Transcriber’s Note

There are two spellings of the author's name - Sedgwick and Sedgewick. Both spellings have been retained.

There is a map mentioned, 20 × 30 inches of the canoe courses of Northern Maine but nothing was found in this copy or any other copy of the same publication date.

“Took to his bark upon the pebbled shore,

Those unknown realms of Nature to explore.”

SUNRISE ON ECHO LAKE.

PADDLE AND PORTAGE,
FROM
MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER,
MAINE.

BY

Thomas Sedgwick Steele, Author of “Canoe and Camera,” Maps of Maine, etc.,

“Hunting is the noblest exercise,

Makes men laborious, active, wise,

Brings health, and doth the spirits delight,

It helps the hearing and the sight;

It teacheth arts that never slip

The memory, good horsemanship,

Search, sharpness, courage, and defence,

And chaseth all ill habits thence.”

Jonson’s Masques.

WITH OVER SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS,

AND MAP 20 × 30 INCHES OF THE CANOE COURSES OF NORTHERN MAINE.

BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT,
299-305 Washington Street.
1882.

Copyright.
Thomas Sedgwick Steele,
1882.

To Lyman B. Goff,
of
Pawtucket, R. I.
Companion on this tour, with
whom I shared its pleasures and its
dangers, its discomforts and
its successes, this book
is affectionately
dedicated,
in token of my sincere regard
and friendship.

Hartford, Conn., 1882.

T. S. S.

CONTENTS.

Illustrations.

Introduction.

On page 31 of Canoe and Camera I made the following foot-note, in mentioning the fourth tour from Moosehead Lake through the Maine Wilderness: “Still another trip can be made from Churchill Lake through Spider, Echo and Mansungun Lakes to the waters of the Aroostook, leaving the woods at Caribou, Maine. But the scenery is uninteresting, and the difficulties will not compensate one for the labor endured, while woe betide the tourist if the water is low.”

I little imagined, as I penned this paragraph from hearsay, that the following season I should so thoroughly acquaint myself with its “difficulties,” and learn from actual experience the beauties of its scenery.

Yet, in the autumn of 1880, while putting in order my well-worn camp equipage with no definite plan in view, a letter from my friend and fellow traveller, Colonel G., gave this fortunate direction to my fall trip. This letter informed me that the year previous he had discovered a region unknown to the sportsman and tourist, yet accessible by canoe from Moosehead Lake, and was rejoicing in the title of the “Pioneer of the Aroostook.” I could not, therefore, be the first to explore this route, and so, accepting second honors, began immediate preparations for the trip.

The oldest inhabitants of Maine may have known a drier season than that of 1880, but the reader will perceive in the following pages that a cart, rather than a canoe, might have been used in the exploration of the greater portion of this unknown region.

The Author.
Hartford, Conn., 1881.

PADDLE AND PORTAGE,

FROM

MOOSEHEAD LAKE TO THE AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE.

ILLUSTRATED AT DAY’S STUDIO, NEW YORK,

FROM

PHOTOGRAPHS MADE BY THE AUTHOR.

CHAPTER I.

“Happy the man who has the town escaped;

To him the whisp’ring trees, the murmuring brooks,

The shining pebbles, preach

Virtue’s and wisdom’s love.”

THE START.—UNWARRANTED ASSUMPTIONS.—OUR GUIDES AND OUTFIT.—A FLIMSY WHARF.—RAILROADING OF THE OLD DAYS.—CONTEMPTIBLE DECEIT TOWARD DUMB ANIMALS.—COMMENCEMENT OF FUN ON THE “CARRIES.”—WE GO INTO CAMP.—FIRST NIGHT IN THE WILDS.

On the 11th of September I landed at the Mount Kineo House, Moosehead Lake, fully equipped for a voyage of over four hundred miles through the wilderness of Maine to New Brunswick. Colonel G., my comrade adventurer, having arrived a few days previous, had engaged the guides, canoes, provisions, and other accessories, so there was little to do save discard the habiliments of civilization.

Two days after, on the morning of the 13th, we started from the Kineo Dock on the little steamer Day Dream for the northern extremity of Moosehead Lake, at which point we were to bid adieu to civilization and traverse the remainder of our route alone by paddle and portage.

As the steamer cast loose from the wharf, our interested friends ashore gave us a farewell cheer that echoed across the waters of the lake. In these realms of adventure, everybody is one’s friend. Friendship is spontaneous; good feeling reigns supreme, and people that we did not know united with people that we did know in their signal-tokens of “Godspeed”—or, at least, we thought they did. As we passed up the lake, fashionable ladies and gentlemen waved their handkerchiefs upon the piazzas of the hotel.

“This attention is pleasing,” remarked the Colonel.

“Pshaw!” I said; “It is warm this morning. Don’t you feel the heat of the air? They are fanning themselves.”

“Oh!” he said; “I thought they were giving us a farewell.”

Down on Kineo pebble beach some of the guides, who hang around the hotel while “open for engagements,” were standing in company with a few of the oldest inhabitants, sweeping the air with their broad felt hats in a manner wild and energetic. Pointing these out to me, the Colonel hinted his belief that their actions were intended for us.

