A TRAGEDY IN THE MAINE WOODS. 



87 



for one of those chance shots which 

 come when least expected. I was 

 on the old Canada trail leading from 

 the coast to Quebec, a trail followed 

 by many a war party in the days when 

 the French and the English struggled 

 for control of Maine. The road was 

 overgrown with brush and but faintly 

 marked. The rain fell in torrents, the 

 bushes were dripping with moisture, 

 and I was soon wet to the skin. 



I had been told that a plain trail 

 branched off to the head of the lower 

 falls, but in some way I missed it. 

 At last, feeling sure 3 miles had been 

 passed, I turned and started to travel 

 through the forest until the river bank 

 was reached. After a while a faint trail 

 was found, apparently leading in the 

 right direction. This I followed until 

 it ended in an overgrown clearing, in 

 the midst of which were the remains of 

 a logging camp. The log walls were 

 rotted down to within 2 feet of the 

 ground, and in the center of the house 

 grew a tree 12 inches through. I af- 

 terward learned it had been 50 years 

 since the camp had been used. The 

 best trees were cut from the forest 

 near large streams many years ago. 

 The lumbermen are now cutting sec- 

 ond, or even third growth. 



Once more turning in what ap- 

 peared the direction of the river, I 

 plodded on through the falling rain, 

 chilled to the bone by wet clothing. 

 Before long a faint trail was again 

 found and followed, until to my 

 amazement I recognized the old path 

 leading to the clearing. My foot- 

 prints made before put it beyond 

 question. Unconsciously I had wan- 

 dered in a complete circle. Everyone 

 has heard such stories, but before this 

 experience I did not realize how it 

 could happen. 



For a moment I considered camp- 

 ing under a tree, building a fire and 

 occasionally firing a shot, that Dar- 

 ling might find me, for he had several 

 times told me if lost not to wander, 

 but to sit down and fire signal shots 

 and he would look me up. 



For some reason guides always 

 commence by treating me with a pity- 

 ing consideration which is most gall- 

 ing. I was especially anxious to give 

 no grounds for this by admitting that 

 I was lost, and so started to follow a 

 creek, reasoning that all creeks must 

 flow into the river, and once at the 

 river I could find my way. This took 

 me through dense cedar swamps, and 

 progress was a continual struggle 

 through wet branches, but I kept on 

 and at last reached the river, near a 

 large fall, at about 2 o'clock. I was 

 shaking with a chill ; my boots were 

 full of water; no canoe was in sight. 

 Turning a log for dry wood, I started 

 a feeble fire, then fired a signal shot. 

 It was answered almost immediately, 

 and in a few moments the canoe came 

 in sight down the river. Dry cloth- 

 ing, waterproofs and a drink of whis- 

 key restored me to some degree of 

 comfort. I had walked nearly 6 miles 

 on the trail, instead of 3, and had 

 come out at the upper instead of the 

 lower falls. 



Above these falls the navigation 

 was easy, and we hunted steadily but 

 without success. The boat was pad- 

 dled up the little streams and foot trips 

 made to right and left, each logan, or 

 open place, being thoroughly scanned. 

 All that time it rained. Each night we 

 returned soaked to the skin. My gun 

 was only kept in order by frequently 

 taking it to pieces, wiping and oiling 

 each part. The rivers and creeks were 

 bank full, the meadows covered with 

 water, and tramping in the wet woods 

 was a torment, but the tent had a 

 double roof, and we carried a heavy 

 tarpaulin for the floor. It was the 

 one dry spot. 



Much beaver sign was seen, some 

 of it fresh. A beaver dam and house 

 are somewhat disappointing to a read- 

 er of Peter Parley's Natural History. 

 I have seen many dams which were 

 mere straggling piles of stick, curv- 

 ing sometimes up-stream, sometimes 

 down, perhaps a foot in height, with- 

 out regularity or special strength. 



