CHAPTER V.
“What time the golden sunset fell,
On wood and stream,
While we, the loss or gain
Recount, and deem
The day all glorious with its rents and stains.”
THE PASSAGE OF WEBSTER STREAM.—AN EXCITING DAY’S SPORT.—THE DAMAGED CANOES.—THE CANVAS BOAT TRIUMPHANT.—GRAND FALLS.—PHOTOGRAPHING ALONG THE ROUTE.—INDIAN CARRY.—EAST BRANCH OF THE PENOBSCOT.—MATAGAMONSIS LAKE.—THE DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.—TROUT BROOK FARM.—GRAND OR MATAGAMON LAKE.—A CAPTURED SALMON.
T 5.30 A. M., August 20th, our camp was alive with preparations for the long anticipated run down Webster River, ten miles, to the East Branch of the Penobscot and, as it afterwards proved, was the most exciting day’s experience of the two hundred mile tour.
Blankets, overcoats, and tent were rolled closer than usual, and leather thongs five feet in length, (some three dozen of which I had brought with me,) were tied about them, and safely crowded into the bottom of the long rubber bags. Covers to the various provision boxes and pails were secured with straps and ropes, and every part of the camp kit made to occupy as little room as possible in the four canoes. Rubber leggings and wading shoes were put on, and all unnecessary wearing apparel wrapped in rubber blankets and tied to the boats, that nothing might incommode the free use of our arms in the passage of the falls and cascades of the stream. The stretcher of our canvas boat was fastened to the wooden knees more tightly with thongs, that no possible chance of accident might occur, while the pieces of extra canvas for patching the canoe, with their accompanying needles, wax, and waterproofing, were tied at a convenient place in the bow, and before we had completed the day’s adventures we found them of great service.
Webster stream is about sixty feet wide, and in its course from the lake of the same name to Grand Falls (two miles above its mouth), descends one hundred and ten feet, while the falls, including the rolling dam and cataract below, make the entire distance to the East Branch of the Penobscot not far short of one hundred and seventy feet.
RUNNING THE RAPIDS ON WEBSTER RIVER.
The stream issues from the lake with little force, being clogged above by a mass of logs, the remnants of various “booms.” As it passes downward in its course, heavy walls of rock, crowned by tall pines, arise on all sides, often darkening the waters and producing a cañon-like appearance of the surroundings.
The course of the river is over immense bowlders and ledges, often unobservable, just beneath the surface, while others in sight stand like sentinels in the middle of the stream, disputing one’s passage. The flow is repeatedly marked by beautiful falls and rapids, not high, but crowded together in narrow parts, which give greater expression and grandeur to the water, presenting at various points the most remarkable scenery in this section. Cascade succeeds cascade, ending often in an abrupt pitch of three to five feet, and at their base are dark boiling pools, flecked with snowy foam. The river has not great depth of water at any time, three to five feet on the average, but we were fortunate in the extra supply of the last week’s rain, which, although it prevented many “carries,” also increased the volume and force of water to that extent that made canoeing more hazardous, and filled our path with greater dangers.
The ladened birch canoes had passed us down the river, when the “Quartermaster” and the writer, buckling their belts tighter about them, stepped lightly into the canvas canoe and swung out into the impetuous river, with feelings similar to what might be expected in one entering a battle.
My friend at the stern held a trusty paddle, whose strength had more than once been tried, while the writer, in a devotional attitude on a rubber blanket at the bow, held a long “setting pole” ready for duty at a moment’s notice. In half the time I have narrated the above, we were among the furious rapids, battling with their difficulties, and shouting to each other above the roar of the waters, how best to circumvent them. The sun, unfortunately, shone the greater part of the time in our faces, which produced a glimmer on the water, often preventing the discovery of sunken rocks. At one time, while dashing down a cascade, we mounted such a bowlder, and, swinging around, leaped a five-foot fall, stern first, much to our peril. Again, with mighty force we were hurled close to the rocky shore, which only a desperate use of the paddle prevented our striking.
At times we were obliged to hold the canoe in the middle of the stream by the long “setting poles,” firmly planted in the bottom, while we made our decision regarding the better of two channels, the dangers of which there was little choice, then on we went through the rush of waters, our “setting poles” keeping time with our eyes, noting the sunken rocks by the water’s upheaval, avoiding this sharp ledge, or that rough bowlder, or swinging into the foam of another as we shot swiftly by.