“Nonsense,” I said; “more likely they’re doing battle with a horde of offensive insects.”

Not far from this group stood a party of sportsmen, who fired a volley from their rifles that rattled over the lake with a harsh, spasmodic detonation. To me, however, the voice of the report was highly expressive.

“Colonel,” I said, with a sudden flush of pleasure; “there’s a party of the boys giving us a send-off.”

“Fudge,” said the Colonel; “do you see that duck flying across the lake? There’s the worthy object of the honor. They’ve missed it. Some bevy of girl-admirers have been watching them from the hotel, and they save their reputation by looking toward us, as if the volley was intended for a salute.”

“Oh,” I said, collapsing at the Colonel’s retaliatory explanation; “I thought it strange that we should cause so much trouble.”

In a short while we were ploughing the upper waters of Moosehead Lake, and the frowning bluffs of Mount Kineo began to fade into the distance, the rocks, the trees, and other features of its scenery, becoming indistinct in a haze of deepening purple. As the little steamer moved onward, lying on the deck among the baggage, we took our ease, and listened to the predictions of our few companion-passengers, and studied the glowing eloquence of the cloudless sky, both of which bespoke the ominous fact of the dry season, and told us with cruel blandness to rest while we might, as there was in store plenty of exhilarating exercise upon the “carries” beyond.

While we are progressing to our destination, I will take an opportunity for a description of our guides and general outfit. This some people consider necessary, and it is therefore a duty which sooner or later must be fulfilled.

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.”

Retracing our way, in a few moments we came in sight of the wagon. It was standing stock-still in the road. As we ran up beside it, we found our caravan in a most distressing situation. The horses were standing before the clumsy wagon as motionless as statues, and with forward-pricked ears and firmly planted feet were stubbornly refusing to move a step, while the driver and our guides were dancing around them with the grace of frantic Zulus, inciting them to energy with the aid of sticks snatched from the roadside.

“What’s the matter?” we inquired.

“Can’t git the ’tarnal brutes to budge a step,” cried Hiram, desisting from the chastisement, and dropping his stick upon the road in sheer exhaustion.

“What’s the reason you can’t? Let me get at them!” cried the Colonel, furiously.

“Don’t, Colonel,” I pleaded, as my comrade began to pirouette in the Zulu dance with flourished stick. “There’s no telling what is the cause of their inability. Perhaps the poor creatures have corns.”

“No, they ’avent; no sir-ee!” cried the driver, meeting my remark with a howl of indignation. “Nary a spavin, a heave, nur a corn abeout them ar hosses, I’d hev ye know. Finest breed that was ever raised in Maine; they cum all the way from Californy.”

“Then why don’t they stir their stumps?” demanded one of the guides in a voice that made the animals quiver.

“No cross-questioning. At them again with the sticks, boys!” cried the Colonel. “We’ll put life into them.”

“No, no ye can’t. Thar’s only one thing kin inspire them ar hosses.”

“What’s that?” I asked, breathlessly.

“Oats,” replied the driver, mournfully.

“Then where are the oats? Bring out the oats!” cried the Colonel.

“Aint got none. They’ve all giv out.”

“Then where’s the bag,” I cried, with a desperate idea. “Give me the bag, and I’ll start them.”

The driver threw me the big oat bag from the interior of the wagon. It fell into my arms like a collapsed balloon. Taking a position in front of the horses, I held it at arm’s length toward their noses.

“Now,” I cried to the guides; “get behind the wagon and push. Between two fires the engine cannot fail to move.”

“You’re mad! Tom,” cried the Colonel, with a look of supreme disgust.

“Never mind,” said I; “there’s method in my madness, as you’ll soon see;” and he did see, for the next moment the horses, sniffing the oat bags, sprang forward with a desperate spurt after me. All the way along the road, I held the oat bag dancing before their eyes like an ignus fatuus. At times, however, the animals half suspected the deceit, and seemed inclined to lose faith in the feeling of man and lag. This made our progress rather spasmodic; but they were never suffered to come to a halt, for at every threatened relapse the guides stood ready to do propeller-power behind.

“This is Rapid Transit with a vengeance,” cried the Colonel, as he strode after us convulsed with laughter.

We travelled in this way for some time, until we reached the West Branch of the Penobscot, where the driver and his dashing equipage were cheerfully dismissed and we took to the water in our canoes. Thus the last link between us and civilization was broken. The water was very low, and we found ourselves ushered into a difficult passage. This was the dryest season experienced in Maine for many years.

The water courses displayed such masses of huge rocks and uncovered stretches of gravel beds that, at a distance, one would have thought them logging roads rather than the beds of large rivers. Constantly we were obliged to step overboard and lift our canoes over obstructions, and often we sighed for the aid of horse-flesh, of better calibre, however, than that we had just parted with.

