hear a shot,” yelled the Colonel, with a look of dubiousness,
“we will add an extra log to the fire.”
“And cut up the balance of our salt pork,” added Hiram, “for moose
steak is a little dry without it.”
It was a clear night, and so still that the sound of voices and the
blows of an axe at camp could be easily heard two miles across the
lake. The bright October moon was gradually creeping down the western
sky, but shone enough to light us on our way many miles.
“She shone upon the lake
That lay one smooth expanse of silver light;
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast
Within their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade.”
The tall hemlocks that fringed the shore threw their shadows far out
into the lake, and in these reflections the guide paddled from point to
point.
A slight rustle behind me and the Indian draws forth the long birch
horn, dips it noiselessly in the water, and for the first time in my
existence I listen to the weird sound of the moose call.
[Illustration: CALLING THE MOOSE.]
Ugh--ugh--ugh--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--ugh--ugh!
Three plaintive “ughs,” then a prolonged bellow, commencing in a low
tone, increasing in power and volume to the end, and followed by two
notes like the first.
It rolled across the lake in every direction, was tossed from mountain
tops to the inmost depths of the forests, echoing and re-echoing. Then
all was hushed, and we waited in silence the result. The stillness was
something overpowering. We held our breaths. At times, however, it was
harshly broken. Away toward the distant shore some sportive animal
would splash in his gambols at the water’s edge, or a muskrat could be
distinctly heard gathering his evening meal; then the prow of the canoe
would graze the rushes or the lily-pads with a suddenness that was
startling.
Noiselessly the Indian plied his paddle, and we crept silently on in
the shadows. Again the horn was raised to his lips, and there came
forth that strange midnight call so melodious to my ears. This was
repeated again and again for six successive hours, neither of us
exchanging a word during the entire time.
At last the stars alone cast their reflections in the glassy lake, and
although from a distant mountain side we at last received an answer to
our call, we could not draw the animal to the water’s edge.
We had paddled over ten miles. It was now 2 o’clock in the morning, and
we returned to camp. I was too stiff to move, and the Indian lifted me
from the canoe to the shore, while I realized that I had experienced
all the pleasures of moose hunting--save the moose.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
“And now the thicken’d sky
Like a dark ceiling stood; down rushed the rain
Impetuous.”--MILTON.
DECREASE OF OUR PROVISIONS.--FACE TO FACE WITH STARVATION.--SORE
TRIALS.--SHOEING CANOES.--THROUGH THE STORM.--WE SIGHT THE WATERS OF
THE AROOSTOOK.--“HURRAH!”
After this adventure we moved our camp to the foot of the first
Mansungun Lake, which has for its outlet a river bearing the same name.
After arranging our camp we sent the guides ahead to explore the
country in our advance, and ascertain the pitch of water in Mansungun
Stream.
“There’s more work ahead,” said Hiram, in a disconsolate tone of voice
on returning to camp, “The water’s jest about deep enough to float a
turtle. We’re in for a long ‘drag,’ an’ I’m afeard our canoes won’t
never reach the ’Roostook waters unless somethin’s done to pertect ’em.”
A council was held, and at the suggestion of Nichols, we at last
decided to build sleds or “shoes” for our canoes, and drag them through
the bed of the stream twelve miles to the Aroostook River.
Little by little our provisions had given out. First the sugar, then
the hard tack and coffee, while potatoes and Indian meal had been a
thing of the past for many days. The trout had left the summer pools
for their spawning beds, and notwithstanding the state of our larder,
we had no time to ascertain their whereabouts.
Occasionally we shot a duck or partridge; we added plenty of water to
the stew, to make sufficient for the party, and in consequence had an
unsubstantial meal.
For many weeks we had subsisted almost entirely on the flesh of
beavers, but now being in haste we had little time to set our traps.
[Illustration: SHOEING CANOES.]
On the 20th of October starvation almost stared us in
the face. Our breakfast this day consisted of the last portion of
beaver flesh and a cup of tea without milk or sugar.
[Illustration: “--WOULDN’T TAKE FIFTY DOLLARS FOR IT.”]
