966 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 30, 1913. 
Two Weeks Under King Katahdin 
M ONDAY, the 23d, was a day to be remem¬ 
bered with its long walk and both stream 
and lake fishing and a fine view. A walk 
of three and a half miles took us to Windy Pitch 
Pond, a gem of a little lake a short distance to the 
west of the Sourdnahunk Stream and a couple of 
miles from the mouth of the latter. It gets its 
name from its proximity to a certain winding 
series of falls or “pitches.” There we found a 
raft which would float partly three persons if 
they were careful to keep quiet and on the 
proper spots. Ned found by experiment that 
such was the case, and dried his feet by the 
lunch fire. It fell to my lot to fish along shore, 
so 1 cast my flies patiently from the fringe of 
boulders under the steep cliffs for an hour with 
never a rise, while those on the raft well out 
on the pond were hauling in a good mess of 
trout of fair size. Tiring of my fruitless efforts, 
and losing fly after fly in the trees behind me, 
I handed my rod to the young Indian and wan¬ 
dered about the nearby spruce forest. 
The neighborhood is wild and lonely. The 
fact that we found there wood which had been 
gnawed through by beavers in the stream below 
the pond showed this to be the case. In the 
woods about the lake under the cliffs to the 
southwest there were crevices among the great 
moss-covered boulders where ice was found in 
plenty. The raft anglers poled ashore before 
noon, and for luncheon we ate the trout they 
had brought, cornbread, apple sauce, onions and 
mushrooms (Collybia platypliylla ) collected on 
the march, and drank iced tea. After the meal 
and a short snooze, we clambered up the steep 
forested slope, and on to the flat open summit 
of the cliff whose bare or mossy surface yields 
no holding ground, even for the determined 
spruces. The fine view was all the more enjoy¬ 
able to us who had been so long submerged in 
the forest. Beneath us was the dark crescent 
of the lake, close by to the eastward the great 
mountain rose up and up, and everwhere else 
the undulating surface of the wooded wilder¬ 
ness, mile after mile of hill alternating with 
valley, as far as the eye could reach in the clear 
air. Behind us the evergreen slopes fell grad¬ 
ually toward the south and west. Although liv¬ 
ing amid such woods for more than a week, 
their shaded depths seemed to be enchanted 
ground, and one was drawn to wander far down 
their mysterious alleys where it always seemed 
as if something was about to happen. If one 
stepped lightly, and kept his eyes alert, he would 
surely see deer or moose or other animals 
sooner or later, and it would have been easy 
to look for gnomes or fairies. But it was not 
necessary to go away from our camp to make 
the acquaintance of animals or birds. A friendly 
rabbit lives under the kitchen camp and comes 
snooping about at meal times. She had a litter 
somewhere, and we caught occasional glimpses 
of the little fellows. The young Indian stoutly 
maintained that he had seen her eating the back¬ 
bones of trout at the rubbish heap. If he was 
correct, bunny must be transferred from the her- 
By WILLIAM S. THOMAS, M.D. 
(Continued from page 230.) 
bivorous class. A porky who hangs about stole 
in and gnawed chunks from the dining table 
in our absence one day. Old Joe told us that 
he had been seeking the grease which had 
soaked into the wood. 
“You watch him when he gits a mouthful 
of that wood. He chaws an’ chaws it all up 
luk pie.” Then there was the family of frogs 
who lived by the landing place in front of camp. 
Some of them talked a good deal about some¬ 
body getting drunk, but the one whom we 
fancied best kept to that short sharp “stung” 
which came in so opportunely. Loons often 
visited the lake swimming about with only head 
and neck showing or making long distance 
swims under water, and a belated kingfisher 
stayed about the cove opposite camp. By the 
little bog pond lived a hen hawk whom we 
sometimes visited, and who would sit in a cer¬ 
tain pine, uttering her wild squeak at short in¬ 
tervals. Wild ducks of many varieties visited 
our lake, and squirrels and chipmunks were not 
uncommon. Three ducks in particular (“butter- 
balls” the Indians called them) came to our lake 
nearly every day, sometimes swimming, oftener 
circling high in the air with outstretched necks, 
now and then calling the doctor in camp an 
unpleasant name. 
