“What time the golden sunset fell,
On wood and stream,
While we, the loss or gain
Recount, and deem
The day all glorious with its rents and stains.”
THE PASSAGE OF WEBSTER STREAM.—AN EXCITING DAY’S SPORT.—THE DAMAGED
CANOES.—THE CANVAS BOAT TRIUMPHANT.—GRAND FALLS.—PHOTOGRAPHING ALONG
THE ROUTE.—INDIAN CARRY.—EAST BRANCH OF THE PENOBSCOT.—MATAGAMONSIS
LAKE.—THE DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.—TROUT BROOK FARM.—GRAND OR
MATAGAMON LAKE.—A CAPTURED SALMON.
AT 5.30 A. M., August 20th, our camp was alive with preparations for
the long anticipated run down Webster River, ten miles, to the East
Branch of the Penobscot and, as it afterwards proved, was the most
exciting day’s experience of the two hundred mile tour.
Blankets, overcoats, and tent were rolled closer than usual, and
leather thongs five feet in length, (some three dozen of which I had
brought with me,) were tied about them, and safely crowded into the
bottom of the long rubber bags. Covers to the various provision boxes
and pails were secured with straps and ropes, and every part of the
camp kit made to occupy as little room as possible in the four canoes.
Rubber leggings and wading shoes were put on, and all unnecessary
wearing apparel wrapped in rubber blankets and tied to the boats, that
nothing might incommode the free use of our arms in the passage of the
falls and cascades of the stream. The stretcher of our canvas boat was
fastened to the wooden knees more tightly with thongs, that no possible
chance of accident might occur, while the pieces of extra canvas
for patching the canoe, with their accompanying needles, wax, and
waterproofing, were tied at a convenient place in the bow, and before
we had completed the day’s adventures we found them of great service.
Webster stream is about sixty feet wide, and in its course from the
lake of the same name to Grand Falls (two miles above its mouth),
descends one hundred and ten feet, while the falls, including the
rolling dam and cataract below, make the entire distance to the East
Branch of the Penobscot not far short of one hundred and seventy feet.
[Illustration: RUNNING THE RAPIDS ON WEBSTER RIVER.]
The stream issues from the lake with little force, being clogged
above by a mass of logs, the remnants of various “booms.” As it
passes downward in its course, heavy walls of rock, crowned by tall
pines, arise on all sides, often darkening the waters and producing a
cañon-like appearance of the surroundings.
The course of the river is over immense bowlders and ledges, often
unobservable, just beneath the surface, while others in sight stand
like sentinels in the middle of the stream, disputing one’s passage.
The flow is repeatedly marked by beautiful falls and rapids, not high,
but crowded together in narrow parts, which give greater expression and
grandeur to the water, presenting at various points the most remarkable
scenery in this section. Cascade succeeds cascade, ending often in an
abrupt pitch of three to five feet, and at their base are dark boiling
pools, flecked with snowy foam. The river has not great depth of water
at any time, three to five feet on the average, but we were fortunate
in the extra supply of the last week’s rain, which, although it
prevented many “carries,” also increased the volume and force of water
to that extent that made canoeing more hazardous, and filled our path
with greater dangers.
The ladened birch canoes had passed us down the river, when the
“Quartermaster” and the writer, buckling their belts tighter about
them, stepped lightly into the canvas canoe and swung out into the
impetuous river, with feelings similar to what might be expected in one
entering a battle.
My friend at the stern held a trusty paddle, whose strength had more
than once been tried, while the writer, in a devotional attitude on a
rubber blanket at the bow, held a long “setting pole” ready for duty
at a moment’s notice. In half the time I have narrated the above,
we were among the furious rapids, battling with their difficulties,
and shouting to each other above the roar of the waters, how best to
circumvent them. The sun, unfortunately, shone the greater part of
the time in our faces, which produced a glimmer on the water, often
preventing the discovery of sunken rocks. At one time, while dashing
down a cascade, we mounted such a bowlder, and, swinging around, leaped
a five-foot fall, _stern first_, much to our peril. Again, with mighty
force we were hurled close to the rocky shore, which only a desperate
use of the paddle prevented our striking.
At times we were obliged to hold the canoe in the middle of the stream
by the long “setting poles,” firmly planted in the bottom, while we
made our decision regarding the better of two channels, the dangers
of which there was little choice, then on we went through the rush of
waters, our “setting poles” keeping time with our eyes, noting the
sunken rocks by the water’s upheaval, avoiding this sharp ledge, or
that rough bowlder, or swinging into the foam of another as we shot
swiftly by.
