266 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



fOCT. 23, 1890. 



BY UTAH LAKE. 



THE first article tbat I sent Forest and Stream was 

 written in Utah and ever since that time I have 

 been partial to the Land of the Saints. So here I am once 

 more, though in another and far more beautiful portion 

 of the Territory. If my preface sounds like the advertise- 

 ment of a real estate agent it is due simply to the sur- 

 roundings. I have no land to sell, but wish that I could 

 buy all within the range of vision. 



Provo lies almost 50 miles south of Salt Lake City, in 

 the most beautiful valley imaginable. Surrounding it 

 are rich farms, hedged Avith stately Lombardy poplars, 

 green and purple with the leaf and bloom of the third 

 crop of alfalfa. About the neat farmhouses are orchards, 

 where a wealth of apples, pears and plums is going to 

 waste, and there are vineyards in full bearing. Three 

 miles west of the town is Utah Lake, a body of fresh 

 water 40 miles long by 12 wide, abounding in trout and 

 a fish that is here called herring, which resembles a huge 

 Eastern dace, and there are also carp and shad, which 

 have been introduced and are now abundant. Across the 

 lake are purple mountains, rich in gold, silver and iron, 

 if mining camps are any indication. 



Half a mile to the east the Wasatch range rises to a 

 height of 10,000ft., or 5,500ft. above the waters that 

 nestle at its feet. Clear to ' the top the mountains are a 

 mass of crimson, scarlet, flame and gold, the autumnal 

 foliage forming a glorious contrast to the somber green 

 of the conifers. Through walls of rock crystal streams 

 have channeled their way and rugged canons lead to the 

 upland wilderness. Among the clouds that rest upon the 

 higher peaks are sheep camps and here, almost in our 

 sight, deer are browsing. Bears, too, are in the imme- 

 diate neighborhood, though I have not yet had the 

 pleasure of seeing any. Elk are 50 miles away. Tbat is 

 not far for this country. 



Provo River is the largest of the streams that bursts 

 through the mountain fastnesses. As a trout creek it is 

 seldom equaled and rarely surpassed. The water i3 now 

 low and clear. Last Sunday morning I saw a boy with 

 a string of thirty trout that he had caught within two 

 miles of town. They would average more than half a 

 pound each, and he claimed to have caught them with a 

 fly. I doubted his statement at the time and doubt it 

 still. Bridal Veil Falls, eight miles up the river, is one 

 of the most beautiful sheets of spray in the land, and the 

 scenery cf this canon is alone worth a trip half across 

 the continent. 



But the crowning sport of this season is the duck 

 shooting. It surpasses even Brother Leffingwell's 

 famous ducking grounds on the Mississippi, or those 

 wondrous club preserves of which Mr. Hough is con- 

 stantly telling us. Ah, me! I don't know why these 

 vagrants of air and water cross the desolate mountains to 

 seek this lovely spot, but they probably know their own 

 business. Utah Lake is shallow and its borders are vast 

 beds of cattails and rushes. The impetuous mountain 

 torrents as they approach it forget to hurry. They 

 broaden and are filled with algaa, duckweed and the 

 vegetation upon which ducks thrive, and here are also 

 any quantity of succulent little frogs, snails and min- 

 nows. What more could they ask? It is too early now 

 for the best shooting. Canvasbacks have not begun to 

 arrive, but every evening and early morning the bends 

 of the lake are black with teal and green-headed mal- 

 lards, with a sprinkling of Tedheads. The moon is near 

 its full and our evening programme admits of no change. 



About four o'clock we get into our hunting clothes, fill 

 the pockets with shells, incumber ourselves with hip- 

 boots and stride down the main street. A mile walk 

 brings us to the town pasture, with it3 mud-holes, where 

 kildeer and jacksnipe peep and whistle. At its further 

 side are the rushes, and here we find two float-bottomed 

 scows awaiting us. These boats seem to be public property. 

 First come, first served, is the rule. There are no re- 

 trievers in this section, and so the scows are a necessity. 

 Night before last three of us came down and found the 

 boats gone. We chopped four teal, that fell in the water 

 where they could not be reached, and then we gave it up 

 in disgust. But on all ordinary occasions the craft are 

 obtainable, and we paddle out a mile or so to a large sedge 

 island where the scow is soon concealed amid the rushes. 

 The other boat goes a mile to the east and moors at the 

 mouth of Spring Creek, the best feeding ground on the 

 lake. We have time for a solitary smoke before the ducks 

 begin to fly, and here is the place to remark that decoys 

 are absolutely unknown here. There is no need for them 

 and the local sportsmen are not acquainted with their use. 

 It seems to me that if they were used there would be no 

 end of killing. But all good things will come in time. 



