The region of which I am about to speak lies in the southern part of
the state of New York, and comprises parts of three counties,--Ulster,
Sullivan and Delaware. It is drained by tributaries of both the Hudson
and Delaware, and, next to the Adirondack section, contains more wild
land than any other tract in the State. The mountains which traverse
it, and impart to it its severe northern climate, belong properly to
the Catskill range. On some maps of the State they are called the Pine
Mountains, though with obvious local impropriety, as pine, so far as I
have observed, is nowhere found upon them. "Birch Mountains" would be
a more characteristic name, as on their summits birch is the
prevailing tree. They are the natural home of the black and yellow
birch, which grow here to unusual size. On their sides beech and maple
abound; while, mantling their lower slopes and darkening the valleys,
hemlock formerly enticed the lumberman and tanner. Except in remote or
inaccessible localities, the latter tree is now almost never found. In
Shandaken and along the Esopus it is about the only product the
country yielded, or is likely to yield. Tanneries by the score have
arisen and flourished upon the bark, and some of them still remain.
Passing through that region the present season, I saw that the few
patches of hemlock that still lingered high up on the sides of the
mountains were being felled and peeled, the fresh white boles or the
trees, just stripped of their bark, being visible a long distance.
Among these mountains there are no sharp peaks, or abrupt declivities,
as in a volcanic region, but long, uniform ranges, heavily timbered to
their summits, and delighting the eye with vast, undulating horizon
lines. Looking south from the heights about the head of the Delaware,
one sees, twenty miles away, a continual succession of blue ranges,
one behind the other. If a few large trees are missing on the sky
line, one can see the break a long distance off.
Approaching this region from the Hudson River side, you cross a rough,
rolling stretch of country, skirting the base of the Catskills, which
from a point near Saugerties sweep inland; after a drive of a few
hours you are within the shadow of a high, bold mountain, which forms
a sort of butt-end to this part of the range, and which is simple
called High Point. To the east and southeast it slopes down rapidly to
the plain, and looks defiance toward the Hudson, twenty miles distant;
in the rear of it, and radiating from it west and northwest, are
numerous smaller ranges, backing up, as it were, this haughty chief.
From this point through to Pennsylvania, a distance of nearly one
hundred miles, stretches the tract of which I speak. It is a belt of
country from twenty to thirty miles wide, bleak and wild, and but
sparsely settled. The traveler on the New York and Erie Railroad gets
a glimpse of it.
Many cold, rapid trout streams, which flow to all points of the
compass, have their source in the small lakes and copious mountain
springs of this region. The names of some of them are Mill Brook, Dry
Brook, Willewemack, Beaver Kill, Elk Bush Kill, Panther Kill,
Neversink, Big Ingin, and Callikoon. Beaver Kill is the main outlet on
the west. It joins the Deleware in the wilds of Hancock. The Neversink
lays open the region to the south, and also joins the Delaware. To the
east, various Kills unite with the Big Ingin to form the Esopus, which
flows into the Hudson. Dry Brook and Mill Brook, both famous trout
streams, from twelve to fifteen miles long, find their way into the
Delaware.
The east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware itself takes its rise near
here in a deep pass between the mountains. I have many times drunk at
a copious spring by the roadside, where the infant river first sees
the light. A few yards beyond, the water flows the other way,
directing its course through the Bear Kill and Schoharie Kill into the
Mohawk.
Such game and wild animals as still linger in the State are found in
this region. Bears occasionally make havoc among the sheep. The
clearings at the head of a valley are oftenest the scene of their
depredations.
Wild pigeons, in immense numbers used to breed regularly in the valley
of the Big Ingin and about the head of the Neversink. The treetops for
miles were full of their nests, while the going and coming of the old
birds kept up a constant din. But the gunners soon got wind of it, and
from far and near were wont to pour in during the spring, and to
slaughter both old and young. This practice soon had the effect of
driving the pigeons all away, and now only a few pairs breed in these
woods.
Deer are still met with, though they are becoming scarcer every year.
Last winter near seventy head were killed on the Beaver Kill alone. I
heard of one wretch, who, finding the deer snowbound, walked up to
them on his snowshoes, and one morning before breakfast slaughtered
six, leaving their carcasses where they fell. There are traditions of
persons having been smitten blind or senseless when about to commit
some heinous offense, but the fact that this villain escaped without
some such visitation throws discredit on all such stories.
The great attraction, however, of this region, is the brook trout,
with which the streams and lakes abound. The water is of excessive
coldness, the thermometer indicating 44° and 45°in the springs, and
47° or 48° in the smaller streams. The trout are generally small, but
in the more remote branches their number is very great. In such
localities the fish are quite black, but in the lakes they are of a
lustre and brilliancy impossible to describe.
