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Transcriber’s Note

  In the Illustration List numbers 33 and 44 are missing. The list has
    been left as printed.

  Repaired some punctuation omissions—a number of missing fullstops.

  Page 113: changed Metagamonsis (in the illustration) to Matagamonsis.

  Italics are denoted with _ (underscore).

  Other changes that have been made are listed at the end of the book.




[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN HIS SANCTUM.]




    CANOE AND CAMERA:
    A
    TWO HUNDRED MILE TOUR
    THROUGH
    THE MAINE FORESTS.

    BY
    THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE.

    “If thou art worn and hard beset
    With sorrows that thou wouldst forget,
    If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
    Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep,
    Go to the woods and hills!—no tears
    Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.”
                                        LONGFELLOW.

    _WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS_,
    BOSTON: ESTES AND LAURIAT, PUBLISHERS.




    _Copyright, 1882_,
    BY THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE.

    UNIVERSITY PRESS:
    JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.




[Illustration: TO _my enthusiastic friends of the gun and rod, who love
all that is pure and beautiful in nature, and by associating with her
works, learn of man’s littleness in comparison with God’s immensity,
this book is affectionately dedicated_.

  _Thomas Sedgwick Steele_
  _Hartford, Conn., 1880._]




[Illustration]

CONTENTS.


   CHAPTER I.
                                                               PAGE
   An Angler’s Soliloquy.—Isaak Walton’s ideas.—A fishing
   minister.—The route to the woods.—Moosehead
   Lake and vicinity                                            19


   CHAPTER II.

   The different routes through Maine.—The Party, Guides,
   Baggage, Provisions, Canoes, Arms.—Camp appetite.—Studying
   Geography.—The start.—Bid adieu to Moosehead
   Lake.—North East Carry.—West Branch of the
   Penobscot.—First Camp on Moosehorn stream                    27


   CHAPTER III.

   Our first Camp at mouth of Moosehorn stream.—Accommodating one’s
   self to circumstances.—The “Rips” of the West Branch.—Running
   the Rapids.—Pine Stream Falls.—Chesuncook Lake.—Umbazooksus
   River.—A “Bear” welcome.—Mud Pond and “Carry.”—A Picture
   difficult to photograph.—Third Camp at Chamberlin Lake       51


   CHAPTER IV.

   Chamberlin Farm and Lake.—A novel fly-trap.—A lesson in Natural
   History.—Telosmis Lake.—The “Cut.”—A three days’ rain-storm.—Webster
   Lake and Dam.—An Apparition.—The weird stillness of
   the primeval forests.—An accommodating fly-catcher           64


   CHAPTER V.

   Passage of Webster Stream.—An exciting day’s sport.—The damaged
   canoes.—The canvas boat triumphant.—Grand Falls.—Photographing
   along the route.—Indian “Carry.”—East Branch of the Penobscot.
   —Matagamonsis Lake.—The discovery of a new Lake.—Trout
   Brook Farm.—Grand, or Matagamon Lake.—A captured salmon      93


   CHAPTER VI.

   Dangers of wandering from Camp.—An experience on Lake Superior.—The
   Falls of the East Branch.—Stair Falls.—Incidents of Camp life.—An
   Enchanted Bower.—Hunt’s Farm.—An Artist’s Canoe.—The ascent of
   Hunt’s Mountain.—A reverie.—Whetstone Falls.—Discovery of Jasper on
   Ledge Falls.—Dawn of Civilization.—Mattawamkeag.—The East Branch
   Canvas-ed
                                                                117




ILLUSTRATIONS.


    1. THE AUTHOR IN HIS SANCTUM                   Frontispiece.

    2. DEDICATION                                        PAGE 3

    3. THE ANGLER                                             5

    4. CANOE AND CAMERA                                      17

    4_a_. AN ODD SPECIMEN                                    18

    5. ISAAK WALTON                                          21

    6. KINEO HOUSE                                           25

    7. ANTICIPATION                                          26

    8. PICKING A COURSE                                      28

    9. MAP OF THE TOUR THROUGH THE MAINE FORESTS             30

    10. THE GUIDES                                           33

    11. WE DREAM OF GAME                                     38

    12. HOME APPETITE                                        41

    13. CAMP APPETITE                                        41

    14. MORRIS’S—NORTHEAST CARRY                             43

    15. IN SYMPATHY WITH NATURE                              46

    16. DISCOURAGEMENTS                                      48

    17. “CHANGING PASTURE”                                   49

    18. PENKNIFE SOUVENIRS                                   52

    19. PINE STREAM FALLS                                    54

    20. MUD POND CARRY                                       56

    21. MUD POND—LOOKING EAST                                59

    22. “THIS IS THE WAY I LONG HAVE SOUGHT”                 62

    23. REFLECTIONS                                          63

    24. CHAMBERLIN FARM—LOOKING WEST                         65

    25. THE ROOM INTO WHICH WE WERE USHERED                  66

    26. CAMP ON CHAMBERLIN LAKE                              67

    27. NOT IN THE PATENT OFFICE                             70

    28. A STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY                           71

    29. GREAT NORTHERN DIVER                                 71

    30. TELOS CUT AND LAKE                                   73

    31. PHOTOGRAPHY—THE WET AND DRY PROCESS ILLUSTRATED      77

    32. TELOS DAM AND RIVER                                  79

    34. AN APPARITION                                        83

    35. WEBSTER LAKE AND DAM                                 86

    36. FLY CATCHERS VERSUS FLY FISHING                      88

    37. ALLUREMENTS                                          90

    38. STUDY OF TROUT—BY THE AUTHOR                         91

    39. RUNNING RAPIDS ON WEBSTER RIVER                      95

    40. LUNCH TIME                                           99

    41. IT’S NOT ALL POETRY                                 101

    42. GRAND FALLS                                         103

    43. STARTING A BOOM                                     107

    45. A BOOM                                              109

    46. DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE                             111

    47. MATAGAMONSIS LAKE                                   113

    48. OUR SALMON                                          114

    49. MATAGAMON OR GRAND LAKE                             115

    50. ON THE EAST BRANCH                                  120

    51. DROPPING CANOES OVER FALLS                          122

    52. ACCEPTING THE SITUATION                             123

    53. STAIR FALLS                                         125

    54. HULLING MACHINE FALLS                               126

    55. THE ARCHES—EAST BRANCH OF THE PENOBSCOT             128

    56. HUNT’S FARM                                         130

    57. MT. KATAHDIN—STUDY BY F. E. CHURCH                  132

    58. JUNCTION OF EAST AND WEST BRANCHES OF THE PENOBSCOT 134

    59. GLIMPSES OF CIVILIZATION BEGIN TO DAWN              137

    60. NET RESULTS                                         139




INTRODUCTION.


A love for the woods and out-door sports begins early in life. I can
hardly remember when the sight of a gun or fish-rod did not awaken
within my boyish fancy a feverish desire to follow their lead, be the
tramp ever so hard. There never was anything to stop the growth of this
passion until I reached the age of ten years, when I nearly destroyed a
boy’s eye with an arrow, in my endeavors to excel in archery.

This act slightly dampened my ardor for some months, and retarded that
progression in field sports I was then making.

There is also something so free, so stimulating in the woods life,
uncontaminated by the gossip, allurements, and exacting dress of the
usual watering places, that after one season’s enjoyment, a return
to these wildernesses, and repeating its pleasures, is the constant
thought of the future.

It also teaches very early self-reliance, and a philosophical endurance
of many conditions of life, which add to one’s cheerfulness, while
one is surprised how few of the necessities are essential to produce
happiness.

    “Man’s rich with little, were his judgment true;
    Nature is frugal, and her wants are few.”

The study also of natural history in the woods takes one into a realm
which has no bounds, constantly enlarging his love and admiration of
God’s works. The oft-repeated quotation, “Spare the rod and spoil
the child,” has been misconstrued for many a long day, and if I had
known early in life its real significance it would hardly have made so
doleful an impression.

There is no doubt to-day in my mind that this “rod” meant a
_fishing-rod_, and that the timely cherishing of it in youth tends
to develop that portion of one’s nature to which the former use was
entirely innocent.

    “The surest road to health, say what you will,
    Is never to suppose we shall be ill.
    Most of those evils we poor mortals know
    From doctors and imagination flow.”

And now, after spending many of the annual short vacations allotted
to an active business life in various parts of this country, from
Canada to Florida, in the exhilarating sport of hunting, fishing, and
exploring, and deriving great physical good thereby, it would not
seem strange that the writer should be desirous of exciting in the
hearts of others a taste for like recreations. In placing before my
readers this sketch of a late canoe tour through Maine—especially that
portion pertaining to the east branch of the Penobscot—I am perfectly
aware that no two trips through that region can be made under the same
circumstances. All days in the woods are alike, and still they are
very unlike. Weather, height of water, companions, canoes, guides,
sunshine or shadow, a hundred and one things, go to make a day pleasant
or unpleasant to the tourist. During the month occupied in making this
trip, the writer experienced but _four_ days of rain. But the first
rain-storm could not have been more opportune, as it raised the water
of Webster stream to a height that permitted the passage of my four
canoes, when otherwise I should have endured a wearisome “carry” of
seven miles. Unless there is sufficient water in Webster stream to
float a canoe with _ease_, I should not recommend the tour of the
east branch, for the numerous portages will hardly compensate for the
pleasures of the trip.

The writer distinctly remembers meeting an angler who had followed the
recommendation of a guide book on Maine, and attempted the journey from
Allagash river to Chamberlin lake. Instead of an abundance of water,
the stream was almost dry, and a “carry” of seven miles had to be made
to Chamberlin lake. Again, the canvas boat added no little enjoyment to
the pleasures of the excursion, and the trip would have lost many of
its bright experiences without its companionship.

True, it received many a cut, but was more easily repaired than a birch
bark, while its qualities of endurance after such an ordeal permitted
it to spend the following winter season under the tropical skies of
Florida.

No better companion could have been selected than Mr. H. R. Morley, of
the Continental Life Insurance Company, Hartford (the “quartermaster”
of the expedition), and to his suggestions and efforts to make the
best of all difficulties the writer acknowledges himself indebted.
It is surprising how selfishness, egotism, and other like traits of
character will develop in the woods when it was never recognized in
the individual at home, and one must have the true spirit of patient
endurance for the sake of accomplishment in order at times to enjoy the
forest life.

Thus the entire trip was made on the “flood tide,” from the state
of the weather to the volume of water in the streams, facilitating
the taking of photographs, and adding height and power to the many
picturesque falls on the route. Until I am corrected by further
explorations, I think I am right in the discovery of a new lake (not
found on any map), between Matagamonsis and Matagamon lakes.

An enlargement of Hay creek has been suggested as this body of water,
but if so, all the larger lakes in this region are but a part of the
preceding stream which empties into them. This lake has the same area
of square miles as Telosmis lake, and empties its waters in to the
sluggish stream which connects the two large bodies of water just
mentioned.

