“By viewing nature, Nature’s handmaid, art,
Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow.
Thus, fishes first to shipping did impart
Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.”
DANGER OF WANDERING FROM CAMP.—AN EXPERIENCE ON LAKE SUPERIOR.—THE
FALLS OF THE EAST BRANCH.—STAIR FALLS.—INCIDENTS OF CAMP LIFE.—AN
ENCHANTED BOWER.—HUNT’S FARM.—AN ARTIST’S CANOE.—THE ASCENT OF HUNT’S
MOUNTAIN.—A REVERIE.—WHETSTONE FALLS.—DISCOVERY OF JASPER ON LEDGE
FALLS.—DAWN OF CIVILIZATION.—MATTAWAMKEAG.—THE EAST BRANCH CANVAS-ED.
I often thought how easily one could stray from camp, and, if without
a compass, be lost in this wilderness. While hunting on Lake Superior
one autumn, some years since, I endured such an experience, and the
bitterness of it has always remained fresh in my memory. While passing
over the corduroy road of thirteen and a half miles which lies
between the town of Ontonagon, Mich., and the Minnesota copper mines,
my attention was allured from the road by the melodious whir-r-r-r,
whir-r-r-r of a brace of partridges. Stepping aside into the thicket, I
followed as fast as possible the retreating sound, and after a tedious
tramp through briers and swamp I finally brought them to bag. In the
excitement of the chase, I had given little or no heed to the path, or
to the clouds that were fast gathering overhead.
Starting back in the direction I supposed the road, I traveled, it
seemed to me, double the distance that would have revealed it, but no
familiar path did I find. In fact, I was amazed in discovering that I
was back on the same ground on which I had started. There was no reason
in the thing,—no reasoning against it. The points of the compass had
been as clear in my head as if I saw the needle, but the moment I was
back, all seemed to be wrong. The sun, which occasionally revealed
itself, shone out of the wrong part of the heavens. I climbed one of
the tall trees, but the very stillness of the landscape on which I
gazed seemed to mock me.
I was not a novice in woodcraft, and could follow a trail readily. I
examined the bark of the trees to see which side was the roughest, and
then, singling out a number, judged of the points of the compass by the
way the majority leaned, and plunging into the thicket made another
and another attempt.
I well knew the danger of losing my self-control, and, sitting down on
a log, I covered my face with my hands and waited until I felt calm
and self-possessed again. I have no idea how long it was, but when I
arose the sun was nearly obliterated by the clouds, which soon began to
discharge their contents in sympathy for my ill luck, and to reach my
destination I must make all speed.
I immediately struck a “bee line” in the direction which my reveries
had designated as the right path, blazing the trees with my
hunting-knife as I hastened along. Soon I espied an opening, and,
dashing onward, what was my joy to find the old corduroy road, which
never looked more welcome in its life.
From Grand lake to the junction of the East with the West branch of
the Penobscot it is sixty to seventy-five miles, the river being
shut in on all sides by lofty mountains, or heavy belts of grand old
forests, through which the swift river tumbles, with only an occasional
suggestion of the lumberman’s axe.
There are eleven conspicuous falls in this interval, varying from
twenty to sixty feet in height, while the charming cascades are too
numerous to mention. The abrupt descents bear the names of Stair,
Haskell Rock, Grand, Pond Pitch, Hulling Machine, Bowling, Spring
Brook Gravel Bed, Whetstone, Grindstone, Crowfoot, and Ledge Falls,
their names, in many cases, suggesting their wild and rugged formation.
[Illustration: ON THE EAST BRANCH.]
The water swept so swiftly through this section that with the exception
of the last twenty miles it was hardly necessary to use our paddles,
but, keeping an eye to the rocks in our path; we could silently enjoy
the many lovely changes constantly opening in the landscape.
But this also was decidedly the hardest part of the entire
excursion.—At most of these falls, our whole camp equipage, provisions,
and canoes had to be “sacked” around the falls from one to two miles,
and in many cases there was hard climbing along the steep, rocky sides
of the mountains which followed the river’s course, while each one of
us carried his portion of the load.