“I believe I’d give ten dollars a mouthful for another meal like that,
’though its only an appetiser,” said Hiram, arising from the frugal
repast.
“Hiram,” remarked the Colonel, “puts me in mind of an Englishman I
met some weeks ago at the Tremont Hotel, Boston. The gentleman sat at
my table, and for four mornings in succession I had noticed him call
for dried herrings and coffee, of which he made his entire meal. I
was wonderfully interested, and on the fifth morning, to satisfy my
curiosity, I had the audacity to question him; ‘I say, my friend, you
must excuse me; but do you eat those herrings from a medicinal motive,
or because you really love them?’ ‘Well,’ he answered, with a drawl, ‘I
don’t exactly _love_ them, but along about 11 o’clock in the morning
there creeps over me such a glorious thirst that I wouldn’t take fifty
dollars for it!’”
But this was no time for story telling, and we immediately set to work
on the “shoes” for the canoes.
The guides soon felled a number of tall cedars and dragged them into
camp.
Then we split them into boards ten feet in length, half an inch in
thickness, and tapering from four to two inches in width, the broadest
extremities lapping one another at midships.
[Illustration: MANSUNGUN DEADWATER.]
Sixteen of these strips were necessary for each of the three canoes,
and were fastened to their bottoms by being split at the edges and
drawn tightly together with strips of cedar bark which ran through the
slits, and passing upward were tied securely to the thwarts. Thus the
graceful form of the birch was lost in the rough outline of a boat.
For four days we labored incessantly at our task, and from the
splitting of the great logs to the finishing of the wood had as tools
only an axe and a penknife.
Fortunately partridges proved abundant, and on these we subsisted
during our forced encampment. A fine otter four feet in length was shot
near camp, but his flesh proved too fishy for us, half-famished as we
were. A large hawk frightened by our voices, dropped from his talons a
trout of over two pounds in weight, suggesting to our minds Israelitish
experience.
[Illustration: A SKY PICTURE.]
Among all trying circumstances we kept at work, and cheered one
another by incessant jokes on the situations.
At last the “shoeing” of the canoes was accomplished, and repacking our
luggage, we paddled down the dead water of Mansungun Stream, and passed
falls five miles below.
Although the morning was lowery, we little thought we had selected the
worst day of the entire tour for the passage of the river; but so it
proved.
Soon the heavens grew dark, the birds sought shelter in the wooded
depths, the wind howled among the tall forest trees, and the rain,
beginning first with light showers, increased at last in volume to a
perfect deluge.
In the midst of this we were obliged to disembark from our canoes and
drag them through the rocky bed of the river, and the good results of
the “shoeing” at once became manifest.
“You look out for the bow, me look out for stern,” yelled Nichols, as
crowding my canoe forward over the ledges of rocks and through the
shallow water of the stream we pushed onward, followed by the remainder
of the party.
[Illustration: A TWELVE MILE DRAG.]
We soon realized that we were in for hard work.
Mile after mile we dragged the canoes, at one moment plunging into some
unseen hole almost to our waists, the next instant striking a ledge
with hardly sufficient water to cover our feet while the rain poured in
torrents upon us. It was water above and water below, and when we were
thoroughly wet, it made little difference from which source it came.
Occasionally we reached water sufficiently deep to float us a short
distance, but after a few trials we found it less fatiguing to remain
in the stream all the time.
I pulled and hauled until every muscle seemed strung to the tension of
a fiddle-string, and before the end of the ordeal I felt like a beast
of burden.
So did the others; but we never grumbled. A common feeling inspired us
with the idea that it was heroic sport.
After nine hours of toil and discomfort, through difficulties that
lasted for twelve miles, we reached the mouth of the stream, and camped
at the junction of the Mansungun and Millnoket Rivers, our hardships
forgotten in the first sight of the Aroostook waters.
But for the cedar splits protecting the canoes, they would hardly have
withstood this rough experience, as the knife-like rocks had left deep
impressions on them.
Our rubber bags had shielded our tents and blankets, from the ill
effects of the storm, but the Tourograph had been floating unobserved
in two inches of water, which destroyed a number of the plates,
changing them from the “dry” to the “wet process” of photography.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: IN CAMP ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER.]