Often with ease we thought to pass a distant rock, but mistaking the
velocity of the water, doubled it by a hair’s breadth. One fall over
which the guides had _led_ their canoes, we amateurs passed in the
_canvas_ canoe, the water falling in spray about us, but the cheer for
our bravery with which we were greeted at its base, paid us well for
the risk incurred.
[Illustration: LUNCH TIME ON WEBSTER STREAM.]
At “Pine Knoll” we were obliged to let our canoes over the falls by
long ropes from the cliffs above, and at another, soon after, two of
the guides, Weller and Morris, passed safely in our canvas boat, on
account of its slight draft of water, although they carried the birch
canoes around. So we continued our rapid progress down the stream,
running most of the falls, our boat conforming to each situation, and
almost seeming a part of us, and taking an interest in our exploits.
At noon we stopped for an hour’s rest and lunch on the right bank of
the stream, and while disposing of hard tack, canned corned beef, and
coffee, our artist plied his profession, and then on we went through
other perils.
It was fearfully fascinating, as our four canoes, following each
other’s lead, dashed onward through dangers which we could hardly
anticipate before they were passed, only to be repeated and repeated
at every mile of the stream. But the stimulant to one’s feelings
gave strength and courage and even recklessness, which, in the wild
surroundings, made one feel as if no danger was too great to dare. An
hour after our tarry for lunch, we entered the deep and narrow chasm
of swift, dark water above Grand Falls, and swinging our canoe into
an eddy on the left, under the shadows of a great rock (some five
hundred feet high), we stepped out on the shore, having completed the
excitements of a half-day that many years will fail to erase.
Our canoes had suffered less than we had anticipated. A sharp rock had
left its mark on Bowley’s birch, which the application of rosin and
grease soon rectified. The bottom of the canvas boat had two small
cuts about midships, so the use of needle and thread became necessary,
the “Quartermaster” and _compagnon-du-voyage_, choosing for their
_modus operandi_ different sides of the canoe, putting the needle back
and forth with iron pliers.
[Illustration: IT’S NOT ALL POETRY.]
A few moments’ rest, and while the guides were “sacking” the camp kit
across “Indian carry,” three-quarters of a mile to the East Branch (at
right angles with Webster stream), we gathered up the artist’s camera
and plates, and pushed forward to examine the picturesque beauties of
Grand Falls, and catch all we could while the light lasted.
Grand Falls is from forty to fifty feet high, seventy feet wide,
surrounded on all sides, for half a mile, by ledges of iron-colored
rocks of nearly the same height, which decrease in altitude as they
near the Penobscot River below. From a point beneath, the scene is
grand in its somber magnificence, as the swift torrent, striking midway
upon a projecting ledge in the center of the fall, rebounds in foam
flakes, which, after the momentary interruption, continue to fall into
the dark whirlpool of water below.
We place the tripod upon a prominent ledge, and, mounting the camera,
our artist prepares the plates in his mysterious cloth-covered box or
“dark room,” while we further exclude the light by covering him with
our rubber blankets. But the mist and spray blinds us, and we are
obliged to gather up the camera and retreat to another ledge before we
can operate.
The water, of a dark reddish hue, in strong contrast with the snowy
foam, circles around and around in the eddies, kissing the rocks on all
sides in its whirl, and, amid the roar of the fall, goes dashing on for
about four hundred feet, and then plunges over a “rolling dam” on its
course to the Penobscot, making canoeing the balance of the distance on
this river impossible.
[Illustration: GRAND FALLS—WEBSTER RIVER.]
The light from above, reflecting on the cliff above the fall, glancing
with rich beauty on rock and cascade, the fantastic growth of trees
on every ledge, make up a fascinating charm that each succeeding
picture varies in detail, but which pertains with almost equal force to
every part of the entire chasm. While our artist was at work, we busied
ourselves gathering the luscious blue and blackberries, and scarlet
wintergreen berries which grew in profusion around us; they were of
great size, the average blueberry being an inch, and the wintergreen
berries an inch and a half in circumference—measurement being taken at
the time on the spot.
After filling a three-quart pail with berries, we divided the artist’s
“kit” among us, found the “carry,” and pressed on to camp, to which
place our guides had preceded us with tent and canoes.
Supper ended, we again sought the river’s bank, a mile below the falls
at a place called “the Arches,” where, in the radiance of a gorgeous
sunset, we again drank to our fill of this picturesque locality. Words
fail to describe the beauties of this scene, with which even the
guides, slow to recognize the attractiveness of nature, were enraptured.