These waters have been much visited of late years by fishing parties,
and the name of the Beaver Kill is now a potent name among New York
sportsmen.
One lake, in the wilds of Callikoon, abounds in a peculiar species of
white sucker, which is of excellent quality. It is taken only in
spring, during the spawning season, at the time "when the leaves are
as big as a chipmunk's ears." The fish run up the small streams and
inlets, beginning at nightfall, and continuing till the channel is
literally packed with them, and every inch of space is occupied. The
fishermen pounce upon them at such times, and scoop them up by the
bushel, usually wading right into the living mass and landing the fish
with their hands. A small party will often secure in this manner a
wagon-load of fish. Certain conditions of the weather, as a warm south
or southwest wind, are considered most favorable for the fish to run.
Though familiar all my life with the outskirts of this region, I have
only twice dipped into its wilder portions. Once in 1860 a friend and
myself traced the Beaver Kill to its source, and encamped by Balsam
Lake. A cold and protracted rainstorm coming on, we were obliged to
leave the woods before we were ready. Neither of us will soon forget
that tramp by an unknown route over the mountains, encumbered as we
were with a hundred and one superfluities which we had foolishly
brought along to solace ourselves with in the woods; nor that halt on
the summit, where we cooked and ate our fish in the drizzling rain;
nor, again, that rude log house, with its sweet hospitality, which we
reached just at nightfall on Mill Brook.
In 1868 a party of three of us set out for a brief trouting excursion
to a body of water called Thomas's Lake, situated in the same chain of
mountains. On this excursion, more particularly than on any other I
have ever undertaken, I was taught how poor an Indian I should make,
and what a ridiculous figure a party of men may cut in the woods when
the way is uncertain and the mountains high.
We left our team at a farmhouse near the head of the Mill Brook, one
June afternoon, and with knapsacks on our shoulders struck into the
woods at the base of the mountain, hoping to cross the range that
intervened between us and the lake by sunset. We engaged a
good-natured but rather indolent young man, who happened to be
stopping at the house, and who had carried a knapsack in the Union
armies, to pilot us a couple of miles into the woods so as to guard
against any mistakes at the outset. It seemed the easiest thing in the
world to find the lake. The lay of the land was so simple, according
to accounts, that I felt sure I could go it in the dark. "Go up this
little brook to its source on the side of the mountain," they said.
"The valley that contains the lake heads directly on the other side."
What could be easier! But on a little further inquiry, they said we
should "bear well to the left" when we reached the top of the
mountain. This opened the doors again; "bearing well to the left" was
an uncertain performance in strange woods. We might bear so well to
the left that it would bring us ill. But why bear to the left at all,
if the lake was directly opposite? Well, not quite opposite; a little
to the left. There were two or three other valleys that headed in near
there. We could easily find the right one. But to make assurance
doubly sure, we engaged a guide, as stated, to give us a good start,
and go with us beyond the bearing-to-the-left point. He had been to
the lake the winter before and knew the way. Our course, the first
half hour, was along an obscure wood-road which had been used for
drawing ash logs off mountain in winter. There was some hemlock, but
more maple and birch. The woods were dense and free from underbrush,
the ascent gradual. Most of the way we kept the voice of the creek in
our ear on the right. I approached it once, and found it swarming with
trout. The water was as cold as one ever need wish. After a while the
ascent grew steeper, the creek became a mere rill that issued from
beneath loose, moss-covered rocks and stones, and with much labor and
puffing we drew ourselves up the rugged declivity. Every mountain has
its steepest point, which is usually near the summit, in keeping, I
suppose, with the providence that makes the darkest hour just before
day. It is steep, steeper, steepest, till you emerge on the smooth
level or gently rounded space at the top, which the old ice-gods
polished off so long ago.
We found this mountain had a hollow in its back where the ground was
soft and swampy. Some gigantic ferns, which we passed through, came
nearly to our shoulders. We passed also several patches of swamp
honeysuckles, red with blossoms.
Our guide at length paused on a big rock where the land begin to dip
down the other way, and concluded that he had gone far enough, and
that we would now have no difficulty in finding the lake. "It must lie
right down there," he said pointing with his hand. But it was plain
that he was not quite sure in his own mind. He had several times
wavered in his course, and had shown considerable embarrassment when
bearing to the left across the summit. Still we thought little of it.
We were full of confidence, and bidding him adieu, plunged down the
mountain-side, following a spring run that we had no doubt left to the
lake.