CHAPTER VII.
“Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?”
REDEEMED FROM STARVATION.--THE FIRST HABITATION ON THE AROOSTOOK.--MR.
BOTTING’S HOUSE.--THE TOUROGRAPH ASTONISHES THE NATIVES.--PURCHASING
SUPPLIES AT MASARDIS.--HOMEWARD BOUND.--AU REVOIR!
When I turned out the next morning the first thing I heard was an
exclamation from the Colonel.
“What a jolly place for trout!”
“Trout!” we echoed. “You don’t mean it?”
[Illustration: A WAITING BREAKFAST.]
“I do, every time, my hearties,” responded the Colonel, as he cast
his line far out on the surface of a dark foam-flecked pool at the
junction of the two rivers. The next instant we saw his rod bend like
a whip-lash, and as the speckled prize which weighed above two pounds
shot up out of the stream five hungry men fastened their eyes on it
with ravenous fascination, and smacked their jaws in anticipation of a
breakfast.
“Bravo, Colonel! Do it again!” we cried, as the trout was landed; and
verily he did it again and again, while we did them all to a brown in
the frying-pan.
During a few days rest here we secured a number of views, hunted
partridges, and captured four fine beaver. Aside from the value of the
pelts of the latter animals, they placed us once more beyond the chance
of starvation; and having lived for a month almost entirely on their
flesh, we had learned by experience that it was better than nothing.
We still retained the “shoes” on our canoes, for although each day the
Aroostook River grew deeper and wider, we were obliged to repeat the
experiences of Mansungun Stream.
On we paddled, day after day. Soon we passed the junction of the
Mooseleuk and Aroostook Rivers, and great was our joy when at last we
caught sight of the first house since leaving Chamberlin Lake.
From an architectural point of view it would hardly have interested the
humblest carpenter, but to our longing eyes it was the assurance of
perils over and the hardest part of the tour accomplished.
A rough log cabin, with barn adjoining, and a few acres of cleared land
constituted the farm of one Philip Painter. Here, as I was focussing
the camera for a picture, a mother and three children gazed on me from
the window, and viewed my operations with astonishment.
[Illustration: THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER.]
But being still over one hundred miles from the end of our voyage, the
tarry was of short duration.
The Colonel, however, in prowling about the farm, found time to fill
his pockets with a quantity of small apples, no larger than nutmegs,
and about as digestible. He distributed them among the party as we were
returning to the boats, imagining that he had made a glorious capture.
“Splendid, aren’t they?” he said, as we began to munch them.
“Anything for a change from beaver stews,” I replied. “I feel that I
could take to boot-leg cheerfully.”
A mile further on another farm appeared, perched upon a high bluff.
“We must take this place by storm!” cried the Colonel. “We must find a
straight North American meal if we perish in the attempt,” and he led a
gallant advance toward the farm house.
Mr. Botting, the proprietor of the place, appeared in answer to our
hail and greeted us with a stare of open-eyed wonder. The first words
he spoke were in company with a jerking action of his thumb toward the
Tourograph.
“What kind of a machine do ye call that?” he asked, eyeing the
instrument with a profound glance.
“This,” said the Colonel, hastening to explain, “is the improved
Gatling gun.”
“An’ ye’ve come all the way to this God-forsaken hole to sell it?” said
the man. “What’s it fur, anyhow?”
“Cats,” replied the Colonel, with the gravest expression in the world.
“Wal, we ain’t got no cats round here,” said the man. “Haint seen the
ghost o’ one in years.”
“Don’t believe him,” I said, interposing, “It’s not a Gatling gun; it
is a camera--an instrument for taking pictures--likenesses.”
“Oh!” drawled the man, “I see! He-he! Queer lookin’ affair, ain’t it?
Looks like one o’ these patent coffee-grinders I seed down at ’Guster
(Augusta) when I was there last.”
“Sir, you insinuate,” said the Colonel. “We have had neither sight nor
taste of coffee in weeks, and we don’t sport a coffee-grinder for bare
admiration’s sake, we can tell you.”
