eight of these terrible hunters' miles, we concluded to take a whole
day to it, and wait till next morning. The Beaverkill flowed west,
the Neversink south, and I had a mortal dread of getting entangled
amid the mountains and valleys that lie in either angle.
Besides, I was glad of another and final opportunity to pay my
respects to the finny tribes of the Neversink. At this point it was
one of the finest trout streams I had ever beheld. It was so
sparkling, its bed so free from sediment or impurities of any kind,
that it had a new look, as if it had just come from the hand of its
Creator. I tramped along its margin upward of a mile that afternoon,
part of the time wading to my knees, and casting my hook, baited
only with a trout's fin, to the opposite bank. Trout are real
cannibals, and make no bones, and break none either, in lunching on
each other. A friend of mine had several in his spring, when one day
a large female trout gulped down one of her male friends, nearly one
third her own size, and went around for two days with the tail of
her liege lord protruding from her mouth! A fish's eye will do for
bait, though the anal fin is better. One of the natives here told me
that when he wished to catch large trout (and I judged he never
fished for any other,--I never do), he used for bait the bullhead,
or dart, a little fish an inch and a half or two inches long, that
rests on the pebbles near shore and darts quickly, when disturbed,
from point to point. "Put that on your hook," said he, "and if there
is a big fish in the creek, he is bound to have it." But the darts
were not easily found; the big fish, I concluded, had cleaned them
all out; and, then, it was easy enough to supply our wants with a
fin.
Declining the hospitable offers of the settlers, we spread our
blankets that night in a dilapidated shingle-shop on the banks of
the Biscuit Brook, first flooring the damp ground with the new
shingle that lay piled in one corner. The place had a great-throated
chimney with a tremendous expanse of fireplace within, that cried
"More!" at every morsel of wood we gave it.
But I must hasten over this part of the ground, nor let the
delicious flavor of the milk we had that morning for breakfast, and
that was so delectable after four days of fish, linger on my tongue;
nor yet tarry to set down the talk of that honest, weather-worn
passer-by who paused before our door, and every moment on the point
of resuming his way, yet stood for an hour and recited his
adventures hunting deer and bears on these mountains. Having
replenished our stock of bread and salt pork at the house of one of
the settlers, midday found us at Reed's shanty,--one of those
temporary structures erected by the bark jobber to lodge and board
his "hands" near their work. Jim not being at home, we could gain
no information from the "women folks" about the way, nor from the
men who had just come in to dinner; so we pushed on, as near as we
could, according to the instructions we had previously received.
Crossing the creek, we forced our way up the side of the mountain,
through a perfect _cheval-de-frise_ of fallen and peeled hemlocks,
and, entering the dense woods above, began to look anxiously about
for the wood-road. My companions at first could see no trace of it;
but knowing that a casual wood-road cut in winter, when there was
likely to be two or three feet of snow on the ground, would present
only the slightest indications to the eye in summer, I looked a
little closer, and could make out a mark or two here and there. The
larger trees had been avoided, and the axe used only on the small
saplings and underbrush, which had been lopped off a couple of feet
from the ground. By being constantly on the alert, we followed it
till near the top of the mountain; but, when looking to see it
"tilt" over the other side, it disappeared altogether. Some stumps
of the black cherry were found, and a solitary pair of snow-shoes
was hanging high and dry on a branch, but no further trace of human
hands could we see. While we were resting here a couple of hermit
thrushes, one of them with some sad defect in his vocal powers which
barred him from uttering more than a few notes of his song, gave
voice to the solitude of the place. This was the second instance in
which I have observed a song-bird with apparently some organic
defect in its instrument. The other case was that of a bobolink,
which, hover in mid-air and inflate its throat as it might, could
only force out a few incoherent notes. But the bird in each case
presented this striking contrast to human examples of the kind, that
it was apparently just as proud of itself, and just as well
satisfied with its performance, as were its more successful rivals.
After deliberating some time over a pocket compass which I carried,
we decided upon our course, and held on to the west. The descent was
very gradual. Traces of bear and deer were noted at different
points, but not a live animal was seen.
