Posts Tagged ‘river’

The Penobscot Man

 

Fannie Hardy Eckstorm wrote The Penobscot Man – a  woman who so eloquently  summed up the rugged individuality of Maine and it’s people in just a few short sentences when she wrote;

The question is sometimes asked why a state like Maine, so sparsely settled, poor, weak in all external aids, can send forth such throngs of masterful men, who, east and west, step to the front to lead, direct, and do. We who were brought up among pine-trees and granite know the secret of their success. It comes not wholly by taking thought: it is in the blood. Here are stories of men, the kind we have yet a-plenty, who die unknown and unnoticed; and every tale is a true one, — not the chance report of strangers, the gleanings of recent acquaintance, the aftermath of hearsay, the enlargements of a fading tradition; but the tales of men who tended me in babyhood, who crooned to me old slumber-songs, who brought me gifts from the woods, who wrought me little keepsakes, or amused my childish hours, — stories which, having gathered them from this one and that one who saw the deed, I have bound into a garland to lay upon their graves. Such tales are numberless; choice becomes invidious unless rigidly limited, and therefore, since the old West Branch Drive is no more, I have chosen solely among its members, and have strung these tales, like beads of remembrance, upon one thread, — of which we who love it never tire, — the River. These are stories told with little art. In the long run, the books that lie closest to the facts have the advantage. It is lovely to be beautiful, but it is essential to be true. The events are actual occurrences; the names, real names; the places any one may see at any time. Yet each story is not merely personal and solitary, but illustrates typically some trait of the whole class. Their virtues are not magnified, their faults are not denied; in black and white, for good or evil, they stand here as they lived.

We who were brought up among pine-trees and granite know the secret of their success –  I say we do indeed!! More powerful and inspiring words have rarely been written about the ruggedness and individuality of a Mainer.  If you love Maine and it’s people, have camped in the North Maine Woods, or paddled any of Maine historic rivers you need to read this book.  You can read it for free here.  This book epitomizes for me the aura and mystique of the Maine woods, it’s rivers so rich with history.  It reminds me of paddling and walking up some unknown brook flowing into Chensuncook Lake far enough to find an old rusted out lantern on a hot summer day…a lantern that evidently was supposed to stay there as I forgot it at our next campsite.  It reminds me of lazily paddling down a small stream in the North Woods scanning the bottom and pondering the history of the area – if this place could talk, what would it say? This book is what Maine is, and what it’s people are.

The story of lugging Sowadnehunk reminds me of a winter I spent trapping with my friend Peter and we would often test each other crossing thin ice and the like – one of us would have the stones to try to cross, and if successful than the other would have to try too.  I can remember crawling across the thin ice of a flowing stream to spread out weight, rather than taking the long walk around.

And what about Joe Attean?   You may remember him as one of Thoreau’s guides, but do you know of his death driving the last of a season’s logs down the river on July 4, 1870?

“One thing everybody knows, – there were men in that boat that could not swim; there are such in every boat.  The others leaped and swam; these clung to the boat.  And Joe Attien stayed with them – not clinging as they did, buried in water, not crouching and abject, waiting for the death that faced him, not a coward now, never, but paddle in hand because the water ran too deep for a pole hold standing astride his sunken boat a big caulked foot upon each gunwhale, working to the last ounce that was in him to drive the sunken wreck and the men clinging to it into some eddy or cleft of the log jams before they were carried down over the Heater and that thundering fall of the Grand Pitch…one remembers him always as standing high in the stern of his boat dying with and for his men.

They found his body floating in Shad Pond just down river. They removed his log driving boots and hung them on a pine-knot of a tree. According to Maine legend those boots still hang as a tribute to Joseph Attean former Chief of the Penobscot Nation and hero of the Maine woods.  All of these places are still here as they were then.  It has always been my dream to find a “kings pine” or a pair of caulked boots hanging from a tree near the river, but it hasn’t happened yet.


 

Posted by fuck0500 in Maine Life

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The River Why

Do not believe anything
because it is said by an authority,
or if it is said to come from angels,
or from Gods,
or from an inspired source.

Believe it only if you have explored it
in your own heart
and mind and body
and found it to be true.

