The guides, for such an extended tour of exploration, had been well chosen. One of them was an Indian, whose tribe had originated on the St. John’s River. He lived, however, at Oldtown, Maine. His name was Thomas Nichols. He was a stalwart man, six feet in height, forty-eight years of age, and weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds. He was considered the best hunter in the vicinity, while his reputation in the manufacture of birch canoes was known throughout the State. He was dressed in a grey shirt, a cardigan jacket, and a black felt hat, which made him look like a savage who had fallen into the clutches of some prowling missionary, and issued from the “conversional brush,” not the better of soul, but the richer of a complex and indifferent suit of clothes.
OUR GUIDES.
We had two other guides, Hiram and John Mansell, who were brothers from Greenville, Maine, the former officiating as cook, the latter as man of all work. Hiram was clad in a pair of blue pants with red stripes at the sides, a souvenir of military life, and looked like a relic of Bull Run. He wore a jacket of brown duck, with a leather strap about his waist, to which was slung a long bowie-knife, whose sheath was a deer’s leg with the hoof attached. He stood five feet five inches in his stockings—how high with his shoes on we are not prepared to say—was thirty-one years of age, and weighed just one hundred and forty-eight pounds, before dinner. His brother John, clad throughout in grey woollen attire, was twenty-three years old, but as strong as an ox, and having served a good apprenticeship among the loggers, could wield an axe with powerful effect.
In addition to the provisions necessary to feed five hungry men on a five weeks’ cruise, our canoes were further loaded with two canvas A tents, 6 × 8 feet, a Baker tent, 7 × 9 feet, six iron beaver traps, five rubber and canvas bags, containing our blankets, rubber beds, cooking utensils, four Winchester rifles, and a good supply of ammunition.
Last but not least in importance to the expedition was a Tourograph, an instrument with which to photograph the scenery along the route. This apparatus, which was always placed at the head of my tent, was tended with zealous care from first to last, and many were the cautions given the guides as to its disposition in the canoe or on the carries.
“All ashore!” cried Colonel G., as we reached the ricketty wharf at the extremity of Moosehead Lake. This wharf was a sadly dilapidated affair. As we stepped upon it to transfer our baggage to the shore it squeaked like a box of compressed guinea-pigs, and bounced and rocked so beneath our weight that the Colonel declared it had at one time been an Indian baby-charmer.
Gaining land we strapped our canoes and baggage upon a wagon which was in waiting, to which were attached a pair of horses, that were also in waiting, with their goodly snouts immersed in the contents of a monster bag and snuffing after a handful of oats that had been lost somewhere in the interior. Then, as our party gave the steamer a farewell cheer, the Colonel and I led the advance along the sandy path of the North East Carry, leaving the guides to bring up the rear, to prevent any loss of the “kit.” As we trudged along, looking to the right, our attention was attracted to an old road along which ran in dubious parallel two long rows of disjointed logs, which were soon lost to sight in the choking wild-growth. These logs had once served as the tracks of a wooden railroad, extending two miles across the fields, over which the loggers, in former years, had drawn their supplies to the Penobscot waters, with the motor power of oxen. Theodore Winthrop wrote, that “whenever the engine-driver stopped to pick a huckleberry, the train, self-braking, stopped also, and the engine, or ‘bullgine,’ took in fuel from the tall grass that grew between the sleepers.” But few traces of these rails now remain, and horse-power has been substituted for that of the more patient ox.
As the Colonel and I progressed, we became quite absorbed in commenting on the features of the route over which we had both travelled so frequently. The sun shone brightly, the birds were twittering merrily on the twigs at the side of the path, insects and other nondescripts buzzed, chirped, hummed, and squeaked with ready avail of the true American privilege of free speech; but so concerned were we in our talk that we failed to notice for some time that there was room enough in the air for other music, which we did not hear. In fact, we missed the sonorous jolt and rumble of the wagon-wheels behind us. Looking back, to our surprise, we found that the vehicle was not in sight.
“A break-down,” I suggested; “let us go back and see what has happened.”