For two and a half miles after leaving Grand lake one is constantly
reminded of the day’s experience on Webster stream by the furious
rapids, and we were again obliged to call into action our “setting
poles.” In a drenching rain, we were twice compelled to land on the
shore, take the canvas boat into our laps and sew the cuts in its
surface, laughing at the philosophical manner with which we submitted
to the circumstance.
Along the river’s bank to the west, for many miles, are the lovely
Traveler mountains, whose rambling appearance and daily companionship
are fully represented by their name.
Stair Falls the “Quartermaster” and myself ran in our canvas canoe, but
the guides, tending their birches as if they were glass, dropped them
from step to step by means of ropes.
[Illustration: DROPPING CANOES OVER THE FALLS.]
This fall or cascade is a series of steps or stairs some five in
number, each about three feet high and ten feet apart, the best passage
being through the channel near the left bank. It is a very choice bit
of scenery, and one that any artist would greatly desire to transfer to
canvas and work into endless variety of composition. A ten-mile passage
of the swift river, and we reached Grand falls, which, although higher
than its namesake on Webster river, being followed immediately by
numerous cataracts did not so impress one.
Here we were obliged to make a portage of three-fourths of a mile
through the dense woods to the foot of the falls, and, in a heavy
shower, went into camp on the opposite shore. To the “camper-out” a
rainy day in the woods is among the most disagreeable experiences, even
under a tight tent, with good company and plenty of amusement. But the
difficulties increase by being forced to be out in the storm, and to
leave your canoe at a portage and obliged to carry on your back through
mud and mire all your camp effects.
[Illustration: ACCEPTING THE SITUATION.]
Through the woods you stumble, pressing the wet branches aside,
which in their recoil push away your rubber clothing, from which the
buttons are fast disappearing and the rents appearing, and whose
special protection is sadly deficient, until the repetition of such
circumstances as thoroughly drenches you as if you had been without
them. The water is dripping from off your hat to your neck and rolling
down your back in icy rills. The position of your arms in carrying
your “kit” is such as to lead a looker-on to imagine you are striving
hard to fill your sleeves with the rain, which you know is a mistake,
but there is no help for it. You clutch tightly to your rifle as your
pack begins to slip, striving to keep the locks from the rain, while
your boots have been innocently occupied in catching every scanty drop
which fell from your clothing, and you have every appearance, if not
the feeling, of the oft-quoted “drowned rat.” You would not have your
wife, or other friend, see you at this moment for anything. How they
would laugh, and hurl at you many of your pet quotations regarding the
“poetry, pleasure, and romance of life in the woods,” until you had
rather endure another storm than their irony.
Then comes the raising of the wet tent into position, the repeated
attempts to start the fire, and the holding of every individual fir
branch in the flame to dry before performing the duty of bed.
Two forked sticks with one across are placed before the fire, and
on them you hang boots, socks, blankets, and other articles of your
belongings, and, while the guides are cleaning your guns, you examine
the provision boxes to see if they have escaped the drenching.
It is amusing how stoical and indifferent one grows to these
circumstances in the woods, and soon makes but little of them,
retaining as serene and unruffled a disposition as if they were of no
account, while after a warm supper and a social pipe they pass from
memory.
[Illustration: STAIR FALLS]
I will not weary the reader by a description of the passage of
each fall from day to day on our route, some of which we ran, and
past others we “carried,” letting the canoes, as before, over the
difficulties by long ropes from the cliffs above. After passing Spring
Brook Gravel Bed Falls, we paddled through a mile or two of heavy
“rips” and entered some two miles of “dead water.”
[Illustration: HULLING MACHINE FALLS.]
On turning a beautiful bend in the river, what was our surprise to
observe the rugged growth of pines gradually disappear, and the
landscape immediately softened by the introduction of a dense forest
of maple, elm, ash, and noble oak trees, whose gnarled trunks pushed
themselves far into the stream, their branches overlocking above our
heads and forming a canopy that darkened the water.
[Illustration: THE ARCHES.
East Branch of the Penobscot River.]
Exclamations of surprise rang from our lips as all the canoes in
“Indian file” drifted through this enchanting bower, and we thought to
ourselves, if in the quiet dress of summer this is so lovely, what must
it be when robed in autumnal foliage.
Passing the mouth of Big and Little Seboois rivers, we pitched our tent
on the left bank of the river near a place known as Hunt’s Farm.
