CHAPTER III.
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
