146 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[July 23, 1910. 
LOCK IN THE STATE DAM, 
Saranac River, between Lower Saranac Lake and Saranac Village. 
An Adirondack Canoe Trip. 
August 23, 8 a. m. we embarked on our long, 
delightful journey from the boat house at head¬ 
quarters (Whitney’s Preserve, Little Tupper 
Lake) amid the waving of handkerchief and 
shouts of “bon voyage.” Our spirits were light 
as the racy morning breeze, pungent with bal¬ 
samic incense, and our canoe seemed to leap 
from wave to wave with eager anticipation in 
response to each paddle stroke. We passed 
leisurely down the lake and through Little 
Tupper Stream, a mere water lane one and a 
quarter miles long, choked in its winding pas¬ 
sage by a conglomerate growth of weeds and 
lilypads. The perspective on either side is filled 
with stunted tamarac and spruce. What seemed 
a boundless plain of sea grass disputed the en¬ 
trance to Round Pond, but our craft glided 
through this slight impediment to open water 
without much difficulty. When half way across 
Round Pond three canoes shoved off from the 
shore which we were approaching and advanced 
in echelon. Their paddles flashed in unison 
across the dancing waves, presenting an inspir¬ 
ing sight in perfect keeping with that salubrious 
morning. The short paddle stroke indicated 
that very likely a woman adorned the bow of 
each boat. As the graceful flotilla drew near, 
such proved to be the fact. The women were 
attired in outing suits with sweaters and felt 
hats and seemed to be enjoying the exaltation 
of outdoor life. We discovered their abandoned 
night camp-fires along the two-mile carry to 
the fork in Bog River. 
While crossing the carry some eggs in a pack 
basket broke and decorated the new canvas suit 
worn by the owner of the basket, with a con¬ 
spicuous yellow. This episode caused much 
dismay, for eggs in camp are a luxury, and this 
was a serious blow to our gastronomic welfare. 
As we were about to re-embark at the fork of 
Bog River, a man emerging from the woods 
accosted us. He had journeyed all the way 
from Axtom—some twenty miles of hard pad¬ 
dling—to fish. He seemed bewildered and 
looked wistful as he said, “How do you do, 
gentlemen?” His fish line had been very care¬ 
lessly left at home. This necessity to his hap¬ 
piness was supplied from our pack and forth¬ 
with he became the happiest man we met on 
the trip. If the time comes when I must ask 
some friend to suffer a great martyrdom for 
me, I believe I could go to that typically char¬ 
acteristic fisherman and he would gladly render 
any sacrifice. 
The Bog River runs through a low flat coun¬ 
try, picturesque and cool, well wooded with 
small trees, willows and vines, having just a 
touch of tropical profusion—a delight to the 
canoeist. The river flows into Big Tupper Lake 
over a noisy falls, around which there is a short 
carry. We lunched on the east shore of Tupper 
Lake beneath the curiously indented brow of 
Mount Morris. The day was clear and warm; 
a north wind kicked up enough disturbance on 
the water to make our boat dance buoyantly; 
an occasional splash on the bare arm and the 
oxygen piling into one’s lungs set our spirits 
climbing and our hearts a-bound. The strata 
is bared along the rocky east shore in many 
places and yellow oxides of iron are visible on 
the face of the high ledges (evidences of iron 
are present almost everywhere in the Adiron- 
dacks). 
We stopped at a boat livery conducted by A. 
Merchantson, in the small hamlet of Moody, 
and had one of the canoe seats strengthened, as 
nothing more substantial than paint had been 
used to fasten a seat brace. Almost the entire 
shore line of Raquette Pond can be viewed 
from Moody. The great mills of Tupper Lake 
village, owned by the A. Sherman Lumber 
Company, Norwood Mfg. Co., Sisson Bros, 
and others, can be seen rearing their grim 
stacks above the roofs of the thriving town. 
This point of the trip makes an excellent over¬ 
night stopping place, but we pushed on, taking 
our course northeast from Moody, paddling 
under the road bridge which spans the outlet, 
to Simon’s Ponds. The short cut into Raquette 
River is narrow and hardly discernible in the 
tangle of thick grass and lilypads on the marshy 
north shore of the first Simon’s Pond, but it 
saves running one of those numerous long 
winds of the wandering Raquette River. 
