SQUATOOK RIVER AND HORTON BRANCH.
The next was a rainy day at Camp de Squatook. Of course we fished off
and on all day, whenever the rain held up a little; and in a deep run,
about a hundred yards below the whitefish fence, Sam had the luck to
land the big trout of the trip. It weighed, fresh from the water, three
pounds three ounces, and it was killed with a minnow. Sam complained,
however, that it had given him no more play than one of his two-pounders
of the day before. We thought him very artful, in thus concealing his
elation so as to ward off our envy.
By nightfall it was raining pitchforks. In our tight tent, with wax
candles beaming, and the rattle of the rain on the roof, we felt very
snug. But inexpressibly lonely was the washing sound in the
pine-branches; and all the rest of the world seemed ages away from us.
For a while no stories were called for. Instead of that we played
Mississippi euchre. When we grew tired of the game, Stranion exclaimed,
“Let’s have one story, and then turn in!”
“Who will hold forth?” I asked.
“Well,” said Ranolf, “since you are all so pressing, _I_ will try and
rise to the occasion. It seems to be an understood thing that all these
stories are animal stories; but in this one I must wander from the rule,
and tell you a story of rain and wind. The noise on the tent-roof
to-night reminds me of a nice scrape which I got myself into only last
summer. When you hear the story you will understand just why I tell it
to-night. Sam, you heard all about it two days after it happened. It’s
appropriate to the occasion, isn’t it? I mean about how I was—
‘WRECKED IN A BOOM-HOUSE.’”
“Highly appropriate, indeed!” said Sam.
“Well, here you have it!” continued Ranolf. “You’ll excuse me, of
course, if I indulge at first in a little technical description, to make
the incidents clear.
“The Crock’s Point sheer-boom started from the shore a few yards below
the Point. It slanted out and down till it met a great pier in
mid-river, to which it was secured by heavy chains. From the pier it
swung free down the middle of the channel for a distance of several
hundred yards, swaying toward one shore or the other according to the
set of the wings and the strength of the current. It was a sturdy
structure, of squared and bolted timbers, about three feet in width, and
rising some three or four inches above the water.
“The boom, of course, was jointed at the pier so as to swing as on a
hinge; and at a distance of perhaps seventy yards below the pier it had
a second open joint. At the head of this section stood a windlass, wound
with a light wire cable. At intervals of ten or twelve feet along the
right-hand side of this section, for about one hundred and fifty feet in
all, were hinged stout wings of two-inch plank, ten feet long and
eighteen inches wide, set edgewise in the water so as to catch the
current, like a rudder or a centreboard. Through iron staples, in the
outer ends of these wings, ran and was fastened the cable from the
windlass. When the cable was unwound, the wings lay flat against the
side of the boom. But a few turns of the windlass sufficed to draw the
wings out at an angle to the boom; whereupon the force of the current,
sweeping strongly against their faces, would slowly sway the whole free
length of the boom toward the opposite shore. The section of the
sheer-boom thus peculiarly adorned was called the wing-boom. Just above
the upper end of the wing-boom, at a place widened out a few feet to
receive it, was built a little shanty known as the boom-house. To the
spectator from the shore the boom-house seemed to be afloat on the wide,
lonely level of the river.
“The office of the sheer-boom was to guide the run of the logs as they
came floating briskly down from the lumber regions of the upper river.
As long as the wings were not in use, and the boom swung with the
current, the logs were allowed to continue their journey down the middle
of the channel. But when the wings were set, and the boom stood over
toward the far shore, then the stream of logs was diverted into the
mouth of the stationary boom, whose chain of piers held them imprisoned
till they were wanted at the mill below the island. In the boom-house
dwelt an old lumberman named Mat Barnes, who, though his feet and ankles
were crippled with rheumatism from exposure to the icy water in the
spring stream drivings, was, nevertheless, still clever in the handling
of boat or canoe, and very competent to manage the windlass and the
wing-boom.
“On the southward slope of the line of uplands which, thrusting out
boldly into the river, formed Crock’s Point, stood a comfortable old
farmhouse in whose seclusion I was spending the months of August and
September. About four o’clock in the afternoon, it was my daily habit to
stroll down to the shore and hail Mat Barnes, who would presently paddle
over in his skiff, and take me out to the boom for my afternoon swim.
