MORRIS’S NORTHEAST CARRY.
Our canoes, when packed with all the above articles, and further embellished by sundry tea and coffee pots, kettles, frying-pans, broilers, bakers, tin plates and cups, reminded one of the early days of our forefathers and their pilgrimages to the “far west.” The country towards which we had set our faces was entirely new to tourists, and but one of our guides (Weller) had ever explored its hidden depths, and even his memory was so treacherous as to be of little service to us. Recently issued maps were faulty, and we were obliged to make many corrections on them and manufacture the geography as we sailed along. On reaching the head of Moosehead Lake our many boxes and bags, just enumerated, were transferred to the sadly dilapidated wharf at the Northeast “carry,” and afterwards removed by the guides to a heavy lumber box wagon drawn by a single horse, while the birch canoes, supported by long poles, were lashed at the sides of the cart.
Our artist, to secure his photographic materials against harm, rode in front with the driver, but the writer, in company with the quartermaster and the guides, trudged along in the sand at the rear.
This “carry” or path is about two miles long, rising gradually towards the middle from each end, and terminates on the north at the West branch of the Penobscot river. There are log houses where one can obtain dinner at either end of this portage, but as our guide, Morris, lived at the further point, our party chose to lunch at his house, and our recollections of his mother’s preserved strawberries, fresh cream and bread are alive to this hour. After dinner we immediately betook ourselves to the river’s bank, launched the birch canoes, stretched the canvas canoe into shape, and, balancing the crafts to a nicety with our baggage, swung off down the stream for a month’s exploration of the inmost heart of Maine.
IN SYMPATHY WITH NATURE.
One well knows the delights attending a picnic in the woods for a day—arising at early morn and carefully stowing away in baskets sundry choice and toothsome articles, and filling the corners of the basket with beautiful bright flowers from our gardens, we resorted to the woods and dividing into groups under the shady trees we spread on temporary tables the savory dishes, and strove to the best of our ability to get in sympathy with nature.[B] But think of a month’s picnic daily filled with excitement and pleasure, from running rapids and falls in a canoe to enticing the wary trout, or picking strange flowers and berries by the brookside, and at night resting one’s tired but invigorated body under a snow white tent!
The west branch of the Penobscot (or Rocky) river, after leaving the terminus of the Northeast “carry” at Morris’s, flows steadily to the southeast with hardly a ripple for some two miles until it reaches the mouth of Lobster stream; then a stronger current is perceptible with “rips,” and this continues for two and a half miles more, when after passing a small island the water again becomes “dead.” The birch barks, paddled by guides Weller and Morris, preceded us down the river, while the quartermaster and I followed in the canvas canoe, the fourth canoe with Guide Bowley and the artist bringing up the rear.
[B] If I ever write another book I think I shall eschew sentiment. I thought at the time that “sympathy with nature” was very good, but I find that it has been thrown away on at least one—the artist. T. S. S.