waters of the St. John and its tributaries, but this region while quite
accessible from Fredericton, is somewhat remote for the average summer
visitor, and the Middle St. John from Grand Falls to Fredericton is the
district herein described.
Like many of the great rivers that have numerous tributaries and
increase in their descent almost to the proportions of inland seas, the
middle waters of the St. John, deep in places, have shallow reaches and
rapids where the current is very swift. Some distance above Fredericton
it becomes turbulent and foaming in many a seething descent; but it is
possible to take an outing over a considerable distance, without
portages, in a canoe with two men using poles.
A swift motor-canoe of light draft may easily make a two-days’ journey
up, giving four days on the St. John, with stops for meals, etc., at
convenient places. The river is sufficiently well settled to lay out in
advance a plan for stopping-places for meals, as well as for resting or
putting-up at night. This is much more convenient and not nearly so
expensive as taking guides and tent equipment, food and cooking
utensils, etc.
[Illustration: Boiling the Kettle]
For those who desire to spend several weeks on the river it is necessary
to have guides, canoes and tent equipment, especially if remote places
are to be visited. There can be no doubt that camping out on the St.
John is one of the most delightful ways of spending a healthful
vacation. A plan by which the expense of guides may be avoided is that
of camping out in a choice place not far from a settlement, or a farm,
and where there is plenty of recreation in walks, sailing the river,
fishing for trout, etc., without the necessity for exploring the
untrodden woods. Where any kind of exploration is to be done, or
unfrequented places visited, it will be understood that guides are
necessary; and it is illegal to go without them for hunting, etc.
In camping on the river to enjoy boating, bathing, fishing and outdoor
life, the plan is recommended of employing someone in Fredericton to
take out the party and equipment, and leave them in a locality where
supplies, such as milk, bread, etc., are easily obtained. At the
expiration of the fine holiday that will thus be enjoyed, those employed
to bring out the party will come and take them back to Fredericton.
There are many springs of cool and sparkling water all along the whole
route, and farms on both sides of the river where produce, poultry,
butter and eggs, as well as bread, may be bought by previous
arrangement. To have the full pleasure of the river in such an outing, a
canoe or row boat of very light draft should be left with the camping
party, and poles as well as paddles or oars should be provided.
In addition to choosing a convenient place for water, shade and
supplies, etc., care should be taken to place the camp at some point on
the shore where there is a good stretch of easy water for several miles
above and below. This will afford pleasant cruising, without the
constant labor of poling through swift water.
Such a place is the “Reach,” above Long Island, and below Tapley Bar and
the Koack Islands. In the neighborhood of Hawkshaw and Pokiok will also
be found good camping-grounds meeting all needful requirements, and
within easy reach of the Shogomoc River and Lakes. There are other good
places nearer Fredericton if desired. Of course, if there are athletic
young men in the party—not forgetting young women who love outdoor life
and are able to handle pole and paddle—the locality of a difficult piece
of swift water, or even that of a sheer rapid, may purposely be chosen
to have plenty of fun close at hand.
[Illustration]
For those who have never yet cut loose from the ties of hotel or other
stopping-place, a vacation of this kind is strongly recommended; for the
freedom and joy of living so close to nature, and, it may truthfully be
added, nature at her best, is an experience that brings back youth to
the middle-aged, and exuberance of spirits to young and old alike.
Oh! the fascination of the musical rapid, and ah! the glory of the
starlit evening with its gentle breeze and its hours of calm repose
followed by sweet and health-giving sleep—the tent well open to the
fragrance of the balmy air.
As an example of a pleasant excursion from Fredericton, an account of a
two-days’ journey of some 45 miles up the St. John in a motor-canoe is
now given, and this could be extended to a trip of some weeks, or even
months, by exploring the upper tributaries to their headwaters. Many of
the places nearer Fredericton may be reached, and the starting point
regained, in a day, or even in half a day, and the route may constantly
be varied by taking the different tributaries in turn.
A start was made from Fredericton in the early morning; and, in addition
to handbag and raincoat, a bag of fruit was taken to give variety to our
meals at the farmhouses along the river.
