422 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 4, 1913. 
their homes, and made their livelihood in a raw, 
unchartered wilderness. The absolute remote¬ 
ness of their environment had for them no 
terrors. Thrown upon their own resources they 
learned the power of self reliance, the subtleties 
of woodcraft, the strength of open air living, 
even as all the pioneers of the world had done 
before them. In the village of Long Lake to¬ 
day you will find these self-same pioneers grown 
into hearty old men, keen of eye, and rugged as 
pine trees. 
Thus it is that Long Lake is strictly Adiron¬ 
dack in every sense of the word. The people 
who live there are Adirondackers of the best 
and truest type. From the wilderness that sleeps 
so close to their doors they have imbibed a 
tranquillity of existence, a quiet purpose that 
sets them far above the average. And with 
Long Lake will ever be associated the names of 
such famous woodsmen and hunters as Reuben 
Cary, John Plumbley, Dight Huff, Calvin Parker, 
besides many others who belonged to the clan 
of original settlers. 
Carrying with it the innate enthusiasm 
and affection of its inhabitants, and lying as it 
does well outside the beaten track of the sum¬ 
mer tourist, Long Lake has preserved a flavor 
of forest quietude which elsewhere lacks en¬ 
tirely. I did not realize how very potent was 
this influence, nor how much remained of by¬ 
gone conditions till I came to visit it myself. 
It happened that our train was two hours 
and a half late getting into Raquette Lake. I 
had previously written Wallace Emerson at Long 
View Plouse that Dubs, Tommy and myself were 
leaving on the morning of July 28, and to look 
for us the same evening about 7:30. From this 
may be seen how short and simple is the trip. 
If everything goes well, and your train is on 
time, you will eat your breakfast in New York 
city and your supper at Long Lake. 
The launch for Forked Lake Carry we 
found waiting at the dock. As there was only 
one other passenger, we enjoyed a certain amount 
of privacy. 
After the heat and dust of the train, the 
cool wood-fragrant twilight was delicious. Be¬ 
fore us stretched the lake, a great blue pool of 
liquid shadows and reflections. In the distance 
loomed the vague figures of the dusk-robed 
mountains. Along shore the lights from the 
different camps were glimmering out between 
the trees, and one by one the stars could be 
seen opening in the heavens. 
It was 9 o’clock when we turned down the 
Raquette Lake outlet and puffed alongside the 
landing at the carry. On the dock I met a wel¬ 
come salutation from an old friend of mine, 
Arthur Cary, and forthwith he conducted us across 
the road to where a team and buckboard were 
standing in the dark. 
No sooner had we settled ourselves for 
the nine-mile drive than it became evident that 
Joe, the team driver, was possessed of a full- 
fledged case of grouch. He had been waiting 
for us three hours, and the delay had not im¬ 
proved his temper. 
We had driven but a short distance up the 
road when one of the wagon lamps flickered, 
flared, and then went dolefully out. 
“The blamed light’s gone out,’’ growled Joe. 
“Guess we won’t never make the lake at this 
rate.” 
He then grumblingly proffered that we turn 
back and spend the night at Raquette Lake. 
“This here road is awful narrer, and yer 
take a chance goin’ over it without proper light- 
in’,’’ he concluded. 
But at this suggestion we promptly balked. 
Rather than go back I told him we would camp 
by the roadside. So with a muttered word he 
plucked the wagon whip from its socket and 
away we went at a rattling pace, the black 
shadows of the forest clinging close about us, 
the lone lamp lighting dimly the stretches of the 
road ahead. Abruptly the wagon drew up with 
a jolt. In the road ahead we caught the glow 
of a mysterious light. 
“Looks like fox-fire,” remarked Joe. “No, 
by gravy, it’s an auto.” 
The car, with lamps turned low, stood 
squarely in the middle of the road. Joe’s com¬ 
ments on those who had left it thus were 
vociferative and distinctly to the point. After 
some maneuvering he managed to pull out in 
the ditch and drove by. We had gone but a 
short distance when the glaring headlights of 
another machine blocked the roadway. 
“Well, now,” drawled Joe, “looks as ef we’d 
run inter a flock of these dum mobiles.” This 
machine, however, we discovered was occupied, 
and one of the two men who were toiling to 
adjust a front tire hailed our driver with the 
cheerful inquiry, “Did you manage to get by 
my car?” 
Joe gave a loud guffaw. “Why, no,” he 
snorted sarcastically. “We might of flewed over 
it, but the weather’s too hot fer exercise. Ef 
you take a step back you’ll find us just settin’ 
thar yet.” 