“Which brings us to our business,” said I. “We have just come from
Moosehead Lake. Can you get up a dinner for the crowd?”
“Wal, yes, I guess so,” said the man in a half-dubious tone, as he took
in the calibre of the party.
Then, beckoning us to follow, he hobbled back into the house, where
after an hour’s tarry we were served with a dinner that hardly paid
for the time lost in eating it. It consisted of bread, potatoes, and
tea sweetened with molasses; but, like the apples, even this was “a
change” from beaver stews.
[Illustration: “CAN YOU GET UP A DINNER FOR THE CROWD?”]
“Must a-had a dry time, gen’lmen,” he said, as he busied himself
attending to us. “Didn’t find much water, I guess. Never did see the
’Roostook run down so low in all my life, an’ I’ve lived on this ’ere
river now nigh on thirty-seven year. I’m seventy odd year old, but
only for a lame hip I’ve got I could tramp through the woods with the
best o’ ye.”
“You must have some trouble in working your farm,” remarked the
Colonel, surveying the fields in front of the door.
“Oh, no; not much. I raise sons to do it. I’ve got eleven as likely
boys as you ever did see; but I lost one in the war--poor feller!” as
in a husky tone of voice he pointed to a framed certificate of his
son’s war services.
Sixteen miles more of vigorous paddling brought us to the town of
Masardis, the post-office of the county, and landing on the shore among
a number of dug-outs and batteaux, we entered the village.
“Where is the store?” inquired the Colonel, as he crossed the street
and rapped at the door of one of the houses.
“Don’t have any,” said the lady who answered his call, surprised at her
visitor.
“Well, can you sell us some flour, potatoes and coffee?” and then the
Colonel unrolled his memorandum of much needed camp supplies.
At this house we purchased flour, at another potatoes, at another
coffee, no two articles being had at the same place, while chickens at
twenty-five cents each were sold “on the run,” the Colonel and Hiram
securing them after an energetic race.
[Illustration: BIRD TRAPPING MADE EASY.]
An old lady of seventy summers, who sold me a box of honey and was very
communicative, said during a short but delightful conversation--“I
suppose you have heaps more people down in Connecticut than we have
in this town; but I don’t believe they are half so happy as our
townsfolks. Oh, no! they can’t be near so happy--except, well--except
on election days;” and a sad expression came over her wrinkled
countenance, for the smaller the town, the greater is the feeling on
politics in Maine.
[Illustration: “SEVENTY SUMMERS.”]
The river now widens to a distance of over one hundred and fifty feet,
and day after day shows a gradual increase in its depth and power.
The current sweeps us swiftly onward through rapids innumerable in
the full excitement of canoe life, but occasionally we are forced to
disembark and drag our canoes over a rocky beach, which obliges us to
retain the “shoes.”
At our various camps we are visited by the inhabitants along the route,
who in return for the history of our tour entertain us with news of the
outside world, from which we have been separated for so many weeks.
Then we begin to realize that we are homeward bound.
An invitation to one of these callers, requesting the honor of his
company at breakfast was accepted (with avidity), although, as he
remarked, “the old woman was waiting to serve that meal for him on
yonder hill.”
[Illustration: A PEEP AT THE STRANGERS.]
On passing the towns of Ashland and Washburn, the foamy and discolored
appearance of the stream gave evidence of the potato starch
manufactories in the vicinity.
The strangest peculiarity of the inhabitants was their utter ignorance
of the country and its surroundings.
These people, living on the river, could not give us the faintest idea
of distances to points along the shore.
“Hello, stranger!” yelled the Colonel, as rounding a bend in the stream
he spied a man standing in one of the log-houses that dot the banks;
“can you tell us how far it is to the next town?”
“Dunno, friend; but its nigh on ten miles by the road.”
Another gave the same answer, while a third did not know the name of
the next town, although he had lived five years in the country--a
parallel to the Virginian woodsman who stalked forth from his native
pines one day to learn that there had been such a catastrophe in the
history of his country as the war of the Rebellion.
