“The wise and active conquer difficulties
By daring to attempt them: sloth and folly
Shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard,
And make the impossibility they fear.”
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.
Imagine the difficulties we surmounted in our passage across Osgood
Carry to Echo Lake.
With the exception of an occasional beaver, duck, partridge, or string
of trout captured on the way, we were obliged to carry provisions
sufficient for five men, who never failed in their attendance at
meals three times a day, and with appetites which only wood life can
stimulate.
Add to these provisions the weight of three tents, three blankets
for each man, rubber beds, personal baggage, cooking utensils, guns,
ammunition, rods, a Tourograph with seventy five glass plates, and
three canoes weighing from eighty-five to one hundred pounds each and
you have an idea of the toil and hardships of a tramp through this
wilderness.
This “Carry” is the water-shed of the St. John’s and Aroostook Rivers,
and passes over a succession of hills, through swamps, and wind falls.
Although one trip across is but two miles, a return for a second load
makes four, and four trips carrying during half the time all one can
bear on his shoulders makes sixteen miles, a fair day’s tramp in a
country where not even a “spotted line” guides the traveler to his
destination.
At the time of our appearance there, the ground after the recent rain
was in a soft, soggy condition, which made the way slippery and tedious.
As we pushed forward loaded down with our traps, frequently did a
misstep send one of our number “to grass,” and smother him among the
articles which constituted his burden. Our progress, as Hiram observed,
“was slower than cold molasses.”
For every step taken forward we slipped two backward, until the idea
was suggested to us of turning about and walking in the opposite
direction, that we might travel faster.
“Me fix your load for the ‘Carry,’” said Nichols to me, as I started
off with what I supposed I should be able to transport without halting;
“I show you how to fix pack.”
Stepping aside into the woods he cut from a cedar broad strips of bark,
and passing them about my chest outside of my arms, fastened them to a
roll of blankets on my back. On top of this he mounted my Tourograph,
and held it in place by another strap across my forehead.
Like a horse being harnessed, I stood motionless, while he placed my
rifle on one shoulder, my shot gun on the other, and hung to them an
iron tea kettle, cups, and various other cooking utensils.
Everything ready, and having burdened himself with a much heavier load
arranged in like manner, we started off up the side of the mountain in
search of Echo Lake.
[Illustration: THE PACK HORSE LEAGUE.]
It was hard work. Soon I was boiling with perspiration, and the Indian
puffing like a grampus. It seemed like a veritable “first of May” in
the wilderness.
[Illustration: AT NIGHT BY THE CAMP-FIRE.]
Occasionally as a fallen log crossed our path we could relieve our
aching shoulders by resting the load thereon, but never for a moment
did we change its position.
Then on we would tramp, over rocks and through the mire, the stillness
of the woods unbroken save by the crackle of twigs beneath our
footsteps, or the occasional grunt of the Indian guide.
From early dawn until late at night, dividing our party at times into
sections, we labored with our baggage, transporting it but half the
distance, from whence it was forwarded by a second relay of guides the
remainder of the way, and landed in safety at our camp on Echo Lake.
In this vicinity we discovered in the crotch of an aged tree an old
folding canvas canoe. This the Colonel, with a burst of delight,
recognized as one deserted by the “Pioneers of the Aroostook” in their
excursion of the previous year. Running short of provisions they had
been forced to abandon it, and make for the settlements as quickly as
possible in their other two.
That night about the camp-fire the Colonel told us the story of their
privations, and how their final meal consisted of nothing but the
boiled bone of a salt ham seasoned with the last crumbs of hard-tack.