From this time forward his mood changed. 
As a matter of fact he turned out to be a very 
jovial and amusing fellow. When I discovered 
he had been on the road since 5 o’clock a. m. 
and had driven that day over sixty miles, I quite 
forgave him his grouch. 
“Have a cigarette?” proffered Dubs. 
“No, thanks jist the same, but that’s one 
habit I hain’t got,” said he. 
A short time later we left the soft dirt 
wood road and struck the State road, running 
into Long Lake. We were three hours and a 
half late, but what matter. If in travel as in 
everything else things always worked with clock- 
. like precision and regularity, how dull indeed 
would life become. Blowing out a valve, miss¬ 
ing a connection, running behind time, any one 
of these things may perforce lead us out of 
highway’s commonplace into bypaths of pleas¬ 
ant little adventures that otherwise we would 
entirely miss. 
A turn to the left, the vague outline of a 
house, the glow of a light through a window, 
and the buckboard came to a standstill. 
“Here we be,” announced Joe. 
Glad to stretch ourselves after the long drive, 
we tumbled out and were met on the porch by 
Wallace and Mrs. Emerson. Attentive and hos¬ 
pitable hosts, they led us into the cosy dining 
room of Long View House, where Tommy at 
once made a flying tackle on the pickle bottle. 
Then one and all we did full justice to the 
appetizing supper Mrs. Emerson set before us, 
while the aroma of hot coffee floated even as 
gratefully to our nostrils as the fumes of some 
ancient and delectable wine. 
Having arrived that night with only the 
stars to light us, we awoke next morning to a 
revelation of unexpectedly beautiful scenery. I 
had heard much of Long Lake. I was, more¬ 
over, fortunate in there, possessing a number of 
old friends, but all their eulogies in relation to 
the place did not make me realize how truly 
Arcadian it was till I looked out of my window 
on the morning after our arrival. 
Long View House stood on the east shore 
near the head of the lake and commanded a 
vista of practically its entire length. For thir¬ 
teen miles the water, blue as a sapphire, threaded 
between verdurous hills and islands, till melting 
away into distance, it grew to resemble a river 
rather than a lake. 
North and eastward soared the remote 
Alpine peaks of the Seward range. Their noble 
contour and flowing outlines formed a majestic 
background for the more intimate and sylvan 
beauties of the nearer woodlands, and as I first 
beheld them with the roseate flush of dawn 
gilding their summits, nothing could have been 
more beautiful. 
Tuesday morning, after breakfast, Wallace, 
with a bait can in his hand and a pack basket 
slung on his shoulder, rounded us up for a fish¬ 
ing trip to Buttermilk Falls. 
At the prospect in view, Dubs’ eye visibly 
lighted. You see, Dubs is a prime exponent of 
old Izaak, and he knew for a fact that many 
a lusty bass lurked in the pools below the falls. 
So, when he emerged from the house, loaded to 
the head with fishing tackle, he wore a smile 
of supreme anticipation, and being a little be¬ 
hind time, hit the trail for the boathouse with 
aeroplane speed. 
On board the Albert I., with a pair of guide 
boats towing astern, we were soon chugging up 
toward the head of the lake against a friendly 
summer breeze. And although the motor boat 
will seem ever incongruous on these forest- 
bound waters, still for hot weather and long 
distance travel they can only be regarded in the 
light of convenience. 
Just below where the Raquette River came 
tumbling over boulder-strewn shallows into the 
lake we dropped anchor. Then we pushed off 
in the guide boats and pulled up-stream to the 
first carry. 
After we had fished below the rapids with¬ 
out any results, we landed at the carry and 
walked a mile to the Falls. Presently the sound 
of water gushing over rocks came to our ears. 
A few minutes later we stood below the forty- 
foot apron of smooth boulders over which 
dashed the foaming torrents of the Buttermilk 
cascade. 
For its size there is perhaps no waterfall in 
the Adirondacks more picturesque or more 
ideally situated than this one on the Raquette 
River. 
On the right hand side of the Falls the 
river appeared to concentrate more than on the 
left, boiling and gushing with turbulent eager¬ 
ness through a little rocky gorge. Opposite this 
the water slid over a succession of broken steps, 
fell into a deep brown pool, rippled across a 
gravel bar and sank again into a second pool. 
Now this second pool appeared a most de¬ 
lectable place. But Dubs, first attracted by the 
one directly under the Falls, climbed on a big 
boulder and cast deftly with gaudy flies and 
gossamer leader into the heart of the “boil.” A 
score of times his rod switched back and forth. 
At about the tenth cast a small bass lurched to 