“Wake up, boys,” yelled the Colonel, arousing the party (4 A. M.) at
our last camp near Washburn, where we turned out in the dark to partake
of a hasty breakfast before embarking.
[Illustration: PRESQUE ISLE--CIVILIZATION IN FOCUS.]
“If we are going to make forty-five miles to Caribou to day, we must
make hay while the sun shines,--or while it doesn’t shine,” he added,
as he took notice of the darkness.
Soon we were gliding down the swift stream, avoiding the huge rocks
dimly appearing through the mist, until at last the rising sun
dispelled the darkness.
At Presque Isle we landed, and while the guides were preparing dinner,
I climbed a neighboring hill with my Tourograph and secured a picture
of the scene.
Hour after hour we labored at the paddles, until they seemed almost a
part of ourselves; the “shoes” on our canoes retarded us not a little.
The sun was creeping down the western sky, and the tall pines on the
bluffs above us threw their lengthening shadows across the stream,
as doubling the last bend we shot the canoes along side the wharf
at Caribou, and completed our tour of over four hundred miles from
Moosehead Lake to the Aroostook River.
Here we took the cars.[B]
[Footnote B: Since this canoe tour was completed the railroad has been
extended to the town of Presque Isle, at which point tourists can leave
the Aroostook River, saving themselves a tedious paddle of about
twenty-two miles to Caribou.]
A delegation of the “big people” of the vicinity saw us off.
[Illustration: VALEDICTORY.]
At the parting moment they seemed visibly affected, as our sketch shows.
As we crossed the line at Fort Fairfield the following day on our way
to Woodstock, New Brunswick, the custom house officer found nothing in
our kit to reward his examination, although he displayed much curiosity
in the leather case containing the camera.
“You must have had a fine time,” he remarked.
“Yes,” was the reply, “save building dams and shoeing canoes.”
While the Indian ejaculated--
“Me think so, too; yes!”
In the whirl of the outside world the weeks fleet by as with the
swiftness of a day, but in the solitude of the wilds it seems a longer
lease of time.
It is like an age since we took leave of civilization and plunged into
the heart of the forests. Now, out of the depths, with a bound we are
again in the noise of the busy world.
Mighty trees, primeval rocks with draperies of vine and moss and
lichen, tumbling cascades, rushing streams, and all the forest’s wealth
of color, form and music disappear like magic.
Presto! what a change!
From the sigh and rustle of the grand old pines list to the rattle of
rail cars, the shriek of whistles, and hum of machinery in the mills
and factories.
From the croon of the night-bird, that with the distant star has often
been my only company in the dark hours while my comrades slept, list
to the bark of dogs and crow of cocks, as we rush past town and hamlet
through the night and early morn. We are out of the wilds. Farewell,
Nature! Welcome, Home!
“There is a pleasure in the pathless wood,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrude--
* * * * *
To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,
Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
* * * * *
Alone o’er steep and foaming falls to lean--
This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold
Converse with Nature’s charms and view her stores unrolled.”
[Illustration]
THE MOST ARTISTIC AND CHARMING BOOK OF THE SEASON.
CANOE AND CAMERA.
[Illustration]
A Photographic and Descriptive Tour of Two Hundred Miles through the
Maine Forests.
_By THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE, of Hartford, Conn._
SIXTY BEAUTIFUL SCENERY AND CHARACTER ILLUSTRATIONS BY WELL-KNOWN
ARTISTS, INCLUDING TRUE WILLIAMS, BENJAMIN DAY, AUG. WILL, AND OTHERS,
TOGETHER WITH NEW MAPS OF THE STATE, EXPRESSLY PREPARED FOR THE WORK,
WHICH PRESENT THE LATEST EXPLORATIONS OF THE AUTHOR AND HIS EXPERIENCED
GUIDES.
WHAT IS SAID OF “CANOE AND CAMERA.”