In these woods, which had a southeastern exposure, I first began to
notice the wood thrush. In coming up the other side, I had not seen a
feather of any kind, or heard a note. Now the golden trillide-de of
the wood thrush sounded through the silent woods. While looking for a
fish-pole about halfway down the mountain, I saw a thrush's nest in a
little sapling about ten feet from the ground.
After continuing our descent till our only guide, the spring run,
became quite a trout brook, and its tiny murmur a loud brawl, we began
to peer anxiously through the trees for a glimpse of the lake, or for
some conformation of the land that would indicate its proximity. An
object which we vaguely discerned in looking under the near trees and
over the more distant ones proved, on further inspection, to be a
patch of plowed ground. Presently we made out a burnt fallow near it.
This was a wet blanket to our enthusiasm. No lake, no sport, no trout
for supper that night. The rather indolent young man had either played
us a trick, or, as seemed more likely, had missed the way. We were
particularly anxious to be at the lake between sundown and dark, as at
that time the trout jump most freely.
Pushing on, we soon emerged into a stumpy field, at the head of a
steep valley, which swept around toward the west. About two hundred
rods below us was a rude log house, with smoke issuing from the
chimney. A boy came out and moved toward the spring with a pail in his
hand. We shouted to him, when he turned and ran back into the house
without pausing to reply. In a moment the whole family hastily rushed
into the yard, and turned their faces toward us. If we had come down
their chimney, they could not have seemed more astonished. Not making
out what they said, I went down to the house, and learned to my
chagrin that we were still on the Mill Brook side, having crossed only
a spur of the mountain. We had not borne sufficiently to the left, so
that the main range, which, at the point of crossing, suddenly breaks
off to the southeast, still intervened between us and the lake. We
were about five miles, as the water runs, from the point of starting,
and over two from the lake. We must go directly back to the top of the
range where the guide had left us, and then, by keeping well to the
left, we would soon come to a line of marked trees, which would lead
us to the lake. So, turning upon our trail, we doggedly began the work
of undoing what we had just done,--in all cases a disagreeable task,
in this case a very laborious one also. It was after sunset when we
turned back, and before we had got halfway up the mountain, it began
to be quite dark. We were often obliged to rest our packs against the
trees and take breath, which made our progress slow. Finally a halt
was called, beside an immense flat rock which had paused on its slide
down the mountain, and we prepared to encamp for the night. A fire was
built the rock cleared off, a small ration of bread served out, our
accoutrements hung up out of the way of the hedgehogs that were
supposed to infest the locality, and then we disposed ourselves for
sleep. If the owls or porcupines (and I think I heard one of the
latter in the middle of the night) reconnoitred our camp, they saw a
buffalo robe spread upon a rock, with three old felt hats arranged on
one side, and three pairs of sorry-looking cowhide boots protruding
from the other.
When we lay down, there was apparently not a mosquito in the woods;
but the "no-see-ems," as Thoreau's Indian aptly named the midges, soon
found us out, and after the fire had gone down, annoyed us very much.
My hands and wrists suddenly began to smart and itch in a most
uncomfortable manner. My first thought was that they had been poisoned
in some way. Then the smarting extended to my neck and face, even to
my scalp, when I began to suspect what was the matter. So, wrapping
myself up more thoroughly, and stowing my hands away as best I could,
I tried to sleep, being some time behind my companions, who appeared
not to mind the "no-see-ems." I was further annoyed by some little
irregularity on my side of the couch. The chambermaid had not beaten
it up well. One huge lump refused to be mollified, and each attempt to
adapt it up some natural hollow in my own body brought only a moment's
relief. But at last I got the better of this also and slept. Late in
the night I woke up, just in time to hear a golden-crowned thrush sing
in a tree near by. It sang as loud and cheerily as at midday, and I
thought myself, after all, quite in luck. Birds occasionally sing at
night, just as the cock crows. I have heard the hairbird, and the note
of the kingbird; and the ruffed grouse frequently drums at night.
At the first faint signs of day a wood thrush sang, a few rods below
us. Then after a little delay, as the gray light began to grow around,
thrushes broke out in full song in all parts of the woods. I thought I
had never before heard them sing so sweetly. Such a leisurely, golden
chant!--it consoled us for all we had undergone. It was the first
thing in order,--the worms were safe till after this morning chorus. I
judged that the birds roosted but a few feet from the ground. In fact,
a bird in all cases roosts where it builds, and the wood thrush
occupies, as it were, the first story of the woods.
There is something singular about the distribution of the wood
thrushes. At an earlier stage of my observations I should have been
much surprised at finding them in these woods. Indeed, I had stated in
print on two occasions that the wood thrush was not found in the
higher lands of the Catskills, but that the hermit thrush and the
veery, or Wilson's thrush, were common. It turns out that the
statement is only half true. The wood thrush is found also, but is
much more rare and secluded in its habits than either of the others,
being seen only during the breeding season on remote mountains, and
then only on their eastern and southern slopes. I have never yet in
this region found the bird spending the season in the near and
familiar woods, which is directly contrary to observations I have made
in other parts of the state. So different are the habits of birds in
different localities.
