



AUG. 24, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
291 

The Charm of the Discord. 
IN musical compositons the great composers 
frequently inserted discords to heighten the 
melody that followed. It is a cunning trick by 
which he first displeases the ear and then fills 
it with harmonious tones; it is the artful use 
of the law of contrasts. Likewise, as many 
know, a genuine trip into the woods is some- 
thing of a discord, for you do not get the best 
to eat, nor the best bed, nor the greatest ease 
and comfort. Mind you, I am not speaking of 
the camping trips on which slices of civilization, 
such as pneumatic beds, canned stuff, etc., are 
carted along. I speak of the trips on which you 
go it without a guide; where you sleep on last 
year’s balsam boughs and cook your own grub. 
When you go in this manner you get close to 
nature, and as a result find how far your heart 
strings are out of tune with hers, and how much 
more they are in harmony with civilization. 
Since we had this discord idea in mind we 
thought to make it a perfect rasping screech for 
our friend. We wished to do him a service, for 
we had no desire that he should so fall in love 
with the West Canada Creek valley that he would 
spend his days in misery amid the whirl of 
humanity in New York. In order that the city 
would seem an excellent place to live we thought 
it fitting to furnish a discord. Therefore, to 
begin with, we let him walk from the station, a 
distance of seven miles. He had his 5 by 7 
camera, and in his suit case six dozen plates. 
It was a beautiful July day with not a cloud 
in the sky. The road was dry. He took his 
time and listened to the white throat and the 
bluejay, birds that with his penchant for 
“ornies” he had learned at college at Ithaca. He 
came ambling along late in the afternoon with 
the sweat of his brow trailing down his cheeks. 
He was a tall man, but now he seemed especially 
so, for I assume it was because he was a bit 
tired from his long journey. We saw that we 
had given him a good prelude to the discord, 
but since he was joyous over the beauties of 
the region, we walked him a half mile to the 
creek for a swim. It was beastly cold, he 
thought, but refreshing. 
A “bushed” man in the woods is no lark for 
the rest of the crowd, therefore we permitted 
him to recuperate for a day. But the following 
morning, for his share of the burden, we packed 
into one pack basket the camera and plates, to- 
gether with some meal and flour. Whatever else 
was needed we placed in our own two baskets. 
With this done we hit the trail for Black Creek 
Lake at the usual backwoodsman’s rate of speed 
when he goes alone. We started late, so that if 
we hurried we would get to our leanto just be- 
fore dark. There are several trails to this lake. 
We took the one that leads through the old chop- 
pings and the balsam swamps. We did this be- 
cause going through the choppings one can reach 
out the hand and pick delicious raspberries. 
Then in the swamps, in places poles lay half im- 
bedded along the trail in the muck. Walking 
on these poles is most excellent compared with 
that on the miry loam. Of course they are a 
bit slippery to the uncalked shoe, but when one 
toes in, bear fashion, he can walk the length of 
a twenty foot sapling without slipping off more 
than twice. 
When we started out our friend was delighted 
with the pack basket. It was a “dream” to carry 
compared with carrying a camera in one hand 
and a plate-loaded suit case in the other. And 
when we struck the first chopping he was wild 
over the “ambrosia-like’’ raspberries. To be 
sure, there were tall grasping blackberry briars 
also, and it was a bit tormenting to have them 
clasp you around the legs and to draw them- 
selves saw-fashion over the backs of your hands, 
but the berries that were snatched well nigh 
made up for the inconvenience. For flavor “they 
knocked out the tame ones by a mile anda half.” 
Then we swung into Pete Worden’s swamp. 
By this time the pack sort o’ pulled on the neck 
and the straps felt hard on the shoulders, espe- 
cially so when we meandered from one side of 
the trail to the other, over and around rocks and 
mud holes, to seek the best walking, for the 
blooming packs swayed and chafed. They 
jumped and joggled about, bruising and pound- 
ing the sore places, But our friend, who prided 
himself on the quality of endurance required in 
the distant run, kept coming. His gameness per- 
mitted such speed that we were compelled to 
walk only the last half-mile in the dark. 
With appetites like young birds we fell to and 
prepared a supper with “some chaw in it.” We 
cooked a slab of salt pork and a flapjack the 
size of our frying pan per man, taking care not 
to use too much baking powder in the flapjacks. 
Being true Adirondackers, we had some tea, a 
half pound of which we dumped into a two- 
quart pail of water. Our friend ate and drank 
considerably, and then he flopped over on the 
red balsam boughs to rest for the night. The 
spines at every touch fell from the boughs like 