The pleasure of canoeing these undiscovered lakes and streams, and
living from day to day upon their resources, was an element of
indescribable delight. Nowhere do such rich thoughts of God’s bounty,
grandeur, and control of nature impress one as in the depths of the
forests, and there are reveries forced upon one, for which a city of
brick walls and dusty streets have no affinity. The individuality of
each tree, the strange and rare plants and flowers scattered along the
indistinct path one wanders, all coupled with the weird stillness of
the forest, bring one nearer to God and His works than almost any other
situation. I do not suggest in this book the various ways of camping
out, or the necessary preparations for the same, as there are special
works on those subjects; I simply desire to direct the attention of
tourists, and more especially artists, to a section of Maine _now but
little known_, but which, if once explored, will yield to them a bright
harvest of pleasure and studies.

  THE AUTHOR.

  HARTFORD, CONN.




    CANOE AND CAMERA.
    TWO HUNDRED MILES THROUGH THE MAINE FORESTS.

    [Illustration]

    ILLUSTRATED
    BY
    TRUE WILLIAMS, BENJAMIN DAY, AUG. WILL, AND OTHER ARTISTS.




[Illustration: AN ODD SPECIMEN.]




CHAPTER I.

        “I in these flowery meads would be;
        These crystal streams should solace me;
        To whose harmonious, bubbling noise
        I with my angle would rejoice.”
                                        WALTON.

  AN ANGLER’S SOLILOQUY.—ISAAK WALTON’S IDEAS.—A FISHING MINISTER.—THE
  ROUTE TO THE WOODS.—MOOSEHEAD LAKE AND VICINITY.


In the good old times, when the requirements of business kept one out
in the open air, and each client or patient resided many miles away,
and the only communication was by foot or on horseback, one did not
need the indispensable rest and recreation of to-day.

But now all is changed, and within a hand’s grasp at our offices we can
communicate by the strange wires of the telephone or telegraph with
friends miles away, and save ourselves those steps which would no doubt
be of great benefit if taken.

In this fast world of ours, where the work of a week is crowded into
a day, recreation is a necessity, and nowhere, it seems to me, has it
greater recuperative power than in the depths of the forest.

It is not as a plea for the angler that I pen these lines—he asks for
neither judge nor jury on his tastes, although they no doubt frequently
receive the verdict of both; he is a law unto himself.

“It is a very easy thing to scoff at any art or recreation, a little
wit mixed with ill-nature, confidence, and malice will do it, though
they are often caught in their own trap.”

It is only a few weeks since that I was rallied on my pet hobby by a
prominent business man, who thought one could hardly be in his right
mind who had a fondness for life in the woods, and that it must give
one a tendency to coarseness, rather than improving our higher and more
æsthetic tastes. But this gentleman was welcome to his ideas, for he
was then an invalid from a nervous disease, and had spent the prime of
his life regaining his health, when possibly an occasional day’s tramp
beside a trout stream would have been a matter of economy to both purse
and body.

The father of anglers, Isaak Walton, puts this same idea in a still
better light, for although born in 1593, he knew how to read the human
nature of to-day; he says: “Yes! there are many grave and serious men
who pity us anglers, but there are many more grave and serious men whom
we anglers condemn and pity.”

[Illustration]

“Men that are taken to be grave because nature hath made them of a
sour complexion, money-getting men that spend all their time, first in
getting, and next in anxious care to keep it! men that are condemned to
be rich, and then always busy and discontented—for these poor rich men
we anglers pity them perfectly, and stand in no need to borrow their
thoughts to think ourselves so happy.”

Some one has said that an angler consists of a rod with a fool at one
end and a fish at the other. But Walton, in his meanderings beside
the streams, is reported to have had the constant companionship of a
book, and between the nibbles of the fish stored his mind with useful
knowledge.

While hunting in the western part of Connecticut last autumn, a good
story was told me of a minister who, soon after his settlement in the
parish, greatly annoyed his flock by his habitual fondness for angling.
He would start off early on Monday morning, and would keep up the
diversion until late Saturday night; nevertheless, the quality of his
sermons, and the deep thoughts which they contained, so pleased his
people that similar excursions were suggested to the pastors of other
churches in the town.

So much for an introduction to the inmost thoughts of a lover of the
angle, but possibly you would like to know how to reach the solitudes
of Maine, whose influences are so bewitching to the writer, and where,
with the reader as companion, he proposes to enjoy a canoe ride of two
hundred miles.

To one about to make a trip to Maine, we would say, start in all cases
from Boston, even though you live in Chicago. Take the 7 P.M.
express on the Eastern railroad for Bangor, thereby having a good
night’s rest in a sleeper, awaking refreshed for the pleasure of the
next day’s journey.

But those who have never traveled this road will do well to see their
flight be not in the night, for, commencing with Boston, its main
line extends along the shore, giving here and there glimpses of quiet
bays and shady inlets, and through cities noted for their thrift and
prosperity almost from the country’s settlement.

One would be well repaid for a day spent at almost any station along
the route, as the eastern shore of New England has often been the
subject for busy pens and famous pencils. From Massachusetts Bay to
Passamaquoddy and the Isle of Great Manan, it is filled with nooks and
beaches where, in the hot months of summer, the seeker for rest and
renewed health can choose the spot suited to his taste. The Eastern
railroad—with its numerous branches and connecting lines—forms the most
direct and desirable means of access to these points of interest.

It does not, however, limit the choice to the seashore, for it leads
also to the heart of the famous White Mountains, and to the vast and
partially explored lake region of Maine, towards which I had set my
face.

Lynn, eleven miles from Boston, famed for its immense factories of
boots and shoes, lies at the head of Nahant Bay, from which there is
a delightful drive along the shore to Nahant, a noted, picturesque
watering-place. Near by is Swampscott, its shores lined with summer
cottages, and from here a short branch road runs to rocky Marblehead, a
spot mentioned in letters of travel as early as the year 1633.

Salem, four miles further on, famous since the days of witchcraft, and
once the principal port of entry for New England, not only has its
pleasant situation to attract the visitor, but is full of relics of
the olden time of interest to the antiquary. It was the birthplace of
many men whose names have become a part of our nation’s history and
literature.

At Beverly, the Gloucester branch leads down to the sea at Cape Ann,
with its sunny beaches and rocky headlands, quiet when the wind is off
shore, but where the waves come thundering in when driven before an
easterly gale.

But we have hardly time to speak of Newburyport, another old seacoast
town, and the lovely view to be had from its heights of the surrounding
country and ocean, but hasten through to Salisbury, Hampton, and Rye
Beach.

Portsmouth is quiet and quaint, and at Conway Junction, eleven miles
from Portsmouth, passengers change cars for the White Mountains. At
Portland, the angler makes choice of the routes to the two great
trouting paradises of Maine—Rangeley Lakes and Moosehead Lake.

[Illustration: KINEO HOUSE]

If to the former place, he takes the cars for Farmington, eighty-five
miles directly north from Portland, and then by stage thirty-six miles
over the mountains to Kimball’s Head of the First Rangeley Lake,
where he will receive a hearty welcome from as cordial a company of
fishermen as it has been my pleasure in other seasons to enjoy.

If the latter be his choice, guns, rods, blankets, and other camp
equipage are shifted to the train of the Maine Central railroad for
Bangor, where the cars are again changed for the road to Blanchard,
which is twelve miles from Moosehead Lake. After a substantial dinner,
the tourist mounts to the top of the commodious Concord stage drawn
by four horses, and enjoys a delightful ride of eleven miles over
the hills to Greenville, foot of Moosehead Lake. Here the baggage is
again changed to a steamer, and a most enjoyable sail of twenty miles
lands one at the Kineo House, which stands on a prominent point of
rocks extending far out into Moosehead Lake, a convenient center of
attraction for those who dislike the unadulterated life in the woods.

[Illustration: ANTICIPATION.]




CHAPTER II.

    “A bard is weak enough you’ll find,
    A humble cat-gut twangler:
    But for a man of simple mind
    Commend me to an Angler.
    He’ll fish and fish the whole year round
    Devotedly fanatic,
    To catch one fish that weighs a pound
    And then his joy’s ecstatic.”

  THE DIFFERENT ROUTES THROUGH MAINE.—THE PARTY,
  GUIDES,—BAGGAGE,—PROVISIONS,—CANOES,—ARMS.—A CAMP APPETITE.—STUDYING
  GEOGRAPHY.—THE START.—BID ADIEU TO MOOSEHEAD LAKE.—NORTHEAST
  “CARRY.”—WEST BRANCH OF THE PENOBSCOT.—LANDING FOR OUR FIRST CAMP
  MOUTH OF MOOSEHORN STREAM.


On leaving Moosehead Lake, the seeker for health or recreation in
Maine, who desires to study nature in its primeval state, and drink
from her fountains the blessings which she can so bountifully bestow,
has three routes of travel before him. These routes are known as the
St. John’s River, the West Branch of the Penobscot, and the East Branch
of the Penobscot trips, and have for their point of departure the Kineo
House, Moosehead Lake, where all that is necessary in camp supplies can
always be obtained.

[Illustration: PICKING A COURSE.]

[Illustration: MOOSEHEAD LAKE AND THE HEADWATERS OF THE PENOBSCOT RIVER
PREPARED EXPRESSLY FOR T SEDGWICK STEELE’S, “CANOE & CAMERA” _BY W. R.
CURTIS, C.E._]

The most frequented route, and on account of its ease generally
recommended by the guides, is that to the St. John’s River, which one
reaches by passing north from Moosehead Lake through the West Branch,
Chesuncook, Chamberlin, Eagle, and Churchill Lakes to the Allagash
River, and thence northeast through Canada, emerging from the woods
at Grand Falls, New Brunswick. The second, or the West Branch of the
Penobscot trip, passes southeast through Chesuncook to Ripogenus Lake,
and follows the West Branch through Pamedomcook and Twin Lakes into
the Penobscot River.

The third and most difficult course through this wilderness, is the
tour of the East Branch of the Penobscot, which leaves the St. John’s
route at Chamberlin Lake, and passes south through Telosmis Lake and
then east through Telos and Webster Lake and River to the Matagamonsis
and Matagamon or Grand Lake into the East Branch, and after tumbling
over the most picturesque falls and rapids in the entire State, unites
with the West Branch of the Penobscot at Medway.[A]

[Footnote A: Still another trip can be made from Churchill Lake through
Spider, Echo, and Mansungan Lake and River, to the Aroostook waters
coming out in Maine at Caribou.

Col. Lyman B. Goff of Pawtucket, R. I., with his guides Kelly and
Mansell, surveyed this route last season, cutting a good path on the
many “carries” for the easy transportation of canoes, and to him the
author is indebted for new and correct drawings of that region which
have been added to this map. But the scenery is uninteresting and the
difficulties will not compensate one for the labor endured, and woe
betide the tourist if the water is low.]

To retain my good health, and enjoy for the fifth season the
dearly-loved woods and lakes of Maine, the summer of 1879 soon found
me again within her fascinations, a willing captive to her charms. We
have never failed in the past to impress upon our friends that one
companion is sufficient for company in the woods, but this year, the
party although it had small beginnings increased in the ratio of the
demands of my tastes. As gathered upon the deck of the little steamer
“Day Dream” one bright summer morning, while on her way from the Kineo
House to the head of Moosehead Lake, we numbered six souls.

