Dec. 28, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
813 
Hunting Game in Maine 
T HERE is a good deal of the primitive in 
most of us, even though we reside in 
cities of large population, enjoying as we 
do the improvements and luxuries of a modern 
city life, surrounded by comforts of culture, 
science and art, and their obvious environ¬ 
ments. 
There frequently comes, after a period of 
energetic engrossing business duties, which in 
these days of rivalry and universal strife to at¬ 
tain and excel, a sort of self-imposed slavery, 
and I know there is such a thing as taking the 
world and ourselves too seriously or anxiously, 
and the half of life’s troubles come from a 
greedy notion that a man’s life consists in the 
abundance of things that he possesses now. 
This frame of mind occasionally breaks out 
into a magic beckoning of old Mother Nature 
to emerge from the routine of these cares, and 
to betake ourselves to the woods, redolent in 
the invigorating atmosphere. Nowhere as in 
the wilderness is there such a change or variety 
of scenes, mountains, lakes, ponds, rivers, 
streams and brooks. And so I chose autumn for 
a few weeks in the heart of the Maine woods. 
Between five and six o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing, on my arrival at the Norcross railway 
station, Thomas Mullen, a strong, active healthy 
and agreeable young fellow came into my life 
—not altogether by chance, but partly by pre¬ 
arrangement. 
It was a cold morning, colder for me than 
it seemed to be for Tom; but after a howdy and 
hand-shake, he and I fitted into each other’s 
lives just as the cartridges fitted the three- 
barreled gun, the weapon of destruction, I 
brought along. He was not exactly an old- 
timer in the guiding business, but was the better 
for that. He knew the woods better than a 
farmer knows his fields; even tempered, al¬ 
ways cheerful, honest, patient and as modest as 
a maiden with a wholesome way of saying and 
doing things. He had worked several years on 
the Lumber Company’s job “on the drive,” 
had “driven team” and had worked up to the 
position of camp boss; but for two years he 
had been guiding sportsmen in the summer for 
the fishing, and in the fall for the hunting, over 
Ambajejus Lake, and the west branch of the 
Penobscot. Tom entertained me with memories 
of these places, the names of which enliven the 
fancy and paralyze the tongue. 
“Ye see that grassy p’int jest ahead of us? 
Last summer I was cornin’ down to the landin’, 
there was three deer a-standin’ on that p’int, a 
buck and two does. It took just a little while 
for us to look over each other and get ac¬ 
quainted; but as each one was looking into the 
other for the same purpose, the fit was speedy 
and proper. 
“I g’ess there is going to be a blow of 
wind. This lake gets awful rough when she 
has a mind to. Some years ago two fellers 
started to go acrost in a canoe and both 
•drowned.” 
I asked him if they had any jigwater in the 
canoe, but he said he did not know—he was 
not there. 
By WILLIAM SIMPSON 
The territory north from the west branch 
of the Penobscot River along the Sourdnahunk 
stream for some twenty-five miles to a lake of 
the same name, is one of grand scenery. The 
mountains are higher and more numerous than 
anywhere in the State of Maine. Katahdin lies 
to the east of the stream. There is something 
charming in the name “stream.” It is the 
most companionable of all placid and material 
things. It lives a lively life, has a good char¬ 
acter, a voice of its own and speaks to people 
of various tongues, as on its banks we met 
a lady and gentleman who were Russian artists 
by profession who conversed to it in various 
languages; to the trout fisherman there is 
nothing outside of the animal kingdom that 
favorably compares with its intimacy. 
The formation or bottom, over which 
Sourdnahunk stream runs, is rocky and gravel¬ 
ly; it has many picturesque falls and rapids, as 
it hurries on its waters to the Penobscot, and 
it unquestionably contains more and livelier 
trout than any other water of its size in the 
Eastern States. Trout are invariably gamer, 
livelier and better fighters when they live in 
swift running water, where they have to battle 
with the current, but if they must live in a 
luxurious home of that nature, this one ought 
to be their first choice. 
On the first day of our journey of over 
twenty miles, the scenery was magnificent. The 
mountains seemed to be getting higher and 
more rugged, and the leaves were gorgeous— 
the beech and maple had turned to orange and 
purple, the birch and poplar were in the gold, 
the soft wood retained its soft green, along 
the banks shrubs of various hues were bathed 
in a flood of living color, the sky was almost 
cloudless, enveloping in a delightful blue a 
woodland scene of superb aspect. At eve the 
birds were singing their closing song as the 
fading light disappeared, and soon all was 
slumbering and nature had drawn her curtain 
for the night. 
At dawn around a turn on the river we 
were in sight of Davis’ camps, that home of 
many woodland comforts, neatly and carefully 
built of peeled spruce logs, lined with cedar 
boards, and with trim cosy appointments, per¬ 
fect linen tastefully arranged, toilet appoint¬ 
ments that gave an air of city manners in a 
forest home. 
Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Davis were on 
hand to administer in their inimitable manner 
the creature comforts to weary wayfarers. 
After a good night’s rest and sound sleep 
—nature’s great restorer—put us in good shape 
for our journey up the stream. After a few 
miles of smooth water we reached a place 
where the canoe had to be left and no other al¬ 
ternative but go afoot on a stiff tramp of about 
four miles. We reached Daisy Pond, a small 
beautiful pond nestled here. It is about a mile 
wide, and from this point is a new trail up to 
the top of Katahdin that I will venture to say 
no lazy person ever reached. I asked Tom 
how high the mountain was, and he said the 
only way to be sure about that was to climb 
up to the top, adding that every person that 
had climbed up there found it high enough. 
Here we came to a pause in our expedition. 
The landlord of the cabin was very talkative. 
I remarked to my guardian Tom that his con¬ 
versation was excessive, and he admitted it, 
but added that he was always that way when he 
imbibed from those brown glass vessels with 
the long necks. He was chock full and bub¬ 
bling over with politics, and like most of the 
people in his social set, was very positive his 
favorite candidate was certain of election. 
However, the lady of the manor served us 
a game luncheon, of several courses, including 
broiled partridge and venison, that brought 
about in us a state of blessed contentment. 
Tom seemed to be doing a lot of thinking, 
then looking me over from head to foot and 
finally square in the eye, said, “The old man 
has a horse and I g’ess ye better hire him to 
KATAHDIN FROM DAISY POND. 