Our eighteen-foot canoe with a 2½ h.p. motor, piloted by the able and
obliging Davidson, of Fredericton, started gaily up-stream and passed
under the graceful iron town-bridge—the sun behind thick banks of cloud,
and apparently threatening rain. As the clouds screened us from the hot
rays of an August sun, we took little thought of the dark sky: for we
knew by experience that such a beginning often ended in a bright and
clear noonday.
After splendid running for a few miles, we tied up at Springhill and
climbed the path up the bank to the lumber-camp and boarding-house
above. Here were roadside inns in the olden days, with their quaint
names, such as “Dewdrop inn,” or “Rest and be Thankful.” Here the jolly
and amphibious red-shirted raftsmen used to congregate, and here, too,
their good-hearted successors make their down-river headquarters.
It took a few minutes to prepare our breakfast of coffee, toast, fresh
eggs from the fine poultry run, and new milk from the cows browsing in
the pretty tree-bordered meadows hard by.
[Illustration]
Breakfasting and taking a refreshing draught of cool spring water, we
regained our canoe, and as the upward course was resumed the sun burst
through its cloudy barrier and shone down with cheering effect. Passing
Percy Bar and the Keswick Islands we have an opportunity of testing the
important question of speed, for in the narrower channels the current
has a velocity of four to six miles an hour, and sometimes even faster.
Before entering a rapid or piece of swift water, we carefully oil the
working parts of the motor, and see that everything is in trim for our
struggle against the stream. Off we go for our first tussle, and in a
minute more we are in swift water, with circling eddies and a foam-lined
shore.
The water is higher than usual, owing to recent rain and well-swollen
tributaries. The whole current of the great river flows through the one
channel we have just entered. Fortunately, the river is deep here, and
it gives a good hold for our rapidly revolving screw. The engine working
well, the lever is pushed to “full-speed,” and in a moment we are
cleaving the water into two high ridges at our bow, while the throbbing
motor settles down to its best speed.
We look ashore a little anxiously, it must be admitted, for we appear
unequal to our task, the trees alongside and the rocks by the shore
holding fixed positions on our beam. It is only for a moment, however,
for soon we creep along shore, slowly, very slowly; and yet we are
gaining. After half-an-hour’s steady going we emerge into a wider
channel, the current loses its force and now we go ahead with increasing
speed.
Here we are in a run that is clear save for the quantities of logs
floating downstream, and which are being gathered in and made up into
rafts to be towed or guided with poles to the maws of the rapacious
mill. The long boom of logs fastened together end-wise, the walking
platform and the small floating shanty, together with the constant
downward stream of logs of all sizes going down singly, in “twos” and
“threes,” and, at times, in great bunches, all make an interesting
incident in the trip; and to thread a devious way in and out of the
swiftly passing timber keeps our rudder in constant oscillation as we
follow the ever-changing path.
[Illustration]
Here is Lunt’s Ferry. We see the high, steel cable strung across the
river, with the running block and gang ropes connecting it with the
side-railed flat barge or ferry. These floats are often propelled across
stream by the force of the current. Just as a ship makes headway by the
side wind running off her sails obliquely, so does a boat cross a stream
by the action of the tide, if care is taken to have the boat’s head
turned partly against the current. The boat being fastened to a
transverse cable and running block to prevent it from being driven down
stream, the tide strikes the hull obliquely and causes progression in
that direction towards which the boat is headed. When the tide is
sluggish a gasolene boat is frequently used to ensure more rapid
progress. Moored alongside, it soon pushes the ferry across; and when
traffic is active this is the best motive power.
[Illustration: Wanawassis Falls]
Soon we run under high bluffs and notice the fine growth of woods
covering the almost perpendicular heights, and which touch the side of
the steep slope with their projecting side branches. The varying shades
of green in the woodland, the giddy height, the far-extending reflection
in the now sunlit river, all combine in a beautiful picture; and again
are we tempted to land and drink of a sparkling stream that can be seen
flowing down the mountain side in a minute but clearly-defined rivulet.
