At Tom’s request I asked Brent Gaylong to go with me and I’m glad I did,
for I think he supplied just what was needed in our camp family. Perhaps
you know him. He lives with his people here in town and is a very
intimate friend of Tom’s. People, speaking likingly of Brent, say there
is something funny about him. I think I know what it is. He is long and
lanky, and wears old-fashioned spectacles and is physically lazy. Hence
he always seems funny against the background of strenuous outdoor life;
in camp he seems particularly amusing. He is sometimes excruciatingly
funny by contrast with Tom’s untiring energy and enterprise. He will do
anything you want him to do with a whimsical air of resignation. He will
climb mountains, hunt for treasure, or trail an animal with an absurdly
serious air. The funny thing about Brent is that, owing to Tom, his lot
is cast in the theatre of adventure, while he looks for all the world
like an old-fashioned schoolmaster. He must be twenty-two or three by
now. He’s good company.
“You’ll go, won’t you?” I asked, alluding to Tom’s message. “Come and
bring your knitting; that’s what he told me to tell you. I’m going to
drive up as far as Harkness and Tom will meet us there with his
flivver.”
“Do we have to walk much?” Brent asked.
“Why, as I understand it, Tom can push his flivver up a kind of trail to
within a mile or so of the camp. That isn’t so bad is it?”
“The flivver?” Brent drawled.
“No, the walk,” I said. “You don’t have to have a wheel-chair just for a
mile or so. Come ahead, Brent; Tom always says when you’re along
something’s sure to happen. You can take some books along, you don’t
have to work.”
“Is that a promise?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
“How long do we linger near to nature’s heart?”
“Maybe two or three weeks, maybe all summer,” I said.
“I’m not supposed to take an axe or a gun or anything?”
“You can sit indoors all day long and read.”
“I’ll take my slippers and a bath robe,” he said.
We had a delightful motor trip, stopping over at old Ticonderoga and
reaching the little mountain village of Harkness late on the second day.
Keeseville, in the vicinity of the wonderful Ausable Chasm, is the last
place of any size to be passed before entering that wild region to the
west where only foot trails wind in and out among the dense mountains.
Along the road from Keeseville to Harkness the glare of the declining
sun dazzled my eyes so that I could hardly see to drive. It spread a
crimson coverlet over the distant peaks and shimmered a tiny area in a
lonely valley; I suppose it was the glinting water of some sequestered
lake that we saw. It looked like a patch of gold in the deepening gloom.
Then suddenly it was gone.
At Harkness Tom was awaiting us with his flivver. It gladdened my heart
to see that outlandish little car piled full of provisions from the
village store. I wondered how he would make shift to seat us for the
last stage of our journey. The difficulty seemed not greatly to worry
him, for he and a companion hurled a big meal bag into the rear seat
even as Brent and I stood in rueful contemplation of the miscellaneous
freight.
“You can sit right on the bag, Brent,” Tom said, as he hustled about,
busy with a hundred matters. “We don’t get over here to the metropolis
very often. Charlie, this is old Doctor Gaylong; meet Charlie Rivers,
you chaps. I suppose we’ve got to find a place to store your car-- Did
you get the bacon, Charlie? And the macaroni? How about cocoa? This city
trash will probably want cocoa. This is the darndest store,” he
explained, turning to me. “You can get anything here. Climb right in,
you ducks. I guess we won’t be able to take the grindstone this
trip--never mind. We’re going to sharpen our own axes after this, bought
a grindstone; unit production, is that what they call it? Here, hang on
to this bag of flour, you. I thought you fellows wouldn’t show up till
after dark. We were just going to start a game of pinocle with the
sheriff. Are you all comfortable?”
“It’s like a bed of roses,” said Brent, as we drove off.
“Tom,” I said----
“You comfortable?” he interrupted.
“Tom,” I said, “I’m glad to see you’re going to keep the old name
Leatherstocking Camp. I think it’s a fine romantic name.” I was
referring to some rather gay lettering which had replaced the name of
Temple Camp on the side of the Ford.