Often with ease we thought to pass a distant rock, but mistaking the velocity of the water, doubled it by a hair’s breadth. One fall over which the guides had led their canoes, we amateurs passed in the canvas canoe, the water falling in spray about us, but the cheer for our bravery with which we were greeted at its base, paid us well for the risk incurred.
LUNCH TIME ON WEBSTER STREAM.
At “Pine Knoll” we were obliged to let our canoes over the falls by long ropes from the cliffs above, and at another, soon after, two of the guides, Weller and Morris, passed safely in our canvas boat, on account of its slight draft of water, although they carried the birch canoes around. So we continued our rapid progress down the stream, running most of the falls, our boat conforming to each situation, and almost seeming a part of us, and taking an interest in our exploits. At noon we stopped for an hour’s rest and lunch on the right bank of the stream, and while disposing of hard tack, canned corned beef, and coffee, our artist plied his profession, and then on we went through other perils.
It was fearfully fascinating, as our four canoes, following each other’s lead, dashed onward through dangers which we could hardly anticipate before they were passed, only to be repeated and repeated at every mile of the stream. But the stimulant to one’s feelings gave strength and courage and even recklessness, which, in the wild surroundings, made one feel as if no danger was too great to dare. An hour after our tarry for lunch, we entered the deep and narrow chasm of swift, dark water above Grand Falls, and swinging our canoe into an eddy on the left, under the shadows of a great rock (some five hundred feet high), we stepped out on the shore, having completed the excitements of a half-day that many years will fail to erase.
Our canoes had suffered less than we had anticipated. A sharp rock had left its mark on Bowley’s birch, which the application of rosin and grease soon rectified. The bottom of the canvas boat had two small cuts about midships, so the use of needle and thread became necessary, the “Quartermaster” and compagnon-du-voyage, choosing for their modus operandi different sides of the canoe, putting the needle back and forth with iron pliers.
IT’S NOT ALL POETRY.
A few moments’ rest, and while the guides were “sacking” the camp kit across “Indian carry,” three-quarters of a mile to the East Branch (at right angles with Webster stream), we gathered up the artist’s camera and plates, and pushed forward to examine the picturesque beauties of Grand Falls, and catch all we could while the light lasted.
Grand Falls is from forty to fifty feet high, seventy feet wide, surrounded on all sides, for half a mile, by ledges of iron-colored rocks of nearly the same height, which decrease in altitude as they near the Penobscot River below. From a point beneath, the scene is grand in its somber magnificence, as the swift torrent, striking midway upon a projecting ledge in the center of the fall, rebounds in foam flakes, which, after the momentary interruption, continue to fall into the dark whirlpool of water below.
We place the tripod upon a prominent ledge, and, mounting the camera, our artist prepares the plates in his mysterious cloth-covered box or “dark room,” while we further exclude the light by covering him with our rubber blankets. But the mist and spray blinds us, and we are obliged to gather up the camera and retreat to another ledge before we can operate.
The water, of a dark reddish hue, in strong contrast with the snowy foam, circles around and around in the eddies, kissing the rocks on all sides in its whirl, and, amid the roar of the fall, goes dashing on for about four hundred feet, and then plunges over a “rolling dam” on its course to the Penobscot, making canoeing the balance of the distance on this river impossible.
GRAND FALLS—WEBSTER RIVER.
The light from above, reflecting on the cliff above the fall, glancing with rich beauty on rock and cascade, the fantastic growth of trees on every ledge, make up a fascinating charm that each succeeding picture varies in detail, but which pertains with almost equal force to every part of the entire chasm. While our artist was at work, we busied ourselves gathering the luscious blue and blackberries, and scarlet wintergreen berries which grew in profusion around us; they were of great size, the average blueberry being an inch, and the wintergreen berries an inch and a half in circumference—measurement being taken at the time on the spot.
After filling a three-quart pail with berries, we divided the artist’s “kit” among us, found the “carry,” and pressed on to camp, to which place our guides had preceded us with tent and canoes.
