Vermont Botanical and Bird Clubs 15 



BOTANIZING IN ESSEX COUNTY 



Dana 8. Carpenter 



While this tale of a very tame adventure can hardly compare to 

 that of "The Three Musketeers," yet we three, J. G. Underwood, Harold 

 Rugg, and myself, endured each other's society with great bravery and 

 some degree of cheerfulness for a week, more or less, botanizing in 

 Essex County, in the month of July. 



It was a camping trip with Mr. Underwood's car as a base, each 

 one of us contributing something in the way of equipment and food. A 

 tent with sewed sides, buttoned over the top of the car and pegged 

 down, made a serviceable shelter, and one which the writer and his 

 wife had used on other occasions with profit and pleasure. 



We cooked upon a camper's gas stove, with two burners: Bread, 

 bacon, coffee, tinned vegetables, and certain extras from Mr. Under- 

 wood's delicatessen gave plenty of variety. 



We slept on folding cots; that is, Messrs. Underwood and Carpenter 

 did; Mr. Rugg forgot his cot, and had to rest his bones on the car 

 cushions, doubling such bones as would double to fit the cushions, or 

 let them dangle at the mercy of black flies and mosquitoes. 



We left Hartland, where we outfitted, on a Monday, at noon, 

 driving north along the Connecticut River and into a terrific thunder 

 shower at Lyme, witnessing the unusual sight of a tree near the high- 

 way being struck by lightning and then bursting into flames. 



The rain fell in torrents, and under Mr. Rugg's direction, we left 

 the main highway at Orford and after a hilly drive of six miles or more 

 we reached the club house belonging to the Dartmouth Association, one 

 of the chain of club houses reaching to the White Mountain region; 

 a most comfortable place, with beds, blankets, stove, fuel, cooking 

 utensils. 



Next morning we retraced our steps to the main highway, driving 

 north through Vermont and New Hampshire to Guildhall, where we 

 began to look seriously for roads leading to Maidstone Lake. After 

 two or three false clues had led us up unfrequented roads, only to be 

 baffled, we reached Bloomfield, a little village perched upon the rocks 

 of the Connecticut River. Across the bridge the village blossoms out 

 again as North Stratford, N. H. 



Here the Nulhegan River, after its tortuous way through tangled 

 bog and dark slash of red, white and black spruce forests, tumbles into 

 the Connecticut. At the point of junction, in a little swirl of back 