The boom was a most convenient and delightful place ‘to go in off of,’
as the boys say.
“One rough afternoon, when the boom was all awash, and the wind sweeping
up the river so keen with suggestions of autumn that I was glad to do my
undressing and my dressing in the boom-house, just as I was about to
take my plunge Mat asked if I would mind staying and watching the boom
for him while he paddled up to “the Corners” to buy himself some coffee
and molasses.
“Delighted,” said I; “if you’ll get back in good time, so I won’t keep
supper waiting at the farm.”
“I’ll be back inside of an hour, sure,” replied Mat confidently.
“Knowing Mat’s fondness for a little gossip at the grocery, I felt by no
means so confident; but I could not hesitate to oblige him in the
matter, a small enough return for the favors he was doing me daily.
“I stayed in the water nearly half an hour, and while I was swimming
about I noticed that the wind was fast freshening. The steep and broken
waves made swimming somewhat difficult, and the crests of the whitecaps
that occasionally slapped me in the face made me gasp for breath. While
dressing I thought, with some consternation, that this vigorous wind
would prove a serious hindrance to Mat Barnes’s return, as it would be
blowing directly in his teeth.
“For a time I sat sulkily in the door of the boom-house, with my feet on
a block to keep them out of the wet. The door opened away from the wind,
and against the back of the little structure the waves were beginning to
lash with sufficient violence to make me uneasy. I strained my eyes
up-river to catch the first glimpse of Mat forcing his way cleverly
against the tossing whitecaps. But no such welcome vision rewarded me.
At last I was compelled to acknowledge that the storm had become too
violent for him to return against it without assistance. I should have
to wait in the boom-house either till the wind abated, or till Mat
should succeed in finding a pair of stout arms and a willing heart to
come with him to my rescue.
“At first my thoughts dwelt with keen regret on the smoking pancakes and
luscious maple-sirup that I knew were even then awaiting me at the
farmhouse under the hill, and somewhat bitterly I reviled Mat’s lack of
consideration. But as the sky grew rapidly dark while it wanted yet a
half-hour of sundown, and the wind came shrieking more madly down from
the hills, and the boom-house began to creak and groan and shudder
beneath the waves that were leaping upon it, anxiety for my safety took
the place of all other considerations.
“Frail as the boom-house appeared, it was well jointed and framed, or it
would simply have gone to pieces under the various assaults of wind and
waves, and the rolling of the boom. The floor in particular was very
carefully secured, being bolted to the boom at the four corners, that it
might not be torn away by any chance collision with log or icecake. At
every wave, however, the water came spurting through the cracks of the
wall, and I was drenched almost before I knew it. Through the open door,
too, the back wash of the waves rolled heavily; and even without the
increasing peril of the situation, the prospect of having to pass the
night in such cold, inescapable slop was far from comforting.
“The door was made to fit snugly, so I shut it in the hope of keeping
out some of the water; but in the almost total darkness that ensued my
apprehensions became unbearable. The writhing roll of the boom grew more
and more excessive, and produced a sickening sensation. I threw the door
open again, but was greeted with such a fierce rush of wave and spray
that I shut it as quickly as I could.
“I had never before been on the boom-house after dark, so I did not know
what Mat was accustomed to do for light. After much difficult groping,
however, I found a tin box, fortunately quite waterproof, in which were
matches and a good long piece of candle. When I had succeeded in getting
the candle to burn, I stuck a fork through it, and pinned it to the
driest spot I could find, which was the edge of Mat’s bunk, away up
close to the roof. Presently a spurt of water struck the veering and
smoky flame, and again I was in darkness. Of course I lost no time in
relighting the candle; but within ten minutes it was out again. I
repeated the process, and was prepared to keep it up as long as the
matches would hold out. In fact, I was thankful for that little
annoyance, as it gave me something to do, and diverted my mind somewhat
from my own helplessness and from the imminent peril of the situation.