This story suggested others of the same kind, and many and interesting
were those retailing the experiences of our guides. I give the
following, told by Hiram, of the man who was the first to make maps of
Moosehead Lake and its vicinity. It gives an idea of the rigors and
danger incident to a journey through the woods of Maine in the dead of
winter, and may not be uninteresting:
* * * * *
“Ye never heerd me tell about the man who fust tried to make maps o’
these ’ere woods, did ye?” said Hiram, as he tossed an extra log upon
the fire. “Wall, it’s a long story; but I’ll try an’ load the cart’idge
so the bullet won’t go far, as I see Nichols a-blinkin’ over there
like an’ owl at high meridian. It was ’long about the Autumn of 1870,
if I remember right, that a feller by the name o’ Way cum up from down
below an’ took board in Greenville, foot o’ Moosehead Lake. He was
quite a spruce lookin’ chap for these ’ere regions, an’ though still
under twenty-one years of age, had seen a deal o’ the world in his
little day. Wall, Johnny (that was his name,) had come to rough it,
an’ take his chances for life with the rest of us, though it was said
he’d heaps o’ money, an’ mighty fine fixins’ at home; but he was one
of them advent’rous splinters as are allers flyin’ round a-wantin’ to
see more an’ more, an’ git into wuss an’ wuss every step they go. Us
boys was mighty busy that year a-loggin’, an he enj’yed the fust winter
so rattlin’ well among us that he cum back the next season. When the
snow got good an’ deep in Jan’wary, an’ snow-shoein’ was just fine, we
two arranged a huntin’ trip an’ started out with our rifles an’ all
the provishuns we could truss on our backs toward Chamberlin Farm. We
hunted about there some days, but finally made a hand-sled, strapped
our kit on to it, and by dint o’ pushin’ and haulin’ made our way over
the fruz surface o’ Chamberlin and Eagle Lakes to Smith Brook. Next day
we pushed on to Haymoak Brook an’ as it cum on to rain we built a hut
of bark and camped.
[Illustration: “BY DINT O’ PUSHIN’ AN’ HAULIN’--”]
“Johnny was a restless feller, an’ fur all tired out with the pull
through to camp, thought if we were goin’ to stay long and hunt we’d
better lay in more provishuns. He was a plucky little feller, too, an’
’though not much used to the woods, could foller a ‘spotted line’ with
the best o’ ye. So he made up his mind to switch back to Chamberlin
Farm an’ git enough provishuns to last out the trip. I thought this a
rather crazy freak, for I felt pretty sartin we could manage to pan out
with what we had. But Johnny wanted to be sure. Like all city fellers
he had a peevish bread-basket, an’ fur all he’d spirit enough to rough
it in other ways, he couldn’t weather the trial of goin’ without his
straight meal no-how. I did all I could do to hold him back, but it was
no use; then I offered to go back with him, but he was bent on doin’
the trip alone, an’ leavin’ me to rest in camp. So, after buryin’ his
part o’ the kit in the snow, he stood ready to start.
“He did’nt want to go back the same way we had come, but had planned
to skirt round back o’ the lakes, you know--a mighty unsartin kind of
bizness, boys, for a feller raised in a hot-house.
“But he plead so hard I finally give in to him, an’ with the point o’
my ramrod I marked out his course in the wet snow. Says I, ‘You see
here, Johnny, that mark I jist made goes across Haymoak Lake to Stink
Pond. Now don’t you forgit it,’ says I, ‘to keep right on your course
to Fourth Lake, for that there line leads into Little Leadbetter Pond,
an’ by a foot-track, will take ye to Chamberlin Lake, an’ then yer all
hunk. There’s an old log camp on the Leadbetter, right there,’ says I,
diggin’ the rod into the snow. ‘Don’t go further than that to-night.
Camp there, no matter how early ye reach it; lie over till mornin’ an
then push on.’
“It was the wuss snow shoein’ I ever did see, and I ought not to’ve let
the boy go, but I’d said yes, an’ I’m not one of them fellers who goes
back on his word.
“I buckled on Way’s haversack, filled it with graham bread, stuck his
hatchet in his belt, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and with many
misgivin’s saw him disappear in the woods. After he’d left I commenced
to get kind o’ nervus like, an’ wish I hadn’t let him go. Afore night
I begun to feel terrible skittish about him. I lit my pipe, cleaned my
gun, cut boughs and bark from the trees to make our camp more snug, an’
tried by fussin’ round to git the lad out o’ my mind; but ’twant no
use--it didn’t work wuth a cent. So buryin’ the balance of our kit in
the snow I started back to Chamberlin Farm by the old path and camped
that night on Haymoak Lake, reaching the farm the next night.