Giving the engine a few minutes’ rest, we again push on, and, after
passing French Village, the pretty little Macinquac stream joins ours on
the right, and directly under the picturesque bluff, with its quaint
white church showing like a beacon through the trees, a landing is made
and we push our canoe tip into the mouth of the little stream, drinking
in the while all the beauties that are on every hand.
Once more afloat, for we are thinking of a place for dinner, and we wish
to find refreshment without waiting. In this way we may push forward and
cover the considerable distance of swift water that intervenes before we
reach our destination where we are to sup and lodge.
Fortunately, a suitable place is fairly close at hand, and, dinner over,
we resume our course upstream. The engine now “kicks-up” a little, as
all self-respecting motors must do, sooner or later. Again oiling the
parts, we push from off-shore again, for we had pulled in to avoid being
drawn down by the current, and thus losing ground.
But we do lose ground, for when we push off into deep water to give the
screw a chance to revolve without chipping the rocks, the canoe is
turned right around, and downstream we go, the engine obstinately
refusing a single turn.
Back to the shore we go with paddle, and after a few operations with the
motorist’s beloved tool, the wrench, and sundry squirts here and there
from his much cherished oil-can, the engine starts to revolve with
savage energy. It came so unexpectedly that we are off full speed
downstream before we recover. Putting the helm over we head up the river
and are just settling down to regain the lost way, when—the engine
stops!
[Illustration]
“Variety is the spice of life,” so we take to the shore again and hold
fast to a log conveniently stranded for our use. These little incidents,
it may be remarked, give added pleasure to the excursion, and for the
true motorist they supply that fulness and joy in life that cannot be
obtained in any other way. This time the real seat of the trouble is
found—moisture bridging the spark-gap.
Hurrah! Now we are off, in real earnest, and triumphant smiles come
quickly as swift water is passed and we finally get over Big Bear Island
Bar with only a few glancing knocks of the propeller on a stray rock or
two.
Twilight has come and gone. The trees are still, and not a breath
ripples the long and straight course of the river wide and ghostly, and
reaching into darkness at the end of a lengthy vista that is only dimly
defined—partly by the tall trees on each side, but more by the patch of
faint light that falls on the water down the avenue before us. Gray
forms float on the surface of the stream, turning a ghostly white as
they near us. We look over to examine more closely, and find small
floating islets of froth or foam, made hours before far up, and now
borne on the glassy surface of the tranquil stream, gathering in size as
they descend, or breaking against obstructions and vanishing suddenly
out of sight.
Soon the surface of the river shows a pale gleam of light, and the white
trunks of the silver birches begin to lose their spectral appearance as
they stand out, one by one, from the dense pall of overhanging foliage.
We look behind and enjoy to the full that glorious spectacle, moonrise
on a wide and beautiful river, in a country rich in mountain and vale;
and as the increasing light brings into view one feature after another
of the unfolding landscape, we marvel at its beauty, and at the softness
and delicacy of all when pencilled by that companion and friend of the
traveller by night—the gentle moon.
As we look behind at the dancing wavelets left in our wake, the crest of
each gleams white and brilliant ere it subsides in milky foam; while
down the widening and rippling channel just made by the revolving screw
a thousand gleams of light are refracted into a glorious play of
ever-changing color.
The sound of the motor is jarring when viewing a scene so fair. So
turning the canoe and stopping the engine, we drift inshore to view the
surroundings in perfect quiet.
How bright the planets show when seen from a deep valley on such a
night, and how marvellous and grand the sight when from almost total
darkness and confused or indistinguishable detail the whole beauty of
the view steals out, line by line, giving time to admire each new
feature as it springs into sight, until finally the whole glorious
landscape and wondrous river are spread before in a soft blending of
light and shade impossible to adequately picture or describe.
Reluctantly, though supperless, we turn our canoe and continue our way
upstream. We are now on a river of molten silver, floating down a path
at once fantastic and beautiful. The reflected and inverted banks of the
river are close to us on each hand, the tree branches sharply outlined
and gently quivering under the influence of a balmy zephyr that now
steals with velvet touch over the surface of the water.
Are we really in cloudland? we ask, so spiritual is the scene—and as if
to dispel all uncertainty a distant gleam of light reveals the far-away
course of the river, as it seems to pass on to the sky, where it flows
through the splendid portals of a gorgeous palace built in the clouds
and limned with outlines of pale silver by the artist moon.
