Produced by Greg Bergquist, Melissa McDaniel and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
HISTORIC WATERWAYS
HISTORIC WATERWAYS
SIX HUNDRED MILES OF CANOEING
DOWN THE ROCK, FOX, AND
WISCONSIN RIVERS
BY
REUBEN GOLD THWAITES
SECRETARY OF THE STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF WISCONSIN
Other roads do some violence to Nature, and bring the
traveller to stare at her; but the river steals into the
scenery it traverses without intrusion, silently creating
and adorning it, and is free to come and go as the
zephyr.--THOREAU; _A Week on the Concord and Merrimack
Rivers._
CHICAGO
A. C. MCCLURG AND COMPANY
1888
COPYRIGHT
BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO.
A.D. 1888.
This Little Volume
IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR
TO HIS WIFE,
HIS MESSMATE UPON TWO OF THE THREE VACATION
VOYAGES HEREIN RECORDED,
AND HIS FELLOW-VOYAGER DOWN THE RIVER
OF TIME.
PREFACE.
There is a generally accepted notion that a brief summer vacation, if
at all obtainable in this busy life of ours, must be spent in a flight
as far afield as time will allow; that the popular resorts in the
mountains, by the seaside, or on the margins of the upper lakes must
be sought for rest and enjoyment; that neighborhood surroundings
should, in the mad rush for change of air and scene, be left behind.
The result is that your average vacationist--if I may be allowed to
coin a needed word--knows less of his own State than of any other, and
is inattentive to the delights of nature which await inspection within
the limits of his horizon.
But let him mount his bicycle, his saddle-horse, or his family
carriage, and start out upon a gypsy tour of a week or two along the
country roads, exploring the hills and plains and valleys of--say his
congressional district; or, better by far, take his canoe, and with
his best friend for a messmate explore the nearest river from source
to mouth, and my word for it he will find novelty and fresh air enough
to satisfy his utmost cravings; and when he comes to return to his
counter, his desk, or his study, he will be conscious of having
discovered charms in his own locality which he has in vain sought in
the accustomed paths of the tourist.
This volume is the record of six hundred miles of canoeing experiences
on historic waterways in Wisconsin and Illinois during the summer of
1887. There has been no attempt at exaggeration, to color its homely
incidents, or to picture charms where none exist. It is intended to be
a simple, truthful narrative of what was seen and done upon a series
of novel outings through the heart of the Northwest. If it may induce
others to undertake similar excursions, and thus increase the little
navy of healthy and self-satisfied canoeists, the object of the
publication will have been attained.
I am under obligations to my friend, the Hon. Levi Alden, for valuable
assistance in the revision of proof-sheets.
R. G. T.
MADISON, Wis., December, 1887.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 15
TABLE OF DISTANCES 26
The Rock River
CHAPTER I.
THE WINDING YAHARA 31
CHAPTER II.
BARBED-WIRE FENCES 48
CHAPTER III.
AN ILLINOIS PRAIRIE HOME 61
CHAPTER IV.
THE HALF-WAY HOUSE 74
CHAPTER V.
GRAND DETOUR FOLKS 86
CHAPTER VI.
AN ANCIENT MARINER 103
CHAPTER VII.
STORM-BOUND AT ERIE 117
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LAST DAY OUT 129
The Fox River (of Green Bay).
FIRST LETTER.
SMITH'S ISLAND 143
SECOND LETTER.
FROM PACKWAUKEE TO BERLIN 160
THIRD LETTER.
THE MASCOUTINS 174
FOURTH LETTER.
THE LAND OF THE WINNEBAGOES 187
FIFTH LETTER.
LOCKED THROUGH 205
SIXTH LETTER.
THE BAY SETTLEMENT 218
The Wisconsin River.
CHAPTER I.
ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS 237
CHAPTER II.
THE LAST OF THE SACS 248
CHAPTER III.
A PANORAMIC VIEW 262
CHAPTER IV.
FLOATING THROUGH FAIRYLAND 275
CHAPTER V
THE DISCOVERY OF THE MISSISSIPPI 288
INDEX 295
INTRODUCTION.
HISTORIC WATERWAYS.
INTRODUCTION.
Provided, reader, you have a goodly store of patience, stout muscles,
a practiced fondness for the oars, a keen love of the picturesque and
curious in nature, a capacity for remaining good-humored under the
most adverse circumstances, together with a quiet love for that sort
of gypsy life which we call "roughing it," canoeing may be safely
recommended to you as one of the most delightful and healthful of
outdoor recreations, as well as one of the cheapest.