The solitary log house and barn on Hunt’s farm were erected some
forty-three years ago, and are located on high ground in a picturesque
bend of the Penobscot river.
The house outside is painted red, white-washed inside, with low
ceilings similar to the others mentioned. In addition to the
cultivation of land near the house, an attempt was made some seasons
ago to press into tillage, as a melon patch, the side of an adjacent
mountain, but the fruit, as soon as it grew heavy and ripened,
snapped its hold on the vines, rolled down the mountain side, and
was crushed at its base. As can easily be seen, this elevated farm
was not a success, and now only the bright green foliage of a fresh
growth of trees is left to tell the melancholy story. Mr. Dunn, who,
assisted by three other persons, takes care of the place, showed us
many attentions, supplying us with fresh milk and sugar, and other
delicacies that had been foreign to our fare at camp for many days.
The manufacture of birch canoes seemed to be one of the industries
of the place, an immense one being then in process of building for
the celebrated New York artist, Frederick E. Church, Esq. This canoe
was twenty-eight feet long, over four feet wide (midships), and when
completed would weigh three hundred pounds.
The artist has recently purchased four hundred acres of land on
Milinokett Lake, fifteen miles distant, a tributary to the West Branch
of the Penobscot River, one of the prettiest sheets of water in that
vicinity. A fine view of Mount Katahdin can be had from this spot,
and men were to leave this farm the following day to erect three
substantial log camps.
[Illustration: HUNT’S FARM.]
[Illustration: MOUNT KATAHDIN.
_Study by F. E. Church._]
The ascension of Mount Katahdin can with little difficulty be made from
Hunt’s farm, where a convenient ride on horseback lands one within two
miles of its top. I shall not soon forget the climb of Hunt’s Mountain,
about twelve hundred feet high, opposite our camp, or the magnificent
view from its peak.
With Mr. Dunn as guide, in company with the “Quartermaster,” I started
to make the ascent on the morning of August 24th. To clamber up the
steep side of a mountain in the dense wilderness is an entirely
different undertaking from the following of a “bridal path” to the
top of Mount Washington. Cutting stout poles seven feet in length, we
set off up the mountain side, catching half glimpses of the landscape
below, as we swung from tree to tree and rock to rock, which latter had
been made extra slippery by a recent shower, and, after two hours of
laborious climbing, gained the bare but welcome crags at the top. The
first sensation of the prospect from the summit is simply of immensity.
The eye sweeps the vast spaces that are bounded only by the haze of
distance, overlooking one vast undulating sea of forest trees, which
seemed to come rolling in to the mountain’s base, with only here and
there the glimmer of a lake or stream, and little to break the vision
save the farm at our feet, where we could just distinguish the white
canvas of our camp. To the left stretch successive ranges of hills
and mountains, and at their base could be had momentary glimpses of
the windings of the West Branch of the Penobscot, while to our right
was its twin brother, the East Branch, over which we had so recently
passed, its misty falls and cascades subdued to a level with the
surrounding landscape. These two streams sweep away to the south twenty
miles, and unite in unbroken union at Medway, on their way to the sea.
[Illustration: JUNCTION EAST AND WEST BRANCHES PENOBSCOT.]
Before me arose the cloud-capped peak of Mount Katahdin, 5,385 feet
high, Wasataquoik Mountain, 5,245 feet high, the lofty Traveler and
Sourdnahunk mountains, which, with the exception of the first, are
wooded to their summits. Broad seams, or slides, are visible along the
surface of old Katahdin, which, with its triple-peaked outline, seemed
to look down into the valleys with a fatherly interest, while “the
whispering air sent inspiration from the mountain heights.”
The thunder clouds had just parted, and a beautiful rainbow arched
the heavens, shedding its colors on the glistening outlines of the
valley and mountain. Oh, that we might be left alone for hours, to
watch the changes of the landscape and hear the secret voice and dread
revelations of these magnificent mountains!
There are thoughts, deep and holy, which float through one’s mind, as,
gazing down upon such a scene, one contrasts the smallness of man with
the magnitude of God’s works, and in the weird silence contemplates the
perishable of this world with “the everlasting hills.”
