166 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Feb. 8, 1913 
lett’s” on Upper Saranac Lake, on the carry be¬ 
tween the lake and Round Pond. To us it was 
the homeliest, cosiest, nicest spot of all. For a 
place to spend a summer vacation, here is a 
choice selection on a short carry of about a 
quarter of a mile, a small piece of land that 
separates two lakes, plenty of grass, shade trees, 
sloping lawns, sequestered nooks, sylvan glades, 
babbling brooks and the whole outfit for an 
active individual from the age of . seven to 
seventy, who can perform his ablutions with the 
aid of the Saranac Lake and sunshine instead of 
a cute little pitcher and basin and a towel the 
size of a return ticket. As a place to recuperate 
and increase the avoirdupois, it has few, if any, 
equals. Between breathing the air, universally 
reputed for its restorative powers, walking in 
the pine-laden zone, stroll in the cool of the eve¬ 
ning, or to row over the Saranac Lake in an 
Adirondack boat. 
Just here I would say a word about that boat. 
A Saranac boat is a thing of beauty and a joy 
for ever, about sixteen feet long, weighing 
about seventy pounds. It is one of the greatest 
achievements of the boat builder in the back 
woods. It is a frail craft, so light that it can 
be carried by your guide over a carry miles 
long. It rides the water as gracefully as a swan 
and makes rapid progress as if by magic. It 
can float in three inches of water, and in the 
hands of an experienced guide can go thirty-five 
miles a day, and I have seen them cross the 
Saranac Lake with a load consisting of, among 
other things, two large cart wheels, a large Sara¬ 
toga trunk, and two deer hounds. 
In the picture George Washington crossing the 
Delaware is all right, and we ought to be patri¬ 
otic, but here is a rival. You get in the bow 
of the boat on Round Lake, when the wind gets 
in a hurry and lashes the seas into a white foam, 
and you will be kept quite as busy as the im¬ 
mortal George Washington was, dodging blocks 
of ice on the Delaware. 
Variety is the spice of life, and after a de¬ 
lightful stay at Bartlett’s, we moved across the 
lake to the Sweeney Carry. No old Adirondack 
traveler' will ever forget the old carry house 
where the kind, thoughtful proprietor of that 
cozy camp served the most delightful dinners. 
Oh shades of Lucullus, Paul Smith and Del- 
monico, how we did relish those excellent meals. 
Now let me tell you of the place and the good 
people there. 
The house was one of the ordinary kind, 
such as you will find in the North Woods, built 
of spruce logs and its architecture in keeping 
with environments. The landlord and his wife 
with their young daughter, natives of the wild 
wood, busied themselves taking care of the sum¬ 
mer visitors and travelers who arrived via the 
carry, and from up the Bog Stream. Every day 
was a busy one. There was no indolence on 
their part. The wagon was a two-story affair 
that could hold two boats on either side and 
one over the other, so that four boats could 
be carried at one load. It had every appear¬ 
ance of being a prosperous business. The women 
folks could see across the bay, and the moment 
a party appeared across the lake, preparations 
were made according to the number in the party, 
and everything would be ready on their arrival. 
So the days passed merrily that summer. In the 
evening around the camp-fire those present 
would relate or listen in the glimmer of the 
burning logs to the tales and adventure of 
present and other days. 
Llave you ever noticed the quality of greet¬ 
ing that belongs to certain occupations, the “How 
do you. do,” “Good morning,” and other more 
or less empty salutations which fall flat on the 
ear and make but a very faint impression on the 
mind of the dweller in cities, who rarely tarries 
an instant for an answer? How hollow com¬ 
pared with the sportsman’s “Hello, hello, what 
luck?” which breathes out a heartfelt community 
of interest and good feeling. 
It was the manner of spending Sunday that 
impressed me most. When I sojourned there, 
the mother of the household called her little 
family and guests together in the sitting room, 
with perhaps a camper from a nearby camp who 
perchance came to get a pail of milk, and there 
kneeling down to “Lleaven’s Eternal King,” the 
mother prayed and read the sacred page or per¬ 
haps together all joined in hymns of praise and 
held communion in simplicity and truth. Is not 
that the religion of the heart? And I venture 
'to say that one who has never passed a Sunday 
amid the solemn loneliness of a comparatively 
uninhabited region cannot full}' realize the mean¬ 
ing of those two words, “God’s country.’’ 
The tide of summer travel commenced in 
June and was at its height in the carry in July, 
and this was a stopping place for the mid-day 
meal best known to old-timers and the \\dse ones. 
The hours of ease were relieved of monotony 
by the various types of character who made up 
the galaxy of summer travel that passed here 
going over the carry to the Bog River to camp 
on the banks of the many streams and ponds 
—artsist, doctors of divinity and medicine, judges 
—supreme'and subordinate—merchants, manu¬ 
facturers and people in all walks of life were 
represented, some in quest of health and some 
on pleasure bent, but almost everyone came for 
the trout fishing and game shooting. 
