FOREST AND STREAM 
1095 
pelled to take up a cheaper and inferior base 
siock. In the meantime the forest destruction 
and shore desolation must continue in man’s ef¬ 
fort to get more and more spruce to the pulp 
mill. 
The result of man’s commercialism was so 
much in evidence at the headwaters of Chesun- 
cook Lake and at the mouth of Caucomgomoc 
stream, that the joys of a canoe outing were 
temporarily forgotten, but as we pushed further 
and further up stream and reached above the 
pulp dam water levels, we left behind us with¬ 
out regret the dead snag region and paddled into 
Black Pond, where we steered for one of the 
fine camp sites. The place had previously been 
occupied by a party of ladies, which meant that 
the guides had taken extra pains in rigging up 
the camp with rustic comforts, such as extra 
seats, shelves, tables, etc. The balsam bough 
beds were specially thick and decorated with 
cedar trimmings. 
The camp was so attractive that we did not 
mind spending a rainy day there, but on the 
morning of September ioth we were up at six, 
with everything in readiness at 8 a. m., to paddle 
on to the Horse Race, where Bob Eddy was 
doing a thriving business in carrying canoes over 
to Caucomgomoc Lake. The State law requires 
that there must be a natural flow of water when 
the lumber companies are not driving logs, but 
there was a log jam in the stream, hence the 
canoes had to be hauled overland. 
Upon unloading the wagon at the lake and re¬ 
loading the canoe, we worked up the twisting 
connecting stream to Round Pond, camping 
there over night. 
The intention of the writer was to then carry 
over to Allgash Lake, thence to Chamberlain 
Lake and down the East Branch of the Penob¬ 
scot, but on account of the low water and the 
disinclination of the guides to go down the East 
Branch, this trip had to be abandoned and Round 
Pond was the turning point of the outing. The 
Pond, however, proved to be attractive camping 
ground, and it was a pleasure to paddle about 
and up the branch streams and to take walks 
through the woods with the guide. He had been 
a lumberman and guide for forty years, and 
loved to relate about the former days of lumber¬ 
ing, when the woods were full of “pumpkin pine” 
as large around as a hogshead. No one thought 
of taking the upper trunk of the tree in those 
days; only the part below the limbs was fit for 
lumber. 
One of the fine strolls was over the rough road 
to Allgash Lake, which the guide said was “the 
longest three miles that ever lay outdoors.” The 
route is through the heart of the forest with re¬ 
freshing springs along the path. On reaching the 
extensive shores of the lake there was not in 
sight a living creature, save a single 
deer which was moving uncon¬ 
cernedly along the beach. Indeed 
happy and tame seemed the deer 
to-day, but in an ther month, re¬ 
marked the guide—“they would 
take notice with the bullets flying 
over their back.” 
It was with regret that we had to 
turn our backs on attractive Alla- 
gash Lake and retrace our steps to 
Round Pond, for this meant the 
beginning of the return journey. 
As the guides complained that the 
water was too low even to return 
via Chamberlain Lake and Umba- 
zookshus stream, the alternative 
was to go back via the Caucomgo¬ 
moc. We therefore walked and 
paddled back to our camp on 
Round Pond, spending the morrow 
(Sunday) there. The guide put in 
his time making palatable ginger cookies and 
apple sauce, while the “sport” could swing an 
axe to his heart’s content. 
One of the bracing features of Maine woods’ 
life is working about camp—doing your share 
of the daily camp routine. Many go to the woods 
and let the guides do all the work, but that is a 
mistake for the man who makes the trip for, 
among other reasons, to become physically a hun¬ 
dred point, he must use his muscles. 
On breaking camp from Round Pond on Mon¬ 
day morning, September 13, there was a bit of 
fall chill in the air and it was a still gray Sep¬ 
tember day. The Crooked Sis (the outlet of 
Round Pond) was a placid mirror and there was 
not a sound discernible save the swish of our 
paddles. We watched for deer and saw one. 
This made the sixteenth deer sighted so far on 
the trip—not exactly an over supply. But what 
can be expected with the indiscriminate shooting 
by city sports even with the woods guarded by 
game wardens and guides. Now the paper com¬ 
panies are building automobile roads through the 
forest which, of course, mean easier accessi¬ 
bility—and easier slaughter of game. The only 
hope apparently to save the noble game that once 
roamed through Maine’s forest is Federal or 
state ownership—national or commonwealth 
parks. 