“You will bet boys I was scared to find that Way had not got in, but I
thought p’raps he was restin’ at the old log camp I had pinted out for
him on the Leadbetter. John the “toter” came along the next morning
from the logging camp--don’t you think, he had’nt seen a hair of
him either. Wall, the way I got into them snow-shoes was a caution--the
deer’s hide was gathered over my toes and heels quicker than a trout
takes a fly, and I was a-slidin’ off into the woods like mad. I kept
goin’ and goin’ hour arter hour, as if the devil hisself was arter me;
it was the best time I ever made on snow-shoes, even on a moose track.
“At 2 o’clock I reached Way’s camp of the night before, and follerin’
his ‘sloat’ (track) I kept on arter him and in two hours saw him
stumblin’ along through the snow in front o’ me like a lost sheep. I
give a shout of joy, and then a wild halloo, as I dashed on arter him.
But he plunged on without turnin’ a head--he did’nt seem to hear me. I
hailed him agin with no better effect, ‘Somethin’s up. He’s not hisself
by a long sight,’ I said to myself; an’ the way I put forrard through
that snow would have done honor to a pair o’ the seven leagued boots.
Jist as I come up with him, an’ was about plankin’ my paw down on his
shoulder, I heerd him give a gasp, an’ then he stumbled an’ fell in a
parfect heap at my feet.
[Illustration: “FOLLERIN HIS SLOAT--HALLOO!”]
“‘Johnny! Johnny!’ says I, ‘Brace up. Hiram’s here, and yer all safe.’
But he was so far gone, he skarce knew me. To his belt was tied a
partridge; but this was all the provishuns he had left, an’ with his
half froze hands he could but jist hang on to his rifle. I took his
gun an’ haversack, an’ goin’ before broke down the big drifts with my
snow-shoes, an’ cleared a track for him to foller. But he was so weak
an’ benumbed with cold, that every little while he dropped in the snow
like a wounded animile, an’ begged me to let him alone.
“‘Hiram,’ he moaned, ‘I can go no further. I am so tired. I feel so
sleepy. Go on yourself, an’ leave me here.’ But I warn’t a lad o’ that
kind. I knew pesky well what that there sleepiness meant; it meant
nothin’ less than a closin’ of eyes once an’ forever; he would have
been cold, stiff, stone dead in half an hour. It didn’t take me more’n
a brace o’ minutes to find a remedy for this. Whippin’ out my old knife
I cut down a stick from one o’ the young trees on the road, an’ the way
I laid it round that poor feller’s body would have been a sight for the
chicken-hearted, I tell ye. I beat him like an old carpet until his
bones were sore. I fairly warmed him, which was jist what was wanted;
an’ what with whippin’, kickin’ him, an’ at times cartin’ him along on
my back, we soon made mile after mile on our way.
“Those were long hours flounderin’ on through the snow; but at last we
reached Chamberlin Farm, though to tell a gospel truth I felt we never
would git in.
“As luck would have it there was a doctor there from East Corinth, an’
with his help we were soon at work with snow gittin’ the frost out of
Johnny’s hands an’ feet, an’ pumpin’ life into him. In a week he was
up an’ about, good as new, an’ hunted with us till the followin’ April
afore goin’ out o’ the woods.
[Illustration: “BEAT HIM LIKE AN OLD CARPET.”]
“As I learned from him arterwards, Johnny had lost his way between
Fourth Lake and Leadbetter Pond. The snow there was over three foot
deep, an’ as the rain had clogged his snow-shoes he turned into an old
loggin’-road that he diskivered an’ this took the poor feller right
smack off his course. He follered the old road till dark, an’ not
comin’ across the old log cabin I told him about, made for the base
of a decayed tree, which he reckoned was fifty foot high at the least.
This he set fire to, an’ sat all night watchin’ it burn down. Fallin’
asleep towards mornin’, when he woke up he found the merk’ry had gone
a long way below zero, an’ that his feet, though wrapped in four pair
o’ socks had both frozen. What the poor feller suffered till I found
him must have been terrible. Afore leavin’ Greenville that Spring,
John Way made the fust of a lot o’ maps o’ Moosehead Lake an’ all its
surroundin’s. Arterwards he jined these all into one, which I used to
sell on the boats, and this is the orthority for nearly all the late
maps of these ’ere regions.”
