Aug. 30, 1913 ' 
FOREST AND STREAM 
267 
shoulder during an unhappily aimed back-cast in 
the canoe, and by falling into a pan of bacon 
while attempting to dry out some wet gear. Joe 
Dennis took it all quietly, but was sure not to 
miss the opportunity for a mild dig later. Never 
mind, he made a fine birch bark canoe for a 
certain little one’s birthday gift and was for¬ 
given. 
Endless were the discussions among the 
sports as to the best method of managing one’s 
feet on the trail, whether to step on logs or 
stones or between them, and as to the best 
technic of fly-fishing and handling the canoe. 
Meantime the guides went on in their quiet way, 
never stumbling, never seeming to exert them¬ 
selves, and altogether giving notable examples 
of efficiency and the effective application of com¬ 
mon sense. 
On Thursday the 26th began the mournful 
task of lugging out stuff. Part of the outfit 
and one canoe were carried down to the river. 
Ned and Tom went off to fish the Sourdnahunk 
Stream for the last time, while Joe Dennis poled 
me up the river rapids to the great falls where 
I cast flies, bait-fished and trolled the big eddy 
without success. Nevertheless, it would not 
have done at all to depart from this country 
without fishing that likely looking water, espe¬ 
cially since togue and landlocked salmon had 
been taken there shortly before. It was pleasant 
to renew old thrills and to hear the “click of 
shod canoe poles" as we toiled up the. rapids 
and again to race down through them. We 
fished up the stream to the rendezvous and 
joined the others of the party and ate our fill 
of those delicious never-cloying trout. I had 
taken a three-quarter-pound landlocked salmon 
on the way up the stream, and we had the oppor¬ 
tunity to compare the taste of its flesh with that 
of the squaretail. It is ordinary. 
On the march home I was frightened. When 
a mother partridge flies up in your face, it is 
about as startling as if a house fell on you. 
They are brave little mothers. If they fail to 
frighten away the intruder by threats, they will 
try to coax him away from the hiding brood by 
means of the old cajolery of feigning an in¬ 
jury. When the dreaded man is at a safe dis¬ 
tance from her family, she loses no time in dis¬ 
appearing among the treetops. 
The mournful last morning in camp dawned 
with pouring rain and lowering clouds. Our 
voyage down river was to be interrupted by a 
stop at Joe Francis’ camp in order to try the 
togue fishing and to pass the night. 
The lake never looked more sweet and 
fresh than it did on that last morning when 
the clouds dripped tears. Our heavy packs had 
rested all through the stay in the cosy camp 
and felt full weight when strapped on to our 
lazy backs as we marched down the two miles 
of the brook trail to the river. The rain ceased 
and the hot sun peeped out at momentary inter¬ 
vals, making the steam rise in every bog and 
open place. The underbrush along the old tote 
road and the bogs through which we passed 
were soaking and imparted their moisture to 
our lower halves, so that when Tom broke 
through a rotten spot in the corduroy, plunging 
a foot into the brook beneath, he comforted him¬ 
self with the thought that it was no wetter 
than before. Above our waists we were satu¬ 
rated with perspiration and our faces dripped. 
The packs were as comfortable upon our backs 
as well arranged harness could make them, and 
as long as one foot was kept in front of the 
other, they did not sling us around sideways too 
much. 
Soon came the ease and exhilaration of the 
canoe ride down the swift river. The same 
ducks flew ahead of us, the same flecks of foam 
dotted the river's surface, and the same great 
mountain, now half hidden by clouds, appeared 
to our view when we turned to look longingly 
back. One canoe bore Ned and me, two packs, 
a four-quart pail of apple sauce, a tin flour 
sifter, an iron-shod setting pole "and the fishing 
rods. In the other the young Indian and Tom 
took with them their personal pack bags, and vari¬ 
ous utensils. We found on stopping at Waldo 
Davis’ camp on Pockwockamus Deadwater a 
fine place for summer boarders. It is a rendez¬ 
vous for parties traveling up or down river. 
The only neighbors for many miles are our Joe 
Dennis and his family. Their camp is two and 
a half miles below. 
At Debsconeag Falls I lugged the canoe 
across the quarter-mile carry. It was a tender¬ 
foot’s initiation and for first class torture as 
to back of the neck and shoulders, canoe lugging 
beats a good many other things. I felt and saw 
the callosities upon the guide’s backs made by 
the maple canoe thwarts and was enlightened. 
There was no difficulty in catching a mess of 
chub for togue bait when we stopped at Joe’s 
camp on the Debsconeag Deadwater. Here his 
family live in a comfortable log building during 
the summer months, and here Ned met with a 
painful accident. Seeing one of the canoes about 
to go adrift, and running to secure it, he tripped 
and plunged forward, fortunately into mud. 