After two hours of alternate dragging and paddling we shot into the right bank of the river, and made our first camp half a mile above Moosehorn Stream. Then

“There was hurrying to and fro;”

the baggage was thrown out of the canoes, the latter were drawn up on the bank and overturned to dry; the tents were unrolled, the poles were struck, and two of the guides busied themselves in their erection, while John Mansell woke the echoes of the woods with the resounding blows of his heavy axe as he cut the logs and fuel for the camp fire, and the Colonel and I, seizing our rifles, sauntered forth with sanguinary strides to decrease the population of the forest game in the interest of our first meal. When we returned we found everything under way; the log fire was crackling merrily, before which were squatted the guides on upturned pails. Around them was scattered in picturesque confusion our full culinary paraphernalia, consisting of tea and coffee-pots, kettles, frying-pans, tin cups, bakers, broilers, etc., out of which assortment they were selecting the utensils needed for our meal. They looked like a band of itinerant tinkers.

THE FIRST CAMP.

Tossing Hiram a brace of partridges the Colonel and I, arranging the Tourograph apparatus, obtained a photograph of our first camp. Soon after that supper was announced, after which sleeping accommodations engaged our attention. Going toward our tent we found that Nichols, the Indian, had carpetted it as well as those of the guides with fragrant boughs of hemlock. But our two large rubber beds yet remained to be inflated. The size of these were 36 × 80 inches. The Colonel and I began to devise a plan for swelling them without taxing our physical resources. We soon agreed that the only way out of the difficulty was the arrangement of a match on time between two of the guides. Hiram and the Indian seized upon our proposition instantly, and their rival wind powers were soon tested. Stretching the collapsed rubber bags side by side, they spread themselves flat upon the ground in similar positions, and placing their mouths at the apertures received the signal, and began to blow as if for dear life. The Colonel and I held our time-pieces in our hands, and watched the struggle with amusement. They had both powerful lungs and the bags were soon inflated. As they withdrew from the contest, the veins swelled upon their foreheads like whip-cords, and their fiery red faces glowed with the color of a harvest moon.

THE BEST MAN TO WIN.

“Who wonee?” gasped the Indian, as he passed the sleeve of his grey shirt across his perspiring face. The Colonel and I consulted, and not desiring to discourage either of the guides from a repetition of the act we declared the match a tie.

By this time night had set in. But we did not hasten to bed; no, indeed. Stretching ourselves before the big log fire we revelled in the raptures of a scene of which the tourist can never tire—the last wakeful hours of the camp at night, those hours so rife with merriment, so rich with unbosomed anecdote, when the first story, springing from the innocent seed of palpable truth, becomes a prey to those succeeding ones which bear the hideous stain of doubt. Exaggeration is wonderfully prolific. “India-rubber yarns” are told in endless variety, each one being a super-test of the elasticity of the whole. Then some one falls into the error of telling the truth, and his story is howled at as being weak and unpalatable. Finally some one tells the “whopper” of the evening, which bids defiance to retaliation and sends the party to bed in first-class trim for weird dreams. A bomb-shell of this kind from the Colonel was the cause of our dispersal, and exchanging “good nights” we entered our tents. Then, while the camp fire still burned on, while the bark curled from the trunks of the big birch logs, while the cedar snapped with its merry crackle, while the shadows of the leaping flame and smoke danced fantastically upon the ruddy tent walls—we slept.

CHAPTER II.

“A band of hunters were we. All day long

Our feet had trail’d the woods.”—Street.

MOVING ON.—PINE STREAM FALLS.—CHESUNCOOK LAKE AND FARM.—UMBAZOOKUS CARRY.—A DRY GROUND SLEIGHING PARTY.—FURTHER EXPERIENCE WITH THE HORSE.—A GLIMPSE OF DESOLATION.—CHAMBERLIN LAKE.—A VISION.—EAGLE LAKE.—SMITH BROOK.—HAYMOAK FALLS.—TROUT STORIES.

Bright and early the next morning tents were struck, canoes loaded, and soon we were afloat upon the waters of the Penobscot, hoping to reach the mouth of the river by nightfall.

Nightfall?

Perish the fond and audacious expectation. It was not until four days subsequently, after a running battle with difficulties, that we passed the Pine Stream Falls and entered Chesuncook Lake.

CHESUNCOOK LAKE.

There is a farm upon this lake. It consists of a wilderness of ground, and a collection of rickety sheds, clustered like barnacles to a major “pile,” which you suspect to be the homestead.

There is nothing pretentious about the architecture. It is of a rather complex order, and the span of life never seemed to me so short as at the moment I attempted to determine it. Such a view of angles, horizontals, and perpendiculars never before greeted my eyes. It was simply distracting. The designing genius must have suffered with a cast in his eye, or a mind disordered through indigestion.

CHESUNCOOK FARM.

These farm buildings stand alone in a wild, open tract of country. The sight of them strikes you instantly as strange and unaccountable. At first you wonder and half believe yourself in the vicinity of Ararat and a debilitated ark. Then you shudder and give thought to a terrible suspicion—a small-pox hospital, perhaps! Finally, unable to reach a plausible conclusion, you forget you are in Maine, and in generous sympathy with the glory awarded to all the super-dilapidated buildings of the lower states, declare at once that the pile must be the old headquarters of General Washington.

We made a brief stay at this farm, spending most of our time in duck and plover shooting.

We then paddled across the lake and passed up Umbazookus Stream, dragging our canoes most of the way. We landed at a carry on the right bank.

