Transcriber’s Note
There are two spellings of the author's name - Sedgwick and Sedgewick.
Both spellings have been retained.
There is a map mentioned, 20 × 30 inches of the canoe courses of
Northern Maine but nothing was found in this copy or any other copy
of the same publication date.
[Illustration:
“Took to his bark upon the pebbled shore,
Those unknown realms of Nature to explore.”
SUNRISE ON ECHO LAKE.]
PADDLE AND PORTAGE,
FROM
MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER,
MAINE.
BY
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
AUTHOR OF “CANOE AND CAMERA,” MAPS OF MAINE, ETC.,
“Hunting is the noblest exercise,
Makes men laborious, active, wise,
Brings health, and doth the spirits delight,
It helps the hearing and the sight;
It teacheth arts that never slip
The memory, good horsemanship,
Search, sharpness, courage, and defence,
And chaseth all ill habits thence.”
JONSON’S MASQUES.
_WITH OVER SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS_,
AND MAP 20 × 30 INCHES OF THE CANOE COURSES OF NORTHERN MAINE.
BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT,
299-305 WASHINGTON STREET.
1882.
COPYRIGHT.
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
1882.
To Lyman B. Goff,
of
Pawtucket, R. I.
Companion on this tour, with
whom I shared its pleasures and its
dangers, its discomforts and
its successes, this book
is affectionately
dedicated,
in token of my sincere regard
and friendship.
Hartford, Conn., 1882. T. S. S.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The start.--Unwarranted assumptions.--Our guides and outfit.--A
flimsy wharf.--Railroading of the old days.--Contemptible deceit toward
dumb animals.--Commencement of fun on the “Carries.”--We
go into camp.--First night in the wilds, Page 15
CHAPTER II.
Moving on.--Pine Stream Falls.--Chesuncook Lake and Farm.--Umbazookus
Carry.--A dry ground sleighing party.--Further experience
with the horse.--A glimpse of desolation.--Chamberlin Lake.--A
vision.--Eagle Lake.--Smith Brook.--Haymoak Falls.--Trout
Stories, Page 36
CHAPTER III.
In rough water.--North Twin Stream.--An Indian paddle for future
use.--Breezes, blankets, cold and ice.--Spider Lake.--Manifold charms
of camp life.--At work with the traps.--Concerning beaver.--We proclaim
our intentions, Page 60
CHAPTER IV.
Osgood Carry.--The pack-horse league.--Novel trick in pedestrianism.--Camp
on Echo Lake.--Hiram tells a story.--Sluicing a dam.--More
concerning beaver.--Camp at the Mansungun Lakes, Page 79
CHAPTER V.
A vision on the lake.--Nichols’ birch-horn.--A midnight hunt under a
cold moon.--Calling the moose, Page 104
CHAPTER VI.
Decrease of our provisions.--Face to face with starvation.--Sore
trials.--Shoeing canoes.--Through the storm.--We sight the waters of the
Aroostook.--“Hurrah!” Page 115
CHAPTER VII.
Redeemed from starvation.--The first habitation on the Aroostook.--Mr.
Botting’s house.--The tourograph astonishes the natives.--Purchasing
supplies at Masardis.--Homeward Bound.--_Au Revoir!_ Page 131
ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. SUNRISE ON ECHO LAKE, Frontispiece.