A peep from lie natural blind shows inverted peaks re- 

 flected from every side in the blue water. Across the 

 lake the sun is touching the Tuitic hills. Over the watery 

 path by which we came a flock of teal is swiftly circling, 

 and just out of range a great flock of green-headed 

 mallards is enjoying itself. 



Bang! The ball has commenced at the mouth of Spring 

 Creek. Lie low. There is but one way for the birds to 

 fly, and experience has taught that they will strike the 

 water close beside us and right in the midst of the patch 

 of lemna and utricularia. Here they come, swifter than 

 the wind. Out a little too far for a sure shot they pass, 

 but they circle in. Now they are only 30yds. away, and 

 dropping. First barrel, second barrel ; in with two more 

 shells, and the close of shot is repeated before they are 

 gone. Two dead teal and one cripple are on the water. 

 A Jong sliot saves the latter, and there are no living 

 ducks within half a mile. Even the distant mallards 

 have gone. The first impulse is to push out the boat, but 

 before the idea is fairly formed there are more shots from 

 Spring Creek, and another pair comes by, but they refuse 

 to drop in answer to our salutation. It is now time to 

 gather in the dead. This done, we are ready for another 

 flight. The wait is not long. As twilight falls and the 

 wind arises there is a constant whistle of wings, and as 

 the moon comes ou ; bright and clear the mallards get in 

 their work. By 7 o'clock we have all we can carry, and 

 we slowly wander back to town to a late supper, making 

 glad the heart of the landlady with the thought that she 

 will not have to provide beef for to-morrow's dinner. 

 Great quantifies of ducks are shot every evening for the 

 Salt Lake market, but the supply does not diminish nor 

 do the birds become more shy. 



Now, if this little account of Utah Lake and its sur- 

 roundings is painted in more glowing terms than £ am 

 wont to use, I can excuse myself only in the words of a 

 Mormon bishop, a native of England, who, when asked 

 to give some good reason for the youthful marriages that 

 prevail in this Territory, said, "Hit's not the boys, ye 

 know, and hit's not the girls, ye know; hit's the bloomin' 

 hamorous hatmosphere." Shoshone. 

 Pkovo, Utah, Sept. 25. 



In the woods it was already dark, but daylight still lin- 

 gered in the open. A fox ran across the road and the 

 nighthawks were screaming overhead. Some horses in a 

 pasture gave proof that we were approaching the settle- 

 ments, and before nine o'clock we drew up at the door of 

 the tavern in the little frontier village of Moose River, 

 almost up to the Canada line. Our journey by road and 

 wagon was ended; now for the river and the canoes. 



VIII. 



MOOSE RIVER AND THE WEST BRANCH. 



VII. 



THAT afternoon we loaded our dunnage once more in 

 the wagon with the intention of reaching Moose 

 River village, thirty miles distant, that night. "Can we 

 get there before dark?" we asked the driver. 



"Wal, that ere road ain't no trottin' park. It comes 

 pretty nigh being up hill both ways, but I reckon we'll 

 git there," was his non-committal answer. We rumbled 

 through the covered bridge over the East Branch, and 

 were soon on the bank of Dead River, which we followed 

 for perhaps a mile before turning to the north. Dead 

 River is not, as might be inferred from the name, a 

 stream of still, "dead" water. On the contrary, it is 

 shallow and quick, and was called the River of the Dead 

 in commemoration of the men of Arnold's expedition 

 who perished by it. 



What an indomitable spirit must have been that of a 

 man who would conduct an army through such a howl- 

 ing wilderness as this region was in Arnold's time. There 

 was always a tradition that one of Arnold's officers was 

 buried in a boat at a certain place, and a few years ago 

 an excavation was made. The body of the unknown 

 hero was found reposing in the bow of a batteau, and was 

 left undisturbed. 



A log cabin with its rough exterior partially hidden by 

 vines evidently trained by a woman's hand, is the last 

 habitation seen as one goes up Dead River. After photo- 

 graphing it, we commenced the ascent of a high hill, up 

 which we could see the serpentine windings of the road. 

 As we ascended from the valley, peak after peak of the 

 mountain range beyond the Kennebec rose slowly from 

 behind the intervening hills, Mosquito and Moxie mount- 

 ains standing out prominently, while others, many of 

 them nameless, notched the sky line as far as we could 

 see, till they faded away into the blue suggestions of 

 mountains, almost indistinguishable from the blue sky 

 above them. All were clothed with the endless forest, 

 and across their green slopes drifted the shadows of the 

 clouds. We passed two log houses standing amid fire- 

 blackened stumps, and then for ten miles rode through 

 woods where the only sign of man was the road. The 

 horses were attacked by swarms of moose flies, and their 

 sides were covered with bunches where they had pre- 

 viously been bitten. This fly is a large brown insect, the 

 size of a honey bee, and though it rarely attacks man, its 

 bite is very poisonous to animals. Fifteen miles from 

 the Forks we halted at Parlin Pond, where there is a 

 large clearing and a tavern. The house stands a quarter 

 of a mile from the pond, which may be seen across a hay 

 field, lying under a mountain which rises beyond it. 

