“But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid it’s gay creation, hues like hers?”--THOMSON.
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.
Early on the morning of September 23d we continued down Eagle Lake and
through the “Thoroughfare” to Churchill Lake. Then a change came o’er
the spirit of the weather. It grew suddenly colder, and as our three
canoes prowed into the lake a sharp breeze sprang up which ruffled its
usually calm surface into a restless quiver. As the breeze increased to
a “blow” the waves were lashed into white caps, and then into billows,
until our fragile birch-barks were tossed about like corks.
Each breaker seemed ready to engulf us; but we shipped little water,
for the inventive genius of the Colonel had devised a novel covering
for the bows of our canoes.
It consisted of a strip of white canvas extending aft about two feet,
which was stretched and secured to a brass hoop arched across the
canoe, and fastened with brass pins or pegs.
This made the bow of the canoe resemble the fore-part of an immense
Chinese shoe. All articles liable to damage by exposure were thus
secured from the spray of the waves and passing rain showers. It proved
a capital nook for the storage of the camera, guns, ammunition, etc.,
and was quite a suggestion to Nichols, who was an old canoe maker.
Our course lay through the Eastern arm of Churchill Lake, a distance of
only six miles, the larger body of these waters lying to the north, and
having for their outlet the Allaguash River.
At one o’clock we beached our canoes and erected our tents at the mouth
of North Twin Stream.
As we supped that night on broiled partridge and stewed duck, we little
dreamed of the hardships which lay to the eastward, between us and the
waters of the great Aroostook River.
Since leaving our camp on Mud Pond Stream, Nichols had been hard at
work at odd moments on a long paddle. From a rough maple log-split, it
had gradually been shaped into a thing of beauty, and now with pride
was being curiously ornamented with all the artistic execution of which
the Indian’s deft hand was capable.
“Me beat you, boys, when I get to the ‘Roostook,’” said Nichols, with
a sly twinkle of his eye, as from under his black felt hat he cast a
triumphant look at the other guides.
“But perhaps we shall never get there unless it rains,” said John.
“Me think so, too,” chimed in Hiram, trying to imitate in tone of voice
the Indian’s favorite expression.
“When the ‘Pioneers of the Aroostook’ pushed through this country last
season,” said the Colonel, glancing at me with an air of superiority,
“we experienced no difficulty in continuing our voyage one mile above
to Marsh Pond. On examination, since landing, I find we shall be
obliged to ‘carry’ around the obstructions, and it will detain us a
day.”
[Illustration: A COLD WAVE.]
That night we found use for all the spare blankets in camp, and John
was repeatedly aroused to replenish the fire.
“What’s the matter, Colonel?” I asked, as gazing out from under
my warm blankets on the morning of Sept. 24th I discovered my
_compagnon-du-voyage_ dancing before the fire and rubbing his hands
with “invisible soap.”
“Well, you just turn out and see. There is half an inch of ice in our
camp pails, and a fair chance for skating on the Lake. We shall have to
take to snow-shoes, if this weather holds on.”
The tents, stiff with frost, were packed in bags, and in “Indian file”
at the right of North Twin Stream we started for Marsh Pond, each man
burdened to the utmost. Again and again we repeated our trips, between
lake and pond, sinking in the mud one instant, slipping on some frosty
rock the next, and not until late in the afternoon were our canoes and
the last loads of our kit safely landed at Marsh Pond.
Paddling through this water, its name being typical of its character,
we ascended a small stream at its head on our way to Spider Lake.
“Me think it getting dark, boys,” said the Indian, “and we better make
camp at once.”
[Illustration: LOW--THE POOR INDIAN.]
So hauling our canoes on shore we cast about for the most desirable
spot.
There was no choice; it was an immense swamp in whatever direction
we travelled. We sank almost to our knees in the moss and decayed
underbrush. Once the Indian, floundering in the mud with our
tent-poles, disappeared completely from sight, and we might have lost
him, but the poles sticking up like bare flag-staffs through the dense
brush which masked the marsh pools, disclosed the spot where he had
sunk from view. When we dragged him out, he looked like a muskrat.