After such a prospect of the East Branch and vicinity, it almost seems
as if we ought to bid adieu to this enchanting river of our narrative,
but if the future tourist shall desire to make its acquaintance, I
would like to guide him safely over four other remarkable falls to his
journey’s end at Mattawamkeag, thirty-two miles below.
Two miles from Hunt’s farm, we came to what is known as Whetstone
Falls, a series of high, picturesque cascades. Here we made a short
portage on the right-hand side of the stream, then shot across and down
a very steep pitch of the water close to the left bank, and landed a
portion of our baggage which we carried to a point below. Then the
guides ran the heavier part of the falls, and, after passing the quick
boiling water at their foot, rounded to the shore and re-loaded the
camp kit which we had “sacked” over the ledges at the river’s bank.
Then we passed, without accident, Grindstone and Crowfoot Falls,
each from ten to twenty feet high, the name of the former being so
suggestive by its geological formation that the “Quartermaster”
declared that he could honestly see the indentation of the axle.
Another camp seven miles from Medway, and in the morning we passed
Ledge Falls, which, although the last of the pitches on the East
Branch, was none the less interesting.
We passengers, to lighten the canvas, strolled along the shore,
gathering bright flowers and curious colored stones, while the guides
alone in their canoes ran the cataract, meeting us in the “dead water”
below. These falls are composed of slate of a grayish color, which,
after the first steep pitch form into numerous cascades, produced by
the sharp ridges of rock, which, extending out into the stream from
both shores, decrease in height as they approach the center.
[Illustration: GLIMPSES OF CIVILIZATION BEGIN TO DAWN.]
A dark red stone attracted my attention, and I waded into the water
to secure it, and on regaining the canoe soon after, threw it into my
camp-bag, little dreaming of the value of my prize. On reaching home
it was examined by an old and experienced lapidary, and proved to be a
_jasper_ of exquisite grain and color.
A portion of the stone, as an article of jewelry, incrusted with the
magic words “Ledge Falls,” is highly prized and now worn as a souvenir
by the writer.
The stream now gradually widens, with strong but noiseless flow; the
mountains retire, and the banks of the river are for the most part
bordered by foot-hills and grassy knolls. Glimpses of civilization
begin to dawn as we occasionally pass a log house whose lonesome
appearance is only relieved by the happy faces of children at the door.
Corn-fields wave their tall stems, while broad patches of potatoes (for
which Maine is justly celebrated) flourish here surprisingly. It is a
sudden change from the forest’s depths, after a month’s camp life, and
seems to urge us towards home more and more rapidly.
We are soon at Medway, the junction of the East and West Branches,
(a small town on the left bank of the Penobscot River, of about four
hundred inhabitants,) and are speeding faster and faster through the
broad river to Mattawamkeag on the European and North American railroad.
We have followed the river in its devious windings, from a width of
fifteen to now an expansion of over five hundred feet.
We have felt the mysterious silence of the wilderness at early morn, or
as the twilight lessened and the shadows deepened about the camp, only
broken by the chirp of the cricket, or the weird and plaintive cry of
the loons on the lake.
Our tour has been one of daily excitement, filled from first to last
with grand old forests, noble waterfalls, picturesque lakes, and
cascades. A region in which an artist might linger many weeks with
profit to both eye and brush, while the recuperation to one’s health by
the out-door life in the dry atmosphere cannot be overestimated.
Springing ashore, we unjoint our rods, pack up the camera, collapse the
canvas canoe, and with hearts full of thanks to the kind Providence
which has watched over our two hundred mile voyage, we bid adieu to our
guides, as we do now to the reader.
[Illustration: NET RESULTS.]
IN PRESS.
ANOTHER CHARMING BOOK BY THE AUTHOR OF
“CANOE AND CAMERA.”
PADDLE AND PORTAGE
FROM
MOOSEHEAD LAKE
TO THE
AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE.
BY THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE.
EXQUISITELY ILLUSTRATED.
THIS TOUR OF
OVER FOUR HUNDRED MILES IN A BIRCH CANOE,
through the very heart of Maine to New Brunswick, is one of great
interest, opening a region entirely unknown heretofore to the
sportsman, but rich in beautiful scenery, game, fish, and exciting
adventure. The account of the exploration, its hardships, and its
successes, are given with great spirit, while the illustrations are
accurate reproductions from
PHOTOGRAPHS PERSONALLY MADE BY THE AUTHOR.