The canoe need not be of birch-bark or canvas, or of the Rob Roy or
Racine pattern. A plain, substantial, light, open clinker-build was
what we used,--thirteen feet in extreme length, with three-and-a-half
feet beam. It was easily portaged, held two persons comfortably with
seventy-five pounds of baggage, and drew but five inches,--just enough
to let us over the average shallows without bumping. It was
serviceable, and stood the rough carries and innumerable bangs from
sunken rocks and snags along its voyage of six hundred miles, without
injury. It could carry a large sprit-sail, and, with an attachable
keel, run close to the wind; while an awning, decided luxury on hot
days, was readily hoisted on a pair of hoops attached to the gunwale
on either side. But perhaps, where there are no portages necessary, an
ordinary flat-bottomed river punt, built of three boards, would be as
productive of good results, except as to speed,--and what matters
speed upon such a tour of observation?
It is not necessary to go to the Maine lakes for canoeing purposes; or
to skirt the gloomy wastes of Labrador, or descend the angry current
of a mountain stream. Here, in the Mississippi basin, practically
boundless opportunities present themselves, at our very doors, to
glide through the heart of a fertile and picturesque land, to commune
with Nature, to drink in her beauties, to view men and communities
from a novel standpoint, to catch pictures of life and manners that
will always live in one's memory. The traveler by rail has brief and
imperfect glimpses of the landscape. The canoeist, from his lowly seat
near the surface of the flood, sees the country practically as it was
in pioneer days, in a state of unalloyed beauty. Each bend in the
stream brings into view a new vista, and thus the bewitching scene
changes as in a kaleidoscope. The people one meets, the variety of
landscape one encounters, the simple adventures of the day, the
sensation of being an explorer, the fresh air and simple diet,
combined with that spirit of calm contentedness which overcomes the
happy voyager who casts loose from care, are the never-failing
attractions of such a trip.
To those would-be canoeists who are fond of the romantic history of
our great West, as well as of delightful scenery, the Fox (of Green
Bay), the Rock, and the Wisconsin, each with its sharply distinctive
features, will be found among the most interesting of our neighborhood
rivers. And this record of recent voyages upon them is, I think,
fairly representative of what sights and experiences await the boatman
upon any of the streams of similar importance in the vast and
well-watered region of the upper Mississippi valley.
Of the three, the Rock river route, through the great prairies of
Illinois, perhaps presents the greatest variety of life and scenery.
The Rock has practically two heads: the smaller, in a rustic stream
flowing from the north into swamp-girted Lake Koshkonong; the larger,
in the four lakes at Madison, the charming capital of Wisconsin, which
empty their waters into the Avon-like Catfish or Yahara, which in turn
pours into the Rock a short distance below the Koshkonong lake. Our
course was from Madison almost to the mouth of the Rock, near Rock
Island, 267 miles of paddling, as the river winds.
The student of history finds the Rock interesting to him because of
its associations with the Black Hawk war of 1832. When the famous Sac
warrior "invaded" Illinois, his path of progress was up the south bank
of that stream. At Prophetstown lived his evil genius, the crafty
White Cloud, and here the Hawk held council with the Pottawattomies,
who, under good Shaubena's influence, rejected the war pipe. Dixon is
famous as the site of the pioneer ferry over the Rock, on the line of
what was the principal land highway between Chicago and southern
Wisconsin and the Galena mines for a protracted period in each year.
Here, many a notable party of explorers, military officials, miners,
and traders have rendezvoused in the olden time. Here was a
rallying-point in 1832, as well, when Lincoln was a raw-boned
militiaman in a scouting corps, and Robert Anderson, of Fort Sumter
fame, Zachary Taylor, and Jefferson Davis were of the regular army
under bluff old Atkinson. A grove at the mouth of Stillman's Creek, a
Rock River tributary, near Byron, is the scene of the actual outbreak
of the war. The forest where Black Hawk camped with the white-loving
Pottawattomies is practically unchanged, and the open, rolling prairie
to the south--on which Stillman's horsemen acted at first so
treacherously, and afterwards as arrant cowards--is still there, a
broad pasture-land miles in length, along the river. The
contemporaneous descriptions of the "battle" field are readily
recognizable to-day. Above, as far as Lake Koshkonong, the river banks
are fraught with interest; for along them the soldiery followed up the
Sac trail, like bloodhounds, and held many an unsatisfactory parley
with the double-faced Winnebagoes.
