CHAPTER I.
“I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious, bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice.”
Walton.
AN ANGLER’S SOLILOQUY.—ISAAK WALTON’S IDEAS.—A FISHING MINISTER.—THE ROUTE TO THE WOODS.—MOOSEHEAD LAKE AND VICINITY.
In the good old times, when the requirements of business kept one out in the open air, and each client or patient resided many miles away, and the only communication was by foot or on horseback, one did not need the indispensable rest and recreation of to-day.
But now all is changed, and within a hand’s grasp at our offices we can communicate by the strange wires of the telephone or telegraph with friends miles away, and save ourselves those steps which would no doubt be of great benefit if taken.
In this fast world of ours, where the work of a week is crowded into a day, recreation is a necessity, and nowhere, it seems to me, has it greater recuperative power than in the depths of the forest.
It is not as a plea for the angler that I pen these lines—he asks for neither judge nor jury on his tastes, although they no doubt frequently receive the verdict of both; he is a law unto himself.
“It is a very easy thing to scoff at any art or recreation, a little wit mixed with ill-nature, confidence, and malice will do it, though they are often caught in their own trap.”
It is only a few weeks since that I was rallied on my pet hobby by a prominent business man, who thought one could hardly be in his right mind who had a fondness for life in the woods, and that it must give one a tendency to coarseness, rather than improving our higher and more æsthetic tastes. But this gentleman was welcome to his ideas, for he was then an invalid from a nervous disease, and had spent the prime of his life regaining his health, when possibly an occasional day’s tramp beside a trout stream would have been a matter of economy to both purse and body.
The father of anglers, Isaak Walton, puts this same idea in a still better light, for although born in 1593, he knew how to read the human nature of to-day; he says: “Yes! there are many grave and serious men who pity us anglers, but there are many more grave and serious men whom we anglers condemn and pity.”
“Men that are taken to be grave because nature hath made them of a sour complexion, money-getting men that spend all their time, first in getting, and next in anxious care to keep it! men that are condemned to be rich, and then always busy and discontented—for these poor rich men we anglers pity them perfectly, and stand in no need to borrow their thoughts to think ourselves so happy.”
Some one has said that an angler consists of a rod with a fool at one end and a fish at the other. But Walton, in his meanderings beside the streams, is reported to have had the constant companionship of a book, and between the nibbles of the fish stored his mind with useful knowledge.
While hunting in the western part of Connecticut last autumn, a good story was told me of a minister who, soon after his settlement in the parish, greatly annoyed his flock by his habitual fondness for angling. He would start off early on Monday morning, and would keep up the diversion until late Saturday night; nevertheless, the quality of his sermons, and the deep thoughts which they contained, so pleased his people that similar excursions were suggested to the pastors of other churches in the town.
So much for an introduction to the inmost thoughts of a lover of the angle, but possibly you would like to know how to reach the solitudes of Maine, whose influences are so bewitching to the writer, and where, with the reader as companion, he proposes to enjoy a canoe ride of two hundred miles.
To one about to make a trip to Maine, we would say, start in all cases from Boston, even though you live in Chicago. Take the 7 P. M. express on the Eastern railroad for Bangor, thereby having a good night’s rest in a sleeper, awaking refreshed for the pleasure of the next day’s journey.
But those who have never traveled this road will do well to see their flight be not in the night, for, commencing with Boston, its main line extends along the shore, giving here and there glimpses of quiet bays and shady inlets, and through cities noted for their thrift and prosperity almost from the country’s settlement.
One would be well repaid for a day spent at almost any station along the route, as the eastern shore of New England has often been the subject for busy pens and famous pencils. From Massachusetts Bay to Passamaquoddy and the Isle of Great Manan, it is filled with nooks and beaches where, in the hot months of summer, the seeker for rest and renewed health can choose the spot suited to his taste. The Eastern railroad—with its numerous branches and connecting lines—forms the most direct and desirable means of access to these points of interest.
It does not, however, limit the choice to the seashore, for it leads also to the heart of the famous White Mountains, and to the vast and partially explored lake region of Maine, towards which I had set my face.
Lynn, eleven miles from Boston, famed for its immense factories of boots and shoes, lies at the head of Nahant Bay, from which there is a delightful drive along the shore to Nahant, a noted, picturesque watering-place. Near by is Swampscott, its shores lined with summer cottages, and from here a short branch road runs to rocky Marblehead, a spot mentioned in letters of travel as early as the year 1633.
Salem, four miles further on, famous since the days of witchcraft, and once the principal port of entry for New England, not only has its pleasant situation to attract the visitor, but is full of relics of the olden time of interest to the antiquary. It was the birthplace of many men whose names have become a part of our nation’s history and literature.
At Beverly, the Gloucester branch leads down to the sea at Cape Ann, with its sunny beaches and rocky headlands, quiet when the wind is off shore, but where the waves come thundering in when driven before an easterly gale.
But we have hardly time to speak of Newburyport, another old seacoast town, and the lovely view to be had from its heights of the surrounding country and ocean, but hasten through to Salisbury, Hampton, and Rye Beach.
Portsmouth is quiet and quaint, and at Conway Junction, eleven miles from Portsmouth, passengers change cars for the White Mountains. At Portland, the angler makes choice of the routes to the two great trouting paradises of Maine—Rangeley Lakes and Moosehead Lake.
Kineo House
If to the former place, he takes the cars for Farmington, eighty-five miles directly north from Portland, and then by stage thirty-six miles over the mountains to Kimball’s Head of the First Rangeley Lake, where he will receive a hearty welcome from as cordial a company of fishermen as it has been my pleasure in other seasons to enjoy.
If the latter be his choice, guns, rods, blankets, and other camp equipage are shifted to the train of the Maine Central railroad for Bangor, where the cars are again changed for the road to Blanchard, which is twelve miles from Moosehead Lake. After a substantial dinner, the tourist mounts to the top of the commodious Concord stage drawn by four horses, and enjoys a delightful ride of eleven miles over the hills to Greenville, foot of Moosehead Lake. Here the baggage is again changed to a steamer, and a most enjoyable sail of twenty miles lands one at the Kineo House, which stands on a prominent point of rocks extending far out into Moosehead Lake, a convenient center of attraction for those who dislike the unadulterated life in the woods.
ANTICIPATION.