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FOREST AND 
STREAM 
loomed huge and close about us, and we skirted 
great cliffs to get the eddies against the strong 
flood tide. I could not see which way the fiord 
trended nor where it went to. Presently it 
got cold, and I was chilled through, when 
we rounded a huge cliff, and came upon a 
cluster of houses close at hand. A few lights 
yet burned though it was eleven o’clock. 
Some twenty houses were huddled in a dark 
cove in indescribable confusion, much like 
a box of blocks tumbled out at random. 
Three or four ramshackle piers jutted out a 
short way among boats and hulks. These piers 
were mere rows of piles with small poles laid 
side by side across the string pieces for a foot¬ 
way, and apparently held in place by no fasten¬ 
ings. There were no streets, just passageways 
running in any and every direction, and winding 
between the houses, which were mere shacks for 
the most part, with half a dozen board cracker- 
box affairs of two stories. I was told I could 
stay with the postmaster, and followed my men 
(who proved to be half grown boys when I saw 
them in the light), all of us carrying my stuff. 
The postmaster got out of bed and came down 
with a light, and I was shown into a kitchen, 
into which presently crowded the family. My 
boatmen asked $2 (I had expected to pay $5! 
for their night’s work. Had to get out my roll 
(which was wrapped in oiled silk and pinned 
inside my shirt), and found a $20 bill which was 
my smallest money. To my surprise, my host 
said he could change it, disappeared, and after 
being gone at least fifteen minutes upstairs, re¬ 
turned with a handful of ragged bills and small 
coin. For about an hour, the roomful of people 
sat around and asked me questions about my 
journey. The postmaster’s son came in and 
said he would take me to Ramea the next morn¬ 
ing. The start was fixed for 6:30 A. M.” 
Saturday, September 20th. “Up at dawn. Some 
indecision on the part of my boatman as to how 
he would take me over, for there was a heavy 
strata of fog hiding the tops of the hills—though 
the sea was clear. I was much concerned lest 
it shut down and prevent my crossing at all— 
also somewhat distrustful as to the skill and 
character of my boatman who was to take me 
fourteen miles along the open sea on the rock¬ 
iest and wildest kind of coast. My host, who 
seemed a village chief, wouldn’t vouch for the 
man’s ability as a seaman—I did not yet know it 
was his son—but .>aid anyone could take me to 
Ramea all right. We set out soon after 6:30 
in a big, rough, but very staunch open dory, the 
boatman and his mate rowing steadily all the 
way. Entrance to the fiord about a mile below 
the village, and so narrow it seemed one might 
almost throw a stone across it. We passed out 
among the rocks, and rowed close along the shore 
where one great rock dome after another rose 
out of the sea. A very wild, bold coast, even 
beyond that of the Scotch coast of Argylshire. 
Here and there we passed fishermen in dories. I 
was told they lived in little harbors that were 
absolutely hidden among the cliffs. My boat¬ 
man proved to be a rather pathetic creature, 
telling me of their lives with little trace of the 
fisherman’s hardihood. They fished and built 
boats, but the fishing was poor and a big boat, 
twenty-eight or thirty feet long, a heavy, stout 
schooner, only sold for $260. They sawed all the 
timbers and planks and everything by hand, for 
“we are very poor people, sir, and can’t pay 
for sawing them at a mill, even when there is 
one anywhere near. 
“We were four and a half hours crossing to 
Ramea, part of the trip very interesting, but the 
end so cold that I arrived thoroughly chilled. 
“Ramea is a very different sort of fishing village, 
clean and neat, most picturesque, with its re¬ 
markable little shut-in harbor on a channel be¬ 
tween two of the four or five islands. These 
islands, while only a few miles long and all 
cut up by unexpected channels, are high and 
rugged. Practically no land for any sort of 
cultivation, yet each house has its garden patch, 
fifty or seventy-five feet square, .and there 
seemed to be an abundance of cabbage and 
hardy vegetables. I suspect they have to make 
the land for the most part. All their water has 
to be hauled in barrels from pools in the 
rocky yet wet land on top of the hills. By good 
luck for us it seemed the S. S. Glencoe, which 
had been laid off for repairs, was due out of 
season that same afternoon or night, and if we 
could get back in time to catch her, we were all 
right and would be only two days late getting 
home. Made a good trip back to Little River in 
two hours in the motor boat, but I was too much 
concerned over the uncertainly of our situation 
to get much fun out of it. If the Glencoe came 
too early we should miss her; if she came too 
late she would miss the “Bruce” at Port-aux 
Basques. On the way over, our motor went 
wrong several times, and it looked as though we 
might not get across. When we got to Little 
River, our party had not appeared, and we had 
to go on up to the end of the fiord. As we 
rounded each cliff and could not see them, I be¬ 
came very fearful that they had not been able 
to get down to salt water that day, and did not 
know whether I could keep young Penney and 
his man, boy and boat there till our outfit got 
down next morning. At last, nearly at the head 
of the fiord, we saw them coming, all seven men 
in the boatmen’s ark, towing the canoe behind, 
and looking for all the world like a wrecked 
ship’s company.” 