Rock River scenery combines the rustic, the romantic, and the
picturesque,--prairies, meadows, ravines, swamps, mountainous bluffs,
eroded palisades, wide stretches of densely wooded bottoms, heavy
upland forests, shallows, spits, and rapids. Birds and flowers, and
uncommon plants and vines, delight the naturalist and the botanist.
The many thriving manufacturing cities,--such as Stoughton,
Janesville, Beloit, Rockford, Rockton, Dixon, Sterling, and
Oregon,--furnish an abundance of sight-seeing. The small
villages--some of them odd, out-of-the-way places, of rare types--are
worthy of study to the curious in economics and human nature. The
farmers are of many types; the fishermen one is thrown into daily
communion with are a class unto themselves; while millers,
bridge-tenders, boat-renters, and others whose callings are
along-shore, present a variety of humanity interesting and
instructive. The twenty-odd mill-dam portages, each having
difficulties and incidents of its own, are well calculated to vary the
monotony of the voyage; there are more or less dangers connected with
some of the mill-races, while the lookout for snags, bowlders and
shallows must be continuous, sharpening the senses of sight and sound;
for a tip-over or the utter demolition of the craft may readily follow
carelessness in this direction. The islands in the Rock are numerous,
many of them being several miles in length, and nearly all heavily
wooded. These frequent divisions of the channel often give rise to
much perplexity; for the ordinary summer stage of water is so low that
a loaded canoe drawing five inches of water is liable to be stranded
in the channel apparently most available.
The Fox and Wisconsin rivers--the former, from Portage to Green Bay,
the latter from Portage to Prairie du Chien--form a water highway that
has been in use by white men for two and a half centuries. In 1634,
Jean Nicolet, the first explorer of the Northwest, passed up the Fox
River, to about Berlin, and then went southward to visit the Illinois.
In the month of June, 1673, Joliet and Marquette made their famous
tour over the interlocked watercourse and discovered the Mississippi
River. After they had shown the way, a tide of travel set in over
these twin streams, between the Great Lakes and the great river,--a
motley procession of Jesuit missionaries, explorers, traders,
trappers, soldiers and pioneers. New England was in its infancy when
the Fox and Wisconsin became an established highway for enterprising
canoeists.
Since the advent of the railway era this historic channel of
communication has fallen into disuse. The general government has spent
an immense sum in endeavoring to render it navigable for the vessels
in vogue to-day, but the result, as a whole, is a failure. There is no
navigation on the Fox worthy of mention, above Berlin, and even that
below is insignificant and intermittent. On the Wisconsin there is
none at all, except for skiffs and an occasional lumber-raft.
The canoeist of to-day, therefore, will find solitude and shallows
enough on either river. But he can float, if historically inclined,
through the dusky shadows of the past, for every turn of the bank has
its story, and there is romance enough to stock a volume.
The upper Fox is rather monotonous. The river twists and turns through
enormous widespreads, grown up with wild rice and flecked with
water-fowl. These widespreads occasionally free themselves of
vegetable growth and become lakes, like the Buffalo, the Puckawa, and
the Poygan. There is, however, much of interest to the student in
natural history; while such towns as Montello, Princeton, Berlin,
Omro, Winneconne, and Oshkosh are worthy of visitation. Lake Winnebago
is a notable inland sea, and the canoeist feels fairly lost, in his
little cockle shell, bobbing about over its great waves. The lower Fox
runs between high, noble banks, and with frequent rapids, past
Neenah, Menasha, Appleton, and other busy manufacturing cities, down
to Green Bay, hoary with age and classic in her shanty ruins.
The Wisconsin River is the most picturesque of the three. Probably the
best route is from the head of the Dells to the mouth; but the run
from Portage to the mouth is the one which has the merit of antiquity,
and is certainly a long enough jaunt to satisfy the average tourist.
It is a wide, gloomy, mountain-girt valley, with great sand-bars and
thickly-wooded morasses. Settlement is slight. Portage, Prairie du
Sac, Sauk City, and Muscoda are the principal towns. The few villages
are generally from a mile to three miles back, at the foot of the
bluffs, out of the way of the flood, and the river appears to be but
little used. It is an ideal sketching-ground. The canoeist with a
camera will find occupation enough in taking views of his
surroundings; perplexity as to what to choose amid such a crowd of
charming scenes, will be his only difficulty.
