Canoe and camera

by Thomas Sedgwick Steele

The ascension of Mount Katahdin can with little difficulty be made from Hunt’s farm, where a convenient ride on horseback lands one within two miles of its top. I shall not soon forget the climb of Hunt’s Mountain, about twelve hundred feet high, opposite our camp, or the magnificent view from its peak.

With Mr. Dunn as guide, in company with the “Quartermaster,” I started to make the ascent on the morning of August 24th. To clamber up the steep side of a mountain in the dense wilderness is an entirely different undertaking from the following of a “bridal path” to the top of Mount Washington. Cutting stout poles seven feet in length, we set off up the mountain side, catching half glimpses of the landscape below, as we swung from tree to tree and rock to rock, which latter had been made extra slippery by a recent shower, and, after two hours of laborious climbing, gained the bare but welcome crags at the top. The first sensation of the prospect from the summit is simply of immensity. The eye sweeps the vast spaces that are bounded only by the haze of distance, overlooking one vast undulating sea of forest trees, which seemed to come rolling in to the mountain’s base, with only here and there the glimmer of a lake or stream, and little to break the vision save the farm at our feet, where we could just distinguish the white canvas of our camp. To the left stretch successive ranges of hills and mountains, and at their base could be had momentary glimpses of the windings of the West Branch of the Penobscot, while to our right was its twin brother, the East Branch, over which we had so recently passed, its misty falls and cascades subdued to a level with the surrounding landscape. These two streams sweep away to the south twenty miles, and unite in unbroken union at Medway, on their way to the sea.

Junction East and West Branches Penobscot.

Before me arose the cloud-capped peak of Mount Katahdin, 5,385 feet high, Wasataquoik Mountain, 5,245 feet high, the lofty Traveler and Sourdnahunk mountains, which, with the exception of the first, are wooded to their summits. Broad seams, or slides, are visible along the surface of old Katahdin, which, with its triple-peaked outline, seemed to look down into the valleys with a fatherly interest, while “the whispering air sent inspiration from the mountain heights.”

The thunder clouds had just parted, and a beautiful rainbow arched the heavens, shedding its colors on the glistening outlines of the valley and mountain. Oh, that we might be left alone for hours, to watch the changes of the landscape and hear the secret voice and dread revelations of these magnificent mountains!

There are thoughts, deep and holy, which float through one’s mind, as, gazing down upon such a scene, one contrasts the smallness of man with the magnitude of God’s works, and in the weird silence contemplates the perishable of this world with “the everlasting hills.”

After such a prospect of the East Branch and vicinity, it almost seems as if we ought to bid adieu to this enchanting river of our narrative, but if the future tourist shall desire to make its acquaintance, I would like to guide him safely over four other remarkable falls to his journey’s end at Mattawamkeag, thirty-two miles below.

Two miles from Hunt’s farm, we came to what is known as Whetstone Falls, a series of high, picturesque cascades. Here we made a short portage on the right-hand side of the stream, then shot across and down a very steep pitch of the water close to the left bank, and landed a portion of our baggage which we carried to a point below. Then the guides ran the heavier part of the falls, and, after passing the quick boiling water at their foot, rounded to the shore and re-loaded the camp kit which we had “sacked” over the ledges at the river’s bank. Then we passed, without accident, Grindstone and Crowfoot Falls, each from ten to twenty feet high, the name of the former being so suggestive by its geological formation that the “Quartermaster” declared that he could honestly see the indentation of the axle. Another camp seven miles from Medway, and in the morning we passed Ledge Falls, which, although the last of the pitches on the East Branch, was none the less interesting.

We passengers, to lighten the canvas, strolled along the shore, gathering bright flowers and curious colored stones, while the guides alone in their canoes ran the cataract, meeting us in the “dead water” below. These falls are composed of slate of a grayish color, which, after the first steep pitch form into numerous cascades, produced by the sharp ridges of rock, which, extending out into the stream from both shores, decrease in height as they approach the center.