“There was absolutely nothing that I could do to help myself. To reach
the shore by crawling along the boom would have been quite impossible. I
should have inevitably been swept off before going three feet beyond the
shelter of the boom-house. In those choppy and formless seas and in the
bewildering darkness, I should have found it impossible to swim, or even
to keep my mind clear as to the direction in which the shore lay. Though
a strong swimmer, and accustomed to rough water, I knew very well that
in that chaos I should soon be exhausted, and either drowned or dashed
against the boom. There was nothing to do but wait, and pray that the
boom-house might hold together till calm or daylight.
“It was a strange picture my faint candle revealed to me within the four
narrow walls of my refuge. All the implements and accessories of Mat’s
somewhat primitive housekeeping had been shaken from their shelves or
from the nails on which they hung, and were coasting about the floor
with a tinny clatter, as the boom twisted and lurched from side to side.
Three joints of rust-eaten stovepipe kept them in countenance, and from
time to time I had to jump nimbly aside to save my shins from being
broken by the careering little stove. Sometimes I would be thrown
heavily against the wall or the door. At last I climbed into the bunk,
where I crouched, dripping and shivering, both courage and hope pretty
well drenched out of me.
“Being something of a slave to routine, when I found myself in what
resembled a sleeping-place,—or might have resembled one under more
favorable circumstances.—I took out my watch to wind it. The hour was
half-past nine. From that hour till nearly midnight there was no change
in the situation. Finding that the matches were running low, I occupied
myself in protecting the light with the aid of the tin box already
spoken of. And at last, strange as it may seem, I found myself growing
sleepy. It was partly the result of exhaustion caused by my anxiety and
suspense, but partly also, no doubt, a sort of semi-hypnotic
bewilderment induced by the motion and by the monotonous clamor of the
storm.
“As I sat there crouching over the candle I must have dropped into a
doze, for suddenly I felt myself hurled out of the bunk. I fell heavily
upon the floor. The boom-house was in utter darkness. I staggered to my
feet and groped for the candle; it was gone from the edge of the bunk.
In my fall I had evidently swept it away.
“The motion of the boom had now greatly increased in violence, and it
was impossible for me to stand up without clinging tightly to the edge
of the bunk. In the thick dark the stove crashed against my legs so
heavily that I thought for a moment one of them was broken. I drew
myself up again into the bunk, no longer feeling in the least degree
sleepy.
“Presently I realized what had happened. The boom had parted at the
joint where the wings began, and my section was swinging before the
wind. The waves frequently went clear over the roof, and came pouring
down the vacant pipe-hole in torrents, whose volume I could guess by
their sound. The pitching, rolling, tossing, and the thrashing of the
waves were appalling; and I fervently blessed the sound workmanship that
had put together the little boom-house so as to stand such undreamed-of
assaults. But I knew it could not stand them much longer. Moment by
moment I expected to find myself fighting my last battle amid a crash of
mad waters and shattered timbers.
“In a little I began to realize that the boom must have parted in _two_
places at least. From the unchecked violence of its movements I knew it
must have broken loose at the pier. With this knowledge came a ray of
hope. As my section was now nothing more than a long and very attenuated
raft, it might presently be blown ashore somewhere. If the boom-house
would only hold out so long I might have a fair chance of escaping; but
I realized that the progress of the fragment of boom would necessarily
be slow, as wind and current were at odds together over it.
“Cooped up in that horrible darkness, and clinging on to the edge of the
bunk desperately with both hands, the strain soon became so intolerable
that I began to wish the boom-house _would_ go to pieces, and put me out
of my misery. None the less, however, did my heart leap into my throat
when at length there came a massive thud, a grinding crash, and the side
of the boom-house opposite the bunk was stove in. At the same time the
marvellously tough little structure was twisted half off its
foundations, and bent over as if a giant hand had crushed it down.
“I at once concluded that we had gone ashore on the Point. I tried to
get the door open that I might have some chance of saving myself; but
the twisting of the frame had fastened it immovably. Madly I wrenched at
it, but that very stability of structure which had hitherto been my
safety proved now my gravest menace. I could not budge the door; and,
meanwhile, I was being thrown into all sorts of positions, while the
boom ground heavily against the obstacle with which it had come in
contact. The boom-house was half full of water.