Some suggestions to those who may wish to undertake these or similar
river trips may be advisable. Traveling alone will be found too
dreary. None but a hermit could enjoy those long stretches of
waterway, where one may float for a day without seeing man or animal
on the forest-bounded shores, and where the oppression of solitude is
felt with such force that it requires but a slight stretch of
imagination to carry one's self back in thought and feeling to the
days when the black-robed members of the Company of Jesus first
penetrated the gloomy wilderness. Upon the size of the party should
depend the character of the preparations. If the plan is to spend the
nights at farmhouses or village taverns, then a party of two will be
as large as can secure comfortable quarters,--especially at a
farmhouse, where but one spare bed can usually be found, while many
are the country inns where the accommodations are equally limited. If
it is intended to tent on the banks, then the party should be larger;
for two persons unused to this experience would find it exceedingly
lonesome after nightfall, when visions of river tramps, dissolute
fishermen, and inquisitive hogs and bulls, pass in review, and the
weakness of the little camp against such formidable odds comes to be
fully recognized. Often, too, the camping-places are few and far
between, and may involve a carry of luggage to higher lands beyond; on
such occasions, the more assistance the merrier. But whatever the
preparations for the night and breakfast, the mess-box must be relied
upon for dinners and suppers, for there is no dining-car to be taken
on along these water highways, and eating-stations are unknown. Unless
there are several towns on the route, of over one thousand
inhabitants, it would be well to carry sufficient provisions of a
simple sort for the entire trip, for supplies are difficult to obtain
at small villages, and the quality is apt to be poor. Farmhouses can
generally be depended on for eggs, butter, and milk,--nothing more.
For drinking-water, obtainable from farm-wells, carry an army canteen,
if you can get one; if not, a stone jug will do. The river water is
useful only for floating the canoe, and the offices of the bath. As to
personal baggage, fly very light, as a draught of over six inches
would at times work an estoppel to your progress on any of the three
streams mentioned. In shipping your boat to any point at which you
wish to embark upon a river, allow two or three days for freight-train
delays.
Be prepared to find canoeing a rough sport. There is plenty of hard
work about it, a good deal of sunburn and blister. You will be obliged
to wear your old clothes, and may not be overpleased to meet critical
friends in the river towns you visit. But if you have the true spirit
of the canoeist, you will win for your pains an abundance of good air,
good scenery, wholesome exercise, sound sleep, and something to
think about all your life.
TABLE OF DISTANCES.--TOTAL, 607 MILES.
THE ROCK RIVER.
MILES.
Madison to Stoughton 22
Stoughton to Janesville 40
Janesville to Beloit 18
Beloit to Rockford 40
Rockford to Byron 18
Byron to Oregon 15
Oregon to Dixon 31
Dixon to Sterling 20
Sterling to Como 9
Como to Lyndon 14
Lyndon to Prophetstown 5
Prophetstown to Erie Ferry 10
Erie Ferry to Coloma 25
Coloma to mouth of river 14
Mouth of river to Rock Island
(up Mississippi River) 6
---
Total 287
THE FOX RIVER (OF GREEN BAY).
MILES.
Portage to Packwaukee 25
Packwaukee to Montello 7
Montello to Marquette 11
Marquette to Princeton 18
Princeton to Berlin 20
Berlin to Omro 18
Omro to Oshkosh 22
Oshkosh to Neenah 20
Neenah to Appleton 7
Appleton to Kaukauna 7
Kaukauna to Green Bay 20
---
Total 175
THE WISCONSIN RIVER.
MILES.
Portage to Merrimac 20
Merrimac to Prairie du Sac 10
Prairie du Sac to Arena Ferry 15
Arena Ferry to Helena 8
Helena to Lone Rock Bridge 14
Lone Rock Bridge to Muscoda 18
Muscoda to Port Andrew 9
Port Andrew to Boscobel 10
Boscobel to Boydtown 10
Boydtown to Wauzeka (on Kickapoo) 7
Wauzeka to Wright's Ferry 10
Wright's Ferry to Bridgeport 4
Bridgeport to mouth of river 7
Mouth of river to Prairie du Chien
(up Mississippi River) 5
---
Total 145
NOTE.--The above table of distances by water is based upon the most
reliable local estimates, verified, as far as practicable, by official
surveys.
THE ROCK RIVER.
[Illustration: MAP OF THE ROCK RIVER to accompany THWAITES'S
"HISTORIC WATERWAYS"]
THE ROCK RIVER.
CHAPTER I.
THE WINDING YAHARA.
