I do not know what lies above the Tobeatic lakes, but the strip of
country between is the true wilderness. It is a succession of swamps and
spruce thickets--ideal country for a moose farm or a mosquito hatchery,
or for general exploration, but no sort of a place for a Sunday-school
picnic. Neither is it a good place to fish. The little brook between the
lakes runs along like a chain pump and contains about as many trout.
There are one or two pretty good pools, but the effort to reach them is
too costly.
We made camp in as dry a place as we could find, but we couldn't find a
place as big as the tent that didn't have a spring or a water hole. In
fact, the ground was a mass of roots, great and small, with water
everywhere between. A spring actually bubbled up between our beds, and
when one went outside at night it was a mercy if he did not go plunging
into some sort of a cold, wet surprise, with disastrous and profane
results. Being the worst camp and the worst country and the poorest
fishing we had found, we remained there two days. But this was as it
should be. We were not fishermen now, but explorers; and explorers,
Eddie said, always court hardships, and pitch their camps in the midst
of dangers.
Immediately after our arrival, Eddie and I took one side of the brook
and the guides the other, and we set out to discover things, chiefly the
upper lake. Of course we would pick the hardest side. We could be
depended on to do that. The brook made a long bend, and the guides, who
were on the short side, found fairly easy going. Eddie and I, almost
immediately, were floundering in a thick miry swamp, where it was hot
and breezeless, and where the midges, mooseflies and mosquitoes gave us
a grand welcome. I never saw anybody so glad to be discovered as those
mooseflies. They were as excited as if we were long lost relatives who
had suddenly turned up with a fortune. They swarmed about us and clung
to us and tapped us in any convenient place. I did not blame them, of
course. Moose diet, year in and year out, would make them welcome
anything by way of a change. And what droves of moose there must be in
that swamp to support such a muster of flies! Certainly this was the
very heart of the moose domain.
Perhaps the reader who has never seen a moosefly may not appreciate the
amplitude and vigor of our welcome. The moosefly is a lusty fellow with
mottled wings. I believe he is sometimes called the deerfly, though as
the moose is bigger and more savage than the deer, it is my opinion that
the moosefly is bigger and more savage than any fly that bites the deer.
I don't think the deer could survive him. He is about the size of the
green-headed horsefly, but of more athletic build. He describes rapid
and eager circles about one's head, whizzing meanwhile in a manner which
some may like, but which I could not learn to enjoy. His family is large
and he has many friends. He brings them all along to greet you, and they
all whiz and describe circles at once, and with every circle or two he
makes a dip and swipes up about a gill of your lifeblood and guzzles it
down, and goes right on whizzing and circling until he picks out a place
for the next dip. Unlike the mosquito, the moosefly does not need to
light cautiously and patiently sink a well until he strikes a paying
vein. His practice on the moose has fitted him for speedier methods. The
bill with which he is accustomed to bore through a tough moosehide in a
second or two will penetrate a man in the briefest fraction of the time.
We got out of that swamp with no unnecessary delay and made for a spruce
thicket. Ordinarily one does not welcome a spruce thicket, for it
resembles a tangle of barbed wires. But it was a boon now. We couldn't
scratch all the places at once and the spruce thicket would help. We
plunged into it and let it dig, and scrape, and protect us from those
whizzing, circling blood-gluttons of the swamp. Yet it was cruel going.
I have never seen such murderous brush. I was already decorated with
certain areas of "New Skin," but I knew that after this I should need a
whole one. Having our rods and guns made it harder. In places we were
obliged to lie perfectly flat to worm and wriggle through. And the heat
was intense and our thirst a torture. Yet in the end it was worth while
and the payment was not long delayed. Just beyond the spruce thicket ran
a little spring rivulet, cold as ice. Lying on its ferny margin we drank
and drank, and the gods themselves cannot create a more exquisite joy
than that. We followed the rivulet to where it fed the brook, a little
way below. There we found a good-sized pool, and trout. Also a cool
breeze and a huge bowlder--complete luxury. We rested on the big
stone--I mean I did--and fished, while Eddie was trying to find the way
out. I said I would wait there until a relief party arrived. It was no
use. Eddie threatened to leave me at last if I didn't come on, and I had
no intention of being left alone in that forgotten place.
We struggled on. Finally near sunset of that long, hard June day, we
passed out of the thicket tangle, ascended a slope and found ourselves
in an open grove of whispering pines that through all the years had
somehow escaped the conflagration and the ax. Tall colonnades they
formed--a sort of Grove of Dodona which because of some oracle, perhaps,
the gods had spared and the conquering vandals had not swept away. From
the top of the knoll we caught a glimpse of water through the trees, and
presently stood on the shore of Little Tobeatic Lake.
So it was we reached the end of our quest--the farthest point in the
unknown. I hardly know what I had expected: trout of a new species and
of gigantic size, perhaps, or a strange race of men. Whatever it was, I
believe I felt a bit disappointed.
I believe I did not consider it much of a discovery. It was a good deal
like other Nova Scotia lakes, except that it appeared to be in two
sections and pretty big for its name. But Eddie was rejoiced over our
feat. The mooseflies and spruce thickets and the miry swamps we had
passed, for him only added relish to this moment of supreme triumph.
Eddie would never be the man to go to the Arctics in an automobile or an
airship. That would be too easy. He would insist on more embroideries.
He would demand all the combined hardships of the previous expeditions.
I am at present planning a trip to the South Pole, but I shall leave
Eddie at home. And perhaps I shall also be disappointed when I get to
the South Pole and find it only a rock in a snowdrift.
We crossed the brook and returned to camp the short way. We differed a
good deal as to the direction, and separated once or twice. We got lost
at last, for the way was so short and easy that we were below the camp
before we knew it. When at last we heard the guides calling (they had
long since returned) we came in, blaming each other for several things
and were scarcely on speaking terms for as much as five minutes. It was
lucky that Charles found a bottle of Jamaica rum and a little pot of
honey just then. A mixture of rum and honey will allay irritation due to
moosefly and mosquito bites, and to a variety of other causes if
faithfully applied.
The matter of mosquitoes was really serious that night. We kept up
several smudge fires and sat among them and smoked ourselves like
herring. Even then we were not immune. When it came time for bed we
brushed the inside of the tent and set our pipes going. Then Eddie
wanted to read, as was his custom. I objected. I said that to light a
candle would be to invite all those mosquitoes back. He pleaded, but for
once I was firm. He offered me some of his best things, but I refused to
sell my blood in that way. Finally he declared he had a spread of
mosquito net and would put it over the door and every possible opening
if I would let him read. I said he might put up the netting and if I
approved the job I would then consider the matter. He got out the net--a
nice new piece--and began to put it up.
It was a tedious job, arranging that net and fastening it properly by
the flickering firelight so that it covered every crack and crevice.
When he pulled it down in one place it left an opening in another and
had to be poked and pinned and stuffed in and patted down a great many
times. From my place inside the tent I could see his nimble shadow on
the canvas like some big insect, bobbing and flitting up and down and
from side to side. It reminded me of a persistent moth, dipping and
dodging about a screen. I drowsily wondered if he would ever get it
fixed, and if he wasn't getting hot and tired, for it was a still,
sticky night. Yet I suppose I did not realize how hot and tired one
might get on such a night, especially after a hard day. When he ceased
his lightsome movements at last and crept as carefully as a worm under
the net, I expected him to light the candle lamp and read. He did not do
so. He gave one long sighing groan of utter exhaustion, dropped down on
his bed without removing his clothes and never stirred again until
morning.
The net was a great success. Only two mosquitoes got in and they bit
Eddie.