Guatama Buddha

Years ago I read a book called The River Why and I was instantly struck by several paragraphs in the book that I have remembered to this day.   It’s not a casual read, although on the surface it is book about fly fishing, over time the reader discovers that although the story is about fly fishing,  the book is not about fly fishing at all, rather fishing  is a metaphor for a much deeper story.  It’s a fascinating book, and now that I am thinking about it again (and knowing I now have to re-read it) I realize I have at moments throughout my life reflected on the stories in the book.  It’s a book about the discovery of life itself, and that is what makes it powerful.

What struck me about the book is when Gus, the protagonist, is looking for self discovery and compares and contrasts his attempt to achieve a “vision” with that of a Native American Tillamook becoming a man.  They are quite moving words..take your time to read them..I have actually  used them when I was tired..when I was cold…you can substitute any situation you need to overcome in your life similar to the name game song from the 50′s..

When a young Tillamook was ready for manhood, he was led to the fire by the elders.  He was made naked.  His boyhood name was taken and burned.  The people of his village then closed around him like trees round a clearing.  He was given a blanket, a knife, and a pine knot.  The pine knot was lit.  He took the knot and departed; his people sang him away.  The nameless boy carried his knot into the mountains.  He walked slowly, protecting the flame from wind or rain as if it were his soul, shielding it with the blanket, moving inland for as long as it burned.  The knot burned long; he had to walk far.  When the knot burned low he found the nearest stream.  He made a camp, gathered wood, lit a fire before the knot could die….

The Tillamook lit his fire and huddled down beside it.  Then he waited. The night came on.  He paid it no heed.  He knew he’d be waiting a long time.  He’d nothing to eat.  He’d no clothes but a blanket.  He felt the cold, the hunger, the loneliness.  He knew he’d be feeling these things. These things were not so important now.  He had come to meet them, to journey past them.  So, as each came in turn,  the Tillamook greeted them;  Ah; Hunger!  You have come.  Good.  Sit down by the fire.  Sit down in my belly.  Twist and writhe, make awful faces.  Good!  But how my belly growls at you.  How it complains!  Go ahead belly, go ahead hunger; fight!  To fight each other is your work.  Me, I am not hungry.  To fight with you is not my work.  You will both grow tired.  You will leave me in peace….

The Tillamook stayed by his fire.  Cold sneaked up behind him and gnawed his back and legs, so he turned them  to the fire; then cold gnawed his face and knees.  He turned first one way, and then the other, but it gnawed his shadowed side.  Ah cold! You are here. Good. Sit down by the fire.  Sit down in my shadow and make awful faces. Gnaw at my skin and bones.  But how my skin and bones fight you! Go ahead cold, go ahead bones; fight! You will grow tired.  But I am not cold; I am not bones or skin; I am not tired and to fight you is not my work. You will leave me in peace….You will leave me in peace….

If you’ve ever been in The Boy Scouts, and been inducted into the Order of the Arrow, you can see at least some of the similarities to the story of the young Tillamook, and the three honors of the Order of the Arrow.

The book is also very humorous, and it does help if you are familiar with fishing and some of the long standing arguments in fishing – for example, Gus’s Mother only uses bait, and his Dad only uses flies. The story of how they met, and how Gus meets his love are also very funny.  The book is a story about fishing, love, philosophy, self discovery, and life.  It’s amazing to me that the author can relate through Gus fishing on a stream  everything in life.

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Fishing, Uncategorized

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The Story of The Story

Back in 2003 I was fiercely into canoeing, especially racing, and noticed on a website that I checked frequently an offer of a free hat and t-shirt for any humorous story good enough to be published on-line.   I thought about it for a few days and decided that I had a story.  I put pen to paper and recreated a day that happened many years ago, and sent it in to the website.    I was very excited when I heard back from them that they liked the story and wanted to put it up on the website, and I let them know what hat and shirt I wanted, and that was that.

After several months or maybe even a year passed I got a phone call asking for me.  When I affirmed that it was me they were speaking with, the person asked if I was the one who had written the story on the website and I said that I was, wondering what on earth this person wanted.  He then told me he was the person IN the story and I about fell over backwards – here we were some 12 years later and I was talking to my old friend  that I had written about in the story.  It turned out he had come across it on the website, and knew that it had to be the story that we had lived that fall.

That would be kind of cool – reading a random story on the web, and slowly realizing that it involved you.