“A fierce indignation now seized me at the thought of being drowned thus
like a rat in a hole. Reaching down into the water my hands came in
contact with the little stove. I raised it aloft, and brought it down
with all my strength against the door. The stove went to pieces,
bruising and cutting my hands; but the door was shattered, and a wave
rushed in upon me.
“Holding my breath, I was tearing at the remnant of the door, in doubt
as to whether I should get free in time to escape suffocation, when the
boom gave a mightier heave, and the upper part of the boom-house crashed
against the obstacle with a violence that tore it clear of its base. The
next instant I was in deep water, striking out blindly.
“When I came up, providentially I rose clear of the shattered
boom-house. I could see nothing, and I was almost choked; but I kept my
presence of mind, and battled strenuously with the boiling seas, which
tossed me about like a chip. In a second or two I was dashed against a
pile of timbers. Half-stunned, I yet made good my hold, and instantly
drew myself higher up on the pile. As soon as I had recovered my breath
sufficiently to realize anything, I perceived that I was on one of the
piers.
“The upper portion of the great structure was open, and I speedily
crawled down among the rocks with which these piers are always
ballasted. As I crouched to escape the chill wind which hissed between
the logs, how I gloried in the thought that _here_ was something not to
be tossed about by wind and wave! Drenched, shivering, exhausted as I
was, I nevertheless felt my bed of rocks in the pier-top a most
luxurious retreat. I presently fell asleep, and when I awoke the dawn
was pink and amber in the eastern sky. I saw that the pier which had
given me refuge was that to which the sheer-boom had been fastened. The
storm had moderated somewhat; and forcing its way determinedly toward
the pier came Mat’s skiff, propelled by Mat himself and Jim Coxen from
the Corners.”
“I declare,” said Stranion, “I almost feel the tent and the floor itself
rocking, so vivid is the picture Ranolf has given us!”
“Well,” remarked Magnus, “it can rock us all to sleep, and the sooner
the better!”
In a very few minutes we were snugly rolled in our blankets. Then
Stranion rose on his elbow and blew out the candle,—“doused the glim,”
as he was wont to say. In the thick dark we swiftly sank to sleep.
On the day after the rain, there was a wonderful exhilaration in the
air. We felt like shouting and running races. The face of earth wore a
clean and honest look. Queerman roamed hither and thither declaiming
Miss Guiney’s fine lines:—
“Up with the banners on the height,
Set every matin-bell astir!
The tree-top choirs carouse in light;
The dew’s on phlox and lavender,”—
till at last we pulled his hat down over his mouth, and made him go
fishing with us. He declared he didn’t want to fish that day, so we took
him to carry our captures.
This time we cut through the woods, and struck the river about half a
mile below the outlet. The sparkling day had made us break bounds. At
this point the Squatook River, after rushing in white-capped tumult down
a gloomy channel, broadens fan-like out, and breaks over a low fall into
a pool of quiet waters, out of which roars a strong rapid. The pool is
wide and deep, and girt with great rocks. Over the black surface fleecy
masses of froth were wheeling. How our hearts leaped at the sight!
Behold us waist-deep around the margin of the pool, or braced upon the
edge of the fall. The surface is lashed sometimes in three or four
places at once by the struggles of the speckled prey against the slow,
inexorable reel. Our excitement is intense, but quiet. Its only
expression is the reel’s determined click, or its thrilling, swift
rattle as the taut line cuts the water, and the rod bends and bends. A
smallish fish has taken Sam’s “drop,” and is being reeled, half spent,
across the basin. The “leader” trails out behind. There is a shining
swirl beside it,—a strike; and stung by the check the very monarch of
the pool flashes up, and darts like lightning down stream. But Sam’s fly
is sticking in his jaw. Now, gallant fisherman, hold thine own! We
forget our own rods. More than once Sam’s reel is almost empty. For
twenty minutes the result is doubtful. Then, reluctantly, victory
declares herself for the lithe rod and the skilful wrist. The larger of
these two prizes which our lucky fisherman thus brought to land just
tipped the beam at two and three-quarters pounds. The other was a light
half-pounder.