But his leg was badly bruised and barked so that 
there was a job for the doctor. 
The doctor found another patient there in 
Joe’s youngest, a seven-year-old Indian brave 
who was somewhat indisposed. There was an 
opportunity for resourcefulness in adapting to 
an invalid’s needs the provisions at hand in a 
backwoods Indian camp. 
A strong west wind blew down First Deb¬ 
sconeag Lake when we arrived at Francis’ camp 
about 3 o’clock. Whitecaps made the prospect 
for togue trolling look dubious. We toiled up 
the steep hill to camp and sweltered and re¬ 
ceived mosquito deputations on the front porch, 
while the hot wind roared through the pines. 
It did not reach inside the log camp, but blew 
so hard down on the big lake as to make togue 
trolling difficult when we essayed the round of 
the water after supper. Tom and I got bites 
and bottom, but no togue. Ned and young Joe 
landed one ten-pound fish which tasted well for 
breakfast. Old Joe Francis came into camp 
for supper and told of five days’ fire-fighting at 
the head of the first lake, and we then learned 
why he had failed to bring our mail to Foss and 
Knowlton Lake. A lumber camp cook had 
failed to extinguish his fire after boiling tea 
one evening, and the flames spread into the 
woods. Fortunately, the wind blew away from 
the log buildings, but an area of half a mile 
square of old forest growth was.destroyed be¬ 
fore the fire yielded to the efforts of old Joe 
and the gang of lumberjacks whom he had 
pressed into service. At times during the fire, 
when the wind freshened, the flames roared 
loudly and rushed through the treetops. It was 
useless to work to leeward, but the men fought 
the fire in the dry humus, moss and underbrush 
along its sides by pouring water from pails. 
Fortunately there were numberless places among 
the boulders where water had collected and 
could be dipped up by the pailful. It was Joe’s 
first fire since he had been appointed fire war¬ 
den a few months before. He seemed proud 
of having kept the fire confined to the area de¬ 
scribed. Evenings when the wind subsided, the 
fire would cease traveling, but in the mornings 
fresh outbreaks would usually appear sometimes 
in spots several rods beyond the apparent limit 
of the burned area. It would sometimes be 
carried along by drifting firebrands and some¬ 
times by smouldering unperceived in the dry 
and rotten vegetable matter under the top car¬ 
pet of green moss. The men slept in their 
tracks when night fell and resumed their fight 
with the dawn. Food was brought to them from 
the lumber camp, and the State paid each man 
$2.50 for each day’s work. 
Upon our arrival at Joe’s camp, the burned 
area seen from a distance showed black and 
charred with skeleton tree trunks scattered 
about. The partly burned timber would be cut 
later and used for pulp wood. 
The Debsconeag mosquitoes came, saw and 
conquered us, and our last night in the woods 
was a foretaste of perdition. Fussily arranged 
canopies of netting were effective for about 
twenty minutes. Then, if there were millions 
of mosquitoes elsewhere in the camp, there were 
thousands underneath the nets, and once in, 
these thousands spent the night in close com¬ 
munion with their victims. They sang and 
bugled in duets, quartets and choruses, and 
their actions told more plainly than words that 
it was war to the death. Hordes of them died, 
but their murderers were limp wrecks by morn¬ 
ing, tired and smothered under the depths of 
heavy blankets. 
Our trip from the First Debsconeag Lake 
to the head of Ambejijis Lake the next morning 
was quickly made with wind and current urging 
us along. At Tuck’s log tavern were assembled 
the usual group of guides and Indians. Soon 
after our arrival an old Penobscot, Joe Orson, 
embarked in a canoe on some errand up river. 
It was a fine sight to see one of those sons of 
the woods handle that efficient creation of his 
race, the canoe. The man and the craft are 
one. The human portion sways and bends with 
unconscious grace as the paddle dips and rises, 
and there seems to be no wasted motion or 
straining effort as the light and prettily curved 
boat responds to the stroke, gliding along with 
scarcely any disturbance of the water. Old Joe 
Orson was employed by the innkeeper there as 
hired man and guide. His beardless face was 
seamed with years, and his hair was gray. He 
bore a reputation for great strength. When not 
talking in his native language or chuckling 
quietly, he did not cease to smoke a pipe of 
ancient appearance. Indian-like, he wore his blue 
flannel shirt outside the trousers, but except for 
this and for his foot gear of low moccasins, 
there was nothing in his dress to set him apart 
from the white man. His socks were the thick 
woolen ones of the woodsman, his trousers very 
shabby and baggy, and his head-gear a played- 
out golf cap. The others of the group of Penob- 
scots were distinguished by their faces and by 
their strange language. Their tribe numbers 
about six hundred people who winter at Old- 