[Illustration: DEVELOPING A PLATE.]
“Nichols is trying to discover an underground road to the Aroostook,”
said Hiram. “Guess he’s given up all thought o’ usin’ that long paddle
on them ’ere waters.”
This place proved the worst camping ground of the whole trip, but
despite this fact it had its charms. The tourist soon grows to despise
the consideration of personal comfort, when self-sacrifice is required
to bring him in direct association with the nature which infatuates
him. He becomes like the poet or painter, a creature purely spiritual,
who raves in the rapture of exalted soul while his boots ship water by
the gallon, while scarcely a rag hangs to his back, and low-dwindling
provisions place him on rations intimate with starvation.
Thus it was with us. Our surroundings were unpleasant, but apart from
this, as we saw them, interestingly picturesque.
[Illustration: TREES PILED ON TREES.]
Here we were in the presence of a great dead forest. Across the pools,
the rocks, and the brush growth lay the trunks of monster trees
prostrated by the winds, storms, and decaying processes of nature.
Trees were piled on trees in huge, insurmountable barriers, each one
bearing on the other with a crushing force that tore through the
limbs and logs, and pressed the massive pile down deep into the soft
vegetation of the marsh.
All was grey and lifeless. It seemed as if nature had lain
unresurrected since the Deluge, and that the trees had twisted about
and embraced each other in their dying agonies. All was dead! dead!
dead! The only sign of life upon them was the deep moss that flourished
on the decayed and weather-beaten trunks; but this was like the grass
above the grave.
The next day for lack of water we dragged our canoes through the
remainder of the river to Spider Lake, and camped on a high ledge of
rocks on the Southern shore, its dry and picturesque position being in
delightful contrast to our last quarters. This lake, three miles long
and half a mile wide, set among these forest depths like a jewel in a
ring, reflects ten mountain peaks on its surface.
On our way to camp we examined a point of rocks jutting far out into
the lake, whose curious construction attracted our attention. It was a
perpendicular pile of corrugated stone crowned with a tall growth of
spruce trees, which swept like Indian head-plumes to a hill-top beyond.
The rocks at this time arose fifteen feet from the water, but their
well-worn sides indicated their covering in any but a dry season. At
their base we discovered deep, subterranean cavities, made by the
action of the water, and into these with curiosity we pushed our canoes
bent on a full investigation. Some were only slight excavations,
suggesting the dwelling-places of large trout, or the coverts of
the fur animals abounding in the vicinity, but there were others of
considerable space, into which we passed without difficulty. Within
all was gloomy and damp, and the motion of the water against the cold,
slimy walls made a strange phase of music which echoed mournfully
through the caverns. They seemed like the abodes of spirits; we could
scarcely repress a shudder at the weird effect of the scene.
[Illustration: TWILIGHT IN THE WILDS.]
Many times afterward did we recall with pleasure the
delightful experiences of our sojourn at Spider Lake. The charming
comforts of a dry and well-pitched camp, the exhilarating sport by
the trout pools among the rocks not twenty feet from the tent door,
the partridge-shooting in the woods, the ducking on the lake, the
adventures of exploration, and the grand scenic surroundings which we
still admire in the souvenirs afforded by photography, have made those
too fleeting hours “red-letter days” in our memory.
[Illustration: EVACUATION.]
“You are not proposing to desert this lovely camp so soon?” I said to
the Colonel, as we stood in the tent door gazing out on the lake some
days later. “It seems a pity after spending so much labor about the
camp to leave at once.”
“Well, we cannot tarry long; we little know what is before us if the
water courses remain dry; our birch canoes will not endure the strain
much longer,” was the Colonel’s reply. And so we bade farewell to this
charming spot.
At night we reached Logan Pond. Before our tents were in position we
were overtaken by a drenching rain storm, which we fought through with
philosophical patience, hoping it would increase the water along the
route. It takes true grit to endure without complaint a rain-storm in
the woods, and one must have an abundance of cheerfulness to keep from
murmuring.