Hawks, cranes and woodducks rose from bogs 
and tall marsh grass as we passed into Raquette 
River, that great highway of the log drivers. 
Our camp was made about two miles up 
stream. There are few suitable camp sites in 
the first three miles along this water course. 
The country is low, swampy and “mosquitoy.” 
It is a simple matter to make camp with a silk 
shelter tent. Ours weighed about three pounds; 
dimensions, 9 feet by 9 feet. We usually pegged 
one side to the ground, elevating the front 
about five feet by the use of two upright sticks, 
the ropes on the sides and corners of the tent¬ 
ing being used as guys. The tent was always 
pitched on a knoll to prevent inundation of our 
sleeping quarters in case of rain. 
We caught two pickerel with a spoon hook 
during a short paddle down the river. These 
fish weighed about two pounds each and furn¬ 
ished delicious food—more than was needed for 
our supper. After dark we enjoyed (?) a plunge 
in the river. Vigorous mosquitoes of the sur¬ 
rounding country held a carnival about 11s, but 
the exhilaration of the blood’s reaction, induced 
by cold water, together with the sound sleep 
that followed, was recompense for all mosquito 
impediments. This was our first night in the 
open and the “call of the wild” was powerfully 
enticing. The phantom glare of the camp-fire; 
the loon’s sad, uncanny, dismal scream; the 
hooting of the owl; the crack of twigs by un¬ 
guarded steps of forest denizens and then the 
deeper silence; the bark of the fox; the sudden 
swish of some swift-winged bird by chance or 
curiosity cleaving the air above one’s shelter; 
the dreamy crooning of the trees—all are inci¬ 
dents to a responsive environment which im¬ 
parts the real woods sensation and goes to 
make up the thrilling charm of the camp. 
We were under way next morning at 8 a. m. ; 
passed through the Oxbow which, translated, 
means that the river at this point long ago tied 
itself into a Gordian knot. We cruised through 
shady lagoons where great trees beckoned to 
the lowly, leaning willows. Pieces of poplar, 
cut and freshly peeled by beavers’ floated by; 
beaver slides, new and old houses were oc¬ 
casionally seen. Little piles of parched clam 
shells dotted the muddy shore close to the 
water’s edge, where muskrats and their kittens 
had been feeding, and in places the soft sand 
banks were honeycombed with muskrat holes, 
like homes in miniature of the cliff dwellers. 
The indentations of the deer's sharp, dainty 
hoofs were visible in many places, showing that 
he had come at night to drink. A flock of black 
ducks scurried from the water and disappeared 
up the stream. We sighted them again, and 
this time they strategically circled our position 
and, I assume, alighted in our rear where they 
could float and feed undisturbed. 
The current against us began to grow 
stronger. The water changed from its blackish 
color to a rich amber. Mount Seward loomed 
high against the horizon directly before us. 
Passing through the cut at the most northerly 
point of the river, we came to the two old 
abandoned, lonesome-looking log camps at 
Sweeney carry and arrived at Axton about 
noon. Axton supports seven unpainted build¬ 
ings and a derelict bucket well. We attempted 
the passage to Stony Creek ponds, but had to 
abandon that project because of low water, and 
return to Axton where we were transported to 
Corey’s on Upper Saranac Lake. Canoes are 
carried for $1.25 each from Axton to Corey’s 
on a wagon built for the purpose. Three 
parties encountered coming down the river from 
Long Lake crossed the carry with us. 
More grasshoppers are found to the square 
inch in August on the road to Corey’s than in 
any other place in America, I think. They had 
consumed every blade of grass down to the 
bare sod. They covered the fence posts and 
fence boards and swarmed over you as you 
walked along the highway. Corey’s supports 
a post office, where the town cut-up teases the 
girl at the stamp window; a store where the 
camper’s larder may be replenished and a sys¬ 
tem of cottages all finely located on a height of 
ground overlooking the long stretches of Upper 
Saranac Lake. 
(Continued on page 153.) 
A. C. A. Membership. 
NEW MEMBERS PROPOSED. 
Northern Division.—H. A. McCarney, Gan- 
anoque, Ont., Can., by Wm. J. Wing. 
NEW MEMBERS ELECTED. 
Central Division.—6093, Dr. C. W.. Jennings, 
212 North Highland avenue, Pittsburg, Pa 
Northern Division.—6092, David D. Wing, 
Gananoque, Ont., Can. 
