By noon they were en route to camp on the Upper Ausable Pond, by way of the muddiest lumber road in the world, mud hub-deep, black mud, covering patches of sunken corduroy, treacherous roots and hidden rocks that snapped their full share of axles during a season, spilled off provisions, burst flour-sacks, and brought forth a string of profanity along its entire contrary length. Ed and Joe trudged on back of the buckboard. To ride was impossible. Now and then the strong team, guided to-day by Bill Dubois’s boy, also on foot, strained, plunged on, and stopped for a panting rest. Moreover, the old road was steep, only reaching its height of land as it came into a glimmering view through the trees of the Lower Ausable Pond, that lay below, still and mirrored between the flanks of the great mountains. To the right rose the Gothics, and beyond, sheer up above their granite flanks, the high peak of Mount Marcy.
Once in sight of the Lower Ausable, the air became even rarer. A gentle breeze that shirred the surface of the long pond, set the silvery leaves of a clump of poplar-trees shivering and the water slopping along the rocky shore. Here, too, they said good-by to Bill Dubois’s boy. By the time they had rowed through the Lower Ausable, made the carry of a mile and a half between the twin ponds, and reached Ed’s lean-to at the head of the upper pond, it was nearly dark. Ed’s frail green boat, loaded down within three inches of the water-line, slipped up to a small patch of sand that served as a landing before the cleared spot in front of his primitive camp. Ed sprang out and steadied the boat for Joe. The next instant he had picked up the heaviest of the two pack-baskets, slid his strong arms through its broad leather straps, and with a grunt slowly staggered with it to his feet, over a hundred pounds dead weight.
“Hold on!” cried Joe. “Let me help!” he insisted, in vain, as Ed started up the bank. “Pretty heavy, isn’t it? Looks as if it weighed a ton to me.”
Under the dead weight Ed turned and grinned.
“Wall,” he drawled, “it ain’t no earring.”
He set down the pack-basket with a thump before the lean-to and glanced about him. Finally, he decided on a group of dry balsams to the left, a few strokes of his keen axe levelled three. These he cut into lengths, and hauled before the camp. Then he went in search of a rotten stump, broke out from its centre a handful of “punk,” gathered a few shreds of birch bark, arranged his fire, struck one sulphur match on the seat of his thick, gray-woollen, homespun trousers, and soon had a cheery blaze crackling and snapping a welcome.
Nothing is worse than a fireless camp. The fire is everything; it is almost meat and drink.
As it grew darker it made the spot a home. An owl hooted across the silent pond. Beyond the limit of the firelight lay the hushed wilderness, stretching afar, and it is safe to say that the only other campfire to-night for miles was Si Skinner’s, whom Ed “cal’ated was floatin’ for deer clear over to the Boreas Ponds.”
Out came Ed’s magic “fry-pan.” With the fragrance of the coffee and the scent of sizzling bacon and beans Joe became ravenous. He could hardly wait until Ed cried, “Supper!” and added, with a shout that echoed across the pond: “Daylight on zee swamp, and beans on zee tab’, git up, you peasonuers!” being an old lumberjack’s shout in calling the Canuck French element in camp to breakfast.
“We’d er done well to hev took thet little whiffet dorg of Bill Saunders along,” declared Ed, as they sat smoking in the warm glow of the fire after supper. “Cunningest little cuss you ever seen to run a deer. Me and Bill killed four ahead of him last fall. He don’t make no noise—Bill learned him that; got a voice on him ez weak’s a kitten’s. Then, thinks I, we won’t hev no trouble gitten a deer jackin’ if it keeps up ez warm ez this. Flies hev begun to trouble ’em considerable nights. They’ll be sloshin’ down into the still water soon. Bill come through here, it wa’n’t more’n a week ago, and seen four—three bucks and a doe—jest this side of the Gull rock, not forty rod from whar you shot at the otter two year ago. ’Bout ez neat a shot as I ever see.”