“All journeys have an end.” Journeys are also said to “end in lover’s
greetings.” Sometimes, however, they terminate with a fine supper cooked
by the obliging wife of a good-hearted farmer for two supperless men
dropped from the clouds, as it were, one hour before midnight. And here
we are at Davidson’s Ferry, a good supper with a night’s repose on a
comfortable bed surely making a happy ending for one part of our trip.
After a 6 o’clock breakfast next morning the canoe is headed up the
lovely St. John—for are we not bound to reach the Nacawick stream,
Pokiok, the narrow gulf, and its waterfall, Clare Mountain, the Meductic
Fall and the Shogomoc Rapids. And we do reach these in good time, and
after admiring the rocky banks of the river near Hawkshaw, the beautiful
views at Pokiok, the narrow chasm and the little waterfall at the Gulf,
and the bold Clare Mountain, we finally reach our goal—the Shogomoc
Rapids. Here we turn inshore in full view and sound of the famed swift
water.
[Illustration]
What an exhilarating spectacle, and how the waters dash, foam and roar
as they are hurled headlong down the steep descent. What a splendid
place to camp anywhere near here—one would surely never tire of such
delightful surroundings. As we sit and watch the water assume
ever-changing forms, we think of the Indians and their life on these
waters in the long ago, and in fancy we see them mounting the crests of
the billows and passing up and down the river in perfect safety.
Up and down is doubtless wrong, for who could propel a boat upstream
against a foaming current going over ten miles an hour, and often nearer
fifteen! Discussing this with our guide, he declares he feels like going
up in the motor-canoe as far as he can, and, he adds, “By George, I
believe I can get through!” We laugh him to scorn. He persists in trying
it. At last we decide to join in the experience.
We oil up and make all ready. Off we go! right into the midst of the
foam at the lower end of the rapids. The engine works furiously at full
speed while we watch results.
We are making rapid progress in the wrong direction; for working full
speed ahead, we gain just enough way to get into the direct current and
then downstream we go, stern first, Davidson joining in the laugh at his
expense. “Never mind,” we say, “we were right in the midst of it, and
the boat did splendidly.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: FREDERICTON]
1. Waterloo Row, Fredericton
2. York Street, Fredericton
3. Walnut Park, Fredericton
4. Phoenix Square, Fredericton
Is there need to describe the pleasures of the return journey? How our
host of the previous night, Davidson’s brother—who had come with us from
his ferry to the rapids—insisted on our stopping off at his house for
dinner; how we did so and found by experience that city “cream” has a
very rich but distant relative known as “country cream” which turns tea
into nectar. Nor is there need for a description of how we operated the
ferry, said “good-bye” and went downstream—wind, current and gasolene
all in our favor—at a clip of twelve miles an hour and sometimes faster;
nor how we sped by the men poling their rafts downstream, giving them
time only to greet us with a friendly call and wave of the hand before
we were well by; or how we gasolened triumphantly into Fredericton by
eight at night, just in time for a nice supper at the hostelry near to
the steamboat landing, and to take a little turn on the Promenade before
retiring for sleep that came so fast as to almost close our eyes before
head could be well cushioned in downy pillow........ all the details
attending these various incidents must be left to the imagination: and
also those of the moose we saw in the woods, the wild birds on the wing,
the flocks of wild ducks in the water—twenty and more at a time—that
allowed us to pass close by without taking fright, the young deer that
watched us cunningly from woodland and thicket, the partridges, the
soaring eagles, the leaping salmon, and the fishermen hauling in their
well-stocked nets.
[Illustration]
On the way to Pokiok two small streams are passed, the Indian names of
which have been humorously embodied in the last two lines of this
extract from De Mille:—
“Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy,
Shall we seek for communion of souls
Where the deep Mississippi meanders
Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?
Ah no! in New Brunswick we’ll find it—
A sweetly sequestered nook—
Where the sweet gliding Skoodawabskooksis
Unites with the Skoodawabskook.”