As soon as it was fairly light we were up and ready to resume our
march. A small bit of bread and butter and a swallow or two of whiskey
was all we had for breakfast that morning. Our supply of each was very
limited, and we were anxious to save a little of both, to relieve the
diet of trout to which we looked forward.
At an early hour we reached the rock where we had parted with the
guide, and looked around us into the dense, trackless woods with many
misgivings. To strike out now on our own hook, where the way was so
blind and after the experience we had just had, was a step not to be
carelessly taken. The tops of these mountains are so broad, and a
short distance in the woods seems so far, that one is by no means
master of the situation after reaching the summit. And then there are
so many spurs and offshoots and changes of direction, added to the
impossibility of making any generalization by the aid of the eye, that
before one is aware of it he is very wide of his mark.
I remembered now that a young farmer of my acquaintance had told me
how he had made a long day's march through the heart of this region,
without path or guide of any kind, and had hit his mark squarely. He
had been barkpeeling in Callikoon,--a famous country for
barkpeeling,--and, having got enough of it, he desired to reach his
home on Dry Brook without making the usual circuitous journey between
the two places. To do this necessitated a march of ten or twelve miles
across several ranges of mountains and through an unbroken forest,--a
hazardous undertaking in which no one would join him. Even the old
hunters who were familiar with the ground dissuaded him and predicted
the failure of his enterprise. But having made up his mind, he
possessed himself thoroughly of the topography of the country from the
aforesaid hunters, shouldered his axe, and set out, holding a strait
course through the woods, and turning aside for neither swamps,
streams, nor mountains. When he paused to rest he would mark some
object ahead of him with his eye, in order that on getting up again,
he might not deviate from his course. His directors had told him of a
hunter's cabin about midway on his route, which if he struck he might
be sure he was right. About noon this cabin was reached, and at sunset
he emerged at the head of Dry Brook.
After looking in vain for the line of marked trees, we moved off to
the left in a doubtful, hesitating manner, keeping on the highest
ground and blazing the trees as we went. We were afraid to go
downhill, lest we should descend to soon; our vantage-ground was high
ground. A thick fog coming on, we were more bewildered than ever.
Still we pressed forward, climbing up ledges and wading through ferns
for about two hours, when we paused by a spring that issued from
beneath an immense wall of rock that belted the highest part of the
mountain. There was quite a broad plateau here, and the birch wood was
very dense, and the trees of unusual size.
After resting and exchanging opinions, we all concluded that is was
best not to continue our search encumbered as we were; but we were not
willing to abandon it altogether, and I proposed to my companions to
leave them beside the spring with our traps, while I made one thorough
and final effort to find the lake. If I succeeded and desired them to
come forward, I was to fire my gun three times; if I failed and wished
to return, I would fire twice, they of course responding.
So, filling my canteen from the spring, I set out again, taking the
spring run for my guide. Before I had followed it two hundred yards,
it sank into the ground at my feet. I had half a mind to be
superstitious and to believe that we were under a spell, since our
guides played us such tricks. However, I determined to put the matter
to a further test, and struck out boldly to the left. This seemed to
be the keyword,--to the left, to the left. The fog had now lifted, so
that I could form a better idea of the lay of the land. Twice I looked
down the steep sides of the mountain, sorely attempted to risk a
plunge. Still I hesitated and kept along on the brink. As I stood on a
rock deliberating, I heard a crackling of the brush, like the tread of
some large game, on the plateau below me. Suspecting the truth of the
case, I moved stealthily down, and found a herd of young cattle
leisurely browsing. We had several times crossed their trail, and had
seen that morning a level, grassy place on the top of the mountain,
where they had passed the night. Instead of being frightened, as I had
expected, they seemed greatly delighted, and gathered around me as if
to inquire the tidings from the outer world,--perhaps the quotations
of the cattle market. They came up to me, and eagerly licked my hand,
clothes, and gun. Salt was what they were after, and they were ready
to swallow anything that contained the smallest percentage of it. They
were mostly yearlings and as sleek as moles. They had a very gamy
look. We were afterwards told that, in the spring, the farmers round
about turn into these woods their young cattle, which do not come out
again till fall. They are then in good condition,--not fat, like
grass-fed cattle, but trim and supple, like deer. Once a month the
owner hunts them up and salts them. They have their beats, and seldom
wander beyond well-defined limits. It was interesting to see them
feed. They browsed on the low limbs and bushes, and on the various
plants, munching at everything without any apparent discrimination.