I had chosen for my route this year, the East Branch of the Penobscot
River, a canoe paddle of almost two hundred miles, as offering in its
swift running streams, lovely waterfalls, and majestic mountains, that
excitement and adventure which my love of nature craved. In addition
to the writer, the party was divided as follows: “Quartermaster,”
photographic artist, and three guides, named respectively Bowley,
Weller, and Morris. My friend who is designated as “Quartermaster” did
not receive his title from any such position in my expedition, but from
holding an office of like character in a New England regiment during
our late war, and he proved by the daily use of his knife in arranging
the comforts of the camp, that he was to the manor born.

[Illustration: THE GUIDES.

  Bowley.      Morris.      Weller.]

Our artist was from the “Land of Steady Habits,” whose sole duty it was
to care for the delicate camera and glass plates, together with the
necessary but ill-flavored bottles of his kit, and to be constantly on
the alert for choice, or grand bits of scenery along the route. In such
a tour as this, with the many accidents ever attendant on camp life,
it was no small matter to carry through the wilderness the articles
pertaining to our photographer’s kit.

We had fifty glass plates six by eight inches each, which were prepared
and developed on the ground by what is known as the “wet process.”
Careless treatment in cartage on the “carries,” or a sudden jar might
at any moment damage them beyond recovery, which would immediately
subvert one of the principal objects of the exploration. Then each
chemical had its individuality of importance, from the ether to the
collodion, the destroying of which would put an end to the pleasures of
photographing.

The first and oldest of the guides, Bowley, was a man of forty-eight
years, and lived at Shirley, Maine. He was five and a half feet high,
weighed one hundred and ninety pounds, had brown whiskers, turning
to gray, checkered shirt, weather-beaten suit, soft brown hat, and a
kind sympathetic face, which I found before the trip was ended truly
expressed his manly character. I was sometimes inclined to think him
slow, and to find fault with the consumptive color of his biscuit and
“flip-jacks,” and urged him to greater diligence and variety in the
cooking department, but in matters of importance he always proved
his soundness—but he had one fault, he could scent a “carry” three
days ahead, and remember its hardships and burdens two days after.
He delighted to tell of his many interesting experiences in the
wilderness, and of his geological researches through Maine some years
ago with Prof. Hitchcock, of Amherst college, while his moose, bear,
and caribou stories were endless.

The second guide, Weller, aged thirty-seven years, was a French
Canadian from Quebec, but living at this time in Greenville, Me. He was
five feet four inches high, weighed one hundred and fifty-one pounds,
with reddish moustache and whiskers, brown hair, and was dressed in
a dark-colored woolen suit. He was a fine waterman, and occasionally
witty, as is proverbial with his class.

The third and last guide, Morris, was a vivacious young man of
twenty-three summers, but who looked all of thirty. He was about five
feet three inches high, weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, had light
brown hair and moustache. Dark blue flannel shirt and woolen pants
constituted his habiliments, which latter garment early in the day
proved its inferiority by sundry tears which gave him a picturesque
appearance highly appreciated by our artist.

A black felt hat was the crowning feature of his attire, around which
was wound “casts” of varied colored artificial trout flies. He was the
most venturesome canoeman of the party, ever first to try the dangers
of the many waterfalls and cataracts on our route. Morris was also
the hunter, and many a plump duck and partridge found its way to our
table through his activity, which quality is always appreciated by the
camper-out.

Our personal belongings were numerous, consisting of woolen and
rubber blankets, rubber wading stockings, moccasin shoes, fly rods,
guns, landing nets, a lantern, and the very necessary black-fly
ointment, consisting of oil of tar, glycerine, gum camphor, and oil
of pennyroyal. We also had extra changes of underclothing, woolen
stockings, buckskin suits, and an assortment of tools, waxed ends, and
silk thread for the repairs of broken fly rods if such should be our
misfortune.

[Illustration: WE DREAM OF GAME.]

The number of weapons composing our armory was one Sharps, one Ballard,
and one Spencer magazine rifle, one 38-calibre revolver, and a double
barrel shot-gun which also contained two auxiliary rifle barrels. Each
man also carried the usual long sheath knife, which latter article
was never drawn in a more deadly conflict than that between hard tack
and salt pork; nevertheless it was often a trial which brought into
play the most heroic qualities of the arm. These made us at once feel
invincible against the attack of wild beasts, while at the same time
it encouraged such hopes of success in the capture of wild animals
that it even troubled the nightly rest of some of the members of the
expedition. Three birch-bark canoes and one portable folding canvas
canoe constituted our ships of burden, which exerted great influence in
exploring the wilds, and added to the enjoyment of its pleasures.

How much poetry and romance the words, birch-bark canoe, suggest to our
mind! the grand old forests have more tender associations when one is
paddled through their lights and shadows in a birch canoe; there are
thoughts and reveries which make themselves felt as one examines their
construction—a natural fitness of things to the regions in which they
are used.

The delicate-colored bark stripped from a prominent tree is cut at the
ends and gathered up into uniform bow and stern, cut and then brought
together again at the sides alternately to lift the lines fore and aft;
this gives a surface to meet the waves, producing that buoyancy so
pleasing to the craft. Then a gunwale, of strips of wood, is affixed,
sewed with spruce roots or rattan, and the whole lined from stem to
stern with thin strips of wood called “knees.” A birch canoe will weigh
from eighty-five to one hundred and fifteen pounds when averaging
eighteen to twenty feet; but I have occasionally seen those that
weighed three times that amount, and had a longitude of twenty-eight to
thirty feet.

My portable canvas canoe made for this special occasion was fifteen
feet long with a weight of only forty-five pounds, when the
fish-rod-like stretcher was inserted. This canoe could be collapsed at
a moment’s notice, placed in a bag seventeen by thirty-eight inches,
and carried on the shoulders with ease by one person, while it would
float eight hundred and fifty pounds.

[Illustration: HOME APPETITE.]

Before the month’s journey was completed, I found I could leap falls
and rapids more safely than in a birch-bark canoe, and although I
often paid for my audacity by cutting its surface, it was easily
sewed, waterproofed, and I continued my way. On account of its
convenient construction and weight it could be easily transported
through the woods to the small bodies of water off our main course, and
explorations made not accessible to a birch canoe.

[Illustration: CAMP APPETITE.]

As we were to pass through a country uninhabited we were obliged to
provide ourselves from the start with food sufficient for the entire
thirty days’ sojourn, and it may be interesting to the reader to know
the quantity and variety of the supplies, should he ever undertake
a similar enterprise. We did not rely upon the game or fish of the
country we were canoeing; like excursions in the past had taught us
that these articles were more incidental surprises, than an excess of
the daily menu. Very few tourists to Maine select this, the _hardest
of routes_, and we found, afterwards, that we were the _first party
who had passed down the East Branch of the Penobscot river during
the year 1879_. A “camp appetite” is something entirely different
from what one enjoys at home. One would turn in aversion from the
plainness of the fare were it placed on the table. But the surroundings
and the daily vigorous exercise seem to make one forget the homely
dishes, and articles refused at our own boards are devoured in the
woods with avidity. Most of the provisions were packed into wooden
pails of various sizes, the balance in canvas bags, and were assorted
as follows: thirty-four pounds of hard tack or bread, seventy-three
pounds of flour, one bushel of potatoes, twelve pounds of salt pork,
four pounds of beans, two packages of baking powders, two and one half
pounds of cheese, ten pounds of ham, three pounds of candles, one
bottle each of pickles and chow-chow, three cans of potted ham, seven
and three-fourths pounds of onions, twelve pounds of canned corned
beef, six pounds of maple sugar, one dozen cans of condensed milk,
three pounds of tea, seven pounds of coffee, and thirteen pounds of
granulated sugar, besides a quart of oil for our lantern, which latter
article was one of the most useful of the lot. Sugar, either maple or
granulated, always disappears in the woods at an early date, and the
immense quantities of luscious blueberries and blackberries to be had
at any time along our route greatly facilitated its departure.

[Illustration: MORRIS’S NORTHEAST CARRY.]

Our canoes, when packed with all the above articles, and further
embellished by sundry tea and coffee pots, kettles, frying-pans,
broilers, bakers, tin plates and cups, reminded one of the early days
of our forefathers and their pilgrimages to the “far west.” The country
towards which we had set our faces was entirely new to tourists, and
but one of our guides (Weller) had ever explored its hidden depths,
and even his memory was so treacherous as to be of little service to
us. Recently issued maps were faulty, and we were obliged to make many
corrections on them and manufacture the geography as we sailed along.
On reaching the head of Moosehead Lake our many boxes and bags, just
enumerated, were transferred to the sadly dilapidated wharf at the
Northeast “carry,” and afterwards removed by the guides to a heavy
lumber box wagon drawn by a single horse, while the birch canoes,
supported by long poles, were lashed at the sides of the cart.

Our artist, to secure his photographic materials against harm,
rode in front with the driver, but the writer, in company with the
quartermaster and the guides, trudged along in the sand at the rear.

This “carry” or path is about two miles long, rising gradually towards
the middle from each end, and terminates on the north at the West
branch of the Penobscot river. There are log houses where one can
obtain dinner at either end of this portage, but as our guide, Morris,
lived at the further point, our party chose to lunch at his house, and
our recollections of his mother’s preserved strawberries, fresh cream
and bread are alive to this hour. After dinner we immediately betook
ourselves to the river’s bank, launched the birch canoes, stretched the
canvas canoe into shape, and, balancing the crafts to a nicety with
our baggage, swung off down the stream for a month’s exploration of the
inmost heart of Maine.

[Illustration: IN SYMPATHY WITH NATURE.]

One well knows the delights attending a picnic in the woods for a
day—arising at early morn and carefully stowing away in baskets
sundry choice and toothsome articles, and filling the corners of the
basket with beautiful bright flowers from our gardens, we resorted to
the woods and dividing into groups under the shady trees we spread
on temporary tables the savory dishes, and strove to the best of our
ability to get in sympathy with nature.[B] But think of a month’s
picnic _daily_ filled with excitement and pleasure, from running rapids
and falls in a canoe to enticing the wary trout, or picking strange
flowers and berries by the brookside, and at night resting one’s tired
but invigorated body under a snow white tent!

The west branch of the Penobscot (or Rocky) river, after leaving the
terminus of the Northeast “carry” at Morris’s, flows steadily to the
southeast with hardly a ripple for some two miles until it reaches the
mouth of Lobster stream; then a stronger current is perceptible with
“rips,” and this continues for two and a half miles more, when after
passing a small island the water again becomes “dead.” The birch barks,
paddled by guides Weller and Morris, preceded us down the river, while
the quartermaster and I followed in the canvas canoe, the fourth canoe
with Guide Bowley and the artist bringing up the rear.