It was a quarter to twelve, Monday morning, the 23d of May, 1887, when
we took seats in our canoe at our own landing-stage on Third Lake, at
Madison, spread an awning over two hoops, as on a Chinese house-boat,
pushed off, waved farewell to a little group of curious friends, and
started on our way to explore the Rock River of Illinois. W----
wielded the paddle astern, while I took the oars amidships. Despite
the one hundred pounds of baggage and the warmth emitted by the
glowing sun,--for the season was unusually advanced,--we made
excellent speed, as we well had need in order to reach the mouth, a
distance of two hundred and eighty miles as the sinuous river runs,
in the seven days we had allotted to the task.
It was a delightful run across the southern arm of the lake. There was
a light breeze aft, which gave a graceful upward curvature to our
low-set awning. The great elms and lindens at charming Lakeside--the
home of the Wisconsin Chautauqua--droop over the bowlder-studded
banks, their masses of greenery almost sweeping the water. Down in the
deep, cool shadows groups of bass and pickerel and perch lazily swish;
swarms of "crazy bugs" ceaselessly swirl around and around, with no
apparent object in life but this rhythmic motion, by which they
wrinkle the mirror-like surface into concentric circles. Through
occasional openings in the dense fringe of pendent boughs, glimpses
can be had of park-like glades, studded with columnar oaks, and
stretching upward to hazel-grown knolls, which rise in irregular
succession beyond the bank. From the thickets comes the fussy chatter
of thrushes and cat-birds, calling to their young or gossiping with
the orioles, the robins, jays, and red-breasted grosbeaks, who warble
and twitter and scream and trill from more lofty heights.
A quarter of an hour sent us spinning across the mouth of Turvill's
Bay. At Ott's Farm, just beyond, the bank rises with sheer ascent, in
layers of crumbly sandstone, a dozen feet above the water's level.
Close-cropped woodlawn pastures gently slope upward to storm-wracked
orchards, and long, dark windbreaks of funereal spruce. Flocks of
sheep, fresh from the shearing, trot along the banks, winding in and
out between the trees, keeping us company on our way,--their bleating
lambs following at a lope,--now and then stopping, in their eager,
fearful curiosity, to view our craft, and assuming picturesque
attitudes, worthy subjects for a painter's art.
A long, hard pull through close-grown patches of reeds and lily-pads,
encumbered by thick masses of green scum, brought us to the outlet of
the lake and the head of that section of the Catfish River which is
the medium through which Third Lake pours its overflow into Second.
The four lakes of Madison are connected by the Catfish, the chief
Wisconsin tributary of the Rock. Upon the map this relationship
reminds one of beads strung upon a thread.
As the result of a protracted drought, the water in the little stream
was low, and great clumps of aquatic weeds came very close to the
surface, threatening, later in the season, an almost complete
stoppage to navigation. But the effect of the current was at once
perceptible. It was as if an additional rower had been taken on. The
river, the open stream of which is some three rods wide at this point,
winds like a serpent between broad marshes, which must at no far
distant period in the past have been wholly submerged, thus prolonging
the three upper lakes into a continuous sheet of water. From a
half-mile to a mile back, on either side, there are low ridges,
doubtless the ancient shores of a narrow lake that was probably thirty
or forty miles in length. In high water, even now, the marshes are
converted into widespreads, where the dense tangle of wild rice,
reeds, and rushes does not wholly prevent canoe navigation; while
little mud-bottomed lakes, a quarter of a mile or so in diameter, are
frequently met with at all stages. In places, the river, during a
drought, has a depth of not over eighteen inches. In such stretches,
the current moves swiftly over hard bottoms strewn with gravel and the
whitened sepulchres of snails and clams. In the widespreads, the
progress is sluggish, the vegetable growth so crowding in upon the
stream as to leave but a narrow and devious channel, requiring skill
to pilot through; for in these labyrinthian turnings one is quite
liable, if not closely watching the lazy flood, to push into some
vexatious cul-de-sac, many rods in length, and be obliged to retrace,
with the danger of mistaking a branch for the main channel.
In the depths of the tall reeds motherly mud-hens are clucking, while
their mates squat in the open water, in meditative groups, rising with
a prolonged splash and a whirr as the canoe approaches within gunshot.
Secluded among the rushes and cat-tails, nestled down in little clumps
of stubble, are hundreds of the cup-shaped nests of the red-winged
blackbird, or American starling; the females, in modest brown, take a
rather pensive view of life, administering to the wants of their
young; while the bright-hued, talkative males, perched on swaying
stalks, fairly make the air hum with their cheery trills.
