The Adirondac Mountains—Trout Fishing in the Boreas River—A night in the
woods—Moose Lake—Lake Delia—Mount Tahawas—Lakes Sanford and
Henderson—The McIntyre Iron Works.
John Cheney’s Cabin. June.
The Adirondac Mountains are situated on the extreme head waters of the
Hudson, in the Counties of Essex and Hamilton, and about forty miles
west of Lake Champlain. They vary from five hundred to five thousand
feet in height, and with few exceptions are covered with dense forests.
They lord it over the most extensive wilderness region in the Empire
State; and as I have recently performed a pilgrimage among them, I now
purpose to give an account of what I saw and heard during my expedition.
The tourist, who visits these mountains, finds it necessary to leave the
mail road near Lyndsey’s Tavern on the Scaroon. If fortune smiles upon
him, he will be able to hire a horse to take him in the interior, or
perhaps obtain a seat in a lumber wagon; but if not, he must try the
mettle of his legs. With regard to my own case, fortune was
non-committal; for, while she compelled me to go on foot, she supplied
me with a pair of temporary companions, who were going into the interior
to see their friends, and have a few days’ sport in the way of fishing
and hunting.
One of my friends, (both of whom were young men), was a farmer, who
carried a rifle, and the other a travelling country musician, who earned
a fiddle. Our first day’s tramp took us about fifteen miles, through a
hilly, thickly wooded, and houseless wilderness, to the Boreas River,
where we found a ruined log shantee, in which we determined to spend the
night. We reached this lonely spot at three o’clock in the afternoon;
and having previously been told that the Boreas was famous for trout,
two of us started after a mess of fish, while the fiddler was appointed
to the office of wood chopper to the expedition.
The Boreas at this point is about one hundred feet broad, winds through
a woody valley, and is cold, rapid and clear. The entire river does not
differ materially, as I understand from the point alluded to, for it
waters an unknown wilderness. I bribed my farmer friend to _ascend_ the
river, and having pocketed a variety of flies, I started down the
stream. I proceeded near half a mile, when I came to a still-water pool,
which seemed to be extensive and very deep. At the head of it, midway in
the stream, was an immense boulder, which I succeeded in surmounting,
and whence I threw a red hackle for upwards of three hours. I never saw
trout jump more beautifully, and it was my rare luck to basket
thirty-four, twenty-one of which averaged three quarters of a pound, and
the remaining thirteen were regular two-pounders. Satisfied with my
luck, I returned to the shantee, where I found my companions, one of
them sitting before a blazing fire and fiddling, and the other busily
employed in cleaning the trout he had taken.
In due time followed the principal event of the day, which consisted in
cooking and eating a wilderness supper. We had brought a supply of pork
and bread, and each one having prepared for himself a pair of wooden
forks, we proceeded to roast our trout and pork before a huge fire,
using the drippings of the latter for seasoning, and a leather cup of
water for our beverage. We spent the two following hours in smoking and
telling stories; and having made a bed of spruce boughs, and repaired
the rickety partition which divided one end of the cabin from the other
end, which was all open, we retired to repose. We had no blankets with
us, and an agreement was, therefore, entered into that we should take
turns in replenishing the fire, during the night. An awfully dark cloud
settled upon the wilderness, and by the music of the wind among the
hemlock trees we were soon lulled into a deep slumber.
A short time after midnight, while dreaming of a certain pair of eyes in
the upper part of Broadway, I was awakened by a footstep on the outside
of the cabin. I brushed open my eyes, but could see nothing but the
faint glimmer of an expiring ember on the hearth. I held my breath and
listened for the mysterious footsteps; I heard it not, but something a
little more exciting,—the scratching of a huge paw upon our slender
door. In an exceedingly short time I roused my bed-fellows, and told
them what I had heard. They thought it must be a wolf, and as we were
afraid to frighten him away, yet anxious to take his hide, it was
resolved that I should hold a match, and the farmer should fire his
rifle in the direction of the mysterious noise, which operation was duly
performed. A large pine torch was then lighted, the rifle reloaded, and
the heroes of the adventure marched into the outer hall of the cabin,
where we found a few drops of blood, and the muddy tracks of what we
supposed to be a wild cat. The rifleman and myself then commissioned the
fiddler to make a fire, when we again threw ourselves upon the hemlock
couch.