[Footnote B: If I ever write another book I think I shall eschew
_sentiment_. I thought at the time that “sympathy with nature” was
very good, but I find that it has been thrown away on at least one—the
artist.  T. S. S.]

Could there have been a looker-on from the shore, he would possibly
have thought it was a government expedition in search of the “northeast
passage;” but although our destination was about as little frequented
it was not so grave an affair.

After paddling until late in the afternoon through eight or ten miles
of still water we made our first camp on the right bank of the river,
at the mouth of Moosehorn stream, and transferring our “kit” to the
shore turned over our canoes in the sun to dry.

[Illustration: DISCOURAGEMENTS.]


[Illustration: “CHANGING PASTURE.”]




CHAPTER III.

    “Within the sun-lit forest,
      Our roof the bright blue sky,
    Where streamlets flow, and wild flowers blow,
      We lift our hearts on high.”

  OUR FIRST CAMP AT MOUTH OF MOOSEHORN STREAM.—ACCOMMODATING ONE’S
  SELF TO CIRCUMSTANCES.—THE “RIPS” OF THE WEST BRANCH.—RUNNING THE
  RAPIDS.—PINE STREAM FALLS.—CHESUNCOOK LAKE.—UMBAZOOKSUS RIVER.—A
  “BEAR” WELCOME.—MUD POND AND “CARRY.”—A PICTURE DIFFICULT TO
  PHOTOGRAPH.—THIRD CAMP ON CHAMBERLIN LAKE.


A description of our first camp in the woods will acquaint the reader
with the arrangement of the many after, and make him familiar with the
picture of our daily surroundings.

Our wall tent, ten by twelve feet, was soon unfolded, and, selecting
a prominent point of the high bank which commanded the river, we
immediately set about cutting the three necessary poles on which to
erect it. We trimmed all projecting twigs from the ridge and front
upright poles, but left them on the rear one that we might make it
useful—on which to hang cups, belts, candlesticks, and lantern. Here
the quartermaster’s whittling propensity came in use, and another pole
was notched by him and pressed into service beside the last, which
served as a rack for our guns and rods. Great care was taken that the
notches which held the ridge-pole were not too long, or they would tear
the tent, and that the angle of the roof should accommodate any passing
shower. Then we cut short pins from the white birches, and with the
ropes at the sides soon drew the tent into position.

[Illustration: PENKNIFE SOUVENIRS.]

While Bowley, our cook, was making bread and coffee, trying salt pork
and trout for our evening repast, the resounding blows of Weller’s
axe could be heard in the forest, gathering logs for the camp-fire,
and Morris was cutting fir boughs for the historic camp bed. It is
wonderful how comfortable a bed this makes, while its delightful
health-giving odor is so invigorating to the system. Our table
outside the tent was usually made of four forked sticks on which we
put others crosswise, and on these we laid splits of wood, and for
seats rolled into position a convenient log, or used the many wooden
pails containing our provisions. On rainy days we sat on the ground
in the tent, and used these pails of various sizes and heights as our
“extension table,” smiling to think how easily we could conform to
any condition in the woods. At the head of the tent a choice position
was given to our photographer’s camera and chemicals, together with
our traveling-bags, rifles, cartridge-boxes, and books, while at our
feet were distributed the pails of provisions, and heavier part of our
“kit.” About one and a half feet was allowed to each man for sleeping
accommodations, an _imaginary_ line only dividing off the guides, we
being arranged somewhat similar to sardines in a box, only our heads
were all in one direction.

Immediately after leaving camp the next morning we entered the “rips”
or rough water of the river. For about ten miles there was little
necessity of paddling, the velocity of the stream sweeping us along
without extra effort. These last few miles were very exciting, as,
following in the wake of the birch canoes, we guided our canvas
craft past boulders and sunken rocks, while the guides, constantly
on the alert for our welfare, shouted or waved their hands to warn
us of dangerous places. Passing close to the bank on the left of the
boisterous water, we shot the Pine Stream Falls and soon rested in the
foamy waters below, where our artist at once immortalized the party.

[Illustration: PINE STREAM FALLS]

The amount of strength and activity displayed by the guides in handling
their canoes past falls and rapids is astonishing. With their slender
“setting poles,” eleven feet in length, armed at one end with a sharp
iron spike of six inches, they will steer the canoe with unerring
certainty, or hold it quivering in waters that would seem to engulf it.

A hasty lunch, and we soon reached the mouth of the West Branch
(eighteen miles from the North East carry), where a scene of special
beauty burst upon us in the white capped waves of Chesuncook Lake and
distant view of Mt. Katahdin and the Sourdnahunk range. Paddling across
the head of Chesuncook Lake, which is seventeen miles in length and
three miles in width, we passed the mouth of the Caucomgomoc stream
and entered the Umbazooksus River. We had hardly recovered from the
exertion in crossing the lake, when we espied in the tall meadow grass
on the bank of the stream a large black bear, who, standing on his
hind legs, nodded an approving welcome. The quickness with which he
dropped on his four feet and plunged into the thicket gave us little
opportunity to return the compliment with our rifles.

[Illustration: MUD POND CARRY.]

Another camp, and the next day we passed in safety the Umbazooksus
stream and lake, and at 8 A. M. arrived at the long dreaded Mud Pond
“carry.” This path through the woods to Mud Pond is a little over two
miles long, and is detested by tourists and execrated by the guides.
Many weeks before my departure for Maine, I had been accosted by a
friend (who had made the St. Johns trip), and asked to give him on my
return the full particulars of my experience on this “carry.” I was
not, therefore, taken by surprise, but was prepared to meet it manfully
on its own ground, and fight the battle to the best of my ability. I
had provided myself for this special undertaking with long rubber
wading pants or stockings, reaching to my hips, and further incased
my feet in a heavy pair of canvas hob-nailed shoes, the latter I also
found useful in wading streams. Even while selecting our provisions
at the Kineo House, this and that luxury had been debated upon, or
withdrawn as an article too heavy for transportation on Mud Pond
“carry.” Its obstacles to our senses had also been made prominent by
the daily conversation of the guides, and our imagination of that
“gulf” greatly awakened. On reaching the portage, the canoes were drawn
ashore, turned over to dry, goods removed, and, each one selecting what
he could support, we started off “Indian file” to make the best of the
difficulties. On the right-hand side of the path, within a few rods of
the Umbazooksus Lake, will be found a cool and refreshing spring of
water, at which we quenched our thirst. At first the path was dry, and
only occasional pools of water, easily turned, interrupted our advance;
but soon the pools grew thicker and thicker, lengthening to greater
extent than before, and, with our loads on our backs, we plunged
forward, sinking time and time again to our knees in the soft muddy
water. It makes a vast deal of difference, the nature and position of
the load on one’s back, and whether it is steady in its place, or has
a shifting propensity. I have known a pair of oars dodging about on
one’s shoulders to be heavier and more inconvenient than five times
that burden in guns and ammunition. I had selected as the task for my
left shoulder my shot gun, and attaching to it a broiler, coffee-pot,
gridiron, and other impedimenta of camp and cooking utensils, detailed
to the right a bag of two hundred shot and rifle cartridges. Picture
not only one but six men so loaded, forcing their way through the
muddy path, slipping and floundering, first on one side and then on
the other, under the conglomerated load of “camp kit.” An opening in
the dark hot woods half way across, and our burdens are lowered to the
ground, to return to the lake for another cargo. A lunch, and on we
go another mile, where the branches lock closer and closer about us,
making our load seem double its weight, until with joy we discover from
a slight elevation at the end of the “carry” the tranquil surface of
Mud Pond. A portion of this course is evidently at some seasons of the
year the bed of a brook, and the writer found in a small isolated pool
of water only a foot square, a lively trout, four inches in length.

[Illustration: MUD POND—LOOKING EAST FROM END OF CARRY.]

Our guides told how, during some months of the year, they had dragged
their boats two-thirds of the way across, remarking that the only
“dry” part _this_ year, was the _temperate way in which they were
treated_.[C] The canoes on the guides’ shoulders were the last loads to
cross, and, as it was now 6 P. M., one can make some estimate of the
work done, seeing we had only accomplished _two miles_ that day.

[Footnote C: The use of ardent spirits in the woods ought never to
be allowed by either sportsmen or guides. There is enough stimulant
and health in the pure air, the piney woods, and clear cold water of
the streams, to satisfy any one, while the indulgence often places
the sportsman’s life in jeopardy. The awkward turn of the paddle in
swift water, or the careless handling of a gun by your partially
intoxicated guide, may at any moment bring disaster to your canoe or
death to yourself, while the selection of a guide should _always_ be
a matter of the greatest importance, as he has the faculty of making
your camp-life happy or miserable. A friend of the author started to
camp in the Adirondacks sometime since, but discovering in his guide’s
“kit” a bottle of liquor, and, being unable to obtain the refusal of
its use, took the fellow a three days’ tramp back to the settlement,
and hired another guide, rather than take his chances with the first
one. Scientific analysis has long since exploded the _health giving
properties_ of ardent spirits, and in Arctic explorations the line has
been drawn between the vitality of men who drank water or coffee. As
regards using stimulants in the woods, I say in the language of Mark
Twain—“_don’t!_ DON’T!! DON’T!!!”]

[Illustration:

    “This is the way
    I long have sought
    And mourned because
    I found it not.”]

Launching our canoes on Mud Pond, some two miles in width, of
uninteresting scenery, we bent our remaining energies to the
reciprocating paddle, and were soon on the other side, and canoeing
the sluggish waters of Mud Pond stream. Its mouth was clogged by great
weather-beaten logs, which necessitated the laborious use of our axes
before forcing a passage into Chamberlin Lake. The sun was hardly half
an hour above the horizon, as we crossed this beautiful lake two and a
half miles to the opposite shore, and camped on its white pebbly beach
at the foot of a farm. This was the only one of three habitations which
we saw on our trip, and the delight which we experienced was as great
as the recovery of a lost trail in the woods by the tourist mentioned
in the following incident. A brother angler, while treading a lonesome
path in this very neighborhood, found one day a piece of birch bark
nailed to a tree on which was inscribed these familiar lines—

    “This is the way I long have sought
    And mourned because I found it not.”

[Illustration: REFLECTIONS.]




CHAPTER IV.

    “On the fair face of Nature let us muse,
    And dream by lapsing streams and drooping wood;
    Tread the dark forests whose primeval ranks
    Since the Creation dawn have cast their shade.”

  CHAMBERLIN FARM AND LAKE.—A NOVEL FLY-TRAP.—A LESSON IN NATURAL
  HISTORY.—TELOSMIS LAKE.—THE “CUT.”—A THREE DAYS’ RAIN STORM.—WEBSTER
  LAKE AND DAM.—AN APPARITION.—THE WEIRD STILLNESS OF THE PRIMEVAL
  FORESTS.—AN ACCOMMODATING FLY-CATCHER.


Chamberlin farm consists of one log house, eight or ten barns, and
about three hundred acres of cleared land, if where in some portions
you can jump from stump to stump can be called “cleared land.”

[Illustration: CHAMBERLIN FARM AND LAKE—LOOKING WEST.]