About four o'clock we reached the bank of a stream flowing west.
Hail to the Beaverkill! and we pushed on along its banks. The trout
were plenty, and rose quickly to the hook; but we held on our way,
designing to go into camp about six o'clock. Many inviting places,
first on one bank, then on the other, made us linger, till finally
we reached a smooth, dry place overshadowed by balsam and hemlock,
where the creek bent around a little flat, which was so entirely to
our fancy that we unslung our knapsacks at once. While my companions
were cutting wood and making other preparations for the night, it
fell to my lot, as the most successful angler, to provide the
trout for supper and breakfast. How shall I describe that wild,
beautiful stream, with features so like those of all other
mountain streams? And yet, as I saw it in the deep twilight of those
woods on that June afternoon, with its steady, even flow, and its
tranquil, many-voiced murmur, it made an impression upon my mind
distinct and peculiar, fraught in an eminent degree with the charm
of seclusion and remoteness. The solitude was perfect, and I felt
that strangeness and insignificance which the civilized man must
always feel when opposing himself to such a vast scene of silence
and wildness. The trout were quite black, like all wood trout, and
took the bait eagerly. I followed the stream till the deepening
shadows warned me to turn back. As I neared camp, the fire shone far
through the trees, dispelling the gathering gloom, but blinding my
eyes to all obstacles at my feet. I was seriously disturbed on
arriving to find that one of my companions had cut an ugly gash in
his shin with the axe while felling a tree. As we did not carry a
fifth wheel, it was not just the time or place to have any of our
members crippled, and I had bodings of evil. But, thanks to the
healing virtues of the balsam which must have adhered to the blade
of the axe, and double thanks to the court-plaster with which
Orville had supplied himself before leaving home, the wounded leg,
by being favored that night and the next day, gave us little
trouble.
[Illustration: THE BEAVERKILL]
That night we had our first fair and square camping out,--that is,
sleeping on the ground with no shelter over us but the trees,--and
it was in many respects the pleasantest night we spent in the woods.
The weather was perfect and the place was perfect, and for the
first time we were exempt from the midges and smoke; and then we
appreciated the clean new page we had to work on. Nothing is so
acceptable to the camper-out as a pure article in the way of woods
and waters. Any admixture of human relics mars the spirit of the
scene. Yet I am willing to confess that, before we were through
those woods, the marks of an axe in a tree were a welcome sight. On
resuming our march next day we followed the right bank of the
Beaverkill, in order to strike a stream which flowed in from the
north, and which was the outlet of Balsam Lake, the objective point
of that day's march. The distance to the lake from our camp could
not have been over six or seven miles; yet, traveling as we did,
without path or guide, climbing up banks, plunging into ravines,
making detours around swampy places, and forcing our way through
woods choked up with much fallen and decayed timber, it seemed at
least twice that distance, and the mid-afternoon sun was shining
when we emerged into what is called the "Quaker Clearing," ground
that I had been over nine years before, and that lies about two
miles south of the lake. From this point we had a well-worn path
that led us up a sharp rise of ground, then through level woods
till we saw the bright gleam of the water through the trees.
I am always struck, on approaching these little mountain lakes, with
the extensive preparation that is made for them in the conformation
of the ground. I am thinking of a depression, or natural basin, in
the side of the mountain or on its top, the brink of which I shall
reach after a little steep climbing; but instead of that, after I
have accomplished the ascent, I find a broad sweep of level or
gently undulating woodland that brings me after a half hour or so to
the lake, which lies in this vast lap like a drop of water in the
palm of a man's hand.
Balsam Lake was oval-shaped, scarcely more than half a mile long and
a quarter of a mile wide, but presented a charming picture, with a
group of dark gray hemlocks filling the valley about its head, and
the mountains rising above and beyond. We found a bough house in
good repair, also a dug-out and paddle and several floats of logs.