The fiddler attended faithfully to his duty, and in less than twenty
minutes he had kindled a tremendous blaze. The brilliant and laughing
flame had such an exhilarating influence upon his nerves, that he seized
his instrument and commenced playing, partly for the purpose of keeping
off the wild animals, but mostly for his own amusement. Then laying
aside his fiddle, he began to sing a variety of uncouth as well as
plaintive songs, one of which was vague but mournful in sentiment, and
more wild in melody, as I thought at the time, than anything I had ever
before heard. I could not find out by whom it was written, or what was
its exact import, but in the lonely place where we were sleeping, and at
that hour, it made a very deep impression on my mind. The burthen of the
song was as follows, and was in keeping with the picture which the
minstrel, the fire-light, and the rude cabin presented.
“We parted in silence, we parted at night,
On the banks of that lonely river;
Where the shadowy trees their boughs unite
We met, and we parted for ever;—
The night bird sang, and the stars above
Told many a touching story,
Of friends long passed to the mansions of rest,
Where the soul wears her mantle of glory.
“We parted in silence, our cheeks were wet
By the tears that were past controlling;—
We vowed we would never, no never forget,
And those vows at the time were consoling;—
But the lips that echoed my vows
Are as cold as that lonely river,
The sparkling eye, the spirit’s shrine
Has shrouded its fire for ever.
“And now on the midnight sky I look,
My eyes grow full with weeping,—
Each star to me is a sealed book
Some tale of that loved one keeping.
We parted in silence, we parted in tears
On the banks of that lonely river,
But the odour and bloom of by-gone years
Shall hang o’er its waters for ever.”
But sleep, the “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health” soon
folded the singer and his listeners in her embrace, and with the rising
sun we entered upon the labours of another day. While the fiddler
prepared our breakfast, (out of the few trout which certain _beastly_
robbers had not stolen during the night), the rifleman went out and
killed a large hare, and I took a sketch of the cabin where we had
lodged.
After breakfast we shouldered our knapsacks and started for the Hudson.
We struck this noble river at the embryo city of Tahawas where we found
a log house and an unfinished saw-mill. Here we also discovered a canoe
which we boarded, and navigated the stream to Lake Sanford. This portion
of the Hudson is not more than one hundred feet broad, but quite deep
and picturesque. On leaving our canoe we made our way up a mountain
road, and after walking about four miles, came out upon an elevated
clearing of some two hundred acres, in the centre of which was a
solitary log cabin with a retinue of out-houses,—and this was the famous
Newcomb Farm.
The attractions of this spot are manifold, for it lies in the vicinity
of Moose Lake and Lake Delia, and commands the finest distant prospect
of the Adirondac Mountains, which has yet been discovered.
Moose Lake lies at the west of the Farm, and about six miles distant. It
is embosomed among mountains, and the fountain head of the Cold River,
which empties into the St. Lawrence. In form it is so nearly round, that
its entire shore may be seen at one view; the bottom is covered with
white sand, and the water is perfectly cold and clear. Considering its
size, it is said to contain more trout than any lake in this wilderness;
and it is also celebrated as a watering-place for deer and moose. In
fishing from the shore, one of our party caught no less than forty
pounds of trout in about two hours. There were two varieties, and they
varied from one to three pounds in weight.
Our guide to this lake, where we encamped for one night, was Steuben
Hewitt, the keeper of the Newcomb Farm, who is a hunter. This woodsman
got the notion into his head, that he must have a venison steak for his
banquet. We had already seen some half dozen deer walking along the
opposite margin of the lake, but Steuben told us that he would wait
until after dark to capture his game. He also told us that the deer were
in the habit of visiting the wilder lakes of this region at night, for
the purpose of escaping the tormenting flies; and as he spoke so
confidently of what he intended to accomplish, we awaited his effort
with a degree of anxiety.
