“When the ‘Pioneers of the Aroostook’ pushed through this country last season,” said the Colonel, glancing at me with an air of superiority, “we experienced no difficulty in continuing our voyage one mile above to Marsh Pond. On examination, since landing, I find we shall be obliged to ‘carry’ around the obstructions, and it will detain us a day.”
A COLD WAVE.
That night we found use for all the spare blankets in camp, and John was repeatedly aroused to replenish the fire.
“What’s the matter, Colonel?” I asked, as gazing out from under my warm blankets on the morning of Sept. 24th I discovered my compagnon-du-voyage dancing before the fire and rubbing his hands with “invisible soap.”
“Well, you just turn out and see. There is half an inch of ice in our camp pails, and a fair chance for skating on the Lake. We shall have to take to snow-shoes, if this weather holds on.”
The tents, stiff with frost, were packed in bags, and in “Indian file” at the right of North Twin Stream we started for Marsh Pond, each man burdened to the utmost. Again and again we repeated our trips, between lake and pond, sinking in the mud one instant, slipping on some frosty rock the next, and not until late in the afternoon were our canoes and the last loads of our kit safely landed at Marsh Pond.
Paddling through this water, its name being typical of its character, we ascended a small stream at its head on our way to Spider Lake.
“Me think it getting dark, boys,” said the Indian, “and we better make camp at once.”
