“Two large canoes are to be sent there from Portland and they will be at the disposal of the scouts at all times.”
“What of provisions and supplies?”
“You may be sure that we have guarded against famine. There is a track of several miles from the lake through the woods to the main road over which a strong team can be driven; thence the communication is easy with Boothbay Harbor, where there is no end of provisions. A wagon will make the trip once a week taking all that may be needed to the camp.”
“Those miles through the woods must be pretty tough traveling.”
“That cannot be denied, but one of the things in Maine and many other states that will amaze you is the terrific roads over which teams seem to have little difficulty in making their way. Last summer I strolled along the boardwalk ground the southern end of Squirrel Island. I was puzzled by numerous tracks in the black earth. There were ruts, hollows and cavities that looked as if made by wagon wheels, but that appeared impossible, for the course was choked with huge boulders and deep depressions over which it seemed as if only a chamois or goat could leap. While I was speculating and wondering I saw a horse coming toward me, dragging a wagon in which sat a man in his shirt sleeves, driving. Straight over those boulders and through the abrupt hollows, he plunged and labored without halt or hesitation. Sometimes the hind wheels bounced high in air with the front diving down, the body yawed and was wrenched, and the driver wobbled from side to side and forward and back, but he kept bravely on, and as he pitched and lurched and bumped past, calmly called out that it was a pleasant day. Compared with that roadway the few miles through the forest to Gosling Lake will be like a macadamized turnpike.”
The conversation thus recorded may form the framework of the picture of the camp of the Boy Patrols on Gosling Lake. Omitting the preliminaries which otherwise might be necessary, let us step forward to that day, early in August, 1912, succeeding the arrival of the lads at the bungalow on this beautiful sheet of water in southern Maine.
CHAPTER VII—On Gosling Lake
The body of water referred to, which for certain reasons I shall call Gosling Lake—though that is not its real name—is of irregular form, about two miles long from east to west, and somewhat less in breadth. It is surrounded by pines, balsams and firs, which in most places grow quite close to the water’s edge, with here and there a grassy stretch of moderate extent, bordering the lake.
On the southern shore stands the bungalow or clubhouse, to which more than one reference has been made. It is a low, log structure of one story with a piazza in front, is strong and secure and has no pretensions to elegance or luxury. It was intended merely to afford sleeping and dining quarters for the occupants. When a party of wealthy men plunge into the wilderness for what they call an outing, they make a great ado over “roughing” it. They announce that they will sleep in the open, work strenuously for their own meals, and live the simple life, as did the wood rangers in the olden times. But the chances are ten to one that the campers out will bring a professional cook and one or two other servants with them, will sleep in the beds prepared by other hands, and spend most of their time in luxurious idleness.
The bungalow which we have in mind is fifty feet in length and is divided into two rooms,—the smaller for dining and social communion on stormy afternoons and during the evenings. This room has an old-fashioned fireplace and is provided with cooking utensils, a large table, several chairs and other simple articles of furniture. The larger apartment is furnished with rows of bunks along each side, where spruce tips or pine boughs serve as mattresses upon which pillows and blankets are spread. The floor is of smooth planking, and without rugs. Large wooden pegs driven into the walls take the place of closets. In short the aim is to yield solid comfort, yet encourage the belief among the campers that they are actually roughing it.