A

TWO HUNDRED MILE TOUR

THROUGH

THE MAINE FORESTS.

BY

Thomas Sedgwick Steele.

Longfellow.

WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS,

BOSTON:
ESTES AND LAURIAT,
PUBLISHERS.

Copyright, 1882,
By Thomas Sedgwick Steele.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

Thomas Sedgwick Steele

Hartford, Conn., 1880.

CONTENTS.

Illustrations.

Introduction.

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.

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.

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.

ILLUSTRATED

BY

True Williams, Benjamin Day, Aug. Will, and other Artists.

CHAPTER I.

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.”

“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.

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.

CHAPTER II.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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.