CHAPTER IV.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