They attempted to follow me, but I escaped them by clambering down
some steep rocks. I now found myself gradually edging down the side of
the mountain, keeping around it in a spiral manner, and scanning the
woods and the shape of the ground for some encouraging hint or sign.
Finally the woods became more open, and the descent less rapid. The
trees were remarkably straight and uniform in size. Black birches, the
first I had ever seen, were very numerous. I felt encouraged.
Listening attentively, I caught, from a breeze just lifting the
drooping leaves, a sound that I willingly believed was made by a
bullfrog. On this hint, I tore down through the woods at my highest
speed. Then I paused and listened again. This time there was no
mistaking it; it was the sound of frogs. Much elated, I rushed on. By
and by I could hear them as I ran. Pthrung, pthrung, croaked the old
ones; pug, pug, shrilly joined in the smaller fry.
Then I caught, through the lower trees, a gleam of blue, which I first
thought was distant sky. A second look and I knew it to be water, and
in a moment more I stepped from the woods and stood upon the shore of
the lake. I exulted silently. There it was at last, sparkling in the
morning sun, and as beautiful as a dream. It was so good to come upon
such open space and such bright hues, after wandering in the dim,
dense woods! The eye is as delighted as an escaped bird, and darts
gleefully from point to point.
The lake was a long oval, scarcely more than a mile in circumference,
with evenly wooded shores, which rose gradually on all sides. After
contemplating the serene for a moment, I stepped back into the woods,
and, loading my gun as heavily as I dared, discharged it three times.
The reports seemed to fill all the mountains with sound. The frogs
quickly hushed, and I listened for the response. But no response came.
Then I tried again and again, but without evoking an answer. One of my
companions, however, who had climbed to the top of the high rocks in
the rear of the spring, thought he heard faintly one report. It seemed
an immense distance below him, and far around under the mountain. I
knew I had come a long way, and hardly expected to be able to
communicate with my companions in the manner agreed upon. I therefore
started back, choosing my course without any reference to the
circuitous route by which I had come, and loading heavily and firing
at intervals. I must have aroused many long-dormant echoes from a Rip
Van Winkle sleep. As my powder got low, I fired and halloed
alternately, till I cam near splitting both my throat and gun.
Finally, after I had begun to have a very ugly feeling of alarm and
disappointment, and to cast about vaguely for some course to pursue in
an emergency that seemed near at hand,--namely the loss of my
companions now I had found the lake,--a favoring breeze brought me the
last echo of a response. I rejoined with spirit, and hastened with all
speed in the direction whence the sound had come, but, after repeated
trials, failed to elicit another answering sound. This filled me with
apprehension again. I feared that my friends had been mislead by the
reverberations, and I pictured them to myself, hastening in the
opposite direction. Paying little attention to my course, but paying
dearly for my carelessness afterward, I rushed forward to undeceive
them. But they had not been deceived, and in a few moments an
answering shout revealed them near at hand. I heard their tramp, the
bushed parted, and we three met again.
In answer to their eager inquiries, I assured them that I had seen the
lake, that it was at the foot of the mountain, and that we could not
miss it if we kept straight down from where we then were.
My clothes were soaked in perspiration, but I shouldered my knapsack
with alacrity, and we began the descent. I noticed that the woods were
much thicker, and had quite a different look from those I had passed
through, but thought nothing of it, as I expected to strike the lake
near its head, whereas I had before come out at its foot. We had not
gone far when we crossed a line of marked trees, which my companions
were disposed to follow. It intersected our course nearly at right
angles, and kept along and up the side of the mountain. My impression
was that it lead up from the lake, and that by keeping our course we
should reach the lake sooner than if we followed this line. About
halfway down the mountain, we could see through the interstices the
opposite slope. I encouraged my comrades by telling them that the lake
was between us and that, and not more than half a mile distant. We
soon reached the bottom, where we found a small stream and quite an
extensive alder swamp, evidently the ancient bed of a lake. I
explained to my half-vexed and half-incredulous companions that we
were probably above the lake, and that this stream must lead to it.
"Follow it," they said; "we will wait here till we hear from you."