“O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due!”
Around the big camp-fire that night, each narrated his individual
experience of the day’s adventures, and the hair-breadth escapes in
running the rapids.
“But,” says Bowley, the guide, “you should accompany the lumbermen ‘on
the drive,’ and see the perils they run while starting a ‘jam’ on these
rivers. Often the logs are piled one upon another, until it seems as if
nothing but an avalanche would start them. But one log is loosened, and
then another, and another, and in a moment the whole mass goes sweeping
down stream with terrific force, and woe betide the unlucky ‘driver’ in
its path.”
From the first of the trip to this moment, the guides had failed to
praise the working of the canvas canoe, as it came in competition with
their birch barks. But this day’s trial proved beyond question its
qualities, and wrung from them an acknowledgment they were not slow to
utter.
“It was fun to watch you, gentlemen,” says Morris, to the Quartermaster
and myself, as we sat drying ourselves before the fire, “you came over
the ‘rips’ like a perfect duck. I don’t believe you could drown the
craft if you tried.” While the French Canadian, Weller, taking the pipe
from his mouth, ejaculated, “_Ma fois!_ she goes over the falls like a
chain over a log!”
[Illustration: STARTING A BOOM.]
On Thursday, August 21st, we wet our canoes for the first time in the
East Branch of the Penobscot river, although from Chamberlin lake to
this point it is strictly a part of the same stream under different
names.
[Illustration: A BOOM.]
The river at this spot is only about fifteen feet wide, very deep, with
long meadow grass lapping and fringing its border, and flowing with the
rapidity of a mill course, each bubble as it shot by seeming to have an
individuality of purpose, which to the writer was very amusing.
Hardly had we dropped into our accustomed positions in the canoes
before we were swept away from the bank, past the tall alders, and
darted with lightning speed down the river a mile and a half and out on
to the placid Matagamonsis lake. This was one of the loveliest bodies
of water on our course, dotted with small islands and far-reaching
points of shore, the tall Norway pines forming a wall of beauty on
either side.
The lake is about one mile wide and four long, and the spruce-covered
tops of Traveler mountains to the southwest are reflected in its
mirror-like surface. From the top of a bold crag at its foot we stopped
for a sketch of the lake, and then passed downward through the sluggish
stream of three miles which connects it with Matagamon or Grand lake.
To the left or east of this stream, and half way between these lakes,
is another lake about two miles in extent, which we fail to find
noticed on any map we have seen, and lies in close proximity to “Hay
creek,” but is not what is termed in this section “a logan.” (See
Introduction, page 15.)
Half a mile from this lake, the stream passes under a foot bridge,
which leads to a farm on Trout Brook stream, the first loggers’ camp
since leaving Chamberlin farm, a distance of over seventy-five miles.
[Illustration: DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.]
This farm, owned by E. S. Coe, Esq., of Bangor, consists of four houses
built close together, and eight or ten barns, with about four hundred
acres of cleared land, through which flows the swift-running trout
brook. Half a dozen batteaux lay turned over on the grass, bounteous
crops of oats and potatoes were ripening in the fields, while the
industrious chicken (evidence of civilization) was picking about the
doors.
[Illustration: MATAGAMONSIS LAKE.]
The house where our party dined was occupied by a man and his wife
and one small boy. The rooms to this house were low and smoky, like
all the rest we had seen, with the big iron box stove in the center;
the only change from the usual wall decoration was perceived in an
advertisement of Pinafore opera music, which, pasted beside the other
illustrations, made us feel quite homesick.
After dinner at the house, our party bade our new-found friends adieu,
and paddled down the Thoroughfare into Grand or Matagamon lake, which
is about one-third longer than Lake Matagamonsis, and went into camp at
its foot, on the right bank, near another old dam.
The eastern shore of this lake (the largest body of water on our
course since leaving Chamberlin lake) is not especially attractive to
the artist, being low and covered with meadow grass. But the western
is decidedly picturesque, being bold and rocky, which, climbing from
elevation to elevation, finally culminates in the precipitous and
rugged peak of Matagamon mountain, towering above one’s head to the
height of six hundred feet, and is almost divested of foliage. We
halted but one night on this lake, but were well rewarded by the number
and size of the fine trout captured, adding also to our creel a small
salmon.
[Illustration: OUR SALMON.]
[Illustration: MATAGAMON OR GRAND LAKE.]