The buildings are situated on a hill fronting the lake, and command
a view of the greater part of the water. Mr. Nutting (who with his
three sons has charge of the farm) is six feet high, straight as an
Indian, with heavy high cheek bones, black moustache, and whose face
is thoroughly tanned by exposure to the sun. The farm, with others in
this vicinity, is owned by Messrs. Coe & Pingree of Bangor, Maine, who
possess vast tracts of this wilderness, which they lumber and pass the
result of their efforts to the markets along the coast of the State.
During the summer months the products of the farm are gathered into the
barns, and are used to feed the hundreds of “log drivers” who in the
winter and spring are annually sent to this region. These “loggers”
are a hardy set of men, receiving a dollar and a half a day when “on
the drive,” and work from 2 A. M. to 10 P. M., often exposed to great
perils and the inclemency of the weather. Large herds of cattle and
sheep are pastured here, and on the hill at the rear of the house I
noticed a number of mules.

[Illustration: THE ROOM INTO WHICH WE WERE USHERED.]

[Illustration: CAMP ON CHAMBERLIN LAKE.]

The two-story log house in which resides Mr. Nutting is painted an
Indian red, and has the only embellishment of any of the buildings.
The interior is white-washed, and has three rooms on a floor. The
room into which our party was ushered had low ceilings of heavy logs,
blackened by age and smoke from the big square iron stove which held
undisputable possession of the center of the apartment. In one corner
was a great box containing wood, which also served as a bed when other
accommodations were not available. From the ceiling, hardly seven feet
high, was arranged the clothes line, on which hung a portion of the
week’s washing, while the floor was made of logs with enough openings
between them to admit plenty of fresh air. Artistic taste had not been
wanting in the decoration of the log walls, and engravings cut from
illustrated papers were tacked thereon, while in a prominent position
was hung the portrait of a late unsuccessful candidate to presidential
honors. Rough shelves nailed to the sides of the walls between two
windows supported a roll of old papers, a Webster’s dictionary,
National fifth reader, Greenleaf’s arithmetic, Bible, and Testament,
while at their side hung a mirror, and the family hair-brush and comb.
But the most novel article in the room was a fly-trap, which, although
it displayed the inventive genius of the locality, can hardly have its
model on the many shelves of the Patent office. This fly-trap hung from
the ceiling near the stove, and was manufactured from two shingles
fastened together at the butts like an inverted V. On the inside was
spread molasses, and as fast as the insects became interested in its
sweets, it was the duty of the passer-by to slap the boards together
and destroy their contents.

[Illustration: NOT FOUND AT THE PATENT OFFICE.]

In addition to superintending this farm and stock, it is the duty
of Mr. Nutting to provide for the various logging camps in the
neighborhood, and to watch for the first indication of fires, whose
destructive power in the pine forests he fully realizes.

Chamberlin Lake, on which we had pitched our tent, is fifteen miles
long and three miles wide. It has an area of twenty square miles, is
1,134 feet above tide water, contains a number of islands, and took its
name from an unfortunate man lost some years since on its shores. Years
ago a large dam was built at its northern outlet into Eagle Lake, and
the water driven back south, through an artificial cut between Telos
and Webster Lakes, thus enabling the lumberman to “drive” his logs to a
home market through the East Branch of the Penobscot river, instead of
by the St. Johns route to the foreign one of New Brunswick. It costs
fifty dollars a ton to transport supplies to this farm, and flour is
nineteen dollars a barrel.

[Illustration: A STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY.]

After our labors on Mud Pond “carry,” we rested here three days, taking
photographs of the scenery, and making excursions to the dams between
Chamberlin and Eagle Lakes, where we found plenty of exercise for our
trout rods. We also “sacked” our canvas canoe across the hills on
the east to Indian Pond in search of wild ducks and trout, but were
only rewarded by a study in natural history which seldom happens to
the forest lover. Our discovery was a family of loons, or the great
Northern Diver, a bird the size of a goose, and the finest on inland
northern waters. It could be honestly said, “they lived in flats,” as
their rough nest, composed of sticks and moss a foot in height and two
feet in width, rested on a flat sandy knoll which stretched out into
the water. Against the unmistakable dislike of the parent birds, I
paddled to the front door of their house, and, gazing in, discovered a
recently hatched bird and one egg.

[Illustration: TELOS CUT AND LAKE.]

The egg was dark brown, spotted with black, eight and seven-eighth
inches at the longest, and seven and one-quarter at the shortest
circumference. The young bird had every appearance of a goslin, with
down of a grayish black, and did not seem in the least annoyed as I
stroked its glossy coat. Withdrawing my canoe, and creeping quietly
back into the thicket, I enjoyed the lesson in frog catching, taught
the young one by the old birds, and I left them undisturbed in their
happiness.

It was with great reluctance that we broke camp early on the morning
of August 12th, rolled our tent, and, arranging our kit in the canoe,
paddled out into Chamberlin Lake and bade farewell to the scenes around
which clustered so many pleasant memories.

The fresh milk, butter, and eggs of the farm were a happy relief to our
regular fare of salt pork and hard tack, while the fresh straw, which
Mr. Nutting so kindly offered us from his barns, for the floor of our
tent, added greatly to our comfort.

But we had not started with the idea that in this wilderness we were to
enjoy all the _dainties_ of life, for in order to explore its depths we
must give up luxuries and comforts which at home seem indispensable.

How often in my earlier years, while pursuing the study of geography at
school, did my pencil in drawing maps wander over this endless tract of
territory to the north and east of Moosehead Lake, striving to picture
to my imagination its elements.

This great lake near the center of the State, together with few of the
largest rivers whose source then seemed a doubt, were about all that
relieved the picture, and I was daily discovering new beauties of
scenery little known to the outside world.

    “A land of streams! Some, like a downward smoke,
      Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
    And some through wavering lights and shadows broke,
      Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.”

Through the long stretches of deep water of Chamberlin Lake we paddled,
keeping time with our oars, while on our right arose the peaks of the
lovely Sourdnahunk Mountains, each individualized by the bright rays of
the morning sun.

Entering Telosmis Lake, which is about a mile in extent, we sailed
swiftly through its quiet waters and passed into Telos Lake, where, at
the mouth of a brook on the right hand, we were successful in landing a
fine lot of trout which averaged over a pound each.

[Illustration: THE “WET AND DRY PROCESS” OF PHOTOGRAPHY AS ILLUSTRATED
BY CAMP LIFE.]

Telos Lake is four miles long and about half a mile wide, and is nine
hundred and fourteen feet above tide water, its northern shore rocky
and abrupt, in comparison with the sandy and uninteresting nature of
its south coast. The mouth of the canal or “cut” at its foot is clogged
with immense quantities of flood-wood, old logs, and stumps, bleached
to whiteness by the action of the weather, which give it a weird and
ghostly appearance against the background of verdure. This “cut” was
dug by lumbermen some forty years ago, to pass their logs into the
East Branch of the Penobscot, but below the old dam, quarter of a mile
distant, one would never suspect by its natural and picturesque shore
it was the work of men’s hands, the force of water having relieved its
sharp outlines.

While our artist was preparing his camera for a photograph of the “cut”
and lake, our guides “sacked” their burdens and canoes across the
_chevaux-de-frise_ of old stumps into the “cut,” and we pitched our
fourth camp on the high bank to the right of the old Telos dam.

Although we had been out fourteen days, we had so far been very
fortunate regarding the weather, but we here experienced the first
rain-storm of the trip—a genuine northeaster of three days’ duration.
We had hardly raised our tent and got our “kit” under cover before the
watery contents of the heavens began to descend, and we took extra
precautions to make ourselves comfortable and endure the trial in the
most cheerful spirit possible. But I will not detain the reader with
every item of the three days’ imprisonment. Encased in our waterproofs,
we resorted to the dam, caught trout, or wandered beside the waters
of Telos stream for ducks and partridges, giving little heed to the
elements.

[Illustration: TELOS DAM AND RIVER.]

It is amazing how little one makes of discomforts in the woods,
provided he sympathizes with his surroundings. But to a nature having
neither poetry nor romance, to whom a fall is only a suggestion of
water power, and a tree so many feet of lumber, the situation is
unendurable.

Here our canvas boat was overhauled, cuts sewed and waterproofed,
birch canoes pitched, buttons adjusted to our clothing, socks darned,
guns and rifles cleaned, while the “Quartermaster” busied himself
ingeniously carving pliers, scissors, and vises from wood, cutting the
joints of the same piece as souvenirs of the locality.

But the storm had one good effect; it nearly exhausted the moose and
bear stories of the guides, and left them, in the future, only the
current topics of the day to discuss.

So far the days had been exceedingly warm,—thermometer sixty to seventy
in the shade,—but what was our surprise on arising early on the clear
bright day of August 16th to discover a heavy frost, and the ice in
our camp pails an eighth of an inch in thickness. We were first aware
of the event by the exclamations of our cook, Bowley, who was slipping
about on the frozen ground outside, and to our incredulous replies,
lifted into the door of the tent one of the frozen pails by the tin
dipper which adhered to its surface. The tent was quickly “struck” and
dried, and, rolling into our rubber blankets and bags our effects, we
were cutting the waters of Telos stream, and soon emerged into tranquil
Webster lake at its foot. The brook is about a mile long, and very
shallow, and but for the late rain would hardly have been navigable. An
easy “carry” of a mile can be found through the tall grass and woods on
the right-hand side, which also terminates at the head of the lake.

It is very essential to one’s happiness, in making this tour, to
know on which side of the stream is the best portage around a fall
or rapids, for the knowledge saves many a laborious walk when one’s
shoulders are loaded.

Webster lake is a charming little sheet of water about three miles
long, and perhaps half as wide, which is wooded down to its very edge.
At its foot is another of those series of loggers’ dams, about twelve
feet high, and on the extreme high bank to the right we again pitched
our tent.

Great care had to be taken with our fires along the road, that not a
remnant of them be allowed to remain, and the indications are often
very delusive. Many years ago a fire started in the woods on Eagle
lake, and the devouring flames, sweeping southward over fifty miles to
this section, destroyed this dam which has since been rebuilt.

[Illustration: AN APPARITION.]

There are many decayed and deceptive logs about these old dams, some
even a foot in diameter, which at a slight pressure will crumble and
plunge one into the deep water below—I speak from experience.

A bear story is always welcomed in camp, not only on account of the
truthfulness attending the _first_ one, but the doubts which hover
around the succeeding tales, add to their interest.

We stretched the canvas of our tent at this place, and while each one
was engaged in his various duties, Weller, the guide, pail in hand,
sallied out for fresh spring water. He had hardly disappeared from our
sight, when with immense jumps he came tearing back through the bushes
shouting, a bear! a bear! A rush for our rifles, and a forward movement
into the woods. But after an unsuccessful tramp, the she bear and two
cubs seen by our friend could not be found.

Before we left the wilderness, we had the unspeakable pleasure of
making the acquaintance of some _six_ bears; but on every occasion we
were without our rifles, and when we made an effort to hunt them, they
were not to be found. We were either shooting a quick flowing stream,
and with difficulty keeping our canoes from the rocks, or surprised
by meeting them (as in the above case) nearer to camp than one could
expect, when they suddenly appeared.