During the previous season, while visiting this region, we had pushed further up the stream to what is known as “Mud Pond Carry,” sacking our entire kit to Mud Pond. But a longing for the almighty dollar has since been aroused in the heart of one Smith, who having erected a house and barn a short distance from the landing, now transports the tourist’s canoe and supplies six miles to Mud Pond, across Umbazookus Carry.

As we neared the house we fired a gun in signal of our approach, and were met by a man and a boy who rushed forth from the adjoining barn. Then

A party through the Maine wilds bound

Cried “Good man, do not tarry;

But tow us o’er the boggy ground

Of Umbazookus Carry.”[A]

[A] Copyrighted 1881.

Whereupon the man and the boy began immediate preparations for the transport.

Hastening to the woods they soon appeared with four bony animals in harness that put one more in mind of the rigging of a clam boat than the trappings of horses. These were attached to two large wooden sleds made of tree branches, upon which were placed our birch canoes, swung by an adjustment of ropes to four stanchions at their sides, while the spaces underneath were occupied by our baggage.

UMBAZOOKUS STREAM.

These clumsy vehicles, with their strangely arranged cargo, presented a novel and picturesque sight, which I thought a good subject for the Tourograph, and “photo’d” before starting. Then, amid the cheering of our guides, the horses were whipped up, and we were soon underway, sliding across the logs, bouncing over the rocks, and pitching along through the mud like a fishing-smack foundering in a storm.

PORTAGE

The Colonel and I strode ahead with our guns, securing partridges by the way, closely followed by Hiram’s team. Soon we heard a shout, and looking back saw his horses rearing and plunging, and the sled stopped short before a tree.

“What’s up?” we cried.

“This left-hand nag here is a Tartar,” replied Hiram, as he tugged and jerked at the reins. “I tried to tack and leave that ’ere tree on the starboard quarter, but I’ll be blamed if he haint sot me into it all kerchunk on the port bow. Say, gineral!” he yelled, turning ferociously toward Smith; “what’s the matter with this here animile of yours?”

“Which one? That one?” asked Smith. “I meant to warn ye consarnin’ him. He must be handled mighty gingerly. Takes an ingineer to run him properly.”

“Why, for sin’s sake?” inquired Hiram.

“He’s cross-eyed, an’ he allers leans hard toward the west.”

“Cross-eyed! Poor crittur,” murmured Hiram, sympathetically, as he laid the lash along the animal’s ribs. “How’d it happen?”

“Don’t know exactly. Born so, I expect; but I heerd say onst that the children o’ the people who had ’im afore me dropped a nail into his feed bag. Don’t know how true it is.”

Hiram struggled desperately with the reins to free the sled, but without success.

To back the craft would have required more than the entire strength of the party, so John Mansell’s axe came into play, the tree was felled, and leaping over its stump the sled was soon bounding on.

After three hours of heavy toil for both horses and men, we completed the six miles, and arrived at the uninteresting sheet of water called Mud Pond.

“Jemima!” cried Hiram, as he surveyed the pond and gauged the depth of the water; “how are we going to get across?”

“Have to dig a channel with our paddles,” said John.

“Me think so—yes!” ejaculated the Indian, as with a miss-step he almost sank from sight in the mud.

A channel was soon made, canoes repacked, and by dint of hard poling we reached deep water, and paddled for the opposite shore a mile distant.

On arriving the same difficulties which prevented our embarking delayed our landing, and at one time it looked as if each man would make his canoe his camp for the night. But just as the sun set we managed to land, and pitched our tents in the dark.

Mud Pond Stream being almost dry, we were forced the next morning to carry our canoes and kit almost a mile, depositing them at last in the stream which flows through the moose barren bordering on Chamberlin Lake.

Here we found ourselves in a wild, desolate country. The stream along which we moved ran through an immense tract of bog, which was dotted here and there with old stumps reaching for a quarter of a mile in every direction. This was bounded in the dim distance by a dead wood forest, which enclosed it completely like a chevaux de frise. Within this was presented a most lugubrious landscape. It was the picture of a region dead to the world and to itself. The old grey stumps scattered about seemed like storm-beaten tombstones which marked the resting-places of perished souls, and the naked, bleached forms of the trees in the palisade like sentinel skeletons guarding a death ground.

OUTLET OF CHAMBERLIN LAKE.

Soon with our three canoes in line we entered the waters of Chamberlin Lake. There we were suddenly startled by hearing a loud splash in the water, and greeted with the vision of an immense bull caribou, which sprang up and instantly disappeared in she woods before we could tender him the slightest compliment at the pleasure of the meeting.

“Confound the luck!” yelled John, throwing aside a rifle in exasperating disappointment.

“Exceedingly impolite of the beast to decamp so suddenly” said the Colonel, as we examined the animal’s tracks; “he would have weighed three hundred pounds, if an ounce!”

CHAMBERLIN FARM.

Chamberlin Lake is eighteen miles long, three miles wide, and is one of the largest bodies of water in Maine. At this point, the preceding year, I turned south through the East Branch of the Penobscot, and landed at Mattawamkeag on the European and North American Railroad. This year our course lay directly to the north.

FACETLÆ.