Soon as the quiet night had fairly set in, he shipped himself on board a
wooden canoe (a rickety affair, originally bequeathed to this lake by
some departed Indian,) in the bow of which was a fire-jack or
torch-holder. Separating this machine from himself, as he sat in the
centre of the canoe, was a kind of screen made of bark, which was
sufficiently elevated to allow him to fire his gun from underneath; and
in this manner, with a loaded rifle by his side, did he paddle into the
lake. After floating upon the water for one hour, in perfect silence, he
finally heard a splashing near the shore, and immediately lighting his
torch, he noiselessly proceeded in the direction of the sound, where he
discovered a beautiful deer standing knee-deep in the water, and looking
at him in stupified wonder. The poor creature could see nothing before
it but the mysterious light, and while standing in the most interesting
attitude imaginable, the hunter raised his rifle and shot it through the
heart. In half an hour from that time the carcass of the deer was
hanging from a dry limb near our camp fire, and I was lecturing the
hard-hearted hunter on the cruelty of thus capturing the innocent
creatures of the forest. To all my remarks, however, he replied, “They
were given to us for food, and it matters not how we kill them.”
Lake Delia, through which you have to pass in going to Moose Lake, lies
about two miles west of the Newcomb Farm. It is four miles long, and
less than one mile in width, and completely surrounded with wood-crowned
hills. Near the central portion this lake is quite narrow, and so
shallow that a rude bridge has been thrown across for the accommodation
of the farm people. The water under this bridge is only about four feet
deep, and this was the only spot in the lake where I followed my
favorite recreation. I visited it on one occasion with my companions,
late in the afternoon, when the wind was blowing, and we enjoyed rare
sport in angling for salmon-trout, as well as a large species of the
common trout. I do not know the number that we took, but I well remember
that we had more than we could conveniently carry. Usually, the
salmon-trout are only taken in deep water, but in this and Moose Lake,
they seem to be as much at home in shallow as in deep water.
On one occasion I visited Lake Delia alone, at an early hour of the
morning. It so happened, that I took a rifle along with me, and while
quietly throwing my fly on the old bridge, I had an opportunity of using
the gun to some purpose. My movements in that lonely place were so
exceedingly still, that even the wild animals were not disturbed by my
presence; for while I stood there, a large fat otter made his
appearance, and when he came within shooting distance, I gave him the
contents of my gun, and he disappeared. I related the adventure to my
companions on my return to the Farm, but they pronounced it a “fish
story.” I finally vindicated my veracity, however, for, on the following
day, they discovered a dead otter on the lake shore, and concluded that
I had told the truth.
I must not conclude this chapter without giving my reader an additional
paragraph about the Newcomb Farm. My friend Steuben Hewitt’s nearest
neighbour is eight miles off, and as his family is small, you may
suppose that he leads a retired life. One of the days that I spent at
his house, was an eventful one with him, for a town election was held
there. The electors met at nine o’clock, and the poll closed at five;
and as the number of votes polled was SEVEN, it may well be supposed
that the excitement was intense.
But, with all its loneliness, the Newcomb Farm is well worth visiting,
if for no other purpose than to witness the panorama of mountains which
it commands. On every side but one, they may be seen fading away to
mingle their deep blue with the lighter hue of the sky; but chief among
them all is old Tahawas, king of the Adirondacs.
The country out of which this mountain rises is an imposing Alpine
wilderness; and as it has long since been abandoned by the red man, the
solitude of its deep valleys and lonely lakes, for the most part, is now
more impressive than that of the far-off Rocky Mountains.
The meaning of the Indian word Tahawas, is _Sky Piercer_, or _Sky
Splitter_, and faithfully describes the appearance of the mountain. Its
actual elevation, above the level of the sea, is five thousand four
hundred and sixty-seven feet, while that of Mount Washington, in New
Hampshire, is only six thousand two hundred and thirty-four; making a
difference of only seven hundred and sixty-seven feet in favour of
Washington. Though Tahawas is not so lofty as its New England brother,
yet its form is by far the most picturesque and imposing. Taken
together, they are the highest pair of mountains in the United States.