On our way home from Windy Pitch Pond 
we stopped to fish the Sourdnahunk Stream, 
whose water was lower than upon the day of 
our poor fishing. This time every pool yielded 
sport, and for two pleasant afternoon hours we 
fished pools and rapids and jumped like young 
goats from ledges to boulders and back again. 
Tired but happy we entered camp, laden with 
trout, and hungry for them. Among the catch 
was a small landlocked salmon. 
As the time for our departure from the 
woods grew near, we determined to visit once 
more that most beautiful of streams, Katahdin 
Brook, and fish its upper waters, hoping also to 
get a view of the mountain from its foot. Pro¬ 
ceeding along a different trail, we reached the 
stream after a walk of only a short mile, and 
on the way lay in a supply of “gum drops” 
enough to keep us busy for many days, and saw 
many signs of deer and some of moose, but no 
animals. That trail met the stream at a charm¬ 
ing region of rocks and falls and pools. We 
soon had all the trout needed for our luncheon 
and wandered on up the brook, peering about 
through the woods for animals and seeking a 
view of the mountain. But the woods were too 
thick, and the opening of the brook did not aim 
right to suit that purpose. Continuing on up¬ 
stream, we encountered level land and sluggish 
water, which seemed interminable in extent. 
The brook crawled slowly through a desolate 
cedar swamp, which was almost impassable to 
man, but well adapted to deer and moose ex¬ 
cursions if the frequency of their signs and 
tracks was to be believed. On and on we waded, 
now in shallows and now covered nearly to the 
waist as we followed the stream’s meanderings, 
tut failed to reach a point where rapids or 
pools appeared or where the mountain was visi¬ 
ble. Finally we turned aside from the stream 
and followed the old logging road, which runs 
more or less parallel to it, and there we rested 
and cooked and ate or rather devoured our 
luncheon. Still hoping for that view of the 
mountain, we pressed on up the boggy road, 
often sinking deep into its mud and mire. At 
last, thought I, the etymology of the word quag¬ 
mire is made clear, as the bog shook under my 
footfalls. The quakemire is well named. Slop, 
slush, plop, splash, on we went till to some of 
us it seemed that our feet were leaden as we 
pulled them time and again from the moss- 
covered mire. At last through the slit in the 
foliage overhead made by the road ahead, we 
caught a poor sort of a glimpse of the south¬ 
west slope of the mountain ahead. It seemed 
as far away as ever it had, so by silent agree¬ 
ment we abandoned the quest and retraced our 
steps, contenting ourselves with our experience 
in a cedar bog and with having learned the sur¬ 
prising fact that such an extensive tract of 
swampy land existed so near the mountain’s 
base. Down the road to the end of the trail 
to camp we went, stopping where the brook 
flowed through a rocky bed again to wash off 
the mud and sand from selves and garments. 
The home lake seemed to welcome us on our 
return, and we surely welcomed it, all the more 
because we were soon to leave it. The day was 
rounded out by the usual incidents which would 
appear as trivialities in the telling, such as a 
bath in the lake, a change of clothing, supper, 
a round of fly-fishing from the canoes, a few 
yarns and sleep. But each of these take on a 
zest and a pleasant importance in the simple 
healthy woods life, which, if ever realized by 
the confirmed city dweller, have been long for¬ 
gotten. 
Ned had grown ten years younger since he 
had come into the woods. On the evening of 
our return from Katahdin Brook, he conducted 
a one-character vaudeville sketch. His other¬ 
wise thoroughly disreputable costume was em¬ 
bellished by an improvised felt hat about big 
enough for a doll, stuck full of huge and gaudy 
trout flies and worn over the left ear. Rod in 
hand, he strutted about, imitating the dandy 
sport. We howled at his unshaven mug and 
its contortions, and so we did when the camp 
rabbit peeped out at us. Ned suddenly forgot 
that he was a dandy sportsman and flopped 
down on all fours and hopped out into the 
bushes to meet his bunny friend on equal terms. 
When the rabbit got a good look at the face and 
figure coming toward him, he turned cotton¬ 
tail and bounced out of sight. 
A fortnight of life in the woods takes some 
of the conceit out of a city man. If he escapes 
a spilling from the canoe, he is sure to commit 
some blunder which will give to those dread¬ 
fully efficient craftsmen, the guides, the oppor¬ 
tunity to strengthen their secret pity for the 
tenderfoot. For my part I distinguished my¬ 
self by digging a fly hook deep into Sonny’s 
