Lake Delia, through which you have to pass in going to Moose Lake, lies about two miles west of the Newcomb Farm. It is four miles long, and less than one mile in width, and completely surrounded with wood-crowned hills. Near the central portion this lake is quite narrow, and so shallow that a rude bridge has been thrown across for the accommodation of the farm people. The water under this bridge is only about four feet deep, and this was the only spot in the lake where I followed my favorite recreation. I visited it on one occasion with my companions, late in the afternoon, when the wind was blowing, and we enjoyed rare sport in angling for salmon-trout, as well as a large species of the common trout. I do not know the number that we took, but I well remember that we had more than we could conveniently carry. Usually, the salmon-trout are only taken in deep water, but in this and Moose Lake, they seem to be as much at home in shallow as in deep water.
On one occasion I visited Lake Delia alone, at an early hour of the morning. It so happened, that I took a rifle along with me, and while quietly throwing my fly on the old bridge, I had an opportunity of using the gun to some purpose. My movements in that lonely place were so exceedingly still, that even the wild animals were not disturbed by my presence; for while I stood there, a large fat otter made his appearance, and when he came within shooting distance, I gave him the contents of my gun, and he disappeared. I related the adventure to my companions on my return to the Farm, but they pronounced it a “fish story.” I finally vindicated my veracity, however, for, on the following day, they discovered a dead otter on the lake shore, and concluded that I had told the truth.
I must not conclude this chapter without giving my reader an additional paragraph about the Newcomb Farm. My friend Steuben Hewitt’s nearest neighbour is eight miles off, and as his family is small, you may suppose that he leads a retired life. One of the days that I spent at his house, was an eventful one with him, for a town election was held there. The electors met at nine o’clock, and the poll closed at five; and as the number of votes polled was SEVEN, it may well be supposed that the excitement was intense.
But, with all its loneliness, the Newcomb Farm is well worth visiting, if for no other purpose than to witness the panorama of mountains which it commands. On every side but one, they may be seen fading away to mingle their deep blue with the lighter hue of the sky; but chief among them all is old Tahawas, king of the Adirondacs.
The country out of which this mountain rises is an imposing Alpine wilderness; and as it has long since been abandoned by the red man, the solitude of its deep valleys and lonely lakes, for the most part, is now more impressive than that of the far-off Rocky Mountains.
The meaning of the Indian word Tahawas, is Sky Piercer, or Sky Splitter, and faithfully describes the appearance of the mountain. Its actual elevation, above the level of the sea, is five thousand four hundred and sixty-seven feet, while that of Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, is only six thousand two hundred and thirty-four; making a difference of only seven hundred and sixty-seven feet in favour of Washington. Though Tahawas is not so lofty as its New England brother, yet its form is by far the most picturesque and imposing. Taken together, they are the highest pair of mountains in the United States.
Before going one step farther, I must allude to what I deem the folly of a certain state geologist, in attempting to name the prominent peaks of the Adirondac Mountains after a brotherhood of living men. If he is to have his way in this matter, the beautiful name of Tahawas will be superseded by that of Marcy, and several of Tahawas’ peers are hereafter to be known as Mounts Seward, Wright, and Young. Now if this business is not supremely ridiculous, I must confess that I do not know the meaning of that word. A pretty idea, indeed, to scatter to the winds the ancient poetry of the poor Indian, and perpetuate in its place the names of living politicians. For my part, I agree most decidedly with the older inhabitants of the Adirondac wilderness, who look with perfect indifference upon the attempted usurpation of the geologist already mentioned.
For nine months in the year, old Tahawas is covered with a crown of snow, but there are spots among its fastnesses where you may gather ice and snow, even in the dog-days. The base of this mountain is covered with a luxuriant forest of pine, spruce and hemlock, while the summit is clothed in a net-work of creeping trees, and almost entirely destitute of the green which should characterize them. In ascending its sides, when near the summit, you are impressed with the idea that your pathway may be smooth; but as you proceed, you are constantly annoyed by pit-falls, into which your legs are foolishly poking themselves, to the great annoyance of your back-bone, and other portions of your body, which are naturally straight.
I ascended Tahawas, as a matter of course, and in making the trip I travelled some twenty miles, on foot and through the pathless woods, employing for the same the better part of two days. My companion on this expedition was John Cheney (of whom I have something to write hereafter), and as he did not consider it prudent to spend the night on the summit, we only spent about one hour gazing upon the panorama from the top, and then descended about half way down the mountain, where we built our watch-fire. The view from Tahawas is rather unique. It looks down upon what appears to be an uninhabited wilderness, with mountains fading to the sky in every direction, and where, on a clear day, you may count no less than twenty-four lakes, including Champlain, Horicon, Long Lake, and Lake Pleasant.
While trying to go to sleep on the night in question, as I lay by the side of my friend Cheney, he gave me an account of the manner in which certain distinguished gentlemen had ascended Mount Tahawas, for it must be known that he officiates as the guide of all travellers in this wild region. Among those to whom he alluded, were Ingham and Cole, the artists, and Hoffman and Headley, the travellers. He told me that Mr. Ingham fainted a number of times in making the ascent, but became so excited with all that he saw, he determined to persevere, and finally succeeded in accomplishing the difficult task. Mr. Hoffman, he said, in spite of his lameness, would not be persuaded by words that he could not reach the summit; and when he finally discovered that the task was utterly beyond his accomplishment, his disappointment seemed to have no bounds.