[Illustration: WEBSTER LAKE DAM.]

A few years since, Maine offered a bounty of ten dollars a head on
bears, and the hunting or trapping of them was a lucrative pastime, but
since the withdrawal of the premium, hunters have decreased in the
same proportion that bears have increased.

As might be expected, around the camp fire that night, the recent
experience suggested hunter’s tales, each having its special locality
and party designated, who witnessed the exploits, while the habits,
courage, and peculiarities of bruin and other animals were discussed to
an unlimited extent.

One of the stories told by Guide Morris related to a tame beaver
which had grown to be a great household pet of a farmer living in the
vicinity of Moosehead lake. One night a defective faucet filled the
farmer’s sink and overflowed to the floor of the kitchen, whereupon the
beaver, following his natural instincts, cut up the chairs and tables
of the room, and building a dam about the fugitive stream saved the
habitation from further injury!

We tarried three days at Webster dam, where we captured the largest
trout of the excursion, and feasted on many a fine duck and partridge.

To impress the reader with the idea that our table fare was not so hard
as might have been expected, I would state that the items of the daily
menu consisted of fried brook trout, boiled potatoes, stewed duck or
partridge, hard-tack, “flip-jacks,” with maple sugar, coffee, and tea.
Fish chowders and game stews were our favorite dishes, all eaten with
the seasoning of a hearty appetite.

[Illustration: FLY CATCHERS VERSUS FLY FISHING.]

At this point we were probably as deep in this wilderness as it was
possible to get in the trip.

The most striking feature of the forests is the absence of animal
life, and more noticeable in our northern than southern wilds. The
stately pines of the South stand from eight to twelve feet apart, and
with a span of horses one can almost drive from one end of Florida to
the other. In fact, the writer, in the winter of 1875, met a party so
equipped, traveling in an open wagon from New Smyrna to Fort Capron,
choosing their way by the compass’ aid. This open condition of things
permits the rank growth of vegetation and animal life, which the
close-locked branches of our northern forests prevent. In the latter
case, also, the continual sifting of the pine leaves on the ground, and
the gloom of the overhanging boughs choke what few shrubs might have an
existence.

Only along the rivers, or where the woodsman has failed to spare some
tree, dare anything but a courageous blackberry or shrub-maple show
itself. You may wander for hours in this stillness without seeing a
living creature, unless you look sharply enough to mark the insects
which toil in the mosses underfoot, inhabit the bark and decayed wood,
or wait for you to rest before settling on you.

But we occasionally entertained strangers of animal life, and in one
instance, that of an “angelic” order—at least it had wings, and its
mission was helpful. Our artist, while casting his line from the apron
of the dam, caught it on a projecting beam, and after vain attempts to
withdraw it, was successfully assisted by a little brown fly-catcher,
who, swooping down, attempted to carry to its nest the bright-colored
artificial trout flies.

[Illustration: ALLUREMENTS.]

[Illustration: STUDY OF TROUT—BY THE AUTHOR.]




CHAPTER V.

    “What time the golden sunset fell,
      On wood and stream,
    While we, the loss or gain
      Recount, and deem
    The day all glorious with its rents and stains.”

  THE PASSAGE OF WEBSTER STREAM.—AN EXCITING DAY’S SPORT.—THE DAMAGED
  CANOES.—THE CANVAS BOAT TRIUMPHANT.—GRAND FALLS.—PHOTOGRAPHING ALONG
  THE ROUTE.—INDIAN CARRY.—EAST BRANCH OF THE PENOBSCOT.—MATAGAMONSIS
  LAKE.—THE DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.—TROUT BROOK FARM.—GRAND OR
  MATAGAMON LAKE.—A CAPTURED SALMON.


AT 5.30 A. M., August 20th, our camp was alive with preparations for
the long anticipated run down Webster River, ten miles, to the East
Branch of the Penobscot and, as it afterwards proved, was the most
exciting day’s experience of the two hundred mile tour.

Blankets, overcoats, and tent were rolled closer than usual, and
leather thongs five feet in length, (some three dozen of which I had
brought with me,) were tied about them, and safely crowded into the
bottom of the long rubber bags. Covers to the various provision boxes
and pails were secured with straps and ropes, and every part of the
camp kit made to occupy as little room as possible in the four canoes.
Rubber leggings and wading shoes were put on, and all unnecessary
wearing apparel wrapped in rubber blankets and tied to the boats, that
nothing might incommode the free use of our arms in the passage of the
falls and cascades of the stream. The stretcher of our canvas boat was
fastened to the wooden knees more tightly with thongs, that no possible
chance of accident might occur, while the pieces of extra canvas
for patching the canoe, with their accompanying needles, wax, and
waterproofing, were tied at a convenient place in the bow, and before
we had completed the day’s adventures we found them of great service.

Webster stream is about sixty feet wide, and in its course from the
lake of the same name to Grand Falls (two miles above its mouth),
descends one hundred and ten feet, while the falls, including the
rolling dam and cataract below, make the entire distance to the East
Branch of the Penobscot not far short of one hundred and seventy feet.

[Illustration: RUNNING THE RAPIDS ON WEBSTER RIVER.]

The stream issues from the lake with little force, being clogged
above by a mass of logs, the remnants of various “booms.” As it
passes downward in its course, heavy walls of rock, crowned by tall
pines, arise on all sides, often darkening the waters and producing a
cañon-like appearance of the surroundings.

The course of the river is over immense bowlders and ledges, often
unobservable, just beneath the surface, while others in sight stand
like sentinels in the middle of the stream, disputing one’s passage.
The flow is repeatedly marked by beautiful falls and rapids, not high,
but crowded together in narrow parts, which give greater expression and
grandeur to the water, presenting at various points the most remarkable
scenery in this section. Cascade succeeds cascade, ending often in an
abrupt pitch of three to five feet, and at their base are dark boiling
pools, flecked with snowy foam. The river has not great depth of water
at any time, three to five feet on the average, but we were fortunate
in the extra supply of the last week’s rain, which, although it
prevented many “carries,” also increased the volume and force of water
to that extent that made canoeing more hazardous, and filled our path
with greater dangers.

The ladened birch canoes had passed us down the river, when the
“Quartermaster” and the writer, buckling their belts tighter about
them, stepped lightly into the canvas canoe and swung out into the
impetuous river, with feelings similar to what might be expected in one
entering a battle.

My friend at the stern held a trusty paddle, whose strength had more
than once been tried, while the writer, in a devotional attitude on a
rubber blanket at the bow, held a long “setting pole” ready for duty
at a moment’s notice. In half the time I have narrated the above,
we were among the furious rapids, battling with their difficulties,
and shouting to each other above the roar of the waters, how best to
circumvent them. The sun, unfortunately, shone the greater part of
the time in our faces, which produced a glimmer on the water, often
preventing the discovery of sunken rocks. At one time, while dashing
down a cascade, we mounted such a bowlder, and, swinging around, leaped
a five-foot fall, _stern first_, much to our peril. Again, with mighty
force we were hurled close to the rocky shore, which only a desperate
use of the paddle prevented our striking.

At times we were obliged to hold the canoe in the middle of the stream
by the long “setting poles,” firmly planted in the bottom, while we
made our decision regarding the better of two channels, the dangers
of which there was little choice, then on we went through the rush of
waters, our “setting poles” keeping time with our eyes, noting the
sunken rocks by the water’s upheaval, avoiding this sharp ledge, or
that rough bowlder, or swinging into the foam of another as we shot
swiftly by.

Often with ease we thought to pass a distant rock, but mistaking the
velocity of the water, doubled it by a hair’s breadth. One fall over
which the guides had _led_ their canoes, we amateurs passed in the
_canvas_ canoe, the water falling in spray about us, but the cheer for
our bravery with which we were greeted at its base, paid us well for
the risk incurred.

[Illustration: LUNCH TIME ON WEBSTER STREAM.]

At “Pine Knoll” we were obliged to let our canoes over the falls by
long ropes from the cliffs above, and at another, soon after, two of
the guides, Weller and Morris, passed safely in our canvas boat, on
account of its slight draft of water, although they carried the birch
canoes around. So we continued our rapid progress down the stream,
running most of the falls, our boat conforming to each situation, and
almost seeming a part of us, and taking an interest in our exploits.
At noon we stopped for an hour’s rest and lunch on the right bank of
the stream, and while disposing of hard tack, canned corned beef, and
coffee, our artist plied his profession, and then on we went through
other perils.

It was fearfully fascinating, as our four canoes, following each
other’s lead, dashed onward through dangers which we could hardly
anticipate before they were passed, only to be repeated and repeated
at every mile of the stream. But the stimulant to one’s feelings
gave strength and courage and even recklessness, which, in the wild
surroundings, made one feel as if no danger was too great to dare. An
hour after our tarry for lunch, we entered the deep and narrow chasm
of swift, dark water above Grand Falls, and swinging our canoe into
an eddy on the left, under the shadows of a great rock (some five
hundred feet high), we stepped out on the shore, having completed the
excitements of a half-day that many years will fail to erase.

Our canoes had suffered less than we had anticipated. A sharp rock had
left its mark on Bowley’s birch, which the application of rosin and
grease soon rectified. The bottom of the canvas boat had two small
cuts about midships, so the use of needle and thread became necessary,
the “Quartermaster” and _compagnon-du-voyage_, choosing for their
_modus operandi_ different sides of the canoe, putting the needle back
and forth with iron pliers.

[Illustration: IT’S NOT ALL POETRY.]

A few moments’ rest, and while the guides were “sacking” the camp kit
across “Indian carry,” three-quarters of a mile to the East Branch (at
right angles with Webster stream), we gathered up the artist’s camera
and plates, and pushed forward to examine the picturesque beauties of
Grand Falls, and catch all we could while the light lasted.

Grand Falls is from forty to fifty feet high, seventy feet wide,
surrounded on all sides, for half a mile, by ledges of iron-colored
rocks of nearly the same height, which decrease in altitude as they
near the Penobscot River below. From a point beneath, the scene is
grand in its somber magnificence, as the swift torrent, striking midway
upon a projecting ledge in the center of the fall, rebounds in foam
flakes, which, after the momentary interruption, continue to fall into
the dark whirlpool of water below.

We place the tripod upon a prominent ledge, and, mounting the camera,
our artist prepares the plates in his mysterious cloth-covered box or
“dark room,” while we further exclude the light by covering him with
our rubber blankets. But the mist and spray blinds us, and we are
obliged to gather up the camera and retreat to another ledge before we
can operate.

The water, of a dark reddish hue, in strong contrast with the snowy
foam, circles around and around in the eddies, kissing the rocks on all
sides in its whirl, and, amid the roar of the fall, goes dashing on for
about four hundred feet, and then plunges over a “rolling dam” on its
course to the Penobscot, making canoeing the balance of the distance on
this river impossible.

[Illustration: GRAND FALLS—WEBSTER RIVER.]