Water-lilies abound everywhere. The blossoms of the yellow variety
(nuphar advena) are here and there bursting in select groups, but as a
rule the buds are still below the surface. In the mud lakes, the
bottom is seen through the crystal water to be thickly studded with
great rosettes, two and three feet in diameter, of corrugated ovate
leaves, of golden russet shade, out of which are shot upward brilliant
green stalks, some bearing arrow-shaped leaves, and others crowned
with the tight-wrapped buds that will soon open upon the water level
into saffron-hued flowers. The plate-like leaves of the white variety
(nymphaea tuberosa) already dot the surface, but the buds are not yet
visible. Anchored by delicate stems to the creeping root-stalks,
buried in the mud below, the leaves, when first emerging, are of a
rich golden brown, but they are soon frayed by the waves, and soiled
and eaten by myriads of water-bugs, slugs, and spiders, who make their
homes on these floating islands. Pluck a leaf, and the many-legged
spiders, the roving buccaneers of these miniature seas, stalk off at
high speed, while the slugs and leeches, in a spirit of stubborn
patriotism, prefer meeting death upon their native heath to politic
emigration.
By one o'clock we had reached the railway bridge at the head of Second
Lake. Upon the trestlework were perched three boys and a man, fishing.
They had that listless air and unkempt appearance which are so
characteristic of the little groups of humanity often to be found on a
fair day angling from piers, bridges, and railway embankments. Men who
imagine the world is allied against them will loll away a dozen hours
a day, throughout an entire summer season, sitting on the sun-heated
girders of an iron bridge; yet they would strike against any system in
the work-a-day world which compelled them to labor more than eight
hours for ten hours' pay. In going down a long stretch of water
highway, one comes to believe that about one-quarter of the
inhabitants, especially of the villages, spend their time chiefly in
fishing. On a canoe voyage, the bridge fishermen and the birds are the
classes of animated nature most frequently met with, the former
presenting perhaps the most unique and varied specimens. There are
fishermen and fishermen. I never could fancy Izaak Walton dangling his
legs from a railroad bridge, soaking a worm at the end of a length of
store twine, vainly hoping, as the hours went listlessly by, that a
stray sucker or a diminutive catfish would pull the bob under and
score a victory for patience. Now the use of a boat lifts this sort of
thing to the dignity of a sport.
Second Lake is about three miles long by a mile in breadth. The shores
are here and there marshy; but as a rule they are of good, firm land
with occasional rocky bluffs from a dozen to twenty feet high, rising
sheer from a narrow beach of gravel. As we crossed over to gain the
lower Catfish, a calm prevailed for the most part, and the awning was
a decided comfort. Now and then, however, a delightful puff came
ruffling the water astern, swelling our canvas roof and noticeably
helping us along. Light cloudage, blown swiftly before upper aerial
currents, occasionally obscured the sun,--black, gray, and white
cumuli fantastically shaped and commingled, while through jagged and
rapidly shifting gaps was to be seen with vivid effect, the deep blue
ether beyond.
The bluffs and glades are well wooded. The former have escarpments of
yellow clay and grayish sand and gravel; here and there have been
landslides, where great trees have fallen with the debris and maintain
but a slender hold amid their new surroundings, leaning far out over
the water, easy victims for the next tornado. One monarch of the woods
had been thus precipitated into the flood; on one side, its trunk and
giant branches were water-soaked and slimy, while those above were
dead and whitened by storm. As we approached, scores of turtles,
sunning themselves on the unsubmerged portion, suddenly ducked their
heads and slid off their perches amid a general splash, to hidden
grottos below; while a solitary king-fisher from his vantage height
on an upper bough hurriedly rose, and screamed indignance at our rude
entry upon his preserve.
A farmer's lad sitting squat upon his haunches on the beach, and
another, leaning over a pasture-fence, holding his head between his
hands, exhibited lamb-like curiosity at the awning-decked canoe, as it
glided past their bank. Through openings in the forest, we caught
glimpses of rolling upland pastures, with sod close-cropped and smooth
as a well-kept lawn; of gray-blue fields, recently seeded; of
farmhouses, spacious barns, tobacco-curing sheds,--for this is the
heart of the Wisconsin tobacco region,--and those inevitable signs of
rural prosperity, windmills, spinning around by spurts, obedient to
the breath of the intermittent May-day zephyr; while little bays
opened up, on the most distant shore, enchanting vistas of blue-misted
ridges.