[Illustration: “SAT ALL NIGHT WATCHIN’ IT BURN DOWN.”]
Beautiful Echo Lake, the head-waters of the Aroostook River, charms
one at once by its picturesque location. High mountains encircle it,
which make the peculiar reverberation from which it takes its name,
and breathe into the soul that sense of solitude so delightful to the
spiritual nature.
We spent three days here hunting and trapping, and added three beaver
to our collection of furs and stock of provisions, which latter was now
rapidly decreasing.
On breaking camp we explored the outlet of the lake, and, finding the
stream very dry, were obliged to build dams in order to sluice our
canoes through this country to the Mansungun Lakes below.
“I tell you that water is cold,” said John Mansell, as he waded ashore
after putting the last mud and stone upon a dam opposite the camp. “You
don’t call this a canoe tour, do you, Hiram? I should call it going
overland to New Brunswick. Never did see such a dry time in my life.”
The water having greatly increased during the night, we loaded our
canoes and placed them in line above the dam, each man, with the
exception of the Colonel, being in his customary position.
“Are you all ready?” yelled the Colonel, standing on the top of the dam
below us.
“Ready!” was answered; and with the blade of his paddle he threw the
mud and rocks to the right and left, and the pent-up waters of three
days’ detention swept us down the stream a long way on our voyage. The
Colonel, dashing through the woods, regained his canoe at a bend in the
river.
[Illustration: BEAVER DAM--FOUR FEET HIGH--ONE HUNDRED FEET WIDE.]
But gradually the water receded from under our barks, and we were again
forced to take to the stream and lift our canoes over the cruel rocks,
until we reached a broad expanse of the river below.
This pond was the result of an enormous beaver dam four feet high and
one hundred feet wide.
[Illustration: SLUICING A DAM.]
“We better set our traps,” said Nichols; “many beaver here; me catch
some to-night, a family of nine,” the Indian’s accuracy regarding the
points of wood-craft being at times wonderful.
“But we cannot proceed without water,” said the Colonel, observing the
stream very dry below.
We therefore set our traps and cut the dam to the width of over ten
feet, through which the water rushed with velocity, and floated us
quickly to the Third Mansungun Lake. We were detained only by a few
fallen trees, which the axe in the brawny hands of John Mansell soon
cleared.
Before it was light the next morning the Indian’s canoe was far away on
the lake for an examination of the traps; he soon returned with four
immense beavers, whose aggregate weight fell not short of two hundred
pounds.
“Me footed two more,” said the guide, exhibiting the webbed feet of the
animals in corroboration of the fact; “but they very quick--they get
away. I see dam we cut last night, and it now just good as new.”
“Good as new!” we echoed. “Impossible.”
“True as me stand here,” said Nichols, at the same time glancing
anxiously into the stew pan, to see if we had left him any beaver meat
for breakfast. “Beaver, they fell tree in night ten inch thick, gnaw it
in lengths three feet long, plant them at cut, and heap with much bark,
mud and sticks. Build dam up in one night. No think it myself, if not
see it with own eyes. You go see, too.”
Astonishing as it may seem, the Indian was perfectly correct in his
statement.
After our toil on Osgood Carry and the stream below, we rested over a
week on these Mansungun Lakes. The third Mansungun Lake, on which we
first camped, is five miles long and two wide. This is connected by a
narrow outlet with the second Mansungun Lake, which is about the same
size as the other, while the first or lower lake is the smallest body
of water, being about two miles long and one wide. I fished and hunted
in short excursions from camp, and, with Tourograph over my shoulder,
I was constantly in search of the picturesque. Nichols had discovered
a brook (the name of which we afterwards learned was Chase,) tumbling
down the side of a mountain near our camp, and as falls were a
rarity on the route I spent half a day in this gorge.
[Illustration: CHASE BROOK.]
About this region we had rare success in our hunting and trapping, and
with many skins stretched on the drying hoops about camp, and fresh
animals coming in to add to the stock, our quarters gradually assumed
the appearance of a Hudson Bay trading-post.
[Illustration]