The destination of many was Little Tupper 
Lake, and on the shores of this beautiful sheet 
of water was a retreat presided over by an old- 
time Adirondack worthy, “Pliny Robbins,” a 
man of many virtues that I knew, and if he had 
any sins, “Oh, may shades of darkness hide 
them.” Here the deer and smaller game were 
plentiful, the waters of the lake and streams 
were teeming with the lusty trout, and the fish¬ 
ing was fully described by any of the guides. 
They could tell where the trout were and when 
they would be at home, but their feeding time 
in August, ah! that was a different affair. Suf¬ 
fice it to say, there almost always were as many 
as the cook could use. But it is not all of a 
fishing or shooting vacation to get a lot of fish 
or plenty of game; that is only a sort of main¬ 
spring of the affair. There is the exhilarating 
exercise crossing the trails, the strolling at will 
through the woods, the social intercourse round 
the camp-fire, making photographs—those gentle 
reminders which in the years to come bring back 
memories to us of those happy days, refreshing 
to the memory and pleasing to the mind. It was 
a favorite diversion to glide up in the boat on 
any of the streams running into the lake, and 
in the Stillwater come upon deer feeding upon 
the lilypads or sweet grass at the mouth of the 
spring brooks, replete with verdure and mos¬ 
quitoes. I asked Ed. Huntington, my old and 
reliable guide and one whose veracity was con¬ 
sidered reliable, how long insects stayed 
in the woods, and he said: “Waal, they kim 
in here in the spring on snowshoes, and they 
go away in the fall on the first snow sled.” 
This certainly was a sportsman’s paradise. 
The shores were clear of fallen timber, the water 
was cold and clear, and the most desirable occu¬ 
pied sites for camps were vacated. Now, I do 
■not plead guilty of laziness. I will compromise 
by confessing to preferences for certain kinds of 
work, and deer hunting by various legal methods 
had a fascination for me, but after a while I 
would get tired of it, or at least the sharp edge 
of desire would be dulled a little in time, but 
one thing I have not had enough of is fishing 
for the lordly speckled or square-tailed trout. 
Now, all ye lovers of the rod, disciples of Izaak 
Walton, and lovers of green woods and clear 
waters, who dangle a small fish on a trolling 
rod big enough to grow beans on, with a line 
to match and call it sport, listen and learn what 
happened to one of the craft with a Leonard 
fly-rod, nine and a half feet long, weighing five 
ounces, with a reel to match, a tapered line on 
it, and a six-foot gut leader on Bog Stream 
in August. 
The weather had been warm and the sky 
clear for a few days and the fishing poor. About 
sundown the wind shifted and blew almost a 
gale, with a heavy downpour of rain for two 
days, and during the night it cleared. There had 
not been a fish caught for several days, and the 
turbulent waters of the lake were now placid as 
a basin, and its face shone like a mirror. Ed 
'Huntington, who had learned to play cards while 
in the army, had grown tired of the game, and 
sat down beside me on the veranda and whis¬ 
pered : “The trout will be scattered from the 
spring holes, and to-day we ought to have glori¬ 
ous sport fishing.” So we quietly got into our 
boat and slipped away to try our luck, putting 
together the three joints of that wand that feels 
in your hand like magic, adjusting the reel and 
line with the selected flies, that on referring to 
my diary I find were a scarlet ibis on a No. 4 
hook at the end, a Montreal as a second and a 
brown hackle for a drop fly. 
We tried first at the mouth of the stream 
without success, and Ed deftly paddled the boat 
up the stream a little to a bend, where a huge 
log lay on the shore in the Stillwater. “Now,” 
said Ed, “cast toward the patch of lilypads 
under that log, and you ought to get a good one.” 
No sooner said than done. The two upper flies 
rose in response to the rod, but the end fly was 
fast in the mouth of a three-pound trout. Taken 
by surprise, he leaped with a mighty effort three 
feet into the air. He came harmlessly down 
upon the slack of the line and dove to the bot¬ 
tom. I was fearful lest he would find a sunken 
log, or get tangled up in the lilypads, but I pres¬ 
ently led him out from shore to give battle and 
the response was a sullen shaking as a Scotch 
collie shakes a rabbit. I bore heavily on the 
rod, made a few turns on the reel, and after 
some fierce fighting in the open water, he started 
toward the surface again up and down, back 
and forth through that deep pool. Each time 
he came to the surface he shed a yellow gleam 
of light, and mustering all his powers with one 
supreme effort, he leaped a foot above the sur¬ 
face of the water, until at last exhausting all 
his energy, he rolled over on his side, and Ed, 
who knew his part of the business, slipped the 
(Continued on page 187.) 
