That night about the camp-fire the Colonel told us the story of their privations, and how their final meal consisted of nothing but the boiled bone of a salt ham seasoned with the last crumbs of hard-tack.
This story suggested others of the same kind, and many and interesting were those retailing the experiences of our guides. I give the following, told by Hiram, of the man who was the first to make maps of Moosehead Lake and its vicinity. It gives an idea of the rigors and danger incident to a journey through the woods of Maine in the dead of winter, and may not be uninteresting:
“Ye never heerd me tell about the man who fust tried to make maps o’ these ’ere woods, did ye?” said Hiram, as he tossed an extra log upon the fire. “Wall, it’s a long story; but I’ll try an’ load the cart’idge so the bullet won’t go far, as I see Nichols a-blinkin’ over there like an’ owl at high meridian. It was ’long about the Autumn of 1870, if I remember right, that a feller by the name o’ Way cum up from down below an’ took board in Greenville, foot o’ Moosehead Lake. He was quite a spruce lookin’ chap for these ’ere regions, an’ though still under twenty-one years of age, had seen a deal o’ the world in his little day. Wall, Johnny (that was his name,) had come to rough it, an’ take his chances for life with the rest of us, though it was said he’d heaps o’ money, an’ mighty fine fixins’ at home; but he was one of them advent’rous splinters as are allers flyin’ round a-wantin’ to see more an’ more, an’ git into wuss an’ wuss every step they go. Us boys was mighty busy that year a-loggin’, an he enj’yed the fust winter so rattlin’ well among us that he cum back the next season. When the snow got good an’ deep in Jan’wary, an’ snow-shoein’ was just fine, we two arranged a huntin’ trip an’ started out with our rifles an’ all the provishuns we could truss on our backs toward Chamberlin Farm. We hunted about there some days, but finally made a hand-sled, strapped our kit on to it, and by dint o’ pushin’ and haulin’ made our way over the fruz surface o’ Chamberlin and Eagle Lakes to Smith Brook. Next day we pushed on to Haymoak Brook an’ as it cum on to rain we built a hut of bark and camped.
“BY DINT O’ PUSHIN’ AN’ HAULIN’—”
“Johnny was a restless feller, an’ fur all tired out with the pull through to camp, thought if we were goin’ to stay long and hunt we’d better lay in more provishuns. He was a plucky little feller, too, an’ ’though not much used to the woods, could foller a ‘spotted line’ with the best o’ ye. So he made up his mind to switch back to Chamberlin Farm an’ git enough provishuns to last out the trip. I thought this a rather crazy freak, for I felt pretty sartin we could manage to pan out with what we had. But Johnny wanted to be sure. Like all city fellers he had a peevish bread-basket, an’ fur all he’d spirit enough to rough it in other ways, he couldn’t weather the trial of goin’ without his straight meal no-how. I did all I could do to hold him back, but it was no use; then I offered to go back with him, but he was bent on doin’ the trip alone, an’ leavin’ me to rest in camp. So, after buryin’ his part o’ the kit in the snow, he stood ready to start.
“He did’nt want to go back the same way we had come, but had planned to skirt round back o’ the lakes, you know—a mighty unsartin kind of bizness, boys, for a feller raised in a hot-house.
“But he plead so hard I finally give in to him, an’ with the point o’ my ramrod I marked out his course in the wet snow. Says I, ‘You see here, Johnny, that mark I jist made goes across Haymoak Lake to Stink Pond. Now don’t you forgit it,’ says I, ‘to keep right on your course to Fourth Lake, for that there line leads into Little Leadbetter Pond, an’ by a foot-track, will take ye to Chamberlin Lake, an’ then yer all hunk. There’s an old log camp on the Leadbetter, right there,’ says I, diggin’ the rod into the snow. ‘Don’t go further than that to-night. Camp there, no matter how early ye reach it; lie over till mornin’ an then push on.’
“It was the wuss snow shoein’ I ever did see, and I ought not to’ve let the boy go, but I’d said yes, an’ I’m not one of them fellers who goes back on his word.