“Yep, that’s Paul’s work,” Tom rattled on.
“Are you Paul?” I asked the youngish man who sat beside him on the front
seat.
“Didn’t I tell you this is Charlie?” Tom snapped. “Paul’s our artist,
born and brought up in the Black Forest in Germany. Used to camouflage
lunch wagons for the Kaiser in the war. We’ve got all kinds up here;
happy family circle. We’re all living happily forever after, hey
Charlie?”
“And working,” Charlie said.
“Working?” asked Brent.
“Yes, do you want to get out and walk home?” Tom asked.
“Is Tot Burke still with you?” I queried.
“Yep. So is Skipper Tim; you remember him. He’s building boats for the
lake just now. Unit production, hey Charlie? You remember Piker Pete,
the fire-lookout up near Temple Camp? He’s here too; going to stick all
summer. Says he could never go back to the Catskills now, he’d be kept
awake by the noise.”
“Speaking of noises,” Brent said, “hasn’t your Ford changed from a
baritone to a soprano?”
“You’ll be glad enough to hear any kind of a friendly noise up here,”
Tom said.
“How far is it to the drug store?” Brent queried.
“Heaven help me if I should run out of good cigars,” I said.
“You got right, as Paul says,” Tom laughed. “You won’t be bothered by
the neighbors’ victrola, I’ll tell you that.”
He was certainly right. As we drove westward along the old, narrow, dirt
road the wildness of the region was almost oppressive. I had an odd
feeling that instead of our penetrating the winding passes among those
clustering mountains, the mountains were slowly, relentlessly closing in
about us. At one point, as the little Ford rattled along, it seemed as
if the towering heights, now wrapped in the solemn gloom of approaching
night, were creeping in on the narrow road from either side and would
presently close upon our little tin toy like a pair of vast jaws. Then
the heights would slope away as we seemed to dance merrily out of such
peril. There was a chill in the air, the gloom and remoteness insinuated
themselves into my very being and gave me a feeling which I can only
liken to homesickness. Perhaps the early mariners felt so when they
sailed out upon unknown seas.
I asked Tom how far the camp was from Harkness and he and Charlie Rivers
immediately fell into an argument about whether it was five or seven
miles. I later found that no two persons at the camp agreed about the
distance. Brent and I walked it once, and he said it was fifty-seven
miles. All I know is, it takes about an hour to drive in, and the way is
through the wildest region I have ever seen. We passed no human abode,
no sign of cultivation. Nothing but mountains, mountains, mountains.
“Pretty tough about old man McClintick, hey?” Tom said as we rattled
along. “Talk about the wild places! Why they’ve got more bandits to the
square inch down there in New York than they have all through the wild
and woolly west. Am I right, Charlie? Seen anything of Mr. Temple
lately?” he asked suddenly.
“No, I suppose you hear from him,” I said.
“He sent a check up last month to pay off with. I’ve got an account in
Keeseville. Old McClintick didn’t leave much, I read. Well here’s where
we turn in. Do you know if J. T. is coming up this summer?”
“I think he’s going to Europe,” I said. “How about Temple Camp, Tommy?”
“Guess they’ll have to get along without me _this_ summer,” he said.
“Is this supposed to be a cross street?” Brent asked.
We had turned into a sort of wagon trail that led into dense woods. The
branches of the bordering trees intertwined overhead and it needed only
the thick foliage which would come later to make the place a tunnel.
“This is Main Street,” said Tom.
For fully a mile, I would say, we drove along this sequestered trail,
deeper and deeper into the forest. Twilight shadows played among the
trees. The night was coming on apace. At last the indomitable little,
Ford stopped short; it could not go another yard. Beyond was only a foot
trail.
We gathered into our arms such part of the provisions as we could carry
and proceeded single file like a procession of homeward bound Christmas
shoppers.
“What do we do next, when this trail stops?” Brent asked. It was
laughable to see him walking soberly along, holding a flour bag as a
woman holds a baby.
“We’re almost there,” said Tom.