[Illustration: 9059]
TOP a minute!”
It was the frightful jolt as one of the wheels of the wagon struck a
high boulder and then went down to the hub in a mud-hole that called
forth this plaintive request.
“I’ll get out and walk!”
The cry came from one, but we made it unanimous with great alacrity. We
were making our way in a lumber wagon from the railway station to Otter
Lake. The driver said it was only ten miles to our destination, and for
the first hour we were comparatively hilarious; then we struck the
woods and trouble began. It was growing dark, and stumps and stones and
sink-holes could not be seen and so were taken as they came. The wagon
rose upon some obstruction to come down with a jar that seemed to loosen
every joint in the body.
A little of this was quite enough, and the party made the last part of
the trip on foot, tripping and stumbling through the darkness until,
after what seemed an interminable time, the lights of the cabin flashed
out through the trees. We were in no condition to be curious as to our
surroundings that night and, after a supper of fried trout, were glad
to tumble into bed. The remark of one of the boys of the family that
the “old man” was away, did not seem to possess much significance until
later on when we learned that he was serving time in the county jail for
shooting deer out of season.
In the sunshine of the next morning we saw our surroundings clearly
for the first time. A little clearing of a couple of acres on the lake
shore, a rough log cabin with a rougher barn, a beautiful little
lake guarded on the east and south by high hills timbered to their
summits,--what more could the seeker after rest and recreation ask?
Otter Lake is too small to be entitled to a place on the average map of
New York, but it lies north of the Mohawk River and east of the
railway running from Utica to Clayton. It is not far enough east to be
considered as in the Adirondacks, and the section is familiarly known as
the “North Woods.” An alternative term is “John Brown’s Tract,” as the
hero of Ossawatomie at one time owned hundreds, if not thousands of
acres of land in this locality, and cherished ambitious plans for a
colony.
The party was made up of the Doctor, the Hardware Man, Frank, Jim, the
Boy and the Preacher. Poor Jim! He could ill afford the expense of
the outing, but he “felt all played out,” as he expressed it, and the
physician had ordered him from behind the counter to the woods. Every
day he cheerfully assured us that he was feeling better, and every
day he grew thinner and his breathing more difficult. He was in the
beginning of a fight which was to go on for a couple of years longer;
then he gave up the battle and lay down to rest.
We had come prepared to camp out, and immediate preparations were made
for realizing this ambition. The guide proposed Independence River as
a favourable point and, as we knew nothing of that or any other part
of the country, we acted upon his suggestion, especially as he had told
marvellous tales of the Independence River trout. It was not a long or
hard tramp to the place where we struck the river and pitched the tent.
The sun was shining, the air was soft and warm, and the Hardware Man was
running over with enthusiasm. As we made ready for the night, with a
big fire blazing in front of the open tent, he remarked, “I’ve looked
forward to this hour from my boyhood.” Whereas the more experienced
members of the party pulled on extra sweaters for the night, the
Hardware Man proceeded to disrobe as if he were in his house in Harlem.
When some one suggested that he might feel the need of this clothing
before morning, he exhibited his sleeping bag made of blankets and
assured us that this would be quite sufficient. Just before dawn the
next morning, when the camp-fire had gone out and a penetrating chill
was in the air, some of the party were awakened by the movements of the
Hardware Man. He crawled out of his sleeping bag, arrayed himself in his
discarded garments, and when asked what was the trouble declared,
“I’m freezing. One night of this is more than enough. My ambition is
satisfied.”
That day was devoted to the alleged trout of Independence River. From
what the guide had told us we had supposed that two-pounders were
impatiently waiting to be caught. We fished all day and averaged half a
trout apiece. Six ardent fishermen managed to capture three trout, not
all of which would weigh two pounds. Evidently something was wrong.
Fortunately, explanations abound when fish refuse to bite. It is too
early or too late in the season. We haven’t the proper bait. It is too
warm or too cold. They were taking everything offered last week, or they
will begin biting next week. This time the fish had left the stream and
were gathered on the “spring-holes,” so the guide assures us, and we do
not question his pronunciamento. The trouble was that we couldn’t find
any spring-holes. One thing the Preacher did find for which he was not
looking; namely, a narrow escape from being shot. He had made a short
cut through the underbrush to strike the river higher up, and as he came
out upon the border of the stream found himself looking into the muzzle
of a gun. A party coming down the river in a boat had heard the crashing
in the woods and, of course, thought of deer. All that saved the
Preacher was the fact that the man with the gun did not belong to that
group of invincible idiots who shoot at a noise or at an unidentified
moving object. A week later, in a camp three miles away, a young man was
shot and instantly killed by his camp-mate who saw something moving in
the bushes and fired on the chance of its being a deer. At the close of
the day the Hardware Man presented numerous and cogent reasons why
we should not spend another night in camp, and just before sundown we
struck the trail back to the cabin.