2. DEDICATION, PAGE 4
3. A BEAVER DAM, 13
4. INITIAL “O,”--LEAVING MOOSEHEAD LAKE, 16
5. OUR GUIDES, 22
6. A SERIO-COMIC, 28
7. THE FIRST CAMP, 31
8. THE BEST MAN TO WIN, 33
9. NIGHT ON THE WEST BRANCH, 35
10. INITIAL “B,” 36
11. CHESUNCOOK LAKE, 37
12. CHESUNCOOK FARM, 38
13. UMBAZOOKUS STREAM, 41
14. PORTAGE, 43
15. OUTLET OF CHAMBERLIN LAKE, 47
16. CHAMBERLIN FARM, 49
17. FACETIÆ, 50
18. HAYMOAK FALLS, 52
19. GOOD SPORT, 56
20. THE DOG, 59
21. INITIAL “E,” 60
22. A COLD WAVE, 63
23. LOW--THE POOR INDIAN, 65
24. DEVELOPING A PLATE, 66
25. “TREES PILED ON TREES,” 68
26. TWILIGHT IN THE WILDS, 72
27. EVACUATION, 73
28. “ON TO THE AROOSTOOK,” 78
29. INITIAL “I,” 79
30. THE PACK-HORSE LEAGUE, 82
31. AT NIGHT BY THE CAMP FIRE, 84
32. “BY DINT O’ PUSHIN’ AN’ HAULIN’”-- 87
33. “FOLLERIN’ HIS SLOAT--HALLOO!” 91
34. “BEAT HIM LIKE AN OLD CARPET,” 93
35. “SAT ALL NIGHT WATCHIN’ IT BURN DOWN,” 94
36. BEAVER DAM--FOUR FEET HIGH--ONE HUNDRED FEET WIDE, 96
37. SLUICING A DAM, 98
38. CHASE BROOK, 101
39. ODDS AND ENDS, 103
40. INITIAL “T,” 104
41. “MOOSE? YOU DON’T SAY SO!” 105
42. “OH, SUCH A PAIR OF HORNS!” 106
43. THE DECOY, 109
44. CALLING THE MOOSE, 112
45. MOONLIGHT ON THE LAKE, 114
46. INITIAL “A,” 115
47. SHOEING CANOES, 117
48. “WOULDN’T TAKE FIFTY DOLLARS FOR IT,” 119
49. MANSUNGUN DEADWATER, 121
50. A SKY PICTURE, 123
51. A TWELVE MILE “DRAG,” 125
52. FROM THE DRY TO THE WET PROCESS, 128
53. CAMP ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, 130
54. INITIAL “W,” 131
55. A WAITING BREAKFAST, 132
56. THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, 134
57. “CAN YOU GET UP A DINNER FOR THE CROWD?” 137
58. BIRD-TRAPPING MADE EASY, 139
59. “SEVENTY SUMMERS,” 140
60. A PEEP AT THE STRANGERS, 141
61. PRESQUE ISLE--CIVILIZATION IN FOCUS-- 144
62. VALEDICTORY, 146
63. FINIS, 148
INTRODUCTION.
On page _31_ of _Canoe and Camera_ I made the following foot-note,
in mentioning the fourth tour from Moosehead Lake through the Maine
Wilderness: “Still another trip can be made from Churchill Lake through
Spider, Echo and Mansungun Lakes to the waters of the Aroostook,
leaving the woods at Caribou, Maine. But the scenery is uninteresting,
and the difficulties will not compensate one for the labor endured,
while woe betide the tourist if the water is low.”
I little imagined, as I penned this paragraph from hearsay, that the
following season I should so thoroughly acquaint myself with its
“difficulties,” and learn from actual experience the _beauties_ of its
scenery.
Yet, in the autumn of 1880, while putting in order my well-worn
camp equipage with no definite plan in view, a letter from my friend
and fellow traveller, Colonel G., gave this _fortunate_ direction
to my fall trip. This letter informed me that the year previous he
had discovered a region unknown to the sportsman and tourist, yet
accessible by canoe from Moosehead Lake, and was rejoicing in the title
of the “Pioneer of the Aroostook.” I could not, therefore, be the first
to explore this route, and so, accepting second honors, began immediate
preparations for the trip.
The oldest inhabitants of Maine _may_ have known a drier season than
that of 1880, but the reader will perceive in the following pages that
a cart, rather than a canoe, might have been used in the exploration of
the greater portion of this unknown region.
THE AUTHOR.
HARTFORD, CONN., 1881.
PADDLE AND PORTAGE,
FROM
MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED AT DAY’S STUDIO, NEW YORK,
FROM
PHOTOGRAPHS MADE BY THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER I.
“Happy the man who has the town escaped;
To him the whisp’ring trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles, preach
Virtue’s and wisdom’s love.”
THE START.--UNWARRANTED ASSUMPTIONS.--OUR GUIDES AND OUTFIT.--A FLIMSY
WHARF.--RAILROADING OF THE OLD DAYS.--CONTEMPTIBLE DECEIT TOWARD
DUMB ANIMALS.--COMMENCEMENT OF FUN ON THE “CARRIES.”--WE GO INTO
CAMP.--FIRST NIGHT IN THE WILDS.
[Illustration]
On the 11th of September I landed at the Mount Kineo House, Moosehead
Lake, fully equipped for a voyage of over four hundred miles through
the wilderness of Maine to New Brunswick. Colonel G., my comrade
adventurer, having arrived a few days previous, had engaged the guides,
canoes, provisions, and other accessories, so there was little to do
save discard the habiliments of civilization.
Two days after, on the morning of the 13th, we started from the Kineo
Dock on the little steamer DAY DREAM for the northern extremity of
Moosehead Lake, at which point we were to bid adieu to civilization and
traverse the remainder of our route alone by paddle and portage.