The light from above, reflecting on the cliff above the fall, glancing
with rich beauty on rock and cascade, the fantastic growth of trees
on every ledge, make up a fascinating charm that each succeeding
picture varies in detail, but which pertains with almost equal force to
every part of the entire chasm. While our artist was at work, we busied
ourselves gathering the luscious blue and blackberries, and scarlet
wintergreen berries which grew in profusion around us; they were of
great size, the average blueberry being an inch, and the wintergreen
berries an inch and a half in circumference—measurement being taken at
the time on the spot.

After filling a three-quart pail with berries, we divided the artist’s
“kit” among us, found the “carry,” and pressed on to camp, to which
place our guides had preceded us with tent and canoes.

Supper ended, we again sought the river’s bank, a mile below the falls
at a place called “the Arches,” where, in the radiance of a gorgeous
sunset, we again drank to our fill of this picturesque locality. Words
fail to describe the beauties of this scene, with which even the
guides, slow to recognize the attractiveness of nature, were enraptured.

    “O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
    Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
    O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
    To sing thy glories with devotion due!”

Around the big camp-fire that night, each narrated his individual
experience of the day’s adventures, and the hair-breadth escapes in
running the rapids.

“But,” says Bowley, the guide, “you should accompany the lumbermen ‘on
the drive,’ and see the perils they run while starting a ‘jam’ on these
rivers. Often the logs are piled one upon another, until it seems as if
nothing but an avalanche would start them. But one log is loosened, and
then another, and another, and in a moment the whole mass goes sweeping
down stream with terrific force, and woe betide the unlucky ‘driver’ in
its path.”

From the first of the trip to this moment, the guides had failed to
praise the working of the canvas canoe, as it came in competition with
their birch barks. But this day’s trial proved beyond question its
qualities, and wrung from them an acknowledgment they were not slow to
utter.

“It was fun to watch you, gentlemen,” says Morris, to the Quartermaster
and myself, as we sat drying ourselves before the fire, “you came over
the ‘rips’ like a perfect duck. I don’t believe you could drown the
craft if you tried.” While the French Canadian, Weller, taking the pipe
from his mouth, ejaculated, “_Ma fois!_ she goes over the falls like a
chain over a log!”

[Illustration: STARTING A BOOM.]

On Thursday, August 21st, we wet our canoes for the first time in the
East Branch of the Penobscot river, although from Chamberlin lake to
this point it is strictly a part of the same stream under different
names.

[Illustration: A BOOM.]

The river at this spot is only about fifteen feet wide, very deep, with
long meadow grass lapping and fringing its border, and flowing with the
rapidity of a mill course, each bubble as it shot by seeming to have an
individuality of purpose, which to the writer was very amusing.

Hardly had we dropped into our accustomed positions in the canoes
before we were swept away from the bank, past the tall alders, and
darted with lightning speed down the river a mile and a half and out on
to the placid Matagamonsis lake. This was one of the loveliest bodies
of water on our course, dotted with small islands and far-reaching
points of shore, the tall Norway pines forming a wall of beauty on
either side.

The lake is about one mile wide and four long, and the spruce-covered
tops of Traveler mountains to the southwest are reflected in its
mirror-like surface. From the top of a bold crag at its foot we stopped
for a sketch of the lake, and then passed downward through the sluggish
stream of three miles which connects it with Matagamon or Grand lake.

To the left or east of this stream, and half way between these lakes,
is another lake about two miles in extent, which we fail to find
noticed on any map we have seen, and lies in close proximity to “Hay
creek,” but is not what is termed in this section “a logan.” (See
Introduction, page 15.)

Half a mile from this lake, the stream passes under a foot bridge,
which leads to a farm on Trout Brook stream, the first loggers’ camp
since leaving Chamberlin farm, a distance of over seventy-five miles.

[Illustration: DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAKE.]

This farm, owned by E. S. Coe, Esq., of Bangor, consists of four houses
built close together, and eight or ten barns, with about four hundred
acres of cleared land, through which flows the swift-running trout
brook. Half a dozen batteaux lay turned over on the grass, bounteous
crops of oats and potatoes were ripening in the fields, while the
industrious chicken (evidence of civilization) was picking about the
doors.

[Illustration: MATAGAMONSIS LAKE.]

The house where our party dined was occupied by a man and his wife
and one small boy. The rooms to this house were low and smoky, like
all the rest we had seen, with the big iron box stove in the center;
the only change from the usual wall decoration was perceived in an
advertisement of Pinafore opera music, which, pasted beside the other
illustrations, made us feel quite homesick.

After dinner at the house, our party bade our new-found friends adieu,
and paddled down the Thoroughfare into Grand or Matagamon lake, which
is about one-third longer than Lake Matagamonsis, and went into camp at
its foot, on the right bank, near another old dam.

The eastern shore of this lake (the largest body of water on our
course since leaving Chamberlin lake) is not especially attractive to
the artist, being low and covered with meadow grass. But the western
is decidedly picturesque, being bold and rocky, which, climbing from
elevation to elevation, finally culminates in the precipitous and
rugged peak of Matagamon mountain, towering above one’s head to the
height of six hundred feet, and is almost divested of foliage. We
halted but one night on this lake, but were well rewarded by the number
and size of the fine trout captured, adding also to our creel a small
salmon.

[Illustration: OUR SALMON.]

[Illustration: MATAGAMON OR GRAND LAKE.]




CHAPTER VI.

    “By viewing nature, Nature’s handmaid, art,
    Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow.
    Thus, fishes first to shipping did impart
    Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.”

  DANGER OF WANDERING FROM CAMP.—AN EXPERIENCE ON LAKE SUPERIOR.—THE
  FALLS OF THE EAST BRANCH.—STAIR FALLS.—INCIDENTS OF CAMP LIFE.—AN
  ENCHANTED BOWER.—HUNT’S FARM.—AN ARTIST’S CANOE.—THE ASCENT OF HUNT’S
  MOUNTAIN.—A REVERIE.—WHETSTONE FALLS.—DISCOVERY OF JASPER ON LEDGE
  FALLS.—DAWN OF CIVILIZATION.—MATTAWAMKEAG.—THE EAST BRANCH CANVAS-ED.


I often thought how easily one could stray from camp, and, if without
a compass, be lost in this wilderness. While hunting on Lake Superior
one autumn, some years since, I endured such an experience, and the
bitterness of it has always remained fresh in my memory. While passing
over the corduroy road of thirteen and a half miles which lies
between the town of Ontonagon, Mich., and the Minnesota copper mines,
my attention was allured from the road by the melodious whir-r-r-r,
whir-r-r-r of a brace of partridges. Stepping aside into the thicket, I
followed as fast as possible the retreating sound, and after a tedious
tramp through briers and swamp I finally brought them to bag. In the
excitement of the chase, I had given little or no heed to the path, or
to the clouds that were fast gathering overhead.

Starting back in the direction I supposed the road, I traveled, it
seemed to me, double the distance that would have revealed it, but no
familiar path did I find. In fact, I was amazed in discovering that I
was back on the same ground on which I had started. There was no reason
in the thing,—no reasoning against it. The points of the compass had
been as clear in my head as if I saw the needle, but the moment I was
back, all seemed to be wrong. The sun, which occasionally revealed
itself, shone out of the wrong part of the heavens. I climbed one of
the tall trees, but the very stillness of the landscape on which I
gazed seemed to mock me.

I was not a novice in woodcraft, and could follow a trail readily. I
examined the bark of the trees to see which side was the roughest, and
then, singling out a number, judged of the points of the compass by the
way the majority leaned, and plunging into the thicket made another
and another attempt.

I well knew the danger of losing my self-control, and, sitting down on
a log, I covered my face with my hands and waited until I felt calm
and self-possessed again. I have no idea how long it was, but when I
arose the sun was nearly obliterated by the clouds, which soon began to
discharge their contents in sympathy for my ill luck, and to reach my
destination I must make all speed.

I immediately struck a “bee line” in the direction which my reveries
had designated as the right path, blazing the trees with my
hunting-knife as I hastened along. Soon I espied an opening, and,
dashing onward, what was my joy to find the old corduroy road, which
never looked more welcome in its life.

From Grand lake to the junction of the East with the West branch of
the Penobscot it is sixty to seventy-five miles, the river being
shut in on all sides by lofty mountains, or heavy belts of grand old
forests, through which the swift river tumbles, with only an occasional
suggestion of the lumberman’s axe.

There are eleven conspicuous falls in this interval, varying from
twenty to sixty feet in height, while the charming cascades are too
numerous to mention. The abrupt descents bear the names of Stair,
Haskell Rock, Grand, Pond Pitch, Hulling Machine, Bowling, Spring
Brook Gravel Bed, Whetstone, Grindstone, Crowfoot, and Ledge Falls,
their names, in many cases, suggesting their wild and rugged formation.

[Illustration: ON THE EAST BRANCH.]

The water swept so swiftly through this section that with the exception
of the last twenty miles it was hardly necessary to use our paddles,
but, keeping an eye to the rocks in our path; we could silently enjoy
the many lovely changes constantly opening in the landscape.

But this also was decidedly the hardest part of the entire
excursion.—At most of these falls, our whole camp equipage, provisions,
and canoes had to be “sacked” around the falls from one to two miles,
and in many cases there was hard climbing along the steep, rocky sides
of the mountains which followed the river’s course, while each one of
us carried his portion of the load.

For two and a half miles after leaving Grand lake one is constantly
reminded of the day’s experience on Webster stream by the furious
rapids, and we were again obliged to call into action our “setting
poles.” In a drenching rain, we were twice compelled to land on the
shore, take the canvas boat into our laps and sew the cuts in its
surface, laughing at the philosophical manner with which we submitted
to the circumstance.

Along the river’s bank to the west, for many miles, are the lovely
Traveler mountains, whose rambling appearance and daily companionship
are fully represented by their name.

Stair Falls the “Quartermaster” and myself ran in our canvas canoe, but
the guides, tending their birches as if they were glass, dropped them
from step to step by means of ropes.

[Illustration: DROPPING CANOES OVER THE FALLS.]

This fall or cascade is a series of steps or stairs some five in
number, each about three feet high and ten feet apart, the best passage
being through the channel near the left bank. It is a very choice bit
of scenery, and one that any artist would greatly desire to transfer to
canvas and work into endless variety of composition. A ten-mile passage
of the swift river, and we reached Grand falls, which, although higher
than its namesake on Webster river, being followed immediately by
numerous cataracts did not so impress one.

Here we were obliged to make a portage of three-fourths of a mile
through the dense woods to the foot of the falls, and, in a heavy
shower, went into camp on the opposite shore. To the “camper-out” a
rainy day in the woods is among the most disagreeable experiences, even
under a tight tent, with good company and plenty of amusement. But the
difficulties increase by being forced to be out in the storm, and to
leave your canoe at a portage and obliged to carry on your back through
mud and mire all your camp effects.

[Illustration: ACCEPTING THE SITUATION.]