And that, I thought, was that.

Then, fast forward to 2009, 6 years since the story appeared on the web, and some 20 years since it happened, and I got an email from the website saying that there was someone that wanted to get in touch with me about publishing the story in a collection of outdoor stories.  I got in touch with the publisher, and the story appeared in “Never Trust A Smiling Bear” in 2010.

It’s amazing to me that this little anecdote from 20 years ago has set off the chain of events that it has – you just never know where the little things in life will take you – and that is the story of the story.  I wonder where else it may lead?

This was the story as it first appeared in 2003,

We drifted slowly down the alder choked stream, occasionally having to use their branches to pull ourselves along. There were trees across the stream that had pieces cut out of them with a chainsaw with just enough of an opening for a canoe to get through. The water was tannin stained and full of weed growth, the bottom a black tangle of hundreds of years worth of leaves and twigs, with sandbars here and there that we would temporarily rest upon, before digging our paddles into the muck to get moving again.

My college roommate and I had decided to try duck hunting, and neither one of us had really ever been before, and we were headed down Sunkaze stream in Old Town, Maine, which led to a giant marsh with water channels ribboned through its length, an area we thought would be perfect for ducks. It was early November, and it had been a very cold November, and pockets of the stream that saw little daylight had a skim of ice on them. The morning was still and very cold, and as the sun began to rise mist started steaming of the water. I was in the stern, and my roommate was in the bow as we twisted and turned through the stream, trying to remember all the turns we were taking so we could make it back to the truck. The bowman announced he had to go to the bathroom and there being no solid ground around to speak of, I nosed the canoe into a large hummock that was covered with grass and a few scraggly alders. Just as he stood up there was a burst of water and noise as ducks on the other side of the hummock took to the air, it seemed as though they were everywhere.

We sat in stunned silence, mouths hanging open, neither us, nor the ducks had noticed each other until by fate, we had picked that spot to go to the bathroom. We gathered our wits, and figured with all the ducks flying around the marsh, we should be able to call one in. Paddling downstream a bit, we came to a rather wide piece of water, and we were camoflaged somewhat by tall grass on all sides. We decided this would be the place to try to call a duck, and after a few calls, we had a lone duck headed our way moving quickly. We almost had no time to react as we lifted our guns and aimed at the duck that was bearing down on us and fired.

In that next instant we were both swimming, discovering that it is in fact possible to shoot ones self right out of a canoe; bang and you’re in the drink. I had my gun in one hand, the canoe and paddle in the other. My roommate had dropped his gun, and dove for it in the frigid water. We quickly swam to where we could sink in the muck and only be up to our knees, and emptied the canoe, and started back upstream, not a word past “Are you alright?” spoken after the incident. I think paddling so hard upstream and wool pants kept me from freezing to death that day on the way back to the truck, and we put the canoe on it’s racks with clothes that were literally frozen solid. We got into the truck and cranked up the heat, and after our clothes went from ice to dripping water my companion looked at me and said “you know, we don’t need to tell anyone back at the dorm what happened today”. I laughed and agreed, wondering what that duck was telling his buddies.

You can find the book the story was published in, along with other humorous outdoor stories below;

 

 

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Hunting, Maine Life

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Maine Beaver Tails

 

It was a wind chill advisory day in Maine and I was a mile from the truck standing in front of a beaver house with my friend Peter.  Wind chill advisories are issued when the temperature with the wind chill is expected to fall between approximately -15 to -24 degrees farenheight.  I’m not sure if the wind chill had frosted my brain a little that day, for I knew better than to be standing in front of an active beaver house.   Beaver movement in and out of the entrance, creates weak ice or even worse, shell ice which does not have much strength, and as luck would have it I was standing directly over the channel of the entrance.  The ice gave way with really little warning at all, and I looked down to see the black of the water coming at me.  I reached out and caught myself with my hands leaving me very briefly waist deep in the frigid water, before I leaned back and rolled out of the hole, and rolled on the ice to Peter.  We rubbed snow, which absorbs moisture, all over my legs and I stood up and brushed it off.  It was so cold that the outer layer I was wearing quickly froze solid.  So quickly in fact that the other three layers I was wearing never even got wet from the whole experience.  I was able to finish out the day, and it wasn’t until I got into the truck with the heater on, that my pants began to melt and I got wet and cold for the ride home.

