“Within the sun-lit forest,
Our roof the bright blue sky,
Where streamlets flow, and wild flowers blow,
We lift our hearts on high.”
OUR FIRST CAMP AT MOUTH OF MOOSEHORN STREAM.—ACCOMMODATING ONE’S
SELF TO CIRCUMSTANCES.—THE “RIPS” OF THE WEST BRANCH.—RUNNING THE
RAPIDS.—PINE STREAM FALLS.—CHESUNCOOK LAKE.—UMBAZOOKSUS RIVER.—A
“BEAR” WELCOME.—MUD POND AND “CARRY.”—A PICTURE DIFFICULT TO
PHOTOGRAPH.—THIRD CAMP ON CHAMBERLIN LAKE.
A description of our first camp in the woods will acquaint the reader
with the arrangement of the many after, and make him familiar with the
picture of our daily surroundings.
Our wall tent, ten by twelve feet, was soon unfolded, and, selecting
a prominent point of the high bank which commanded the river, we
immediately set about cutting the three necessary poles on which to
erect it. We trimmed all projecting twigs from the ridge and front
upright poles, but left them on the rear one that we might make it
useful—on which to hang cups, belts, candlesticks, and lantern. Here
the quartermaster’s whittling propensity came in use, and another pole
was notched by him and pressed into service beside the last, which
served as a rack for our guns and rods. Great care was taken that the
notches which held the ridge-pole were not too long, or they would tear
the tent, and that the angle of the roof should accommodate any passing
shower. Then we cut short pins from the white birches, and with the
ropes at the sides soon drew the tent into position.
[Illustration: PENKNIFE SOUVENIRS.]
While Bowley, our cook, was making bread and coffee, trying salt pork
and trout for our evening repast, the resounding blows of Weller’s
axe could be heard in the forest, gathering logs for the camp-fire,
and Morris was cutting fir boughs for the historic camp bed. It is
wonderful how comfortable a bed this makes, while its delightful
health-giving odor is so invigorating to the system. Our table
outside the tent was usually made of four forked sticks on which we
put others crosswise, and on these we laid splits of wood, and for
seats rolled into position a convenient log, or used the many wooden
pails containing our provisions. On rainy days we sat on the ground
in the tent, and used these pails of various sizes and heights as our
“extension table,” smiling to think how easily we could conform to
any condition in the woods. At the head of the tent a choice position
was given to our photographer’s camera and chemicals, together with
our traveling-bags, rifles, cartridge-boxes, and books, while at our
feet were distributed the pails of provisions, and heavier part of our
“kit.” About one and a half feet was allowed to each man for sleeping
accommodations, an _imaginary_ line only dividing off the guides, we
being arranged somewhat similar to sardines in a box, only our heads
were all in one direction.
Immediately after leaving camp the next morning we entered the “rips”
or rough water of the river. For about ten miles there was little
necessity of paddling, the velocity of the stream sweeping us along
without extra effort. These last few miles were very exciting, as,
following in the wake of the birch canoes, we guided our canvas
craft past boulders and sunken rocks, while the guides, constantly
on the alert for our welfare, shouted or waved their hands to warn
us of dangerous places. Passing close to the bank on the left of the
boisterous water, we shot the Pine Stream Falls and soon rested in the
foamy waters below, where our artist at once immortalized the party.
[Illustration: PINE STREAM FALLS]
The amount of strength and activity displayed by the guides in handling
their canoes past falls and rapids is astonishing. With their slender
“setting poles,” eleven feet in length, armed at one end with a sharp
iron spike of six inches, they will steer the canoe with unerring
certainty, or hold it quivering in waters that would seem to engulf it.
A hasty lunch, and we soon reached the mouth of the West Branch
(eighteen miles from the North East carry), where a scene of special
beauty burst upon us in the white capped waves of Chesuncook Lake and
distant view of Mt. Katahdin and the Sourdnahunk range. Paddling across
the head of Chesuncook Lake, which is seventeen miles in length and
three miles in width, we passed the mouth of the Caucomgomoc stream
and entered the Umbazooksus River. We had hardly recovered from the
exertion in crossing the lake, when we espied in the tall meadow grass
on the bank of the stream a large black bear, who, standing on his
hind legs, nodded an approving welcome. The quickness with which he
dropped on his four feet and plunged into the thicket gave us little
opportunity to return the compliment with our rifles.
[Illustration: MUD POND CARRY.]
Another camp, and the next day we passed in safety the Umbazooksus
stream and lake, and at 8 A. M. arrived at the long dreaded Mud Pond
“carry.” This path through the woods to Mud Pond is a little over two
miles long, and is detested by tourists and execrated by the guides.