At Chamberlin Farm we made a brief stay, and purchased an extra supply of hard tack, sugar, and molasses, as our stores were running short. Then turning our backs on the lovely peaks of Mt. Katahdin and the Soudahaunk range, which lay to the southwest, we buffetted the waves of the lake for six miles, landing at the locks which divide its waters from those of Eagle Lake below.

Here we went into camp, and the Tourograph was brought into important requisition while a benign and smiling sun was at its best. And here we were delayed for three days afterwards, through a go-as-you please rain-storm, during which we tried the camera while the aforesaid benign and smiling sun was at its worst, hidden away like an unfortunate trade-dollar during the storm of repudiation.

When the weather grew favorable, we followed the current of Chamberlin River one mile down to Eagle Lake below.

HAYMOAK FALLS.

Some people think of Maine as a state containing only one large lake with an innumerable number of smaller ponds within its borders, but the tourist visiting these regions for the first time is daily surprised by bodies of water which fairly compete with the area of Moosehead. Eagle Lake is thirteen miles long, with an average measurement of three wide. Within its bosom it nurses two islands, while the horizon of its northern extremity is broken by the cone-shaped peak of Soper Mountain.

Our next camp was made at the mouth of a beautiful stream near here, which writhes under the opprobrious title of Smith Brook. This innocent sheet of water, which I am certain has done naught to merit the ignominy it suffers, presents most picturesque beauties in its windings as far as Haymoak Falls.

There we discovered the skull of a large moose, and extracted the great teeth, fearing they would be the only souvenirs we should obtain of that almost extinct animal.

“My!” said the Colonel, as he pried out one of the grinders; “what a surface for a tooth-ache!”

There, also, we had splendid fishing, and captured many large trout.

The day before we broke up camp we had a run of sport that well-nigh astonished us, and that night at the evening meal we had a rare fish feast, served with the following sauce:

“I don’t care whether you believe this yarn I’m goin’ to tell ye or not,” said Hiram, as he added another vertebra to the pile of trout skeletons accumulating by his plate; “but it’s true as gospel, nevertheless an’ notwithstanding, an’ with me the truth is like the stump of a back tooth—it must cum out. You know, Nichols, where the old farm road from Greenville to Dexter crosses the bridge at Spectacle Pond?”

“Me know,” said the Indian, scarcely raising his eyes from the fire.

“Wall, I was guiding for Doctor L. and Squire B. one day in that region, which happened, by the way, to be a pet fishin’ ground o’ their’n. As we were gittin’ along to the bridge, the Doctor, all of a sudden, says to the Squire, ‘If you’ve no objections, Rufe, I’ll slip ahead of you and cast my flies under that bridge, for ten to one I’ll strike a big fish, as I saw some mighty fine trout there the other day while crossing to see my patient in the old farm beyond.’ The Squire told him to go by all means, but to have some mercy for the sport of other people an’ not to altogether clean the brook. With that the Squire turned around, an’ began to amuse himself at pistol practice with my old hat that I’d set up for a target on a tree, an’ the Doctor, he pegged down the road like mad toward the bridge. I stood an’ watched him jest for fun, for he was a comical old duck, an’ so nervus an’ fussy that I ’spected like’s not to see him tumble overboard. Reaching the spot he made a dozen or so wild casts, but at last succeeded in landin’ his flies under the bridge, when he took a seat on a projectin’ beam, an’ let the current sweep ’em out. Quicker’n ye could say Jack Robinson, I heard a shout; the Doctor’s rod almost bent double, an’ he begun reeling in for dear life. ‘I’ve got him, Mansell; I’ve got him. Come, quick! he’s the biggest fellow I ever hooked.’ Grabbin’ the landin’ net, I ran over the bank to help him. It looked for all the world as if he’d ketched a shark, but as soon as I reached the other side an’ saw the game a flappin’ on the surface, I give a shout that almost blew me to pieces, an’ rollin’ down on the bank, I roared until every ’tarnal rib was sore. What d’ye guess had hold of the old fellow’s line? Why, nothin’ less than a big Shanghai rooster! The animile, as I found out after, belonged to the farm near by. It had been hatched and raised with a brood of ducks, an’ bein’ quite a water-nimp, as they call it, had strolled into the stream to have a pick at the Doctor’s flies. I tell ye what, so long as he lives the Doctor’ll never forgit that bite, for the shock of the discovery knocked him clean off the beam into the water, where I clapped the landin’ net on his old bald head an’ fished him out like a drowned rat. I don’t know how true it is, but they say that ever since he took that bath ther’ hain’t been another trout seen about the brook.”

GOOD SPORT.