At last, after a dreamy pull of two miles from the lake-head, we
rounded a bold headland of some thirty feet in height, and entered
Catfish Bay. Ice-pushed bowlders strew the shore, which is here a
gentle meadow slope, based by a gravel beach. A herd of cattle are
contentedly browsing, their movements attuned to a symphony of
cow-bells dangling from the necks of the leaders. The scene is
pre-eminently peaceful.
The Catfish connecting Second Lake with First, has two entrances, a
small flat willow island dividing them. Through the eastern channel,
which is the deepest, the current goes down with a rush, the
obstruction offered by numerous bowlders churning it into noisy
rapids; but the water tames down within a few rods, and the canoe
comes gayly gliding into the united stream, which now has a placid
current of two miles per hour,--quite fast enough for canoeing
purposes. This section of the Catfish is much more picturesque than
the preceding; the shores are firmer; the parallel ridges sometimes
closely shut it in, and the stream, here four or five rods wide, takes
upon itself the characteristics of the conventional river. The weed
and vine grown banks are oftentimes twenty feet in height, with as
sharp an ascent as can be comfortably climbed; and the swift-rushing
water is sometimes fringed with sumachs, elders, and hazel brush, with
here and there willows, maples, lindens, and oaks. Occasionally the
river apparently ends at the base of a steep, earthy bluff; but when
that is reached there is a sudden swerve to the right or left, with
another vista of banks,--sometimes wood-grown to the water's edge,
again with openings revealing purplish-brown fields, neatly harrowed,
stretching up to some commanding, forest-crowned hill-top. The
blossoms of the wild grape burden the air with sweet scent; on the
deep-shaded banks, amid stones and cool mosses, the red and yellow
columbine gracefully nods; the mandrake, with its glossy green leaves,
grows with tropical luxuriance; more in the open, appears in great
profusion, the old maid's nightcap, in purplish roseate hue; the
sheep-berry shrub is decked in masses of white blossoms; the hawthorn
flower is detected by its sickly-sweet scent, and here and there are
luxuriously-flowered locusts, specimens that have escaped from
cultivation to take up their homes in this botanical wilderness.
There are charming rustic pictures at every turn,--sleek herds of
cattle, droves of fat hogs, flocks of sheep that have but recently
doffed their winter suits, well-tended fields, trim-looking wire
fences, neat farm-houses where rows of milkpans glisten upon sunny
drying-benches, farmers and farmers' boys riding aristocratic-looking
sulky drags and cultivators,--everywhere an air of agricultural
luxuriance, rather emphasized by occasional log-houses, which repose
as honored relics by the side of their pretentious successors,
sharply contrasting the wide differences between pioneer life and that
of to-day.
The marshes are few; and they in this dry season are luxuriant with
coarse, glossy wild grass,--the only hay-crop the farmer will have
this year,--and dotted with clumps of dead willow-trees, which present
a ghostly appearance, waving their white, scarred limbs in the
freshening breeze. The most beautiful spot on this section of the
Catfish is a point some eight miles above Stoughton. The verdure-clad
banks are high and steep. A lanky Norwegian farmer came down an
angling path with a pail-yoke over his shoulders to get washing-water
for his "woman," and told us that when this country was sparsely
settled, a third of a century ago, there was a mill-dam here. That was
the day when the possession of water-power meant more than it does in
this age of steam and rapid transit,--the day when every mill-site was
supposed to be a nucleus around which a prosperous village must
necessarily grow in due time. Nothing now remains as a relic of this
particular fond hope but great hollows in either bank, where the clay
for dam-making purposes has been scooped out, and a few rotten piles,
having a slender hold upon the bottom, against which drift-wood has
lodged, forming a home for turtles and clumps of semi-aquatic grasses.
W---- avers, in a spirit of enthusiasm, that the Catfish between
Second and First Lakes is quite similar in parts to the immortal Avon,
upon which Shakespeare canoed in the long-ago. If she is right, then
indeed are the charms of Avon worthy the praise of the Muses. If the
Catfish of to-day is ever to go down to posterity on the wings of
poesy, however, I would wish that it might be with the more euphonious
title of "Yahara,"--the original Winnebago name. The map-maker who
first dropped the liquid "Yahara" for the rasping "Catfish" had no
soul for music.