Many weeks before my departure for Maine, I had been accosted by a
friend (who had made the St. Johns trip), and asked to give him on my
return the full particulars of my experience on this “carry.” I was
not, therefore, taken by surprise, but was prepared to meet it manfully
on its own ground, and fight the battle to the best of my ability. I
had provided myself for this special undertaking with long rubber
wading pants or stockings, reaching to my hips, and further incased
my feet in a heavy pair of canvas hob-nailed shoes, the latter I also
found useful in wading streams. Even while selecting our provisions
at the Kineo House, this and that luxury had been debated upon, or
withdrawn as an article too heavy for transportation on Mud Pond
“carry.” Its obstacles to our senses had also been made prominent by
the daily conversation of the guides, and our imagination of that
“gulf” greatly awakened. On reaching the portage, the canoes were drawn
ashore, turned over to dry, goods removed, and, each one selecting what
he could support, we started off “Indian file” to make the best of the
difficulties. On the right-hand side of the path, within a few rods of
the Umbazooksus Lake, will be found a cool and refreshing spring of
water, at which we quenched our thirst. At first the path was dry, and
only occasional pools of water, easily turned, interrupted our advance;
but soon the pools grew thicker and thicker, lengthening to greater
extent than before, and, with our loads on our backs, we plunged
forward, sinking time and time again to our knees in the soft muddy
water. It makes a vast deal of difference, the nature and position of
the load on one’s back, and whether it is steady in its place, or has
a shifting propensity. I have known a pair of oars dodging about on
one’s shoulders to be heavier and more inconvenient than five times
that burden in guns and ammunition. I had selected as the task for my
left shoulder my shot gun, and attaching to it a broiler, coffee-pot,
gridiron, and other impedimenta of camp and cooking utensils, detailed
to the right a bag of two hundred shot and rifle cartridges. Picture
not only one but six men so loaded, forcing their way through the
muddy path, slipping and floundering, first on one side and then on
the other, under the conglomerated load of “camp kit.” An opening in
the dark hot woods half way across, and our burdens are lowered to the
ground, to return to the lake for another cargo. A lunch, and on we
go another mile, where the branches lock closer and closer about us,
making our load seem double its weight, until with joy we discover from
a slight elevation at the end of the “carry” the tranquil surface of
Mud Pond. A portion of this course is evidently at some seasons of the
year the bed of a brook, and the writer found in a small isolated pool
of water only a foot square, a lively trout, four inches in length.
[Illustration: MUD POND—LOOKING EAST FROM END OF CARRY.]
Our guides told how, during some months of the year, they had dragged
their boats two-thirds of the way across, remarking that the only
“dry” part _this_ year, was the _temperate way in which they were
treated_.[C] The canoes on the guides’ shoulders were the last loads to
cross, and, as it was now 6 P. M., one can make some estimate of the
work done, seeing we had only accomplished _two miles_ that day.
[Footnote C: The use of ardent spirits in the woods ought never to
be allowed by either sportsmen or guides. There is enough stimulant
and health in the pure air, the piney woods, and clear cold water of
the streams, to satisfy any one, while the indulgence often places
the sportsman’s life in jeopardy. The awkward turn of the paddle in
swift water, or the careless handling of a gun by your partially
intoxicated guide, may at any moment bring disaster to your canoe or
death to yourself, while the selection of a guide should _always_ be
a matter of the greatest importance, as he has the faculty of making
your camp-life happy or miserable. A friend of the author started to
camp in the Adirondacks sometime since, but discovering in his guide’s
“kit” a bottle of liquor, and, being unable to obtain the refusal of
its use, took the fellow a three days’ tramp back to the settlement,
and hired another guide, rather than take his chances with the first
one. Scientific analysis has long since exploded the _health giving
properties_ of ardent spirits, and in Arctic explorations the line has
been drawn between the vitality of men who drank water or coffee. As
regards using stimulants in the woods, I say in the language of Mark
Twain—“_don’t!_ DON’T!! DON’T!!!”]
[Illustration:
“This is the way
I long have sought
And mourned because
I found it not.”]
Launching our canoes on Mud Pond, some two miles in width, of
uninteresting scenery, we bent our remaining energies to the
reciprocating paddle, and were soon on the other side, and canoeing
the sluggish waters of Mud Pond stream. Its mouth was clogged by great
weather-beaten logs, which necessitated the laborious use of our axes
before forcing a passage into Chamberlin Lake. The sun was hardly half
an hour above the horizon, as we crossed this beautiful lake two and a
half miles to the opposite shore, and camped on its white pebbly beach
at the foot of a farm. This was the only one of three habitations which
we saw on our trip, and the delight which we experienced was as great
as the recovery of a lost trail in the woods by the tourist mentioned
in the following incident. A brother angler, while treading a lonesome
path in this very neighborhood, found one day a piece of birch bark
nailed to a tree on which was inscribed these familiar lines—
“This is the way I long have sought
And mourned because I found it not.”
[Illustration: REFLECTIONS.]