 We received a cordial and noisy welcome in rich Irish 

 brogue from an ancient Hibernian gentleman, whose 

 attention was immediately drawn to our corduroys. 

 "The loikes o' thim I haven't set me eyes on since I left 

 the old sod, forty years ago," said he, and we entered 

 in on his good graces at once. We baited the horses and 

 resumed our way. 



We passed Parlin Pond Stream and entered on a tract 

 of country nifles in extent, where both fire and flood had 

 ravaged the land till it was the scene of the wildest 

 desolation. Down in the valley and far up the mountain 

 sides in every direction was the dead forest. In the valley 

 the white, bleaching skeletons of trees destroyed by water 

 were reflected in black, stagnant pools. On the moun- 

 tain slopes tne charred trunks of trees killed by fire stood 

 out grim against the grayscarred rocks. Many weTe strewn 

 about in inextricable chaos where they had fallen, while 

 others, still standing, stretched out their gaunt, broken 

 branches as if in supplication. Here and there one, by 

 some miracle, had escaped, and the ledges which had 

 been laid bare by the raging element had their naked- 

 ness partly clothed by the weeds which were springing 

 up among the fallen monarchs. It was a ghastly sight 

 to look upon a3 we saw it in the waning light of the af- | 

 ternoon. At the top of a hill beyond the burnt tract was | 

 a house, standing lonely and deserted. > 

 The farm itself was fast going back to a state of nature, j 

 and indeed, the majority of the few clearings we passed j 

 had been abandoned, and the houses left to decay. We | 

 sat on the doorstep of the old house, and, as we gazed at ( 

 the immense panorama of rolling country, we wondered ] 

 whose feet had worn the stone, and whose hands had 

 wrested those fields from the wilderness. An immense 

 amount of toil had been expended, for one large field had 

 been cleared of stumps; but the owner had given up the 

 unequal struggle with nature and she was fast taking her 

 own to herself again. What a fight does the pioneer 

 have with the implacable and unyielding forces of nature, 

 and what a price must he pay in the sweat of his brow 

 for all he gains! These people had worked hard to make 

 a home; the house had been a good one in its day, and by 

 the door were traces of an attempt at a flower bed. Did 

 the man who built it bring his young wife there, a.nd did 

 she try to brighten the isolation of her life with a f e w 

 blossoms? Had there been children born there, whose 

 first sight of the world was the surrounding mountains 

 and forest? Where bad they gone; were they dead, or 

 were the fighting the battle of life somewhere where the 

 odds were not so great? Such were the questions that we 

 asked ourselves; but the old house kept its secrets, and 

 the tall grass swayed in the wind, and crickets chirped 

 merrily, as if life were all sunshine, and struggle and 

 hardship things unknown. Whoever chose this site had 

 an eye for the picturesque, for the outlook was grand; 

 but it must have been a terribly bleak and desolate place 

 when the snow covered the ground and the winter winds 

 howled through the mountain gorges. As the sun sunk low 

 on the western horizon we crossed a mountain known as 

 Owl's Head, far below us the island-dotted expanse of 

 Atteau Pond reflecting the glow of the sunset. Beyond 

 it was Wood Pond, and we knew that a few miles more 

 would bring us to our journey's end. It was down hill 

 all the way from Owl's Head, and after the hard up-hill 

 pulls in the heat of the afternoon we enjoyed the descend- 

 ing grade as We hurried om in the cool of the twilight. 



In the morning we looked out on a dismal, bedraggled 

 landscape; rain was falling from the dull, leaden sky, and 

 Moose River village had a most woebegone and forsaken 

 appearance. Its one street, along which the houses are 

 scattered in a haphazard fashion, crosses the bridge a 

 short distance from the hotel, and once out of town is 

 again the Canada road. Moose River itself is here a nar- 

 row stream of dark, sluggish water, winding through 

 rude fields and apparently in no more of a hurry than the 

 current of everyday life in the village. 



All days are alike in this remote place; there were few 

 people on the street, and on their hands time seemed to 

 hang heavily. Two teams which passed through caused 

 quite a flurry of excitement, and then the town relapsed 

 into its normal state of sleepy quietnes, and one might 

 have thought it Sunday. To be sure, the two stores were 

 open, but that would have been the same on the seventh 

 day of the week. We could see no church, though there 

 may have been a place of worship. 