Beavers flourish in Maine for a a number of reasons, foremost being because there is a lot of habitat for them here – in fact there are 37,000 linear miles of beaver habitat here in the state which has the capacity to support 45,000 to 68,000 beavers, of which annually about 10,000 are harvested.  A few years ago due to an increased number of landowner complaints, the state made the season more liberal in hopes that more beavers would be harvested.   A fair amount of Maine is covered by dirt roads, and they are easily washed out by beaver activity on the myriad of streams and rivers that criss cross the state.   Maine at least gets it – I find it hard to fathom other states that have reduced or severely restricted methods of trapping, or trapping altogether.   For example, in the years since Massachusetts banned almost all trapping in ’05, their budget for beaver problems has grown to $1,208,000 which is paid for by taxpayer dollars.  Why on earth would you do that when there are people that will do it for free?  I did some damage control trapping for a while and I always asked if the client could wait until the fur was marketable (about late October thru April) for me to do the job, and I would do it for free.  When they would profusely thank me for fixing their problem I would tell them to remember it if there was ever a vote here to ban trapping.  There is an in depth  Beaver Assessment of Maine paper which you can see here. There is a really interesting chart in the paper showing the average price per pelt, number harvested, and number of license holders.   Trapping and the beaver used to be so tied to our society and way of life it is amazing to me.   Beaver pelts or plews, were as good as currency, Manhatten Island is what it is today because it used to be the place where furs were traded, bought, and sold, and the canoe races here in Maine I believe had there start with the fur trade – the faster you could get your fur to market, the more you got paid.  Beaver trapping here in the state is quite regulated and the Commissioner can and does close areas to the taking of beaver.  Each pelt has to be tagged by a Game Warden, who sends the information of where and when it was caught to the State, so that populations can be monitored.

Over the years I’ve noticed that bobcats love to stand on beaver houses, and I’ve often imagined what a beaver must feel like hearing the cat walk on the house, and hearing it sniff at the top.  Beaver do have a distinctive smell from their castor which was used for earaches, deafness, headaches, and loss of memory back in the day and the beavers use it for territorial purposes using castor mounds, which are large globs of mud deposited on the stream bank with castor deposited on it.  Apparently it all smells uniquely different for them , as it’s an effective method to use castor from another colony to illicit a territorial response in the beaver.   It’s often possible to smell a well established colony on a stream long before you get there.  One year walking down the fragile ice of a stream, Peter and I came across blood on the ice, followed by a blood smear on the snow into some evergreens.  After poking around some, we found where a patient cat had laid in wait overlooking a patch of open water, melting the snow some where it waited.  It appeared that a beaver had came up into the open water and the cat had killed him, dragging him across the ice and into some privacy to enjoy his meal.  ‘Cats seem to love beaver meat, and we had one following us one year – investigating all of the sets, and getting a free meal when we had a catch. One time after it had snowed just enough to show a print, I realized when I got back to the truck that I had forgotten something on the beaver flowage, we had been gone maybe 15 minutes, and when we got back to the ice the cat had been there, and visited all the places we did.  It was a bit eerie to know that he had likely been in a position to be watching us while we were there.

During one winter there was a railroad line I had to walk several miles on, and along the way a red squirrel had dug a hole under the tracks and I would stop and talk to him, which of course he wasn’t very happy with and would scold me from inside his hole.  Then one day it had snowed just a dusting, and as I walked by the squirrel hole, he was no longer scolding me, and there were no tracks on the snow like there always were previous.  I then noticed the track on the rail itself. It was a bobcat track, and it extended as far as I could see – just on the rail – ending at the squirrel hole.  He must have stood waiting for the squirrel to come out and grabbed a quick meal. I followed his track on the rail for just over a mile, where they came from, and went back to, a dense thicket of fur and spruce.  On the way back through later that day, all the evidence had disappeared – the sun had melted the snow off the tracks.

We had discovered a small flowage near an abandoned bridge which had an  old culvert running underneath of it.   The  beavers had plugged both ends of the culvert and created a pond for themselves behind it, with a decent size house, and we decided to come back the following weekend.  It rained for the next few days, and then turned off cold again, and upon returning to the house, the ice had collapsed.  The large amount of rain had pushed through the stuff in the culvert, and the beavers would be unable to fix it from under the ice, the water drained from the pond, and the ice collapsed, leaving the beavers without water or access to their food supply.  I returned that spring to look things over, and it didn’t appear they made it through the winter.