So I went on, more than ever disposed to believe that we were under a
spell, and that the lake had slipped from my grasp after all. Seeing
no favorable sign as I went forward, I laid down my accoutrements, and
climbed a decayed beech that leaned out over the swamp and promised a
good view from the top. As I stretched myself up to look around from
the highest attainable branch, there was suddenly a loud crack at the
root. With a celerity that would at least have done credit to a bear,
I regained the ground, having caught but a momentary glimpse of the
country, but enough to convince me no lake was near. Leaving all
incumbrances here but my gun, I still pressed on, loath to be thus
baffled. After floundering through another alder swamp for nearly half
a mile, I flattered myself that I was close to the lake. I caught
sight of a low spur of the mountain sweeping around like a
half-extended arm, and I fondly imagined that within its clasp was the
object of my search. But I found only more alder swamp. After this
region was cleared the creek began to descend the mountain very
rapidly. Its banks became high and narrow, and it went whirling away
with a sound that seemed to my ears like a burst of ironical laughter.
I turned back with a feeling of mingled disgust, shame and vexation.
In fact I was almost sick, and when I reached my companions, after an
absence of nearly two hours, hungry, fatigued, and disheartened, I
would have sold my interest in Thomas's Lake at a very low figure. For
the first time, I heartily wished myself well out of the woods. Thomas
might keep his lake, and the enchanters guard his possession! I
doubted if he had ever found it the second time, or if any one else
ever had.
My companions, who were quite fresh and who had not felt the strain of
baffled purpose as I had, assumed a more encouraging tone. After I had
rested awhile, and partaken sparingly of the bread and whisky, which
in such an emergency is a great improvement on bread and water, I
agreed to their proposition that we should make another attempt. As if
to reassure us, a robin sounded his cheery call near by, and the
winter wren, the first I had ever heard in these woods, set his
music-box going, which fairly ran over with fin, gushing, lyrical
sounds. There can be no doubt but this bird is one of our finest
songsters. If it would only thrive and sing well when caged, like the
canary, how far it would surpass that bird! It has all the vivacity
and versatility of the canary, without any of its shrillness. Its song
is indeed a little cascade of melody.
We again retraced our steps, rolling the stone, as it were, back up
the mountain, determined to commit ourselves to the line of marked
trees. These we finally reached, and, after exploring the country to
the right, saw that bearing to the left was still the order. The trail
led up over a gentle rise of ground, and in less than twenty minutes,
we were in the woods I had passed through when I found the lake. The
error I had made was then plain: we had come off the mountain a few
paces too far to the right, and so had passed down on the wrong side
of the ridge, into what we afterwards learned was the valley of Alder
Creek.
We now made good time, and before many minutes I again saw the mimic
sky glance through the trees. As we approached the lake, a solitary
woodchuck, the first wild animal we had seen since entering the woods,
sat crouched upon the root of a tree a few feet from the water,
apparently completely nonplused by the unexpected appearance of danger
on the land side. All retreat was cut off, and he looked his fate in
the face without flinching. I slaughtered him just as a savage would
have done, and from the same motive,--I wanted his carcass to eat.
The mid-afternoon sun was now shining upon the lake, and a low, steady
breeze drove the little waves rocking to the shore. A herd of cattle
were browsing on the other side, and the bell of the leader sounded
across the water. In these solitudes its clang was wild and musical.
To try the trout was the first thing in order. On a rude raft of log
which we found moored at the shore, and which with two aboard shipped
about a food of water, we floated out and wet our first fly in
Thomas's Lake; but the trout refused to jump, and to be frank, not
more than a dozen and a half were caught during our stay. Only a week
previous, a party of three had taken in a few hours all the fish they
could carry out of the woods, and had nearly surfeited their neighbors
with trout. But from some cause, they now refused to rise, or to touch
any kind of bait: so we fell to catching the sunfish, which were small
but very abundant. Their nests were all along the shore. A space about
the size of a breakfast-plate was cleared of sediment and decayed
vegetable matter, revealing the pebbly bottom, fresh and bright, with
one or two fish suspended over the centre of it, keeping watch and
ward. If an intruder approached, they would dart at him spitefully.
These fish have the air of bantam cocks, and, with their sharp,
prickly fins and spines and scaly sides, must be ugly customers in a
hand-to-hand encounter with other finny warriors. To a hungry man they
look about as unpromising as hemlock slivers, so thorny and thin are
they; yet there is sweet meat in them, as we found that day.
Much refreshed, I set out with the sun low in the west to explore the
outlet of the lake and try for trout there, while my companions made
further trials in the lake itself. The outlet, as is usual in bodies
of water of this kind, was very gentle and private. The stream, six or
eight feet wide, flowed silently and evenly along for a distance of
three or four rods, when it suddenly, as if conscious of its freedom,
took a leap down some rocks. Thence as far as I followed it, its
decent was very rapid through a continuous succession of brief falls
like so many steps down the mountain. Its appearance promised more
trout than I found, though I returned to camp with a very respectable
string.
Toward sunset I went round to explore the inlet, and found that as
usual the stream wound leisurely through marshy ground. The water
being much colder than in the outlet, the trout were more plentiful.