“Which puts me in mind of another fish story, in which I and an old schoolmaster friend of mine are concerned,” said the Colonel, as Hiram concluded. “Out trouting once we suddenly met on our way to the brook a dog, which sneaked out from a patch of woods and began to follow in a close trot at our heels. We were taken somewhat by surprise at his appearance, because of the loneliness of the country, for there was no house within miles of us, and we were puzzled to think where he had come from. He looked the picture of starvation. His skin was literally hanging on him, and the body was so thin and sunken that we almost heard his ribs playing a bone chorus as he jogged behind us. We fed him with a portion of our lunch, which he devoured greedily. Finding himself favored, he followed us to the trouting ground. Spying out a beautiful quiet brook we sat down on the bank and cast our flies. The sport was instantaneous, and for a while continued and exciting, during which time the Professor had the good fortune to capture some half-dozen trout, which equalled in weight and beauty anything I had ever seen. When the luck was on the wane we reeled in our lines, and turned about to gather together our ‘catch,’ which during the sport we had thrown behind us on the grass. Suddenly the Professor gave a gasp. ‘Great heavens!’ he cried; ‘My half-dozen beauties! Where are they?’ We searched the bank, but they could not be found. ‘Is it possible that any one is prowling about these parts and has crept behind us and stolen them?’ he said. ‘I don’t think that likely,’ I replied. At the same time my attention was attracted to an object lying at the base of a tree. It was our dog—thin, starved and miserable-looking no longer, but swelled out as fat as a potato-bag, and wagging his tail, and smacking his jaws in heavenly transport. ‘Professor,’ said I; ‘look!’ ‘What! Another dog!’ gasped the Professor. ‘No, the same dog with variations,’ I said, ‘thanks to the expansive properties of trout, a little rosier in health.’ The Professor guessed the truth and gave a groan. He danced about like a lunatic and kicked the dog until it began to snap at his legs. Then with a heavy heart he packed his traps and we left the animal at the tree enjoying its siesta. ‘Fate could not harm him—he had dined that day.’”

Rare treats, these fish feasts. Rare tack, these fish stories. But, reader, beware of bones.

CHAPTER III.

“But who can paint

Like Nature? Can imagination boast,

Amid it’s gay creation, hues like hers?”—Thomson.

IN ROUGH WATER.—NORTH TWIN STREAM.—AN INDIAN PADDLE FOR FUTURE USE.—BREEZES, BLANKETS, COLD AND ICE.—SPIDER LAKE.—MANIFOLD CHARMS OF CAMP LIFE.—AT WORK WITH THE TRAPS.—CONCERNING BEAVER.—WE PROCLAIM OUR INTENTIONS.

Early on the morning of September 23d we continued down Eagle Lake and through the “Thoroughfare” to Churchill Lake. Then a change came o’er the spirit of the weather. It grew suddenly colder, and as our three canoes prowed into the lake a sharp breeze sprang up which ruffled its usually calm surface into a restless quiver. As the breeze increased to a “blow” the waves were lashed into white caps, and then into billows, until our fragile birch-barks were tossed about like corks.

Each breaker seemed ready to engulf us; but we shipped little water, for the inventive genius of the Colonel had devised a novel covering for the bows of our canoes.

It consisted of a strip of white canvas extending aft about two feet, which was stretched and secured to a brass hoop arched across the canoe, and fastened with brass pins or pegs.

This made the bow of the canoe resemble the fore-part of an immense Chinese shoe. All articles liable to damage by exposure were thus secured from the spray of the waves and passing rain showers. It proved a capital nook for the storage of the camera, guns, ammunition, etc., and was quite a suggestion to Nichols, who was an old canoe maker.

Our course lay through the Eastern arm of Churchill Lake, a distance of only six miles, the larger body of these waters lying to the north, and having for their outlet the Allaguash River.

At one o’clock we beached our canoes and erected our tents at the mouth of North Twin Stream.

As we supped that night on broiled partridge and stewed duck, we little dreamed of the hardships which lay to the eastward, between us and the waters of the great Aroostook River.

Since leaving our camp on Mud Pond Stream, Nichols had been hard at work at odd moments on a long paddle. From a rough maple log-split, it had gradually been shaped into a thing of beauty, and now with pride was being curiously ornamented with all the artistic execution of which the Indian’s deft hand was capable.

“Me beat you, boys, when I get to the ‘Roostook,’” said Nichols, with a sly twinkle of his eye, as from under his black felt hat he cast a triumphant look at the other guides.

“But perhaps we shall never get there unless it rains,” said John.

“Me think so, too,” chimed in Hiram, trying to imitate in tone of voice the Indian’s favorite expression.

“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.”

LOW—THE POOR INDIAN.

So hauling our canoes on shore we cast about for the most desirable spot.

There was no choice; it was an immense swamp in whatever direction we travelled. We sank almost to our knees in the moss and decayed underbrush. Once the Indian, floundering in the mud with our tent-poles, disappeared completely from sight, and we might have lost him, but the poles sticking up like bare flag-staffs through the dense brush which masked the marsh pools, disclosed the spot where he had sunk from view. When we dragged him out, he looked like a muskrat.

DEVELOPING A PLATE.

“Nichols is trying to discover an underground road to the Aroostook,” said Hiram. “Guess he’s given up all thought o’ usin’ that long paddle on them ’ere waters.”

This place proved the worst camping ground of the whole trip, but despite this fact it had its charms. The tourist soon grows to despise the consideration of personal comfort, when self-sacrifice is required to bring him in direct association with the nature which infatuates him. He becomes like the poet or painter, a creature purely spiritual, who raves in the rapture of exalted soul while his boots ship water by the gallon, while scarcely a rag hangs to his back, and low-dwindling provisions place him on rations intimate with starvation.

Thus it was with us. Our surroundings were unpleasant, but apart from this, as we saw them, interestingly picturesque.

