Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1 50. 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.—No. 8. 
127 Franklin St.. New York. 
Two Weeks Under King Katahdin 
O N Wednesday, our fifth day in the woods, we 
took things easily. Old Joe left us with 
regrets all around and went about his work 
as fire warden of the region. With pail and camera 
that morning we three sports crossed the lake, 
leaving Joe and Sonny in camp, and walked up 
the trail toward Lost Pond, photographing scenes 
among the pure spruce growth and gathering 
spruce gum. On our- return Ned and Tom took 
up the not at all irksome duty of supplying the 
camp with trout from the lake, while I wrote 
at the diary and fought the flies. Although their 
bites were no longer poisonous, it was always 
necessary to renew the tar and oil mixture at 
frequent intervals to prevent their pestering one 
with their buzzing and crawling over one and 
into every crevice in the clothing. One soon 
learns why it is customary in the woods to wear 
the socks outside of the trousers. Of the several 
varieties of insect pests of the woods, the Indian 
seems to hate worst the punkies or midges which 
are called no-see-’ems by the Indians in the 
books, but their usual appellation in the Maine 
woods is “minges.” Their bites are each of 
them like the touch of a red hot needle point, 
but they have the grace to confine their activities 
to the hours of twilight. The black flies are 
of two principal varieties whose bite seems to 
have similar effects, but the most interesting 
species is the nervous and fussy little chap with 
a shiny black body not more than an eighth of 
an inch long and tiny white front feet. Once 
alighted, he trots and dances about, seeking good 
biting ground, all the time pawing up and down 
with those little white front feet. The old re¬ 
liable mosquito needs no comment. 
During the afternoon Ned and I trolled 
Lost Pond and photographed Mt. Katahdin from 
its point of view, a particularly favorable one 
we always thought. Our fishing was unsuccess¬ 
ful until the very last round, when a pound and 
a half trout was taken. Tom trolled the home 
pond during our absence and with success. 
Seven fine trout brought sport to him and food 
to the camp. 
On the morning of our sixth day in the 
woods we marched in light order for a day’s 
fishing on one of the prettiest of mountain 
streams. Katahdin Brook tumbles down the 
steep south and west slopes of the mountain, and 
some five miles from its source empties into the 
West Branch of the Penobscot. At its nearest 
point to our camp it is but a -mile to the east¬ 
ward. On our day trips of this kind we carried 
our rolled-up coats slung by a strap over the 
By WILLIAM S. THOMAS, M.D. 
(Continued from page 166.) 
OUR GUIDE. 
MONUMENT ROCK. 
shoulder, a rubber bag for tackle and for trout, 
our rods and the camera. One of the guides 
carried a pack basket holding the lunch, and 
they seldom leave behind them the axe with 
which to spot a trail if need be, cut fire wood, 
or make a raft or bridge, etc. 
We came upon the brook where it flows 
over ledges of granite in cascades or broad shal¬ 
low sluices or where at times it is lost entirely 
to view in dark cavernous passages. These 
ledges cover an elevated area of a half mile 
or more, and as they are uncovered by soil and 
hence are treeless, they afford an extended out¬ 
look over the surrounding wilderness in several 
directions. Without climbing a tree it is rarely 
that one has the opportunity for a view of any 
magnitude in the region. We fished less than 
a mile up the stream, using the flies when there 
was sufficient room in which to cast them and 
resorting to our own importation of angleworms 
in the thickets above the ledges. We took a 
total of thirty-five small trout over and above 
the undersized fish returned to the water. Ned 
and Tom undressed and refreshed themselves by 
baths in the natural tubs worn in the granite 
by the torrent. After lunch we fished a little 
in a desultory way down stream, and then struck 
off on the wide open lumber road, leading down 
the left bank of the brook, emerging on the 
river tote road, and thence home up Foss and 
Kn owl ton Brook trail, a walk of an hour and 
a half. About the only excuse for calling these 
ways through the woods “roads” is the fact that 
at some date in the past they have been cleared 
of trees. But except for an occasional attempt 
at laying corduroy, there the road building has 
ceased, and boulders, bogs and underbrush make 
progress over them full of incident to the ten¬ 
derfoot. 
Few delights could have been keener than 
those plunges into the lake when we arrived in 
camp, and to round out a good day Joe launched 
at us some whopping big buckwheat cakes at 
supper when we were fearing that the meal was 
about over. Ned ate five of the delicious crea¬ 
tions and arose, saying that he never permitted 
himself to satisfy his appetite fully. Then came 
the usual desultory casting from the canoes 
after supper in the lingering northern twilight, 
a short loaf about camp and a few yarns and 
then comfortable bunks and oblivion. Our camp 
consisted of two good-sized log buildings close 
by the south shore of the lake, which is perhaps 
a half mile long and not quite as wide. There 
were laurel, alder, dwarf willow, blueberries, 