Mr. Steele has already made himself widely known by his contributions
to the public press regarding this paradise of out-door pleasure
seekers, while his artistic taste has made this book a fitting
companion of “Canoe and Camera.”
A NEW MAP OF MAINE,
20 × 30 inches, has been expressly prepared for the work, which
includes the tours of the _East and West Branches of the Penobscot_,
_the St. Johns_, _and Aroostook waters_, besides portions of Canada
and New Brunswick, and supplies a want long felt by tourists to these
regions.
1 vol. Crown 8vo. Cloth. $1.50.
Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by
ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers,
301 to 305 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.
JUST PUBLISHED.
A NEW MAP OF THE
HEADWATERS OF THE
AROOSTOOK, PENOBSCOT, AND ST. JOHN RIVERS,
MAINE,
COMPILED BY
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
HARTFORD, CONN.
AUTHOR OF
CANOE AND CAMERA; OR, TWO HUNDRED MILES THROUGH THE MAINE FORESTS.
PADDLE AND PORTAGE, FROM MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, ETC.,
ETC.
What is said of the Map by the well-known Sportsman’s Paper, “FOREST
AND STREAM.”
“A NEW MAP OF NORTHERN MAINE.—Mr. Thomas Sedgwick Steele, author
of ‘Canoe and Camera’ and other works, has just compiled one of the
most satisfactory maps of the great canoe tours of Northern Maine yet
published. This chart is 20 × 30 inches, printed on Government Survey
paper, mounted on cloth, and is an invaluable aid to the sportsman
tourist in these wild regions,—in fact, to such an individual it is a
most necessary adjunct to the economy of his camp kit. From the extreme
lower portion of the map covered by Moosehead Lake diverge the great
rivers of this vast wilderness,—the Main St. John, Aroostook, and East
and West Branches of the Penobscot, while a portion of Canada on the
north and New Brunswick on the east is embraced within its boundaries.
Great care has been exercised in noting many points along these
routes, which, although of the greatest importance to the canoeist,
are seldom brought within the scope of the ordinary map. Along the
Main St. John every log house and portage seems to be conscientiously
indicated, while the many falls of the picturesque East Branch are
noted, to the advantage and caution of the voyageur of these waters.
After leaving the farms at Chesuncook and Chamberlin Lake the tourist
to the Aroostook paddles about two hundred miles through the wilderness
before reaching a sign of civilization, the first house being that of
Philip Painter, while the second habitation, one mile further on, is
that of William Botting, situated on the right bank, at a bend of the
Aroostook River, called the Oxbow. Innumerable lakes and ponds are
spread out before one on this chart like shot holes in a target. These
and many other points of interest recommend this new survey of Mr.
Steele to the camper-out in the wilds of Maine. The map is published
by Estes & Lauriat, of Boston, and is mailed, post-paid, for $1.00 per
copy.”—_Forest and Stream._
PRICE, $1.00.
Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by
ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers,
301-305 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS
[Illustration:
MAP
of the HEADWATERS of the
AROOSTOOK,
PENOBSCOT & ST. JOHN RIVERS,
MAINE.
Prepared expressly for
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE, HARTFORD, CONN.
AUTHOR OF
CANOE AND CAMERA,
OR TWO HUNDRED MILES THROUGH THE MAINE FORESTS.
PADDLE AND PORTAGE
from MOOSEHEAD LAKE to the AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE &c.
COPYRIGHT 1881]
Transcriber’s Note
The following changes have been made:
Page 36: changed ‘flipjacks’ to ‘flip-jacks’.
Page 57: changed ‘right hand’ to ‘right-hand’.
Page 63: changed ‘fly catcher’ to ‘fly-catcher’.
Page 70: changed ‘enableing’ to ‘enabling’.
Page 87: changed ‘camp fire’ to ‘camp-fire’.
Page 125: changed ‘to day’ to ‘to-day’.
Page 129: changed ‘log-house’ to ‘log house’.
In advertisement at the end of the book, changed ‘Sedgewick’ to
‘Sedgwick’.
The word ‘boulders’ on p. 53 has been left as spelt, even though
the spelling of ‘bowlders’ is used elsewhere.