TREES PILED ON TREES.

Here we were in the presence of a great dead forest. Across the pools, the rocks, and the brush growth lay the trunks of monster trees prostrated by the winds, storms, and decaying processes of nature. Trees were piled on trees in huge, insurmountable barriers, each one bearing on the other with a crushing force that tore through the limbs and logs, and pressed the massive pile down deep into the soft vegetation of the marsh.

All was grey and lifeless. It seemed as if nature had lain unresurrected since the Deluge, and that the trees had twisted about and embraced each other in their dying agonies. All was dead! dead! dead! The only sign of life upon them was the deep moss that flourished on the decayed and weather-beaten trunks; but this was like the grass above the grave.

The next day for lack of water we dragged our canoes through the remainder of the river to Spider Lake, and camped on a high ledge of rocks on the Southern shore, its dry and picturesque position being in delightful contrast to our last quarters. This lake, three miles long and half a mile wide, set among these forest depths like a jewel in a ring, reflects ten mountain peaks on its surface.

On our way to camp we examined a point of rocks jutting far out into the lake, whose curious construction attracted our attention. It was a perpendicular pile of corrugated stone crowned with a tall growth of spruce trees, which swept like Indian head-plumes to a hill-top beyond.

The rocks at this time arose fifteen feet from the water, but their well-worn sides indicated their covering in any but a dry season. At their base we discovered deep, subterranean cavities, made by the action of the water, and into these with curiosity we pushed our canoes bent on a full investigation. Some were only slight excavations, suggesting the dwelling-places of large trout, or the coverts of the fur animals abounding in the vicinity, but there were others of considerable space, into which we passed without difficulty. Within all was gloomy and damp, and the motion of the water against the cold, slimy walls made a strange phase of music which echoed mournfully through the caverns. They seemed like the abodes of spirits; we could scarcely repress a shudder at the weird effect of the scene.

TWILIGHT IN THE WILDS.

Many times afterward did we recall with pleasure the delightful experiences of our sojourn at Spider Lake. The charming comforts of a dry and well-pitched camp, the exhilarating sport by the trout pools among the rocks not twenty feet from the tent door, the partridge-shooting in the woods, the ducking on the lake, the adventures of exploration, and the grand scenic surroundings which we still admire in the souvenirs afforded by photography, have made those too fleeting hours “red-letter days” in our memory.

EVACUATION.

“You are not proposing to desert this lovely camp so soon?” I said to the Colonel, as we stood in the tent door gazing out on the lake some days later. “It seems a pity after spending so much labor about the camp to leave at once.”

“Well, we cannot tarry long; we little know what is before us if the water courses remain dry; our birch canoes will not endure the strain much longer,” was the Colonel’s reply. And so we bade farewell to this charming spot.

At night we reached Logan Pond. Before our tents were in position we were overtaken by a drenching rain storm, which we fought through with philosophical patience, hoping it would increase the water along the route. It takes true grit to endure without complaint a rain-storm in the woods, and one must have an abundance of cheerfulness to keep from murmuring.

“You had better set those beaver traps to-night,” said the Colonel to the Indian, as he stood drying himself before the fire, and turning about from one side to the other like a roasting turkey.

“Yes, me think so, too,” replied Nichols; and suiting the action to the word, he soon started off down the hill with the iron traps over his shoulder, I following him, bent upon investigating all the mysteries of wood-craft.

“You see beaver house over there?” whispered the guide, as we reached a mud dam at the outlet of the lake, at the same time pointing out to me a cone-shaped knob of mud and sticks about ten feet high and six feet in diameter. “One, two, three beaver live there, and me set traps to catch one to-night. Beaver build house with door; then build dam and raise water to cover door to house.”

Slipping into the woods the Indian soon returned with a cedar pole ten feet in length and four inches in diameter at the butt. With his axe he split this, and slipping over it the chain ring of the trap, secured it in position by a wedge. The trap was then opened and lowered carefully into the water, and after driving the pole into the mud, the upper end was made fast with twisted grasses to a neighboring tree.

What was our joy on arising the next morning to see Nichols returning from the pond lugging a fine beaver of over forty pounds’ weight, held in position on his shoulders by a withe of cedar bark encircling his forehead.

“Me lost another beaver,” said the Indian, as he dropped the heavy animal before the tent door for our examination, and wiped the perspiration from his dusky forehead. “Beaver cut pole in pieces and run with trap. Me hunt pond all over, but no find him;” and he displayed as much sorrow over the loss as if it had been a small fortune.

The fur of the animal was in excellent condition. He was three feet in length, with tail 5 × 12 inches, half an inch in thickness, and covered with black, shining scales of leather-like toughness.

“Is there any truth in the story, Nichols, that the beaver uses his tail to build his dam?”

“No! no!” replied the guide, as laying the animal across his lap he commenced to rob him of his “jacket.” “No beaver do that. He use tail to make noise to other beavers. It slap on water, make sound like pistol, and give alarm. Beaver push mud and stones from bed of river with front feet to make dam, and when build house walk up straight on hind feet, and hold to breast sticks and stones with front feet. No one hunt beaver who tell such stories.”