After that we were content to make daily excursions, returning to the
cabin at night. Camp life is delightful when proper provision has been
made for comfort; otherwise, it is a delusion and a snare. We had not
outfitted as we should, and our guide either did not know how to make
good our deficiencies or was too lazy to undertake the job. There is a
deal of poetry about tent-dwelling, and not infrequently that is all. It
is possible to have a tent that will not leak, pitched so that a heavy
rain will not turn your sleeping place into a pond; a bough-bed so
constructed that the boughs do not poke you in the ribs all night; a
commissary department that allows some little variety in the bill
of fare and a cook who can at least boil potatoes. This, we say, is
possible, and these desirable features are sometimes actualities.
When they are, life is “one grand, sweet song.” But there are worse
experiences than returning after a day’s tramp, tired and hungry, to
find awaiting you an easy chair, a well-cooked meal and a comfortable
bed under the shelter of a roof.
This outing was in the days before “jacking for deer” had become not
only illegal but entirely unethical. The Preacher and Frank, with the
guide, tramped one afternoon to a little lake some four miles away for
the purpose of floating for deer that night. As it is useless to go on
such a quest when the moon is in the sky, and that luminary had fixed
upon ten o’clock as the hour for retiring that night, a fire was kindled
on the hill-side, well back from the water, and the hunters waited upon
the slow setting of the moon. Many questions of more or less importance
were discussed and, at last, Frank said to the Preacher,
“Have you ever read ‘Robert Elsmere’?”
“Yes,” answered the Preacher. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, Pastor -------- advised me not to read it. He said he had
preached on the book twice, and he had never read it.”
The Preacher chuckled and then roared, until the guide growled, “You’ll
scare all the deer out of the lake and over the mountain if you make
so much noise.” Possibly it was the Preacher’s vociferous hilarity that
explains why we “jacked” around the shores of the lake that night for
two hours without sighting anything more animated than a dead stump. The
Preacher was comparatively young then and had not learned that the less
we know about a matter the more unrestrained and cocksure we may be in
discussing it.
Not a few experiences are more amusing when considered in retrospect
than at the time when they are going forward. When the guide proposed
to the Preacher that they visit a little lake a couple of miles from the
cabin, try for trout at sundown and then float for deer when darkness
had fallen, the proposition was greeted with applause. Although the
trail was not an easy one, the guide carried a canoe on his shoulders
and the Preacher trudged on behind with the guns and rods, his mind
filled with alluring visions of mighty trout and at least one big buck.
When the lake was reached and it came time to joint the rods, it was
discovered that the reels and lines had been forgotten. The fly-book,
with its gaudy contents, was in the Preacher’s pocket, but neither of
the two felt competent to do any successful fishing without a line.
It would be dark before the trip to camp and back could be made and,
reluctantly, the fishing part of the trip was abandoned. That night
there was no moon to compel them to wait upon its slow movements, and as
soon as darkness had fallen the “jack” was lighted and the slow circling
of the lake began. About two-thirds of the way around, the guide stopped
paddling, then gave the canoe a little twist so that the bow pointed
towards shore, and the Preacher felt the slight shaking of the canoe
agreed upon as the signal to shoot. Shoot at what? He could see nothing.
A whisper came from the guide--“Shoot!”
“Where?” was wafted back from the half-paralyzed lips of the Preacher.
“There at the edge of the lily-pads, just a little to your left.” Did
the Preacher see the dim outline of a form? He does not know to this
day, but he shot as he was commanded. A mighty snort answered the shot,
then splashing of water and breaking of limbs, and the guide announced,
“You missed him.” The assertion was entirely gratuitous. In fact, the
Preacher had not expected to hit what he could not see.
Just about that time a thunder-cloud in the west became so threatening
that the guide proposed that they go on shore and get under shelter.
That sounded good, but it was not just clear to the passenger where the
shelter was to be found. However, the mystery was solved when the guide
pulled the canoe to a dry spot on shore, turned it upside down, and both
crept under it as the first big drops of rain came pelting down. Just
as the Preacher was congratulating himself upon their good fortune, the
dulcet note of a mosquito sounded in his ears. He promptly slapped,
and then kept on slapping. The singer was the advance guard of an
innumerable host. All of the tribe between Paul Smith’s and Lowville
had evidently gathered to the feast. To make a bad matter the worst
possible, the quarters were exceedingly cramped. One could not well
roll over without rolling from under the canoe. The omnipresent root was
persistently punching the Preacher’s ribs. To lift his sufferings to the
nth power, that guide went to sleep and actually snored. It would have
been a satisfaction to have companionship in suffering, but now this
was denied him. Was it only four hours? It seemed like four eternities
before the guide decided that they ought to start for the cabin.
The storm had passed, but every bush showered quarts of water at the
slightest touch. Just where the advantage lies in keeping dry from the
storm, only to get soaked to the skin from tramping through miles of wet
underbrush, is not yet quite clear. At two o’clock in the morning the
cabin was reached, _sans_ trout, _sans_ deer, but not _sans_ mosquito
bites or a thorough drenching.
What a day that was which the Doctor and the Preacher spent on the East
Fork! The lake is fed by two streams, one flowing in from the southeast
and the other from the southwest. By a trail the eastern branch could be
struck well up towards its source, and from this point down to the lake
furnished just about the right distance for a day’s fishing. Bright and
early the start was made, with plenty of bread and butter, a skillet,
and a supply of fat, salt pork. The fisherman who could not be happy
on such a stream, on such a day, whether the fish would bite or not,
listening to the laughter of the water, watching the flickers of
sunshine strained through the meshes of the trees, drinking in the
sweet, pure air, in close touch with nature, is a hopeless pessimist.