Supper ended, we again sought the river’s bank, a mile below the falls at a place called “the Arches,” where, in the radiance of a gorgeous sunset, we again drank to our fill of this picturesque locality. Words fail to describe the beauties of this scene, with which even the guides, slow to recognize the attractiveness of nature, were enraptured.
“O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due!”
Around the big camp-fire that night, each narrated his individual experience of the day’s adventures, and the hair-breadth escapes in running the rapids.
“But,” says Bowley, the guide, “you should accompany the lumbermen ‘on the drive,’ and see the perils they run while starting a ‘jam’ on these rivers. Often the logs are piled one upon another, until it seems as if nothing but an avalanche would start them. But one log is loosened, and then another, and another, and in a moment the whole mass goes sweeping down stream with terrific force, and woe betide the unlucky ‘driver’ in its path.”
From the first of the trip to this moment, the guides had failed to praise the working of the canvas canoe, as it came in competition with their birch barks. But this day’s trial proved beyond question its qualities, and wrung from them an acknowledgment they were not slow to utter.
“It was fun to watch you, gentlemen,” says Morris, to the Quartermaster and myself, as we sat drying ourselves before the fire, “you came over the ‘rips’ like a perfect duck. I don’t believe you could drown the craft if you tried.” While the French Canadian, Weller, taking the pipe from his mouth, ejaculated, “Ma fois! she goes over the falls like a chain over a log!”
STARTING A BOOM.
On Thursday, August 21st, we wet our canoes for the first time in the East Branch of the Penobscot river, although from Chamberlin lake to this point it is strictly a part of the same stream under different names.
A BOOM.
The river at this spot is only about fifteen feet wide, very deep, with long meadow grass lapping and fringing its border, and flowing with the rapidity of a mill course, each bubble as it shot by seeming to have an individuality of purpose, which to the writer was very amusing.
Hardly had we dropped into our accustomed positions in the canoes before we were swept away from the bank, past the tall alders, and darted with lightning speed down the river a mile and a half and out on to the placid Matagamonsis lake. This was one of the loveliest bodies of water on our course, dotted with small islands and far-reaching points of shore, the tall Norway pines forming a wall of beauty on either side.
The lake is about one mile wide and four long, and the spruce-covered tops of Traveler mountains to the southwest are reflected in its mirror-like surface. From the top of a bold crag at its foot we stopped for a sketch of the lake, and then passed downward through the sluggish stream of three miles which connects it with Matagamon or Grand lake.
To the left or east of this stream, and half way between these lakes, is another lake about two miles in extent, which we fail to find noticed on any map we have seen, and lies in close proximity to “Hay creek,” but is not what is termed in this section “a logan.” (See Introduction, page 15.)
Half a mile from this lake, the stream passes under a foot bridge, which leads to a farm on Trout Brook stream, the first loggers’ camp since leaving Chamberlin farm, a distance of over seventy-five miles.
DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.
This farm, owned by E. S. Coe, Esq., of Bangor, consists of four houses built close together, and eight or ten barns, with about four hundred acres of cleared land, through which flows the swift-running trout brook. Half a dozen batteaux lay turned over on the grass, bounteous crops of oats and potatoes were ripening in the fields, while the industrious chicken (evidence of civilization) was picking about the doors.
Matagamonsis Lake.
The house where our party dined was occupied by a man and his wife and one small boy. The rooms to this house were low and smoky, like all the rest we had seen, with the big iron box stove in the center; the only change from the usual wall decoration was perceived in an advertisement of Pinafore opera music, which, pasted beside the other illustrations, made us feel quite homesick.
After dinner at the house, our party bade our new-found friends adieu, and paddled down the Thoroughfare into Grand or Matagamon lake, which is about one-third longer than Lake Matagamonsis, and went into camp at its foot, on the right bank, near another old dam.
The eastern shore of this lake (the largest body of water on our course since leaving Chamberlin lake) is not especially attractive to the artist, being low and covered with meadow grass. But the western is decidedly picturesque, being bold and rocky, which, climbing from elevation to elevation, finally culminates in the precipitous and rugged peak of Matagamon mountain, towering above one’s head to the height of six hundred feet, and is almost divested of foliage. We halted but one night on this lake, but were well rewarded by the number and size of the fine trout captured, adding also to our creel a small salmon.
OUR SALMON.
MATAGAMON OR GRAND LAKE.