As I was picking my way over the miry ground and through the rank
growths, a ruffed grouse hopped up on a fallen branch a few paces
before me, and jerking his tail, threatened to take flight. But as I
was at the moment gunless and remained stationary, he presently jumped
down and walked away.
A seeker of birds, and ever on the alert for some new acquaintance, my
attention was arrested, on first entering the swamp, by a bright,
lively song, or warble, that issued from the branches overhead, and
that was entirely new to me, though there was something in the tone
that told me the bird was related to the wood-wagtail and to the
water-wagtail or thrush. The strain was emphatic and quite loud, like
the canary's, but very brief. The bird kept itself well secreted in
the upper branches of the trees, and for a long time eluded my eye. I
passed to and fro several times, and it seemed to break out afresh as
I approached a certain little bend in the creek, and to cease after I
had got beyond it; no doubt its nest was somewhere in the vicinity.
After some delay the bird was sighted and brought down. It proved to
be the small, or northern, water-thrush, (called also the New York
water-thrush),--a new bird to me. In size it was noticeably smaller
than the large, or Louisiana, water-thrush, as described by Audubon,
but in other respects its general appearance was the same. It was a
great treat to me, and again I felt myself in luck.
This bird was unknown to the older ornithologists, and is but poorly
described by the new. It builds a mossy nest on the ground, or under
the edge of a decayed log. A correspondent writes me that he has found
it breeding on the mountains in Pennsylvania. The large-billed
water-thrush is much the superior songster, but the present species
has a very bright and cheerful strain. The specimen I saw, contrary to
the habits of the family, kept in the treetops like a warbler, and
seemed to be engaged in catching insects.
The birds were unusually plentiful and noisy about the head of this
lake; robins, blue jays, and woodpeckers greeted me with their
familiar notes. The blue jays found an owl or some wild animal a short
distance above me, and, as is their custom on such occasions,
proclaimed it at the top of their voices, and kept on till the
darkness began to gather in the woods.
I also heard, as I had at two or three other points in the course of
the day, the peculiar, resonant hammering of some species of
woodpecker upon the hard, dry limbs. It was unlike any sound of the
kind I had ever heard, and, repeated at intervals through the silent
wood, was a very marked and characteristic feature. Its peculiarity
was the ordered succession of the raps, which gave it the character of
a premeditated performance. There were first three strokes following
each other rapidly, then two much louder ones with longer intervals
between them. I heard the drumming here, and the next day at sunset at
Furlow Lake, the source of Dry Brook, and in no instance was the order
varied. There was a melody in it, such as a woodpecker knows how to
evoke from a smooth, dry branch. It suggested something quite as
pleasing as the liveliest bird-song, and was if anything more woodsy
and wild. As the yellow-bellied woodpecker was the most abundant
species in these woods, I attributed it to him. It is the one sound
that still links itself with those scenes in my mind.
At sunset the grouse began to drum in all parts of the woods about the
lake. I could hear five at one time, thump, thump, thump, thump,
thr-r-r-r-r-r-rr. It was a homely, welcome sound. As I returned to
camp at twilight, along the shore of the lake, the frogs also were in
full chorus. The older ones ripped out their responses to each other
with terrific force and volume. I know of no other animal capable of
giving forth so much sound, in proportion to its size, as a frog. Some
of these seemed to bellow as loud as a two-year-old bull. They were of
immense size, and very abundant. No frog-eater had ever been there.
Near the shore we felled a tree which reached far out in the lake.
Upon the trunk and branches, the frogs soon collected in large
numbers, and gamboled and splashed about the half submerged top, like
a parcel of schoolboys, making nearly as much noise.
After dark, as I was frying the fish, a panful of the largest trout
was accidently capsized in the fire. With rueful countenances we
contemplated the irreparable loss our commissariat had sustained by
this mishap; but remembering there was virtue in ashes, we poked the
half-consumed fish from the bed of coals and ate them, and they were
good.
We lodged that night on a brush-heap and slept soundly. The green,
yielding beech-twigs, covered with a buffalo robe, were equal to a
hair mattress. The heat and smoke from a large fire kindled in the
afternoon had banished every "no-see-em" from the locality, and in the
morning the sun was above the mountain before we awoke.
I immediately started again for the inlet, and went far up the stream
toward its source. A fair string of trout for breakfast was my reward.
The cattle with the bell were at the head of the valley, where they
had passed the night. Most of them were two-year-old steers. They came
up to me and begged for salt, and scared the fish by their
importunities.