Few who reach Fredericton and the Middle St. John River will care to
turn back without seeing the Grand Falls. It is one of the three
greatest cataracts of the upper continent. It has almost a perpendicular
drop, and the volume of water falling and thundering on “Split Rock”
below is a sight to be long remembered. A great column of spray
surmounts the lower rocks, and throws to the bright sunlight a play of
rainbow-color with beautiful effect against the sombre foam-washed
rocks. It is a splendid sight to see great logs passing over the brink.
Even in the channel above great timbers of forty feet in length are
tossed out of the water bodily, and when they are hurled headlong over
the fall and into the depths below—often piled there momentarily, in
almost inextricable confusion—the spectacle has a fascination in it that
compels intent observation. There is a winding gorge below, and there
are places such as “Pulpit Rock,” the hollowed-out “Great Well” and the
“Coffee Mill” whirlpool that are of great interest. Logs are sometimes
caught in the whirlpool, where the fierce spinning round to which they
are subjected rapidly wears away the ends to sharp points, just as they
would be if turned in a lathe.
Of the approach to and general aspect of the cataract, the view from
above is a fine one, for here the river after making a wide and grand
sweep makes an abrupt turn and takes a forty-foot plunge in a solid
mass. In continuous succession below is one fall after another until a
total descent of 80 feet is reached. The water rushes through a high and
winding chasm after it falls by rocky walls that are perpendicular. From
the first fall to the last the water is lashed into angry sheets of
foam; and no matter from where viewed, the scene is impressive and
striking, and holds the onlooker spellbound.
[Illustration]
The full significance of the Indian legend connected with this locality
will be realized as the gaze goes over the whole mass of turbulent and
seething water. The legend, in brief, is this:—
Long ago a great war party of 500 Mohawks came by Temiscouata Lake and
the Madawaska River to destroy the Maliceet village of Medoctec on the
St. John. Before they reached the mouth of the Madawaska they surprised
a Maliceet hunter with his family. The man and his family were instantly
killed, but the woman was spared on condition that she should guide the
war party to the doomed village by a safe path. (One version has it that
it was a Maliceet maiden who was thus captured.) She was placed in the
chief’s canoe and guided them safely over the portage by the Madawaska
Falls and into the St. John River.
[Illustration: Tobique Narrows, St. John River]
[Illustration: At Hawkshaw Bridge]
Assured by their guide that there were no more falls to pass, the canoes
were lashed together and drifted down the tide while the weary Mohawks
sank in slumber. By and bye a sound of falling water aroused one of the
chiefs; but being told that it was only the noise of the waterfall at
the mouth of a nearby river, he again slept. But suddenly the full roar
of the tremendous cataract strikes on the ears of the sleepers.
Springing to their feet the horror of the situation is at once apparent.
Paddles are seized and frantic efforts are made to stem the fierce tide.
It is useless, and a terrible cry of despair goes up as they are swept
to the brink of the foaming cataract. She had saved her father and her
native village:
“Then with a shout of triumph, the Indian maiden cried,
‘Listen, ye Mohawk warriors, which sail on Death’s dark tide!
Never shall earth grave hold you, or wife weep o’er your clay.
Come to your doom, ye Mohawks, and I will lead the way.’
* * * * *
“And many a day thereafter, beyond the torrent’s roar,
The swarthy Mohawk dead were found along the river’s shore.
But on brave Malabeam’s dead face no human eyes were set—
She lies in the dark stream’s embrace, the river claims her yet.
“The waters of five hundred years have flowed above her grave,
But daring deeds can never die while human hearts are brave.
Her tribe still tell the story, and round their council fires,
Honor the name of her who died to rescue all their sires.”
Almost needless to state, there are many other legends and tales of the
Indians in connection with their villages that are on the banks of the
St. John above and below Fredericton. The whole district is so full of
beauty, has so many attractions for the vacationist and nature lover,
and is such a superb centre for hunting, fishing, boating, canoeing,
etc., that no one may hope to exhaust its possibilities, even if a
lifetime of summers should be spent in the exploration and unfolding of
all that it contains.
[Illustration: Reversing Fall, St. John River]
_The City of St. John and Lower St. John River_
[Illustration]