As the steamer cast loose from the wharf, our interested friends ashore
gave us a farewell cheer that echoed across the waters of the lake.
In these realms of adventure, everybody is one’s friend. Friendship
is spontaneous; good feeling reigns supreme, and people that we did
not know united with people that we did know in their signal-tokens
of “Godspeed”--or, at least, we thought they did. As we passed up the
lake, fashionable ladies and gentlemen waved their handkerchiefs upon
the piazzas of the hotel.
“This attention is pleasing,” remarked the Colonel.
“Pshaw!” I said; “It is warm this morning. Don’t you feel the heat of
the air? They are fanning themselves.”
“Oh!” he said; “I thought they were giving us a farewell.”
Down on Kineo pebble beach some of the guides, who hang around the
hotel while “open for engagements,” were standing in company with a few
of the oldest inhabitants, sweeping the air with their broad felt hats
in a manner wild and energetic. Pointing these out to me, the Colonel
hinted his belief that their actions were intended for us.
“Nonsense,” I said; “more likely they’re doing battle with a horde of
offensive insects.”
Not far from this group stood a party of sportsmen, who fired a volley
from their rifles that rattled over the lake with a harsh, spasmodic
detonation. To me, however, the voice of the report was highly
expressive.
“Colonel,” I said, with a sudden flush of pleasure; “there’s a party of
the boys giving us a send-off.”
“Fudge,” said the Colonel; “do you see that duck flying across the
lake? There’s the worthy object of the honor. They’ve missed it. Some
bevy of girl-admirers have been watching them from the hotel, and
they save their reputation by looking toward us, as if the volley was
intended for a salute.”
“Oh,” I said, collapsing at the Colonel’s retaliatory explanation; “I
thought it strange that we should cause so much trouble.”
In a short while we were ploughing the upper waters of Moosehead
Lake, and the frowning bluffs of Mount Kineo began to fade into the
distance, the rocks, the trees, and other features of its scenery,
becoming indistinct in a haze of deepening purple. As the little
steamer moved onward, lying on the deck among the baggage, we took our
ease, and listened to the predictions of our few companion-passengers,
and studied the glowing eloquence of the cloudless sky, both of which
bespoke the ominous fact of the dry season, and told us with cruel
blandness to rest while we might, as there was in store plenty of
exhilarating exercise upon the “carries” beyond.
While we are progressing to our destination, I will take an opportunity
for a description of our guides and general outfit. This some people
consider necessary, and it is therefore a duty which sooner or later
must be fulfilled.
The guides, for such an extended tour of exploration, had been well
chosen. One of them was an Indian, whose tribe had originated on the
St. John’s River. He lived, however, at Oldtown, Maine. His name was
Thomas Nichols. He was a stalwart man, six feet in height, forty-eight
years of age, and weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds. He was
considered the best hunter in the vicinity, while his reputation in
the manufacture of birch canoes was known throughout the State. He was
dressed in a grey shirt, a cardigan jacket, and a black felt hat, which
made him look like a savage who had fallen into the clutches of some
prowling missionary, and issued from the “conversional brush,” not the
better of soul, but the richer of a complex and indifferent suit of
clothes.
[Illustration: OUR GUIDES.]
We had two other guides, Hiram and John Mansell, who were brothers from
Greenville, Maine, the former officiating as cook, the latter as man
of all work. Hiram was clad in a pair of blue pants with red stripes
at the sides, a souvenir of military life, and looked like a relic of
Bull Run. He wore a jacket of brown duck, with a leather strap about
his waist, to which was slung a long bowie-knife, whose sheath was a
deer’s leg with the hoof attached. He stood five feet five inches in
his stockings--how high with his shoes on we are not prepared to
say--was thirty-one years of age, and weighed just one hundred and
forty-eight pounds, before dinner. His brother John, clad throughout in
grey woollen attire, was twenty-three years old, but as strong as an
ox, and having served a good apprenticeship among the loggers, could
wield an axe with powerful effect.
In addition to the provisions necessary to feed five hungry men on a
five weeks’ cruise, our canoes were further loaded with two canvas A
tents, 6 × 8 feet, a Baker tent, 7 × 9 feet, six iron beaver traps,
five rubber and canvas bags, containing our blankets, rubber beds,
cooking utensils, four Winchester rifles, and a good supply of
ammunition.
Last but not least in importance to the expedition was a Tourograph, an
instrument with which to photograph the scenery along the route. This
apparatus, which was always placed at the head of my tent, was tended
with zealous care from first to last, and many were the cautions given
the guides as to its disposition in the canoe or on the carries.
