o 
A Maine Guide Without a License 
By JOSH EDWARDS 
How a Small Girl’s Woodcraft Aided the Hunter when 
Deer were Shy 
O N the eastern end of Long Island, if you 
happen to inquire the right direction 
of one of the inhabitants, his reply is 
sure to be, “I dunno,” and then perhaps he will 
listlessly endeavor to give you the needed in¬ 
formation. They are all waiting to be bought 
out by the New York millionaire. Not so in 
the woods of Maine, where all are enthusiastic 
and interested in making your vacation a big 
success. If you are telling of your own ad¬ 
ventures in the woods, they are sure to say, 
“Wall, I wan’-ta-know!” Encouraged by their 
warm cordiality, I wish to tell of my visit to the 
wilderness of Northwestern Maine. 
It happened “this-a-way.” I was spending 
the months of September and October at 
Heald Pond, near Jackman, and had purchased 
the license to kill a deer in September. This 
privilege was issued by the State to allow trout 
fishermen to have venison in camp with a clear 
conscience. So my prospects were good—one 
deer in September and two in October. 
Heald Pond is a mountain lake, high up 
above Moose River and close under Bald 
Mountain. To me the pond had a halo around 
it, the shore line fringed with evergreens and 
studded with the tiny yellow cones of the white 
cedar; the next circle of brilliant reds and yel¬ 
lows from the hardwood ridges; and then 
above the variable haze of the mountain, purple 
in the afternoon and rosy red in the mist at 
sunrise. The trout reflected all this, bejeweled 
with bright red spots and yellow circles. They 
rose to the flies at any time of day, and my 
first week soon vanished. 
Before the second week passed, I had made 
a lucky acquaintance. Being alone in the camp 
of eight or ten log cabins, I was sometimes 
glad to have company. After supper Jessie and 
Willis Henderson, the children of the head 
guide and proprietor, often visited my cabin, 
spending the evening until bedtime in looking 
over my bird books or telling stories of big 
trout and deer. Jessie wished to learn to 
paint, so she colored the figures in all our 
magazines. 
At these times I learned that she loved the 
woods; indeed Jessie herself knew not how 
much, for she chattered away unceasingly when¬ 
ever we were out tramping along the many 
trails and old lumber roads. One morning a 
deer jumped into the woods ahead, and then 
we went on more quietly. Many times we were 
rewarded. A beautiful red fox with black ears 
and nose and white-dipped tail stepped out and 
softly trotted off up the tote road without notic¬ 
ing us. 
Fred Henderson, our proprietor, was a busy 
man, but one afternoon he consented to take 
a few hours off for a hunt; so we paddled 
across the pond and soon were slowly tip¬ 
toeing up a little glen toward the ridge. Not 
many steps had been taken when a deer started 
‘a splash and the white flag above. 
up directly ahead. “Shoot! shoot!” Fred hissed, 
pointing up to a little clump of brush. I could 
just make out a patch of the deer’s neck and 
one ear; holding here, I fired. Chasing up the 
glen after Fred, I found a three-year-old buck 
down on his knees, but looking wicked. A 
knife was a bit too dangerous, so we finished 
him with the rifle. This buck, not having caught 
our scent, had stopped and was probably look¬ 
ing back to see what had startled him. 
Then came the cleaning of the deer. Fred 
claimed that young men would not be so keen 
to kill deer if they always had to do this work. 
I had shot deer in the North Woods, but this 
was my first lesson in dressing the deer, and 
hanging it up, head down and clear of the 
ground, when hunting alone. A green stick 
about two feet long and one and one-half inches 
thick was pushed through both hind legs be¬ 
tween the hamstring and hock joint, so as to 
stretch the carcass open. Then I was told to 
cut and trim a good-sized sapling strong 
enough at the small end to carry our deer. 
This was used as a lever, and resting it in the 
crotch of a tree, we easily lifted the deer oft 
the ground. A good light-weight ax is cer¬ 
tainly the most useful implement one can take 
into the woods. As this young buck was the 
first deer of the season at Heald Pond, he was 
brought into camp and hung up to view for a 
few days, his license tag attached, according 
to law. 
The first week in October Fred wanted to 
make the trip to Alder Brook to get everything 
out there in good shape for a party of hunters 
soon to arrive. This was a chance, so I agreed 
to go with him. Our destination was a lumber 
camp. We made the ten-mile trip easily. The 
first morning was rainy, and Fred said it was 
just right for still-hunting, so after we had 
cleaned up the camp, we were off early in the 
afternoon. We spent two days in the lumber 
workings, a labyrinth of tote roads grown up 
in places with grass. This section had been 
lumbered the previous winter, and the deer 
had come in to feed on the spruce tops. We 1 
saw twenty-six deer, and had several splendid 
chances to shoot, but they were either does or, 
young bucks. It was the greatest sport I have! 
ever enjoyed—being on even terms with the! 
deer and beating them on their own ground. 
About noon the second day, while Fred was! 
carefully following a fresh trail, I peeked over 
his shoulder, to look straight into the face oi 
a big doe lying down and chewing her cud. 1 
shall never forget her eyes as her expression, 
changed from quiet peace to a sense of danger. 
On our return to Heald Pond camps and relat- 
' ing this experience to a bunch of guides sitting 
on the “liars’ bench,” Alick asked whether I 
saw the doe get up. “Sure,” I replied; and the 
laugh was on me. I never did see her legs at 