After Bolling and Will left, John and I began 
collecting logs for the raft, which John was 
sure he could build and run down river with, 
but darkness coming on we put up the tent and 
had our supper of tea, and some mouldy cereal, 
with breakfast of the same fare next morning. 
Getting the logs together and cutting them into 
lengths of twenty or tweny-five feet, we lashed 
them with the tow ropes from the canoes, but 
while the raft was large enough to carry two of 
us, it would not also float dunnage, and there 
were no more logs along the shore. 
Failure of the raft scheme forced us to begin 
packing in relays the stuff along the river shore. 
About noon Will with two natives Bolling had 
sent to meet us appeared and we were very glad 
to see them. The black flies swarmed around 
in clouds and were busy beyond words; in spite 
of the head nets, they made a ring of bites 
around my neck that resembled a coral necklace; 
even in the smoke of the fire at dinner, they ate 
with more satisfaction than we. Late in the 
afternoon, we reached the fiord, and soon after 
sighted Bolling coming up with the motor boat. 
Again the journal: “We paid off the boatmen, 
who were very moderate in their demands, took 
the leaky canoe in tow, and made a fast run on 
the ebb tide to Little River village. Here we had 
an anxious twenty minutes while the village was 
searched, first for a lantern, and then for oil, so 
we could see our compass if fog should shut down 
unexpectedly. I was greatly concerned lest the 
Glencoe go by while we were lying just inside 
and out of sight of her. Once past the entrance, 
however, we learned from fishermen that the 
Glencoe had not been seen. The run across to 
Ramea just after sunset, and with the moon 
rising over the great, bold coast, was most 
beautiful. At Ramea, we got all our stuff and 
the canoe ready on the dock, and then went to 
the Jaynes. Though it was ten o’clock, Mrs. 
Jaynes got us some supper, and we lay down 
with most of our clothes on, expecting to be 
called any time for the Glencoe. Though it was 
our first night in a bed in a month, I slept 
poorly because of concern over the coming of 
the boat, as the fog shut in after midnight.” 
Sunday, September 21st. Waked to find no 
word from the dock as to the Glencoe, and lay 
abed until eight o’clock, pretty much disgusted 
over being another twenty-four hours late in 
getfing home. Sent cables saying we could not 
get back till Thursday morning, and wandered 
about the delightful little village. 
About ten o’clock, the Glencoe hove in sight, 
and we left Ramea toward noon. As she had 
to call at every port and discharge an unusual 
amount of freight, we had no hope of making 
the Bruce. The ship’s officers were very kind, 
as Mr. Johnstone had written them, when we 
first intended to go eastward on their ship. De¬ 
lightful afternoon all along the coast, which is 
very beautiful, calling at Burges and other quaint 
little villages, much like Ramea, but not so at¬ 
tractive. Straightened out all our gear and 
cleaned guns on deck with a large and interested 
audience. 
As the ship was greatly crowded after being off 
service for repairs, it was not possible to give us 
a stateroom to ourselves, since four persons can 
be put in each room. We therefore chose to un¬ 
roll our camp sleeping outfits for one more night 
in the open. Sleeping in the corner of the boat 
deck, just under the bridge we kept warm in spite 
of a half gale of wind. 
Monday, September 22d. Just as we were 
wakened by the orders and commotion of coming 
into Port-aux-Basques, and while it was yet 
dark (4:30 or 5:00 A. M.), Will came run¬ 
ning up to tell us the Bruce had not yet sailed, 
and we were in time for her. We were de¬ 
lighted and hastily got our stuff from one ship 
to the other, our trunks out of the warehouse, 
and our mail from Mr. Masdell. There was just 
time to say good-bye to the men who had 
worked so hard and done everything possible to 
make the trip a success; and the Bruce sailed. 
We stowed all the stuff in our trunks, had break¬ 
fast, went to sleep, and were in North Sydney at 
noon. At Sydney we had a luxurious bath, and 
our hair and beards trimmed. A big dinner left 
us still twenty pounds lighter than when we en¬ 
tered the woods, and we had not carried super¬ 
fluous weight then. At nine o’clock we left for 
New York and Philadelphia. 
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