“All ashore!” cried Colonel G., as we reached the ricketty wharf at
the extremity of Moosehead Lake. This wharf was a sadly dilapidated
affair. As we stepped upon it to transfer our baggage to the shore it
squeaked like a box of compressed guinea-pigs, and bounced and rocked
so beneath our weight that the Colonel declared it had at one time been
an Indian baby-charmer.
Gaining land we strapped our canoes and baggage upon a wagon which
was in waiting, to which were attached a pair of horses, that were
also in waiting, with their goodly snouts immersed in the contents
of a monster bag and snuffing after a handful of oats that had been
lost somewhere in the interior. Then, as our party gave the steamer
a farewell cheer, the Colonel and I led the advance along the sandy
path of the North East Carry, leaving the guides to bring up the rear,
to prevent any loss of the “kit.” As we trudged along, looking to the
right, our attention was attracted to an old road along which ran in
dubious parallel two long rows of disjointed logs, which were soon lost
to sight in the choking wild-growth. These logs had once served as the
tracks of a wooden railroad, extending two miles across the fields,
over which the loggers, in former years, had drawn their supplies
to the Penobscot waters, with the motor power of _oxen_. Theodore
Winthrop wrote, that “whenever the engine-driver stopped to pick a
huckleberry, the train, self-braking, stopped also, and the engine, or
‘_bullgine_,’ took in fuel from the tall grass that grew between the
sleepers.” But few traces of these rails now remain, and horse-power
has been substituted for that of the more patient ox.
As the Colonel and I progressed, we became quite absorbed in commenting
on the features of the route over which we had both travelled so
frequently. The sun shone brightly, the birds were twittering merrily
on the twigs at the side of the path, insects and other nondescripts
buzzed, chirped, hummed, and squeaked with ready avail of the true
American privilege of free speech; but so concerned were we in our talk
that we failed to notice for some time that there was room enough in
the air for other music, which we did not hear. In fact, we missed the
sonorous jolt and rumble of the wagon-wheels behind us. Looking back,
to our surprise, we found that the vehicle was not in sight.
“A break-down,” I suggested; “let us go back and see what has
happened.”
Retracing our way, in a few moments we came in sight of the wagon.
It was standing stock-still in the road. As we ran up beside it, we
found our caravan in a most distressing situation. The horses were
standing before the clumsy wagon as motionless as statues, and with
forward-pricked ears and firmly planted feet were stubbornly refusing
to move a step, while the driver and our guides were dancing around
them with the grace of frantic Zulus, inciting them to energy with the
aid of sticks snatched from the roadside.
“What’s the matter?” we inquired.
“Can’t git the ’tarnal brutes to budge a step,” cried Hiram, desisting
from the chastisement, and dropping his stick upon the road in sheer
exhaustion.
“What’s the reason you can’t? Let me get at them!” cried the Colonel,
furiously.
“Don’t, Colonel,” I pleaded, as my comrade began to pirouette in the
Zulu dance with flourished stick. “There’s no telling what is the cause
of their inability. Perhaps the poor creatures have corns.”
“No, they ’avent; no sir-ee!” cried the driver, meeting my remark with
a howl of indignation. “Nary a spavin, a heave, nur a corn abeout them
ar hosses, I’d hev ye know. Finest breed that was ever raised in Maine;
they cum all the way from Californy.”
“Then why don’t they stir their stumps?” demanded one of the guides in
a voice that made the animals quiver.
“No cross-questioning. At them again with the sticks, boys!” cried the
Colonel. “We’ll put life into them.”
“No, no ye can’t. Thar’s only one thing kin inspire them ar hosses.”
“What’s that?” I asked, breathlessly.
“Oats,” replied the driver, mournfully.
“Then where are the oats? Bring out the oats!” cried the Colonel.
“Aint got none. They’ve all giv out.”
“Then where’s the bag,” I cried, with a desperate idea. “Give me the
bag, and I’ll start them.”
The driver threw me the big oat bag from the interior of the wagon. It
fell into my arms like a collapsed balloon. Taking a position in front
of the horses, I held it at arm’s length toward their noses.
“Now,” I cried to the guides; “get behind the wagon and _push_.
Between two fires the engine cannot fail to move.”
“You’re mad! Tom,” cried the Colonel, with a look of supreme disgust.
[Illustration]
“Never mind,” said I; “there’s method in my madness, as you’ll soon
see;” and he did see, for the next moment the horses, sniffing the oat
bags, sprang forward with a desperate spurt after me. All the way along
the road, I held the oat bag dancing before their eyes like an _ignus
fatuus_. At times, however, the animals half suspected the deceit, and
seemed inclined to lose faith in the feeling of man and lag. This made
our progress rather spasmodic; but they were never suffered to come to
a halt, for at every threatened relapse the guides stood ready to do
propeller-power behind.