The animal was soon dressed and stewed for our breakfast. Its taste was similar to that of corn beef, but of a much more delicate flavor, the liver being reserved as a choice dish for the next meal. The tail was one mass of solid fat, which only the Indian, after toasting it before the fire, could digest. The skin was stretched on a hoop four feet in diameter laced with strips of cedar bark, a shingle of wood being used in spreading the skin of the tail.

“Me no like this,” said the Indian, arising after the completion of his work. “In my tribe, brave trap beaver; squaw dress him.”

“Which is a much superior way,” observed the Colonel. “Thus all the world over the gallant brave saddles upon the poor woman the undaintiful share of the work. A great pity, Nichols, that circumstances in your life have abolished the custom, as far as you are concerned.”

“Me think so; yes,” replied the Indian, with just the faintest idea of what the Colonel meant; and as he turned to wash the grease and blood from his warrior hands he looked the picture of dignity dethroned.

After a few days tarry we pushed on across Logan Pond, made half a mile carry to Beaver Pond, and camped on Osgood Carry at the head of the last water.

“What do you find so interesting?” I inquired of the Colonel, as I saw him examining minutely the side of an old tree not far from the tents.

“Oh! nothing special, except a record I made last year regarding the ‘Pioneers of the Aroostook,’ which the winter storms have failed to obliterate.”

“Then, before we go, we had better leave some relic of this tour,” I said.

Accordingly a photographic plate which had been spoiled by sudden contact with the light was drawn from my Tourograph, and scratching the names of the party on its surface, we nailed it to the tree for the benefit of the next comer, adding as a suggestion of our destination “On to the Aroostook!”

CHAPTER IV.

“The wise and active conquer difficulties

By daring to attempt them: sloth and folly

Shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard,

And make the impossibility they fear.”

OSGOOD CARRY.—THE PACK HORSE LEAGUE.—NOVEL TRICK IN PEDESTRIANISM.—CAMP ON ECHO LAKE.—HIRAM TELLS A STORY.—SLUICING A DAM.—MORE CONCERNING BEAVER.—CAMP AT THE MANSUNGUN LAKES.

Imagine the difficulties we surmounted in our passage across Osgood Carry to Echo Lake.

With the exception of an occasional beaver, duck, partridge, or string of trout captured on the way, we were obliged to carry provisions sufficient for five men, who never failed in their attendance at meals three times a day, and with appetites which only wood life can stimulate.

Add to these provisions the weight of three tents, three blankets for each man, rubber beds, personal baggage, cooking utensils, guns, ammunition, rods, a Tourograph with seventy five glass plates, and three canoes weighing from eighty-five to one hundred pounds each and you have an idea of the toil and hardships of a tramp through this wilderness.

This “Carry” is the water-shed of the St. John’s and Aroostook Rivers, and passes over a succession of hills, through swamps, and wind falls.

Although one trip across is but two miles, a return for a second load makes four, and four trips carrying during half the time all one can bear on his shoulders makes sixteen miles, a fair day’s tramp in a country where not even a “spotted line” guides the traveler to his destination.

At the time of our appearance there, the ground after the recent rain was in a soft, soggy condition, which made the way slippery and tedious.

As we pushed forward loaded down with our traps, frequently did a misstep send one of our number “to grass,” and smother him among the articles which constituted his burden. Our progress, as Hiram observed, “was slower than cold molasses.”

For every step taken forward we slipped two backward, until the idea was suggested to us of turning about and walking in the opposite direction, that we might travel faster.

“Me fix your load for the ‘Carry,’” said Nichols to me, as I started off with what I supposed I should be able to transport without halting; “I show you how to fix pack.”

Stepping aside into the woods he cut from a cedar broad strips of bark, and passing them about my chest outside of my arms, fastened them to a roll of blankets on my back. On top of this he mounted my Tourograph, and held it in place by another strap across my forehead.

Like a horse being harnessed, I stood motionless, while he placed my rifle on one shoulder, my shot gun on the other, and hung to them an iron tea kettle, cups, and various other cooking utensils.

Everything ready, and having burdened himself with a much heavier load arranged in like manner, we started off up the side of the mountain in search of Echo Lake.

THE PACK HORSE LEAGUE.

It was hard work. Soon I was boiling with perspiration, and the Indian puffing like a grampus. It seemed like a veritable “first of May” in the wilderness.

AT NIGHT BY THE CAMP-FIRE.

Occasionally as a fallen log crossed our path we could relieve our aching shoulders by resting the load thereon, but never for a moment did we change its position.

Then on we would tramp, over rocks and through the mire, the stillness of the woods unbroken save by the crackle of twigs beneath our footsteps, or the occasional grunt of the Indian guide.

From early dawn until late at night, dividing our party at times into sections, we labored with our baggage, transporting it but half the distance, from whence it was forwarded by a second relay of guides the remainder of the way, and landed in safety at our camp on Echo Lake.

In this vicinity we discovered in the crotch of an aged tree an old folding canvas canoe. This the Colonel, with a burst of delight, recognized as one deserted by the “Pioneers of the Aroostook” in their excursion of the previous year. Running short of provisions they had been forced to abandon it, and make for the settlements as quickly as possible in their other two.

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.