On again reaching Lake Caucomgomoc (the 
Indian name for Gull Lake) and going into camp 
we were welcomed by rain, which was most de¬ 
sirable, considering the low water and dryness 
with the consequent danger of fire and, in men¬ 
tioning fire, it was interesting to watch the guide’s 
pains to put out all vestige of camp fires and 
the way he watched the sparks that shot up into 
the trees. When the moss on the trees becomes 
dry it is readily inflammable and a spark might 
start a flame in the tree tops which would de¬ 
vastate a valuable lot of timber. Constant vigil¬ 
ance is the price of fireless woods, and well it 
is for the Maine woods that no city folk are 
allowed to stray through the wilderness with¬ 
out a guide. 
While trolling along Caucomgomoc shores 
without result, in the afternoon we came upon a 
grove of big pines—a noble sight they were— 
a remnant of a vanishing race—and they re¬ 
minded the writer again of some of Thoreau’s 
opinions of years ago in which he said: “They 
(the lumbermen) rapidly run out of these im¬ 
mense forests all the finer and more accessible 
pine timber, and then leave the bears to watch 
the decaying dams, not clearing nor cultivating 
the land nor making roads, nor building houses, 
but leaving it a wilderness as they found it. 
Think how much land they have flowed without 
asking nature’s leave! When the state wishes 
to endow an academy or a university, it grants 
it a tract of forest land; one saw represents 
an academy; a gang a university.” 
What would Thoreau say to-day if he re¬ 
turned and saw his beloved forests being ground 
into pulp? However, we can all be thankful 
that the early lumberman left the woods “a 
wilderness as they found it.” 
If the present owners or the government or 
the Kennebec Valley Protective Association will 
take steps to keep it a wilderness there will be 
reason for more thankfulness. But the rumbling 
of the blasting in building roads over at Loon 
Lake within audible distance of Caucomgomoc 
Lake did not vouchsafe a perpetual wilderness. 
It was break camp again the next morning 
(September 15th) and to be carried past the log 
jam and horse race to Bob Eddy’s camp—then 
paddle down stream to Black Pond, passing eight 
deer on the way, making a total sight to date of 
twenty-eight deer. In the evening we paddled 
around the pond to watch for more, and as we 
drifted by the different points in the beautiful 
twilight stillness—the fascination of the scene 
brought to mind Remington’s memorable sketch, 
“Calling the Bull Moose.” Alas, now-a-days the 
moose was missing, but the spirit of loneliness 
was relieved by the bull frogs, which began their 
evening chorus that resounded and re-echoed 
around the pond. We returned to camp in the 
light of the silvery moon, recalling the lines of 
the song— 
“Oft in the stilly night— 
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me.” 
A thunderstorm was the awakener the next 
morning, but the double tent kept us dry. On 
the way down stream we visited a lumber camp 
and saw them slashing down 12-inch logs for 
the benefit of the newspapers. One of the chop¬ 
pers, who had lumbered on the very same spot 
seventeen years ago, remarked that spruce then 
was considerably thicker and larger. 
The next task was to get up the Penobscot 
River in the extremely low water and wonder 
if, when we were over the North East Carry, 
nature would be kind enough to let us paddle 
back to Kineo instead of being dependent on 
the steamboat. Nature was more than obliging, 
for Moosehead Lake was a beautiful mirror over¬ 
hung with balloon-shaped clouds. It was, there¬ 
fore, a great pleasure to push the canoe over the 
shiny surface to Duck Cove where we camped 
amid Moosehead’s charming scenery. In the 
evening moonlight the guide made the call of 
the moose as we sat on the moonlit 
shore, but nary a moose answered 
the call. 
Despite the beautiful evening,, rain 
and wind swept upon us during the 
night and the guide was anxious 
about venturing out—but by creep¬ 
ing along the shore we were en¬ 
abled to paddle down behind the 
rock of Kineo, have dinner on the 
shore and reach the beach of North 
Bay at 4 P. M. on Septembr 19th, 
ending a delightful thirteen days of 
up and down the Caucomgomoc. 
•Down the Penobscot; Up Katadin; 
Down and Around the Allgash. Other 
articles written by the writer and pub¬ 
lished for Forest and Stream were: To 
Honolulu in a Bark; Through the Yel¬ 
lowstone in the Saddle; A Drive Over 
the Great St. Bernard Pass; Down East 
on a Schooner; Climbing Mount Marcy. 
Desolation. 