“This is Rapid Transit with a vengeance,” cried the Colonel, as he
strode after us convulsed with laughter.
We travelled in this way for some time, until we reached the West
Branch of the Penobscot, where the driver and his dashing equipage were
cheerfully dismissed and we took to the water in our canoes. Thus the
last link between us and civilization was broken. The water was very
low, and we found ourselves ushered into a difficult passage. This was
the dryest season experienced in Maine for many years.
The water courses displayed such masses of huge rocks and uncovered
stretches of gravel beds that, at a distance, one would have thought
them logging roads rather than the beds of large rivers. Constantly we
were obliged to step overboard and lift our canoes over obstructions,
and often we sighed for the aid of horse-flesh, of better calibre,
however, than that we had just parted with.
After two hours of alternate dragging and paddling we shot into the
right bank of the river, and made our first camp half a mile above
Moosehorn Stream. Then
“There was hurrying to and fro;”
the baggage was thrown out of the canoes, the latter were drawn up
on the bank and overturned to dry; the tents were unrolled, the poles
were struck, and two of the guides busied themselves in their erection,
while John Mansell woke the echoes of the woods with the resounding
blows of his heavy axe as he cut the logs and fuel for the camp fire,
and the Colonel and I, seizing our rifles, sauntered forth with
sanguinary strides to decrease the population of the forest game in the
interest of our first meal. When we returned we found everything under
way; the log fire was crackling merrily, before which were squatted
the guides on upturned pails. Around them was scattered in picturesque
confusion our full culinary paraphernalia, consisting of tea and
coffee-pots, kettles, frying-pans, tin cups, bakers, broilers, etc.,
out of which assortment they were selecting the utensils needed for our
meal. They looked like a band of itinerant tinkers.
[Illustration: THE FIRST CAMP.]
Tossing Hiram a brace of partridges the Colonel and I, arranging the
Tourograph apparatus, obtained a photograph of our first camp. Soon
after that supper was announced, after which sleeping accommodations
engaged our attention. Going toward our tent we found that Nichols,
the Indian, had carpetted it as well as those of the guides with
fragrant boughs of hemlock. But our two large rubber beds yet remained
to be inflated. The size of these were 36 × 80 inches. The Colonel and
I began to devise a plan for swelling them without taxing our physical
resources. We soon agreed that the only way out of the difficulty was
the arrangement of a match on time between two of the guides. Hiram
and the Indian seized upon our proposition instantly, and their rival
wind powers were soon tested. Stretching the collapsed rubber bags side
by side, they spread themselves flat upon the ground in similar
positions, and placing their mouths at the apertures received the
signal, and began to blow as if for dear life. The Colonel and I held
our time-pieces in our hands, and watched the struggle with amusement.
They had both powerful lungs and the bags were soon inflated. As they
withdrew from the contest, the veins swelled upon their foreheads
like whip-cords, and their fiery red faces glowed with the color of a
harvest moon.
[Illustration: THE BEST MAN TO WIN.]
“Who wonee?” gasped the Indian, as he passed the sleeve of his grey
shirt across his perspiring face. The Colonel and I consulted, and not
desiring to discourage either of the guides from a repetition of the
act we declared the match a tie.
By this time night had set in. But we did not hasten to bed; no,
indeed. Stretching ourselves before the big log fire we revelled in
the raptures of a scene of which the tourist can never tire--the last
wakeful hours of the camp at night, those hours so rife with merriment,
so rich with unbosomed anecdote, when the first story, springing
from the innocent seed of palpable truth, becomes a prey to those
succeeding ones which bear the hideous stain of doubt. Exaggeration is
wonderfully prolific. “India-rubber yarns” are told in endless variety,
each one being a super-test of the elasticity of the whole. Then some
one falls into the error of telling the truth, and his story is howled
at as being weak and unpalatable. Finally some one tells the “whopper”
of the evening, which bids defiance to retaliation and sends the party
to bed in first-class trim for weird dreams. A bomb-shell of this
kind from the Colonel was the cause of our dispersal, and exchanging
“good nights” we entered our tents. Then, while the camp fire still
burned on, while the bark curled from the trunks of the big birch logs,
while the cedar snapped with its merry crackle, while the shadows of
the leaping flame and smoke danced fantastically upon the ruddy tent
walls--we slept.
[Illustration]