Camp Lenape on the Long Trail

by Carl Saxon

Dirk had been living in the open for more than a week now, and long before his wet clothes were dried before the fire, he felt none the worse for the mishap that might so easily have taken his life. The councilor brewed him a cup of warm, heartening soup that brought his strength back quickly; and when an hour had passed he convinced the man that he was himself again and ready to travel.

“We don’t have far to go now,” announced Sagamore Carrigan. “It’s only a couple miles to the river and Skinner’s Ferry, where the canoes are; and from there we can paddle to Kittahannock Lodge in no time—that’s where we stop for the night.”

Once more the hikers put their blanket-rolls over their shoulders and set out, following the dirt road that led westward from the Glen toward the river. The councilor now had a hard time to keep them together, so anxious were they to reach the ferry where the canoes waited for them; but he held them to the same steady pace. Dirk was forced to admit to himself that he was tired now, and he was glad when they crossed a stone bridge over a creek and came in sight of the ferry.

An unpainted, low frame building with a roof of “shakes,” or shingles split with an ax, lay beside a rude wharf at which was moored a flat-bottomed scow. Such was the ancient Skinner’s Ferry that dated back to Revolutionary days. On the wharf lay the three Lenape canoes, ready for their voyage into the wilderness. There was now no thought of restraining the eager lads, and Dirk, with the rest, broke into a run that ended on the narrow wharf. An old and bent ferryman came from the house to announce that the equipment brought from camp on the wagon awaited them within.

Now began a busy half-hour of packing and launching the light craft. It was settled that Dirk and Brick Ryan would handle the Sachem, in which would be stowed the cooking outfit, rations, and odds and ends of camp outfit, while the other members of the party divided into two crews of three campers each to manage the Red Fox and the Whiffenpoof. When the equipment had all been stowed inside the rubber tarpaulins and lashed firmly to the thwarts, so that it would not be wet or lost in case of an upset, Dirk and his partner each took an end of their vessel and dropped it overside into the sheltered water below the wharf. As Dirk climbed into his place at the bow, he took care to make sure that his first misadventure with his canoe at Lenape should not be repeated; and in the wake of the other two craft, they shoved forth into the stream, shouted a farewell to the bent ferryman, and began paddling swiftly.

Mr. Carrigan, in the stern of the Red Fox, led the way, with Megaro at the bow paddle and Ugly Brown riding amidships. At a distance of a few lengths followed the Whiffenpoof, carrying Cowboy Platt, Saunders, and Steve Link. Dirk dipped and pulled his paddle in fast time, for their course lay diagonally across the current, which at this place rippled whitely over its stony bed.

“Make for the point!” shouted the councilor.

“That’s Kittahannock Lodge, where we sleep tonight!”

Ahead the broad river made a turn, and at the bend a tall white flagpole rose from a clump of trees, tinged with sunset gold. Dirk gave it a glance, and bent to his straining task, while Brick fulfilled the delicate job of keeping the light vessel on its path. On flew the Sachem, as if glad to be afloat and bearing her owner farther and farther toward the northern wilds.

Once Dirk paused momentarily to catch his breath. He looked back to the shore that they were leaving. A road wound along the edge of the river, above the ferry, and along it crawled a small automobile with a plume of dust rising behind it. Dirk saw it only for a moment before it disappeared from sight behind a low hill. But he was sure, as he turned again to his paddling, that the car was a blue sedan, and that he knew the slight figure of the man that hunched over the wheel. It was the mysterious fisherman they had surprised on the shore of Lake Lenape some days before.