In the dug-out I was soon creeping along the shady side of the lake,
where the trout were incessantly jumping for a species of black fly,
that, sheltered from the slight breeze, were dancing in swarms just
above the surface of the water. The gnats were there in swarms also,
and did their best toward balancing the accounts by preying upon me
while I preyed upon the trout which preyed upon the flies. But by
dint of keeping my hands, face, and neck constantly wet, I am
convinced that the balance of blood was on my side. The trout jumped
most within a foot or two of shore, where the water was only a few
inches deep. The shallowness of the water, perhaps, accounted for
the inability of the fish to do more than lift their heads above the
surface. They came up mouths wide open, and dropped back again in
the most impotent manner. Where there is any depth of water, a trout
will jump several feet into the air; and where there is a solid,
unbroken sheet or column, they will scale falls and dams fifteen
feet high.
We had the very cream and flower of our trout-fishing at this lake.
For the first time we could use the fly to advantage; and then the
contrast between laborious tramping along shore, on the one hand,
and sitting in one end of a dug-out and casting your line right and
left with no fear of entanglement in brush or branch, while you were
gently propelled along, on the other, was of the most pleasing
character.
There were two varieties of trout in the lake,--what it seems proper
to call silver trout and golden trout; the former were the slimmer,
and seemed to keep apart from the latter. Starting from the outlet
and working round on the eastern side toward the head, we invariably
caught these first. They glanced in the sun like bars of silver.
Their sides and bellies were indeed as white as new silver. As we
neared the head, and especially as we came near a space occupied by
some kind of watergrass that grew in the deeper part of the lake,
the other variety would begin to take the hook, their bellies a
bright gold color, which became a deep orange on their fins; and as
we returned to the place of departure with the bottom of the boat
strewn with these bright forms intermingled, it was a sight not soon
to be forgotten. It pleased my eye so, that I would fain linger over
them, arranging them in rows and studying the various hues and
tints. They were of nearly a uniform size, rarely one over ten or
under eight inches in length, and it seemed as if the hues of all
the precious metals and stones were reflected from their sides. The
flesh was deep salmon-color; that of brook trout is generally much
lighter. Some hunters and fishers from the valley of the Mill Brook,
whom we met here, told us the trout were much larger in the lake,
though far less numerous than they used to be. Brook trout do not
grow large till they become scarce. It is only in streams that have
been long and much fished that I have caught them as much as sixteen
inches in length.
The "porcupigs" were numerous about the lake, and not at all shy.
One night the heat became so intolerable in our oven-shaped bough
house that I was obliged to withdraw from under its cover and lie
down a little to one side. Just at daybreak, as I lay rolled in my
blanket, something awoke me. Lifting up my head, there was a
porcupine with his forepaws on my hips. He was apparently as much
surprised as I was; and to my inquiry as to what he at that moment
might be looking for, he did not pause to reply, but hitting me a
slap with his tail which left three or four quills in my blanket, he
scampered off down the hill into the brush.
Being an observer of the birds, of course every curious incident
connected with them fell under my notice. Hence, as we stood about
our camp-fire one afternoon looking out over the lake, I was the
only one to see a little commotion in the water, half hidden by the
near branches, as of some tiny swimmer struggling to reach the
shore. Rushing to its rescue in the canoe, I found a yellow-rumped
warbler, quite exhausted, clinging to a twig that hung down into the
water. I brought the drenched and helpless thing to camp, and,
putting it into a basket, hung it up to dry. An hour or two
afterward I heard it fluttering in its prison, and, cautiously
lifting the lid to get a better glimpse of the lucky captive, it
darted out and was gone in a twinkling. How came it in the water?
That was my wonder, and I can only guess that it was a young bird
that had never before flown over a pond of water, and, seeing the
clouds and blue sky so perfect down there, thought it was a vast
opening or gateway into another summer land, perhaps a short cut to
the tropics, and so got itself into trouble. How my eye was
delighted also with the redbird that alighted for a moment on a dry
branch above the lake, just where a ray of light from the setting
sun fell full upon it! A mere crimson point, and yet how it offset
that dark, sombre background!