Before going one step farther, I must allude to what I deem the folly of
a certain state geologist, in attempting to name the prominent peaks of
the Adirondac Mountains after a brotherhood of living men. If he is to
have his way in this matter, the beautiful name of Tahawas will be
superseded by that of Marcy, and several of Tahawas’ peers are hereafter
to be known as Mounts Seward, Wright, and Young. Now if this business is
not supremely ridiculous, I must confess that I do not know the meaning
of that word. A pretty idea, indeed, to scatter to the winds the ancient
poetry of the poor Indian, and perpetuate in its place the names of
living politicians. For my part, I agree most decidedly with the older
inhabitants of the Adirondac wilderness, who look with perfect
indifference upon the attempted usurpation of the geologist already
mentioned.
For nine months in the year, old Tahawas is covered with a crown of
snow, but there are spots among its fastnesses where you may gather ice
and snow, even in the dog-days. The base of this mountain is covered
with a luxuriant forest of pine, spruce and hemlock, while the summit is
clothed in a net-work of creeping trees, and almost entirely destitute
of the green which should characterize them. In ascending its sides,
when near the summit, you are impressed with the idea that your pathway
may be smooth; but as you proceed, you are constantly annoyed by
pit-falls, into which your legs are foolishly poking themselves, to the
great annoyance of your back-bone, and other portions of your body,
which are naturally straight.
I ascended Tahawas, as a matter of course, and in making the trip I
travelled some twenty miles, on foot and through the pathless woods,
employing for the same the better part of two days. My companion on this
expedition was John Cheney (of whom I have something to write
hereafter), and as he did not consider it prudent to spend the night on
the summit, we only spent about one hour gazing upon the panorama from
the top, and then descended about half way down the mountain, where we
built our watch-fire. The view from Tahawas is rather unique. It looks
down upon what appears to be an uninhabited wilderness, with mountains
fading to the sky in every direction, and where, on a clear day, you may
count no less than twenty-four lakes, including Champlain, Horicon, Long
Lake, and Lake Pleasant.
While trying to go to sleep on the night in question, as I lay by the
side of my friend Cheney, he gave me an account of the manner in which
certain distinguished gentlemen had ascended Mount Tahawas, for it must
be known that he officiates as the guide of all travellers in this wild
region. Among those to whom he alluded, were Ingham and Cole, the
artists, and Hoffman and Headley, the travellers. He told me that Mr.
Ingham fainted a number of times in making the ascent, but became so
excited with all that he saw, he determined to persevere, and finally
succeeded in accomplishing the difficult task. Mr. Hoffman, he said, in
spite of his lameness, would not be persuaded by words that he could not
reach the summit; and when he finally discovered that the task was
utterly beyond his accomplishment, his disappointment seemed to have no
bounds.
The night that I spent on Tahawas was not distinguished by any event
more remarkable than a regular rain-storm. Our canopy was composed of
hemlock branches, and our only covering was a blanket. The storm did not
set in until about midnight, and my first intimation of its approach was
the falling of rain-drops directly into my ear, as I snugged up to my
bed-fellow, for the purpose of keeping warm. Desperate indeed were the
efforts I made to forget my condition in sleep, as the rain fell more
abundantly, and drenched me, as well as my companion, to the very skin.
The thunder bellowed as if in the enjoyment of a very happy frolic, and
the lightning seemed determined to root up a few trees in our immediate
vicinity, as if for the purpose of giving us more room. Finally Cheney
rose from his pillow (which was a log of wood), and proposed that we
should quaff a little brandy, to keep us from catching cold, which we
did, and then made another attempt to reach the land of Nod.
* * * * * * * *
At the break of day, we were awakened from a short but refreshing sleep
by the singing of birds; and when the cheerful sunlight had reached the
bottom of the ravines, we were enjoying a comfortable breakfast in the
cabin of my friend.