The storekeepers kept open if they had nothing else to 

 do; otherwise the customer hunted them up before he 

 could make his purchase. We bought some artificial 

 flies and then went down to the bridge, where we watched 

 some musquashes swimming about under the alders 

 which drooped over their burrows. The merchant, being 

 of a sociable nature, came down and joined u?; and as we 

 commented on the various affairs of life in general and 

 musquashes in particular, a prospective buyer shouted 

 from the store. "Hi! thar; come up here, I want ter buy 

 suthin'." "AH right," responded the imperturbable 

 storekeeper, "I'll be up in a little while, and if ye ain't in 

 a rush, ye better come down hpre and see this musquash." 

 But the customer was in a "rush," so the store was opened 

 and the transaction accomplished, after which the pro- 

 prietor again locked the door and went to dinner. 



Our own canoes had not yet arrived, and as the rain 

 was nearly over by noon, we donned our rubber coats and 

 boots, took the cameras and splashed along the soft, 

 muddy road on our way to Wood Pond. After two miles 

 of sticky pedestrianism we turned into a path which led 

 through a thicket of wet actd dripping bushes. Down the 

 length of this green alley we saw the pond, and across 

 the water Sally Mountain, with its summit hidden by 

 great banks of clouds which hung low and heavy over it. 

 Wood Pond is a pretty sheet of water, with wooded 

 shores, and is surrounded by a pebbly curb. When we 

 returned to the house we found that the guides had 

 arrived. There was Cy, tough and wiry; Bill, who is tall 

 and broad-shouldered; Francis, sinewy and muscular, and 

 with swarthy, copper colored skin, and Dennis, strong as 

 an ox and overflowing with rollicking Irish wit. We 

 were glad to see them, for we had camped with them and 

 knew them all as good friends, pleasant companions and 

 experts in all things pertaining to woods life and forest- 

 craft. It was too late to make a start that day, but we 

 all went to bed in good season so as to be ready for an 

 early one on the morrow. 



We were up at five o'clock, but on going out to take a 

 look at the weather, found that the day promised to be even 

 more dismal than the preceding one. The wind had 

 howled and whistled all night, and the morning was cold 

 and raw and a drizzling rain was falling; hut even these 

 discomforts did not induce us to remain longer in a- place 

 where there was nothing more exciting to do than to eat, 

 smoke and sleep. We ate our breakfast and then the 

 canoes were launched, the luggage stowed away and we 

 glided under the bridge and down-stream, at last fairly 

 on our way. 



There was no trouble as to selecting partners, we went 

 as in former seasons, William and Cy together, Harry 

 with Bill, while I took the bow paddle in Francis's canoe. 

 Dennis presided over the destinies of the. "waugan" boat. 

 Waugan is a word I never heard except in the backwoods 

 of Maine. It is used by Indians and lumbermen, and ap- 

 plies to the commissariat of a camp. The supplies of all 

 kinds are designated by the single word waugan; the 

 cabin or tent in which they are stored is also the waugan, 

 and the canoe or batteau which transports them is the 

 waugan boat. 



As we pushed off Francis said, "My grandfather and 

 grandmother came here once through the woods from 

 Canady. They came here to Moose River and camped; 

 built 'em birch and went down to big lake, No village 

 here then; all woods." 



We dipped our paddles in the stream and the graceful 

 craft shot forward as if they were glad to go; the trees 

 bent and swayed in the gale; and glancing back we saw 

 the clouds scurrying over the top of Sally Mountain. 



The wind was in our favor, and a3 it blew againft our 

 backs helped us on. "Guess we find big sea on when we 

 get to Long Pond," observed Francis as a gust swept by, 

 rippling the water and blowing the rain in our faces; and 

 added, as he glanced at the sky, "I guess he's goin' break 

 away though; seems to lightin' up; guess he aint goin" 

 rain rnuch more." 



We paddled on down the winding stream 'between 

 mountainous banks, mostly wooded but with an occasional 

 open meadow. A log cabin stood in a rough clearing 

 where some one was starting a new farm; a batteau was 

 moored to a tree near by, and a woman and several 

 children watched us curiously. What a place it seemed 

 for children to live in, and we asked ourselves if they 

 could be like other children, shut in as they were by the 

 wilderness and seeing nothing of the great world, except 

 now and then the canoe of some passing voyageur. _ The 

 passage of four canoes at once was, no doubt, quite an 

 event in their little lives, and they watched us as long as 

 we were in sight; and their dog stood in the water and 

 barked at us. Babes in the wood they were, and we 

 wondered if the d*rk shadow of the grim forest would 

 not fall on them, acd make them grave and old before 

 their time. 



Seven miles of dead water brought us to the head of 

 Long Pond. The inlet was marshy, and as we looked 

 over the bending reeds and sedges, we saw that a heavy 

 sea was running and the white caps were dancing to the 

 music of the wind. Out of the river and the shelter of 