* * * * *
I have thus run over some of the features of an ordinary trouting
excursion to the woods. People inexperienced in such matters,
sitting in their rooms and thinking of these things, of all the
poets have sung and romancers written, are apt to get sadly taken in
when they attempt to realize their dreams. They expect to enter a
sylvan paradise of trout, cool retreats, laughing brooks,
picturesque views, and balsamic couches, instead of which they find
hunger, rain, smoke, toil, gnats, mosquitoes, dirt, broken rest,
vulgar guides, and salt pork; and they are very apt not to see where
the fun comes in. But he who goes in a right spirit will not be
disappointed, and will find the taste of this kind of life better,
though bitterer, than the writers have described.
VIII
A BED OF BOUGHS
When Aaron came again to camp and tramp with me, or, as he wrote,
"to eat locusts and wild honey with me in the wilderness," it was
past the middle of August, and the festival of the season neared its
close. We were belated guests, but perhaps all the more eager on
that account, especially as the country was suffering from a
terrible drought, and the only promise of anything fresh or tonic or
cool was in primitive woods and mountain passes.
"Now, my friend," said I, "we can go to Canada, or to the Maine
woods, or to the Adirondacks, and thus have a whole loaf and a big
loaf of this bread which you know as well as I will have heavy
streaks in it, and will not be uniformly sweet; or we can seek
nearer woods, and content ourselves with one week instead of four,
with the prospect of a keen relish to the last. Four sylvan weeks
sound well, but the poetry is mainly confined to the first one. We
can take another slice or two of the Catskills, can we not, without
being sated with kills and dividing ridges?"
"Anywhere," replied Aaron, "so that we have a good tramp and plenty
of primitive woods. No doubt we should find good browsing on
Peakamoose, and trout enough in the streams at its base."
So without further ado we made ready, and in due time found
ourselves, with our packs on our backs, entering upon a pass in the
mountains that led to the valley of the Rondout.
The scenery was wild and desolate in the extreme, the mountains on
either hand looking as if they had been swept by a tornado of stone.
Stone avalanches hung suspended on their sides, or had shot down
into the chasm below. It was a kind of Alpine scenery, where crushed
and broken boulders covered the earth instead of snow.
In the depressions in the mountains the rocky fragments seemed to
have accumulated, and to have formed what might be called stone
glaciers that were creeping slowly down.
Two hours' march brought us into heavy timber where the stone
cataclysm had not reached, and before long the soft voice of the
Rondout was heard in the gulf below us. We paused at a spring run,
and I followed it a few yards down its mountain stairway, carpeted
with black moss, and had my first glimpse of the unknown stream. I
stood upon rocks and looked many feet down into a still, sunlit pool
and saw the trout disporting themselves in the transparent water,
and I was ready to encamp at once; but my companion, who had not
been tempted by the view, insisted upon holding to our original
purpose, which was to go farther up the stream. We passed a
clearing with three or four houses and a saw-mill. The dam of the
latter was filled with such clear water that it seemed very shallow,
and not ten or twelve feet deep, as it really was. The fish were as
conspicuous as if they had been in a pail.
Two miles farther up we suited ourselves and went into camp.
If there ever was a stream cradled in the rocks, detained lovingly
by them, held and fondled in a rocky lap or tossed in rocky arms,
that stream is the Rondout. Its course for several miles from its
head is over the stratified rock, and into this it has worn a
channel that presents most striking and peculiar features. Now it
comes silently along on the top of the rock, spread out and flowing
over that thick, dark green moss that is found only in the coldest
streams; then drawn into a narrow canal only four or five feet wide,
through which it shoots, black and rigid, to be presently caught in
a deep basin with shelving, overhanging rocks, beneath which the
phoebe-bird builds in security, and upon which the fisherman
stands and casts his twenty or thirty feet of line without fear of
being thwarted by the brush; then into a black, well-like pool, ten
or fifteen feet deep, with a smooth, circular wall of rock on one
side worn by the water through long ages; or else into a deep,
oblong pocket, into which and out of which the water glides without
a ripple.
The surface rock is a coarse sandstone superincumbent upon a
lighter-colored conglomerate that looks like Shawangunk grits, and
when this latter is reached by the water it seems to be rapidly
disintegrated by it, thus forming the deep excavations alluded to.