The principal attractions, associated with Tahawas are the Indian Pass,
the Adirondac Lakes, the Adirondac Iron Works, and the mighty hunter of
the Adirondacs, John Cheney. The Pass, so called, is only an
old-fashioned notch between the mountains. On one side is a
perpendicular precipice, rising to the height of eleven hundred feet;
and, on the other, a wood-covered mountain, ascending far up into the
sky, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Through this Pass flows a tiny
rivulet, over which the rocks are so thickly piled, as frequently to
form pitfalls, that measure from ten to thirty feet in depth. Some of
these holes are never destitute of ice, and are cool and comfortable
even at midsummer. The Pass is nearly half a mile in length, and, at one
point, certain immense boulders have come together and formed a cavern,
which is called the “meeting house,” and is, perhaps, capable of
containing a thousand people. The rock on either side of the Pass, is a
grey granite, and its only inhabitants are eagles, which are very
abundant, and occupy the most conspicuous crag in the notch.
The two principal lakes which gem the Adirondac wilderness are named
Sanford and Henderson, after the two gentlemen who first purchased land
upon their borders. The former is five miles in length, and the latter
somewhat less than three, both of them varying in width from half a mile
to a mile and a half. The mountains which swoop down to their bosoms are
covered with forest, and abound in a great variety of large game. There
is not, to my knowledge, a single habitation on either of the lakes, and
the only smoke ever seen to ascend from their lonely recesses, comes
from the watch-fire of the hunter, or the encampment of surveyors and
tourists. The water of these lakes is cold and deep, and moderately
supplied with salmon trout. Lake Henderson is admirably situated for the
exciting sport of deer-hunting, and though it contains two or three
canoes, cannot be entered from the West Branch of the Hudson without
making a portage.
Through Lake Sanford, however, the Hudson takes a direct course, and
there is nothing to impede the passage of a small boat to within a mile
of the Iron Works, which are situated in a valley between the two lakes.
The fact is, during the summer, there is an extensive business done on
Lake Sanford, in the way of “bringing in” merchandize, and “carrying
out” the produce of the Forge. It was my misfortune to make the inward
passage of the Lake in company with two ignorant Irishmen. Their boat
was small, heavily laden, very old and leaky. This was my only chance,
and on taking my seat with a palpitating heart, I made an express
bargain with the men that they should keep along the shore on their way
up. They assented to my wishes, but immediately pulled for the very
centre of the lake. I remonstrated, but they told me there was no
danger. The boat was now rapidly filling with water, and though one was
bailing with all his might, the rascals were determined not to accede to
my wishes. The conclusion of the matter was, that our shallop became
water-logged; and on finally going ashore, the merchandize was greatly
damaged, and I was just about as wet as I was angry at the miserable
creatures, whose obstinacy had not only greatly injured their employers,
but also endangered my own plunder as well as my life.
The Iron Works alluded to above are located in a narrow valley, and in
the immediate vicinity of Lake Henderson at a place called McIntyre.
Sometime in the year 1830, a couple of Scotch gentlemen, named Henderson
and McIntyre, purchased a large tract of wild land lying in this portion
of New York. In the summer following, they passed through this
wilderness on an exploring expedition, and, with the assistance of their
Indian guide, discovered that the bed of the valley in question was
literally blocked up with iron ore. On making farther investigations,
they found that the whole rocky region about them was composed of
valuable mineral, and they subsequently established a regular built Iron
Establishment, which has been in operation ever since. A gentleman named
Robinson afterwards purchased an interest in the concern, and it is now
carried on by him and Mr. McIntyre, though the principal stock-holders
are the wife and son of Mr. Henderson, deceased.
The metal manufactured by this company is of the very best quality of
bar-iron; and an establishment is now in progress of erection at
Tahawas, twelve miles down the river, where a party of English gentlemen
intend to manufacture every variety of steel. The Iron Works give
employment to about one hundred and fifty men, whose wages vary from one
dollar to four dollars per day. The society of the place, you may well
imagine, is decidedly original; but the prominent individual, and only
remarkable man who resides here, is John Cheney, the mighty hunter of
the Adirondacs. For an account of this man, the reader will please look
into the following chapter.