Darting under a quaint rustic foot-bridge made of rough poles, which
on its high trestles stalks over a wide expanse of reedy bog like a
giant "stick-bug," we emerged into First Lake. The eastern shore,
which we skirted, is a wide, sandy beach, backed by meadows. The
opposite banks, two or three miles away, present more picturesque
outlines. A stately wild swan kept us company for over a mile, just
out of musket-shot, and finally took advantage of a patch of rushes to
stop and hide. A small sandstone quarry on the southeast shore, with a
lone worker, attracted our attention. There was not a human
habitation in sight, and it seemed odd to see a solitary man engaged
in such labor apparently so far removed from the highways of commerce.
The quarryman stuck his crowbar in a crack horizontally, to serve as a
seat, and filled his pipe as we approached. We hailed him with
inquiries, from the stone pier jutting into the lake at the foot of
the bluff into which he was burrowing. He replied from his lofty
perch, in rich Norsk brogue, that he shipped stone by barge to
Stoughton, and good-humoredly added, as he struck a match and lit his
bowl of weed, that he thought himself altogether too good company to
ever get lonesome. We left the philosopher to enjoy his pipe in peace,
and passed on around the headland.
An iron railway bridge, shut in with high sides, and painted a dullish
red, spans the Lower Catfish at the outlet of First Lake. A country
boy, with face as dirty as it was solemn, stood in artistic rags at
the base of an arch, fishing with a bit of hop-twine tied to the end
of a lath; from a mass of sedge just behind him a hoarse cry arose at
short intervals.
"Hi, Johnny, what's that making the noise?
"Bird!" sententiously responded the stoic youth. He looked as though
he had been bored with a silly question, and kept his eyes on his
task.
"What kind of a bird, Johnny?"
"D'no!" rather raspishly. He evidently thought he was being guyed.
We ran the nose of the canoe into the reeds. There was a splash, a
wild cry of alarm, and up flew a great bittern. Circling about until
we had passed on, it then drifted down to its former location near the
uninquiring lad,--where doubtless it had a nest of young, and had been
disturbed in the midst of a lecture on domestic discipline.
Wide marshes again appear on either side of the stream. There are
great and small bitterns at every view; plovers daintily picking their
way over the open bogs, greedily feeding on countless snails; wild
ducks in plenty, patiently waiting in the secluded bayous for the
development of their young; yellow-headed troopials flitting freely
about, uttering a choking, gulping cry; while the pert little wren,
with his smart cock-tail, views the varied scene from his perch on a
lofty rush, jealously keeping watch and ward over his ball-like
castle, with its secret gate, hung among the reeds below.
But interspersing the marshes there are often stretches of firm bank
and delightfully varied glimpses of hillside and wood. Three miles
above Stoughton, we stopped for supper at the edge of a glade, near a
quaint old bridge. While seated on the smooth sward, beside our little
spread, there came a vigorous rustling among the branches of the trees
that overhang the country road which winds down the opposite slope to
the water's edge to take advantage of the crossing. A gypsy wagon,
with a high, rounded, oil-cloth top soon emerged from the forest, and
was seen to have been the cause of the disturbance. Halting at one
side of the highway, three men and a boy jumped out, unhitched the
horses at the pole and the jockeying stock at the tail-board, and led
them down to water. Two women meanwhile set about getting supper, and
preparations were made for a night camp. We confessed to a touch of
sympathy with our new neighbors on the other shore, for we felt as
though gypsying ourselves. The hoop awning on the canoe certainly had
the general characteristics of a gypsy-wagon top; we knew not and
cared not where night might overtake us; we were dependent on the
country for our provender; were at the mercy of wind, weather, and the
peculiarities of our chosen highway; and had deliberately turned our
backs on home for a season of untrammeled communion with nature.
It was during a golden sunset that, pushing on through a great
widespread, through which the channel doubles and twists like a
scotched snake, we came in sight of the little city of Stoughton.
First, the water-works tower rises above the mass of trees which
embower the settlement. Then, on nearer approach, through rifts in the
woodland we catch glimpses of some of the best outlying residences,
most of them pretty, with well-kept grounds. Then come the
church-spires, the ice-houses, the barge-dock, and with a spurt we
sweep alongside the foundry of Mandt's wagon-works. Depositing our
oars, paddle, blankets, and supplies in the office, the canoe was
pulled up on the grass and padlocked to a stake. The street lamps were
lighting as we registered at the inn.
Stoughton has about two thousand inhabitants. A walk about town in the
evening, revealed a number of bright, busy shops, chiefly kept by
Norwegians, who predominate in this region. Nearly every street
appears to end in one of Mandt's numerous factory yards, and the
wagon-making magnate seems to control pretty much the entire river
front here.