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 of 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.
[Illustration: THE HOME OF A SPIDER]
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 simply
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 Delaware 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 Beaver Kill is now a potent word 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 a 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 to 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 the 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 began 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 led 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 half way 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 half way up the mountain it began
to be quite dark. We were often obliged to rest our packs against
trees and take breath, which made our progress slow. Finally a halt
was called, beside an immense flat rock which had paused in 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
unaccountable 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 to 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.
[Illustration: A BIRD SONG]
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 it 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 this
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 bark-peeling in Callikoon,--a famous country for bark,--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 straight 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 down
hill, lest we should descend too 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 it 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 it 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 tempted 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 a 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 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 scene 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 came 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
the 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 misled 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
bushes 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 with 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 led up from the lake, and that by keeping our own course
we should reach the lake sooner than if we followed this line.
About half way 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 on 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 whiskey,
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 heard in these woods, set his music-box
going, which fairly ran over with fine, 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 nonplussed 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 logs
which we found moored at the shore, and which with two aboard shipped
about a foot 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 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
descent 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 that 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 of
it 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 here, 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 before heard, and, repeated at intervals through the
silent woods, 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 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 had 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 accidentally 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 was 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 the 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 leaves. I took it up and
set it on the palm of my hand, which it hugged as closely as if still
upon the ground. I then put it in my coat-sleeve, 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 entirely
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 that 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
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 why the lumbermen and barkmen who prowl through these
woods had left this fine tract untouched. Beyond this the forest was
mostly birch and maple.
[Illustration: IN THE WOODS]
We were now close to the 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 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.