FOREST AND STREAM says: “It is a superb volume. One of the most
attractive summer books of the year. The mechanical work is of the
very highest standard. The country explored and described comprised
the region of the East Branch of the Penobscot River--a territory
rich in beautiful scenery and well supplied with game and fish. It is
admirably adapted to canoeing. Mr. Steele is no amateur in the camp
and on the jaunt. He has explored the wilds of Florida, the forests
of Lake Superior, Wisconsin, and has camped beside the Rangeleys. An
enthusiastic sportsman, he communicates this spirit to his book, and
writes in a vein which leads the reader unconsciously to sympathize
with him in his description of a striking landscape, his spirited
accounts of a capture of a fish, or the running of a rapid, and in his
philosophical and outspoken sentiments regarding the ethics of the camp
and field.”
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER, the eminent author, writes concerning this
volume: “Canoe and Camera, by Mr. Thomas Sedgwick Steele, is one of the
handsomest books of the season, and reflects great credit on the taste
of the author, the printer, and the binder. It is seldom that a book is
so fully and so well illustrated. Many of the drawings are charming,
and many of them are not only picturesque, but interesting, as views of
wild scenery which the author describes.”
THE ADVANCE, Chicago.--“A delightful book, delightfully gotten up,
is Canoe and Camera, an illustrated description of a 200-miles tour
through the Maine forests. There are instructions as to the best modes
of reaching and traversing this wild, romantic region, and the accounts
of the routes, the fishing regions, the adventures, and the scenery,
with the sixty illustrations and the 20 x 25 in. map, almost make the
reader feel that he takes the trip in his easy chair, without any of
its attendant drawbacks.”
THE INDEPENDENT, N. Y.--“It is a lively narrative of adventure, with
abundant illustrations, and is altogether a charming volume.”
BOSTON JOURNAL.--“The book is written in the best of temper, in a fresh
and breezy style, and with a zest that marks a true sportsman.”
1 vol. Crown 8vo. Cloth. $1.50.
Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by
ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers,
301 to 305 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.
JUST PUBLISHED.
A NEW MAP OF THE
HEADWATERS OF THE
AROOSTOOK, PENOBSCOT, AND ST. JOHN RIVERS,
MAINE,
COMPILED BY
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
HARTFORD, CONN.
AUTHOR OF
CANOE AND CAMERA; OR, TWO HUNDRED MILES THROUGH THE
MAINE FORESTS.
PADDLE AND PORTAGE, FROM MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK
RIVER, ETC., ETC.
What is said of the Map by the well-known Sportsman’s Paper, “FOREST
AND STREAM.”
“A NEW MAP OF NORTHERN MAINE.--Mr. Thomas Sedgewick Steele, author
of ‘Canoe and Camera’ and other works, has just compiled one of the
most satisfactory maps of the great canoe tours of Northern Maine yet
published. This chart is 20 x 30 inches, printed on Government Survey
paper, mounted on cloth, and is an invaluable aid to the sportsman
tourist in these wild regions,--in fact, to such an individual it is a
most necessary adjunct to the economy of his camp kit. From the extreme
lower portion of the map covered by Moosehead Lake diverge the great
rivers of this vast wilderness,--the Main St. John, Aroostook, and East
and West Branches of the Penobscot, while a portion of Canada on the
north and New Brunswick on the east is embraced within its boundaries.
Great care has been exercised in noting many points along these
routes, which, although of the greatest importance to the canoeist,
are seldom brought within the scope of the ordinary map. Along the
Main St. John every log house and portage seems to be conscientiously
indicated, while the many falls of the picturesque East Branch are
noted, to the advantage and caution of the voyageur of these waters.
After leaving the farms at Chesuncook and Chamberlin Lake the tourist
to the Aroostook paddles about two hundred miles through the wilderness
before reaching a sign of civilization, the first house being that of
Philip Painter, while the second habitation, one mile further on, is
that of William Botting, situated on the right bank, at a bend of the
Aroostook River, called the Oxbow. Innumerable lakes and ponds are
spread out before one on this chart like shot holes in a target. These
and many other points of interest recommend this new survey of Mr.
Steele to the camper-out in the wilds of Maine. The map is published
by Estes & Lauriat, of Boston, and is mailed, post-paid, for $1.00 per
copy.”--_Forest and Stream._
PRICE, $1.00.
Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by
ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers,
301-305 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.
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