“You had better set those beaver traps to-night,” said the Colonel to
the Indian, as he stood drying himself before the fire, and turning
about from one side to the other like a roasting turkey.
“Yes, me think so, too,” replied Nichols; and suiting the action to the
word, he soon started off down the hill with the iron traps over his
shoulder, I following him, bent upon investigating all the mysteries of
wood-craft.
“You see beaver house over there?” whispered the guide, as we reached
a mud dam at the outlet of the lake, at the same time pointing out to
me a cone-shaped knob of mud and sticks about ten feet high and six
feet in diameter. “One, two, three beaver live there, and me set traps
to catch one to-night. Beaver build house with door; then build dam and
raise water to cover door to house.”
Slipping into the woods the Indian soon returned with a cedar pole ten
feet in length and four inches in diameter at the butt. With his axe he
split this, and slipping over it the chain ring of the trap, secured it
in position by a wedge. The trap was then opened and lowered carefully
into the water, and after driving the pole into the mud, the upper end
was made fast with twisted grasses to a neighboring tree.
What was our joy on arising the next morning to see Nichols returning
from the pond lugging a fine beaver of over forty pounds’ weight, held
in position on his shoulders by a withe of cedar bark encircling his
forehead.
“Me lost another beaver,” said the Indian, as he dropped the heavy
animal before the tent door for our examination, and wiped the
perspiration from his dusky forehead. “Beaver cut pole in pieces
and run with trap. Me hunt pond all over, but no find him;” and he
displayed as much sorrow over the loss as if it had been a small
fortune.
The fur of the animal was in excellent condition. He was three feet in
length, with tail 5 × 12 inches, half an inch in thickness, and covered
with black, shining scales of leather-like toughness.
“Is there any truth in the story, Nichols, that the beaver uses his
tail to build his dam?”
“No! no!” replied the guide, as laying the animal across his lap he
commenced to rob him of his “jacket.” “No beaver do that. He use tail
to make noise to other beavers. It slap on water, make sound like
pistol, and give alarm. Beaver push mud and stones from bed of river
with front feet to make dam, and when build house walk up straight on
hind feet, and hold to breast sticks and stones with front feet. No one
hunt beaver who tell such stories.”
The animal was soon dressed and stewed for our breakfast. Its taste was
similar to that of corn beef, but of a much more delicate flavor, the
liver being reserved as a choice dish for the next meal. The tail was
one mass of solid fat, which only the Indian, after toasting it before
the fire, could digest. The skin was stretched on a hoop four feet in
diameter laced with strips of cedar bark, a shingle of wood being used
in spreading the skin of the tail.
“Me no like this,” said the Indian, arising after the completion of his
work. “In my tribe, brave trap beaver; squaw dress him.”
“Which is a much superior way,” observed the Colonel. “Thus all
the world over the gallant brave saddles upon the poor woman
the undaintiful share of the work. A great pity, Nichols, that
circumstances in your life have abolished the custom, as far as you are
concerned.”
“Me think so; yes,” replied the Indian, with just the faintest idea of
what the Colonel meant; and as he turned to wash the grease and blood
from his warrior hands he looked the picture of dignity dethroned.
After a few days tarry we pushed on across Logan Pond, made half a mile
carry to Beaver Pond, and camped on Osgood Carry at the head of the
last water.
“What do you find so interesting?” I inquired of the Colonel, as I saw
him examining minutely the side of an old tree not far from the tents.
“Oh! nothing special, except a record I made last year regarding the
‘Pioneers of the Aroostook,’ which the winter storms have failed to
obliterate.”
“Then, before we go, we had better leave some relic of this tour,” I
said.
Accordingly a photographic plate which had been spoiled by sudden
contact with the light was drawn from my Tourograph, and scratching the
names of the party on its surface, we nailed it to the tree for the
benefit of the next comer, adding as a suggestion of our destination
“ON TO THE AROOSTOOK!”
[Illustration]