Through the woods you stumble, pressing the wet branches aside,
which in their recoil push away your rubber clothing, from which the
buttons are fast disappearing and the rents appearing, and whose
special protection is sadly deficient, until the repetition of such
circumstances as thoroughly drenches you as if you had been without
them. The water is dripping from off your hat to your neck and rolling
down your back in icy rills. The position of your arms in carrying
your “kit” is such as to lead a looker-on to imagine you are striving
hard to fill your sleeves with the rain, which you know is a mistake,
but there is no help for it. You clutch tightly to your rifle as your
pack begins to slip, striving to keep the locks from the rain, while
your boots have been innocently occupied in catching every scanty drop
which fell from your clothing, and you have every appearance, if not
the feeling, of the oft-quoted “drowned rat.” You would not have your
wife, or other friend, see you at this moment for anything. How they
would laugh, and hurl at you many of your pet quotations regarding the
“poetry, pleasure, and romance of life in the woods,” until you had
rather endure another storm than their irony.

Then comes the raising of the wet tent into position, the repeated
attempts to start the fire, and the holding of every individual fir
branch in the flame to dry before performing the duty of bed.

Two forked sticks with one across are placed before the fire, and
on them you hang boots, socks, blankets, and other articles of your
belongings, and, while the guides are cleaning your guns, you examine
the provision boxes to see if they have escaped the drenching.

It is amusing how stoical and indifferent one grows to these
circumstances in the woods, and soon makes but little of them,
retaining as serene and unruffled a disposition as if they were of no
account, while after a warm supper and a social pipe they pass from
memory.

[Illustration: STAIR FALLS]

I will not weary the reader by a description of the passage of
each fall from day to day on our route, some of which we ran, and
past others we “carried,” letting the canoes, as before, over the
difficulties by long ropes from the cliffs above. After passing Spring
Brook Gravel Bed Falls, we paddled through a mile or two of heavy
“rips” and entered some two miles of “dead water.”

[Illustration: HULLING MACHINE FALLS.]

On turning a beautiful bend in the river, what was our surprise to
observe the rugged growth of pines gradually disappear, and the
landscape immediately softened by the introduction of a dense forest
of maple, elm, ash, and noble oak trees, whose gnarled trunks pushed
themselves far into the stream, their branches overlocking above our
heads and forming a canopy that darkened the water.

[Illustration: THE ARCHES.

East Branch of the Penobscot River.]

Exclamations of surprise rang from our lips as all the canoes in
“Indian file” drifted through this enchanting bower, and we thought to
ourselves, if in the quiet dress of summer this is so lovely, what must
it be when robed in autumnal foliage.

Passing the mouth of Big and Little Seboois rivers, we pitched our tent
on the left bank of the river near a place known as Hunt’s Farm.

The solitary log house and barn on Hunt’s farm were erected some
forty-three years ago, and are located on high ground in a picturesque
bend of the Penobscot river.

The house outside is painted red, white-washed inside, with low
ceilings similar to the others mentioned. In addition to the
cultivation of land near the house, an attempt was made some seasons
ago to press into tillage, as a melon patch, the side of an adjacent
mountain, but the fruit, as soon as it grew heavy and ripened,
snapped its hold on the vines, rolled down the mountain side, and
was crushed at its base. As can easily be seen, this elevated farm
was not a success, and now only the bright green foliage of a fresh
growth of trees is left to tell the melancholy story. Mr. Dunn, who,
assisted by three other persons, takes care of the place, showed us
many attentions, supplying us with fresh milk and sugar, and other
delicacies that had been foreign to our fare at camp for many days.

The manufacture of birch canoes seemed to be one of the industries
of the place, an immense one being then in process of building for
the celebrated New York artist, Frederick E. Church, Esq. This canoe
was twenty-eight feet long, over four feet wide (midships), and when
completed would weigh three hundred pounds.

The artist has recently purchased four hundred acres of land on
Milinokett Lake, fifteen miles distant, a tributary to the West Branch
of the Penobscot River, one of the prettiest sheets of water in that
vicinity. A fine view of Mount Katahdin can be had from this spot,
and men were to leave this farm the following day to erect three
substantial log camps.

[Illustration: HUNT’S FARM.]

[Illustration: MOUNT KATAHDIN.
  _Study by F. E. Church._]

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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: GLIMPSES OF CIVILIZATION BEGIN TO DAWN.]

A dark red stone attracted my attention, and I waded into the water
to secure it, and on regaining the canoe soon after, threw it into my
camp-bag, little dreaming of the value of my prize. On reaching home
it was examined by an old and experienced lapidary, and proved to be a
_jasper_ of exquisite grain and color.

A portion of the stone, as an article of jewelry, incrusted with the
magic words “Ledge Falls,” is highly prized and now worn as a souvenir
by the writer.

The stream now gradually widens, with strong but noiseless flow; the
mountains retire, and the banks of the river are for the most part
bordered by foot-hills and grassy knolls. Glimpses of civilization
begin to dawn as we occasionally pass a log house whose lonesome
appearance is only relieved by the happy faces of children at the door.
Corn-fields wave their tall stems, while broad patches of potatoes (for
which Maine is justly celebrated) flourish here surprisingly. It is a
sudden change from the forest’s depths, after a month’s camp life, and
seems to urge us towards home more and more rapidly.

We are soon at Medway, the junction of the East and West Branches,
(a small town on the left bank of the Penobscot River, of about four
hundred inhabitants,) and are speeding faster and faster through the
broad river to Mattawamkeag on the European and North American railroad.

We have followed the river in its devious windings, from a width of
fifteen to now an expansion of over five hundred feet.

We have felt the mysterious silence of the wilderness at early morn, or
as the twilight lessened and the shadows deepened about the camp, only
broken by the chirp of the cricket, or the weird and plaintive cry of
the loons on the lake.

Our tour has been one of daily excitement, filled from first to last
with grand old forests, noble waterfalls, picturesque lakes, and
cascades. A region in which an artist might linger many weeks with
profit to both eye and brush, while the recuperation to one’s health by
the out-door life in the dry atmosphere cannot be overestimated.

Springing ashore, we unjoint our rods, pack up the camera, collapse the
canvas canoe, and with hearts full of thanks to the kind Providence
which has watched over our two hundred mile voyage, we bid adieu to our
guides, as we do now to the reader.

[Illustration: NET RESULTS.]




IN PRESS.

  ANOTHER CHARMING BOOK BY THE AUTHOR OF
  “CANOE AND CAMERA.”

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

  BY THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE.
  EXQUISITELY ILLUSTRATED.

  THIS TOUR OF
  OVER FOUR HUNDRED MILES IN A BIRCH CANOE,

through the very heart of Maine to New Brunswick, is one of great
interest, opening a region entirely unknown heretofore to the
sportsman, but rich in beautiful scenery, game, fish, and exciting
adventure. The account of the exploration, its hardships, and its
successes, are given with great spirit, while the illustrations are
accurate reproductions from

PHOTOGRAPHS PERSONALLY MADE BY THE AUTHOR.

Mr. Steele has already made himself widely known by his contributions
to the public press regarding this paradise of out-door pleasure
seekers, while his artistic taste has made this book a fitting
companion of “Canoe and Camera.”


A NEW MAP OF MAINE,

20 × 30 inches, has been expressly prepared for the work, which
includes the tours of the _East and West Branches of the Penobscot_,
_the St. Johns_, _and Aroostook waters_, besides portions of Canada
and New Brunswick, and supplies a want long felt by tourists to these
regions.


  1 vol. Crown 8vo. Cloth. $1.50.

  Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by
  ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers,
  301 to 305 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.




JUST PUBLISHED.

A NEW MAP OF THE
HEADWATERS OF THE
AROOSTOOK, PENOBSCOT, AND ST. JOHN RIVERS,
MAINE,

COMPILED BY
THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE,
HARTFORD, CONN.

AUTHOR OF
CANOE AND CAMERA; OR, TWO HUNDRED MILES THROUGH THE MAINE FORESTS.

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


What is said of the Map by the well-known Sportsman’s Paper, “FOREST
AND STREAM.”

“A NEW MAP OF NORTHERN MAINE.—Mr. Thomas Sedgwick Steele, author
of ‘Canoe and Camera’ and other works, has just compiled one of the
most satisfactory maps of the great canoe tours of Northern Maine yet
published. This chart is 20 × 30 inches, printed on Government Survey
paper, mounted on cloth, and is an invaluable aid to the sportsman
tourist in these wild regions,—in fact, to such an individual it is a
most necessary adjunct to the economy of his camp kit. From the extreme
lower portion of the map covered by Moosehead Lake diverge the great
rivers of this vast wilderness,—the Main St. John, Aroostook, and East
and West Branches of the Penobscot, while a portion of Canada on the
north and New Brunswick on the east is embraced within its boundaries.
Great care has been exercised in noting many points along these
routes, which, although of the greatest importance to the canoeist,
are seldom brought within the scope of the ordinary map. Along the
Main St. John every log house and portage seems to be conscientiously
indicated, while the many falls of the picturesque East Branch are
noted, to the advantage and caution of the voyageur of these waters.
After leaving the farms at Chesuncook and Chamberlin Lake the tourist
to the Aroostook paddles about two hundred miles through the wilderness
before reaching a sign of civilization, the first house being that of
Philip Painter, while the second habitation, one mile further on, is
that of William Botting, situated on the right bank, at a bend of the
Aroostook River, called the Oxbow. Innumerable lakes and ponds are
spread out before one on this chart like shot holes in a target. These
and many other points of interest recommend this new survey of Mr.
Steele to the camper-out in the wilds of Maine. The map is published
by Estes & Lauriat, of Boston, and is mailed, post-paid, for $1.00 per
copy.”—_Forest and Stream._

  PRICE, $1.00.

  Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by
  ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers,
  301-305 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS


[Illustration:

  MAP
  of the HEADWATERS of the
  AROOSTOOK,
  PENOBSCOT & ST. JOHN RIVERS,
  MAINE.

  Prepared expressly for
  THOMAS SEDGWICK STEELE, HARTFORD, CONN.
  AUTHOR OF
  CANOE AND CAMERA,
  OR TWO HUNDRED MILES THROUGH THE MAINE FORESTS.

  PADDLE AND PORTAGE
  from MOOSEHEAD LAKE to the AROOSTOOK RIVER, MAINE &c.

  COPYRIGHT 1881]




Transcriber’s Note

  The following changes have been made:

  Page 36: changed ‘flipjacks’ to ‘flip-jacks’.
  Page 57: changed ‘right hand’ to ‘right-hand’.
  Page 63: changed ‘fly catcher’ to ‘fly-catcher’.
  Page 70: changed ‘enableing’ to ‘enabling’.
  Page 87: changed ‘camp fire’ to ‘camp-fire’.
  Page 125: changed ‘to day’ to ‘to-day’.
  Page 129: changed ‘log-house’ to ‘log house’.
  In advertisement at the end of the book, changed ‘Sedgewick’ to
    ‘Sedgwick’.
  The word ‘boulders’ on p. 53 has been left as spelt, even though
    the spelling of ‘bowlders’ is used elsewhere.