We finished our bread that morning, and ate every fish we could catch,
and about ten o'clock prepared to leave the lake. The weather had been
admirable, and the lake as a gem, and I would gladly have spent a week
in the neighborhood; but the question of supplies was a serious one,
and would brook no delay.
When we reached, on our return, the point where we had crossed the
line of marked trees the day before, the question arose whether we
should still trust ourselves to this line, or follow our own trail
back to the spring and the battlement of rocks on the top of the
mountain, and thence to the rock where the guide had left us. We
decided in favor of the former course. After a march of three quarters
of an hour the blazed trees ceased, and we concluded we were near the
point at which we had parted with our guide. So we built a fire, laid
down our loads, and cast about on all sides for some clew as to our
exact locality. Nearly an hour was consumed in this manner, and
without any result. I came upon a brood of young grouse, which
diverted me for a moment. The old one blustered about at a furious
rate, trying to draw all attention to herself, while the young ones,
which were unable to fly, hid themselves. She whined like a dog in
great distress, and dragged herself along apparently with the greatest
difficulty. As I pursued her, she ran very nimbly, and presently flew
a few yards. Then, as I went on, she flew farther and farther each
time, till at last she got up, and went humming through the woods as
if she had no interest in them. I went back and caught one of the
young, which had simply squatted close to the ground. I then put in my
coatsleeve, when it ran and nestled in my armpit.
When we met at the sign of the smoke, opinions differed as to the most
feasible course. There was no doubt but that we could get out of the
woods; but we wished to get out speedily, and as near as possible to
the point where we had entered. Half ashamed of our timidity and
indecision, we finally tramped away back to where we had crossed the
line of blazed trees, followed our old trail to the spring on the top
of the range, and, after much searching and scouring to the right and
left, found ourselves at the very place we had left two hours before.
Another deliberation and a divided council. But something must be
done. It was then mid-afternoon, and the prospect of spending another
night on the mountains, without food or drink, was not pleasant. So we
moved down the ridge. Here another line of marked trees was found, the
course of which formed an obtuse angle with the one we had followed.
It kept on the top of the ridge for perhaps a mile, when it
disappeared, and we were as much adrift as ever. Then one of the party
swore an oath, and said he was going out of those woods, hit or miss,
and, wheeling to the right, instantly plunged over the brink of the
mountain. The rest followed, but would fain have paused and ciphered
away at their own uncertainties, to see if a certainty could not be
arrived at as to where we would come out. But our bold leader was
solving the problem in the right way. Down and down and still down we
went, as if we were to bring up in the bowels of the earth. It was by
far the steepest descent we had made, and we felt a grim satisfaction
in knowing we could not retrace our steps this time, be the issue what
it might. As we paused on the brink of a ledge of rocks, we chanced to
see through the trees distant cleared land. A house or barn also was
dimly descried. This was encouraging; but we could not make out
whether it was on Beaver Kill or Mill Brook or Dry Brook, and did not
long stop to consider where it was. We at last brought up at the
bottom of a deep gorge, through which flowed a rapid creek that
literally swarmed with trout. But we were in no mood to catch them,
and pushed on along the channel of the stream, sometimes leaping from
rock to rock, and sometimes splashing heedlessly through the water,
and speculating the while as to where we should probably come out. On
the Beaver Kill, my companions thought; but from the position of the
sun, I said, on the Mill Brook, about six miles below our team; for I
remembered having seen, in coming up this stream, a deep, wild valley
that led up into the mountains, like this one. Soon the banks of the
stream became lower, and we moved into the woods. Here we entered upon
an obscure wood-road, which presently conducted us into the midst of a
vast hemlock forest. The land had a gentle slope, and we wondered by
the lumbermen and barkmen who prowl through these woods had left this
fine tract untouched. Beyond this the forest was mostly birch and
maple.
We were now close to settlement, and began to hear human sounds. One
rod more, and we were out of the woods. It took us a moment to
comprehend the scene. Things looked very strange at first; but quickly
they began to change and to put on familiar features. Some magic
scene-shifting seemed to take place before my eyes, till, instead of
the unknown settlement which I had at first seemed to look upon, there
stood the farmhouse at which we had stopped two days before, and at
the same moment we heard the stamping of our team in the barn. We sat
down and laughed heartily over our good luck. Our desperate venture
had resulted better than we had dared to hope, and had shamed our
wisest plans. At the house our arrival had been anticipated about this
time, and dinner was being put upon the table.
It was then five o'clock, so that we had been in the woods just
forty-eight hours; but if time is only phenomenal, as the philosophers
say, and life only in feeling, as the poets aver, we were some months,
if not years, older at that moment than we had been two days before.
Yet younger, too,--though this be a paradox,--for the birches had
infused into us some of their own suppleness and strength. 1869.