My eyes had never before beheld such beauty in a mountain stream.
The water was almost as transparent as the air,--was, indeed, like
liquid air; and as it lay in these wells and pits enveloped in
shadow, or lit up by a chance ray of the vertical sun, it was a
perpetual feast to the eye,--so cool, so deep, so pure; every reach
and pool like a vast spring. You lay down and drank or dipped the
water up in your cup, and found it just the right degree of
refreshing coldness. One is never prepared for the clearness of the
water in these streams. It is always a surprise. See them every year
for a dozen years, and yet, when you first come upon one, you will
utter an exclamation. I saw nothing like it in the Adirondacks, nor
in Canada. Absolutely without stain or hint of impurity, it seems to
magnify like a lens, so that the bed of the stream and the fish in
it appear deceptively near. It is rare to find even a trout stream
that is not a little "off color," as they say of diamonds, but the
waters in the section of which I am writing have the genuine ray; it
is the undimmed and untarnished diamond.
If I were a trout, I should ascend every stream till I found the
Rondout. It is the ideal brook. What homes these fish have, what
retreats under the rocks, what paved or flagged courts and areas,
what crystal depths where no net or snare can reach them!--no mud,
no sediment, but here and there in the clefts and seams of the rock
patches of white gravel,--spawning-beds ready-made.
The finishing touch is given by the moss with which the rock is
everywhere carpeted. Even in the narrow grooves or channels where
the water runs the swiftest, the green lining is unbroken. It sweeps
down under the stream and up again on the other side, like some
firmly woven texture. It softens every outline and cushions every
stone. At a certain depth in the great basins and wells it of course
ceases, and only the smooth-swept flagging of the place-rock is
visible.
The trees are kept well back from the margin of the stream by the
want of soil, and the large ones unite their branches far above it,
thus forming a high winding gallery, along which the fisherman
passes and makes his long casts with scarcely an interruption from
branch or twig. In a few places he makes no cast, but sees from his
rocky perch the water twenty feet below him, and drops his hook into
it as into a well.
We made camp at a bend in the creek where there was a large surface
of mossy rock uncovered by the shrunken stream,--a clean, free space
left for us in the wilderness that was faultless as a kitchen and
dining-room, and a marvel of beauty as a lounging-room, or an open
court, or what you will. An obsolete wood or bark road conducted us
to it, and disappeared up the hill in the woods beyond. A loose
boulder lay in the middle, and on the edge next the stream were
three or four large natural wash-basins scooped out of the rock, and
ever filled ready for use. Our lair we carved out of the thick brush
under a large birch on the bank. Here we planted our flag of smoke
and feathered our nest with balsam and hemlock boughs and ferns, and
laughed at your four walls and pillows of down.
Wherever one encamps in the woods, there is home, and every object
and feature about the place take on a new interest and assume a near
and friendly relation to one.
We were at the head of the best fishing. There was an old
bark-clearing not far off which afforded us a daily dessert of most
delicious blackberries,--an important item in the woods,--and then
all the features of the place--a sort of cave above ground--were of
the right kind.
There was not a mosquito, or gnat, or other pest in the woods, the
cool nights having already cut them off. The trout were sufficiently
abundant, and afforded us a few hours' sport daily to supply our
wants. The only drawback was, that they were out of season, and
only palatable to a woodman's keen appetite. What is this about
trout spawning in October and November, and in some cases not till
March? These trout had all spawned in August, every one of them. The
coldness and purity of the water evidently made them that much
earlier. The game laws of the State protect the fish after September
1, proceeding upon the theory that its spawning season is later than
that,--as it is in many cases, but not in all, as we found out.
The fish are small in these streams, seldom weighing over a few
ounces. Occasionally a large one is seen of a pound or pound and a
half weight. I remember one such, as black as night, that ran under
a black rock. But I remember much more distinctly a still larger one
that I caught and lost one eventful day.
I had him on my hook ten minutes, and actually got my thumb in his
mouth, and yet he escaped.
It was only the over-eagerness of the sportsman. I imagined I could
hold him by the teeth.