hail and rattled through the brush heap to the 
ground, leaving raw angular twigs and saw logs 
for the weary bones to rest upon. It was impos- 
sible to get fresh boughs that night. 
Nevertheless, since it was cool, we found loads 
of dry wood which we heaped liberally upon the 
fire. By and by it blazed up and our friend 
jumped through the fiery gauntlet and sat on 
the lee side of a tree. When the fire died down 
he came in and said things were creeping about 
in the woods close to camp. We were too weary 
to pay attention and sleep closed our eyes. 
When the first hermit thrush began what some- 
one calls its “musical hiccough,’ we awoke and 
found our friend sitting before the fire with 
his eyes wide open. 
“T didn’t sleep a wink. 
much of that tea.” 
“That’s too bad,’ said Dolph. Then after a 
pause, “Well, it’s the early bird that catches the 
worm. I reckon if we want any fish we'd better 
be going.” 
We ate some bread and butter, a bit of cheese, 
and got into the boat by the time the birds were 
in full song. We persuaded our friend, that as 
there was no fishing in Black Creek Lake, to 
cross it and climb three miles over the moun- 
tain to Baby Lake. Here he pulled them out 
as fast as he could untangle his line and throw 
in. Having satisfied ourselves, and headed for 
home, we took the wrong “run” and scrambled 
a mile out of our way. At last, however, we 
found the lake and arrived at camp by noon. We 
immediately had the frying pan half full of 
grease and a snag of trout swimming around in 
it. The small ones we threw into the pan with- 
out taking out the heart, etc., saying that this 
was the way all true woodsmen did. Our friend 
ate with avidity, always fishing out the ones that 
were cleaned. 
Then we hunted deer with the camera. We 
I guess I drank too 
took our man for a three mile jaunt through a 
second growth to a beaver meadow, where we 
paths and sheep yards” 
slashed around in 
After he had fixed 
balsams we Sat 
found “regular cow 
where deer of all sizes had 
the swale grass and lily pads. 
machine behind 
down. Swarms of 
black flies and punkies rose from the grass and 
They hovered and settled about, the 
punkies aiming especially for the eyes. We 
warned our friend that the slightest movement 
of the hand would ruin our chances of getting 
a deer for at least a half hour. 
After a while the sun sank behind the hill and 
“From now on,” 
up his some 
mosquitoes and clouds of 
moss. 
the insects increased in hordes. 
we whispered “is just the time that deer come 
around most.” Our man was game, a veritable 
Mohawk brave. He sat 
statue, scarcely blinking an eye as he held the 
bulb of the camera. The flies and punkies ran 
in streaks around his face. He was 
with them. Mosquitoes dotted his cheeks and 
neck, pumping their bellies full of blood. “Al- 
most as bad as they are at Heidelberg, down on 
Long Island,’ he whispered. 
“S_s-s-h, see that?” He turned just in time 
to see at the further end of the meadow a buck 
flash its tail in three ridiculously high leaps to 
cover. Although the camera was pointing the 
other way, in his excitement he pressed the bulb 
and the result was a fair picture of the beaver 
there straight as a 
covered 
meadow. 
After another wait it became too 
picture taking. We did not get to camp in time 
to fix the bunk; nevertheless, in spite of the itch- 
ing bites received that afternoon, our friend slept 
During the 
dark for 
to some extent before the sun rose. 
day, however, he talked a great deal concerning 
things that are foreign to this southwestern por- 
tion of the Adirondacks. He had an idea gained 
from reading Charles D. Warner that the Sara- 
nac and Old Forge region must be more beauti- 
ful. He told how the lakes in Massachusetts 
had beaches of nice white Then he 
swung to New York and told about second hand 
book stores, the Museum of Natural History, 
and of other places. All day his mind wandered 
as if in a gentle delirium. 
The next day we had headed down the trail 
for home, for we saw that discord had done its 
work. A number of months afterward we re- 
ceived a letter which said in part: 
“T most heartily accept your invitation to take 
another trip with into the woods. This 
afternoon while I was thinking about it I took 
a stroll into the park and sat down. My mind 
wandered to Black “Crick” Lake where I could 
hear the divine music of the hermit thrush, the 
ventriloquistic call of the winter wren, and the 
surprised scream of the bluejay; yes, I could 
hear the hum of the mosquitoes and feel the 
rough brush in the bunk, but I want to be there 
Guess I was a bit off the 
But I'll be with you, 
pebbles. 
you 
again just the same. 
last time, and no wonder. 
and gladly.” 
Without doubt the discord has its charm. 
EvLpripGE A. SPEARS. 

WHERE QUALITY IS FIRST. 
Campers and sportsmen who demand the best 
should note that the equipment of every scientific 
and exploring expedition for the past fifty years 
has included a supply of Borden’s Eagle Brand 
Condensed Milk. Keeps in any climate and 
under all conditions. The original and leading 
brand since 1857.—Adv. 