That day after a hasty lunch we bade farewell to Camp de Squatook. The
morning’s fishing had been so good that we resolved to keep its memory
unblurred. A sudden desire seized us for “fresh fields and pastures
new.” We struck tent, packed the canoes, and paddled out joyously from
the landing. Through the whitefish barrier we slipped smoothly and
swiftly onward down the racing current. Almost before we could realize
it we were in the wild sluice above the fall. There was a clear channel
at one side, and we raced through the big ripples with a shout and a
cheer.
But alas for high spirits and heedlessness! Sam and Ranolf were in the
rear canoe. They objected to this position; and just after running the
shoot and clearing the basin, they tried to pass Magnus and me. We were
in the strong and twisting current, however; and the first thing our
rivals knew they were thrown upon a round-backed, weedy rock. Their
canoe turned over gracefully, and discharged her whole burden into the
stream.
Instantly the surface of the pool was diversified with floating paddles,
poles, tent-pins, tin kettles, box-covers, etc., and Stranion and
Queerman, Magnus and I, were busy capturing these estrays in the eddy
below. The canoe was got ashore, righted, and found to be none the
worse. Our heavy valuables, guns and the like, were lashed to the canoe,
and hence got no worse than a wetting; but our axe and various spoons
and forks were gone from our sight forever. The oatmeal was a part of
our lading, and the tobacco as well. For this last we felt no anxiety,
congratulating ourselves that it was in a waterproof tin. We did not at
the time open this tin, as there was tobacco enough for a time in the
other canoes. But the meal-bag was a slop. Henceforth we were to have no
porridge, only beans, beans, beans, to go with our trout and canned
knickknacks. And this meant nothing more nor less than dinner three
times a day, instead of the old appetizing sequence of breakfast,
dinner, and—dinner.
After a brief delay we continued our journey. An exciting afternoon it
proved throughout, leaving us well tired at evening. Taking care to
preserve a discreet distance between the canoes whenever the current
grew threatening, we slipped on swiftly between ever-varying shores.
Rounding a sharp turn we would see before us a long slope of angry
water, with huddling waves and frequent rocks; and at the foot of the
slope three or four great white “ripples” foaming and roaring in the
sun. Then a brief season of stern restraint, strong checkings, strenuous
thrustings, sudden bold dashes, and hair’s-breadth evasions—a plunge and
a cheer, and, drenched from the crest of that last “ripple,” we would
look back on the raging incline behind us. This sort of thing took place
three times within two hours. We passed without stopping through Second
Lake, and under the majestic front of Sugar Loaf Mountain, which is
matchlessly reflected in the deep, still waters. The mountain towers
from the water’s edge, its base in a cedar swamp, its lofty conical
summit, which topples towards the lake as if it had received a mighty
push from behind, veiled and softened with thick bushes and shrubbery.
Some time after sundown we reached the mouth of a tributary stream known
as the Horton Branch. This was a famous trout water, and we determined
to fish it thoroughly on the morrow. By the time we had the tent
pitched, a few trout caught in the gathering dusk, and a mighty dinner
cooked and eaten, our eyes were filled with sleep. We cared not for
stories that night, but smoked brief pipes and then turned in.
In the morning after an early breakfast we poled up to the Big Jam, a
distance of nearly six miles. The Big Jam is a sort of dam, formed of
logs and tree-trunks and a long accumulation of _débris_. Just beneath
it lies one of the finest trout pools I have ever fished—which is saying
not a little. The poling up Horton Branch was delightful,—a stiffish
current, but few rocks.
Arrived at the pool we made great haste to put our rods together, so
tempting were the eddies. Never, surely, shall I forget that morning’s
fishing. All the flies in our books seemed equally killing. Those Big
Jam trout were insatiable. We soon grew hard to please, and made it a
rule to return at once to its native element every fish that did not
approach three-quarters of a pound. This had the proper effect of
limiting our take to something near what we could at once consume. A few
fine fish we packed in salt, in a sort of basket of birch-bark which
Stranion ingeniously constructed. Toward noon the fish stopped rising.
Then we lunched, and took a long siesta. In the afternoon the sport was
brisk, but not equal to that of the morning. No doubt if we had stayed
till sundown the morning’s experience would have been amply repeated;
but we were not so greedy as to desire that. We left in high spirits at
about five o’clock, and slipped merrily down to our camp on the main
Squatook.