Fishing side by side, sometimes one and then the other going first, the
friends loitered down that beautiful stream while “not a wave of trouble
rolled across their peaceful breasts.” Now and then an exceptionally
fine trout was taken, and then fishing was suspended while they examined
and exclaimed over it. They wondered again, as they had often done
before, why some of the fish should be red of fin and belly and with
yellow meat, while others had the greyish-white fin and belly, with
white meat. The Preacher caught two trout from under the same log, one
with blood-red fins and golden flesh, the other white. They were both
speckled trout, lived side by side, ate the same food, but differed as
greatly as a red-headed boy and an albino.
At noon, where the waters of a cold spring bubbled out of the bank, a
fire was made, the fat pork set to sizzling in the skillet and then--but
what’s the use? Trout fresh from the brook, fried over a fire in the
open and eaten with an appetite engendered by hours of tramping and
wading, make a dish for the adequate description of which words are
impotent. Of course, the smaller trout were chosen for the mid-day meal,
not alone that the catch might look better when exhibited that night,
but because they tasted better than the larger ones. How many did we
eat? Ask the Doctor! Who should understand the proper amount of food
to be taken into the stomach at a single meal, if not one of his
profession?
An hour or so for luncheon and chatting, and then into the stream again
and on our way towards its mouth. The creels were getting heavy, and
the Doctor decided to take a short cut for the lake shore. Just before
starting, the two were standing near together fishing a pool, when
the Doctor, taking a forward step, slipped on a smooth stone and began
falling. The process was the most slow, deliberate, and altogether
comical the Preacher ever witnessed. As he began losing his balance and
tipping over backwards, he made frantic efforts to regain his poise.
Both hands waving in the air, one clutching his rod, eyes popping out of
his head, a look of mingled surprise and disgust illuminating his manly
face, the final, mighty splash as the stream yielded to the impact
of his body, formed a most delightful picture for his sympathetic and
sorrowing comrade. Strangely enough, the Doctor could not see the humour
of the situation, and if he should ever deign to read this truthful
record it is doubtful if he cracks a smile.
Thoroughly drenched, the Doctor’s previous determination to take a
short-cut home was much strengthened. He struck off into the woods and
the Preacher was left alone to follow the stream. When he had reached
the cabin the Doctor had not arrived. When it was almost sundown and
no Doctor, the guide started out in search of him. According to later
reports the Doctor was found in a depressed state of mind playing
hide-and-go-seek with the trees in a tamarack swamp. The guide declared
that he knew where they were all of the time--a most credible statement.
They were in a tamarack swamp. It was well towards nine o’clock when
they arrived at camp, and it took a hot supper to restore their normal
good spirits.
The guide had frequently descanted upon the excellence of the fishing on
“Lost Creek”; but as that stream was seven miles away, and no trail led
to it, members of the party had not shown great eagerness to make the
trip. But when the lake and near-by streams had become familiar through
frequent visits, the Doctor, the Boy and the Preacher decided upon an
excursion to “Lost Creek.” After crossing the lake, the guide plunged
into what seemed an impenetrable jungle, and steadily led the way up
and over the hill, through dense thickets showing no sign of ever having
been traversed before. He never seemed to hesitate which way to go, and
his confidence was inexplicable to those who followed until he pointed
to a tree that had been “blazed,” then to another in the distance.
He was not guessing or travelling by compass, but following a “blazed
trail.”
The first sight of the stream was disappointing not to say
disheartening. Here was no dashing brook dancing its way along, but
seemingly dead water in a great stretch of marsh land. The guide called
it a “beaver-meadow,” although we saw no signs of the animal or of
its architectural activities. But there were trout, as we soon proved.
Pushing along through the marsh grass, frequent catches of good-sized
fish were made, until at last the Preacher had a notable experience, not
only for that day, but for any he ever spent in fishing. The Doctor was
fishing ahead, and as he vacated a dry hummock, having taken two trout
from that point of vantage, his friend stepped into the same spot. The
first cast brought a trout, as did the second and the third and so on
until he had taken sixty fine fish without stirring from his tracks. And
they all came from the same point in the stream. The lure fell in vain
three feet away from this particular spot. They were not fingerlings,
but ten-inch and twelve-inch fellows. The Preacher’s creel and his
pockets were full when the guide and the Doctor, returning along the
creek, came upon him. The guide’s explanation was that the fortunate
Preacher happened in his first cast to strike a “pot-hole,” a depression
in the bed of the creek, where the water was cool and in which the
trout gathered in great numbers. The explanation mattered little to the
Preacher; it was the fact that counted. Even now he would gladly give
two old sermons to be permitted to stand again on the banks of “Lost
Creek” if he were sure of locating that “pot-hole.”
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```_Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
````Mighty and pure, and fit to make
```The ramparts of a Godhead’s
`````dwelling._
--Tom Moore, _On the Road._
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[Illustration: 0074]
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