It is common practice not catch all the beavers out of a particular house to leave some for the following year, and trappers generally leave subtle clues for others that the particular flowage has been trapped.  Maine law says that you have to be a certain distance from the house, and generally the further away you are is the best way to just take the older and bigger ones.  I missed my opportunity to take a great picture one year, I was checking sets one cold night, about 10 degrees or so and the air was very still.  Coming over the rise to look onto the flowage the moon was hanging in the air behind the house and the conditions were just right to see the steam from the house rising across the moon  into the cold night air, and I didn’t have the camera.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to paint a picture of what it was like, which was beautiful, as are all the sights and memories of the times I spent in the woods of Maine on the trapline.

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Maine Life, Trapping

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The Impending Fall

I sit at the computer here at night with a window open behind me.  It was rather strange last night, as  I finished my last drink and closed the laptop to get ready to go to sleep, suddenly the smell of woodsmoke on the air came gently wafting in the window, and the poem below literally popped into my head, and I sat back and wrote it down before I forgot it..I changed a couple of words this morning, but it is almost verbatim.

I sit inside this wooded night

Surrounded by the bright starlight

Watching as smoke gently curls

And into the wooded night unfurls

The starlight gleams, in fact, it seems

That fall is at the door.

Winter whispers in the crisp air

Of summer dying without a care

The leaves though green have lost their glow

As the sun sinks lower and drops below

The river steams and taunts me so

It speaks of sooner flying snow

My shadow it lengthens on the Trail

As the scent of dying leaves  inhale

Fall indeed is nigh

Striding into the starlit sky

And I sit inside this wooded night

With the smoke lifting high into the stark starlight.

Posted by fuck0500 in Poems

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The Passadumkeag River

The Lovely Rivers And Lakes Of Maine
by George B.Wallis

O, The lovely rivers and Lakes of Maine!
I am charmed with their names, as my song will explain;
Aboriginal muses  inspire my strain,
While I sing the bright rivers and lakes of  Maine-
From Cupsuptic to Cheputmatticook
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook-
‘gamook, ‘gamook, Pohenegamook,
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook.
For light serenading the “Blue Moselle”,
“Bonnie Doon” and “Sweet Avon” may do  very well;
But the rivers of Maine, in their wild solitudes,
Bring a  thunderous sound from the depth of the woods:

The Aroostook and  Chimmenticook,
The Chimpanaoc and Chinquassabamtook-
‘bamtook, ‘bamtook,  Chinquassabamtook,
The Chimpassoc and Chinquassabamtook,
Behold how they  sparkle and flash in the sun!
The Mattewamkeag and the Mussungun;
The kingly Penobscot, the wild Woolastook,
Kennebec, Kennebago and Sebasticook;
The pretty Presumpscut and gay Tulanbic;
The Ess’quilsagook and little  Schoodic-
Schoodic, Schoodic; The little Schoodic;
The Ess’quilsagook  and little Schoodic.

Yes, Yes, I prefer the bright rivers of  Maine,
To the Rhine or the Rhone or the Saone or the Seine;
These may do  for the Cockney, but give me some nook,
On the Ammonoosuc or the  Wytopadiook.
On the Umsaskis or the Ripogenis,
The Ripogenis or the  Piscataquis-
‘aguis, ‘aguis,
The Piscataguis. “Away down South,” the  Cherokee
Has named his river the Tennessee,
The Chattahoochee and the  Ocmulgee,
The Congaree and the Ohoopee;
But what are they, or the  Frenchy Detroit,

To the Passadumkeag or the Wassatoquoit-
‘toquoit, ‘toquoit, The Wassatoquoit,
To the Passadumkeag or the  Wassatoquoit-
Then turn to the beautiful lakes of Maine
To the Sage of  Auburn be given the strain,
The statesman whose genius and bright fancy,  makes
The earth’s highest glories to shine in its lakes;
What lakes out  of Maine can we place in the book
With the Matagomon and the Pangokomook
”ommok, ‘ommok, The Pangokomook,
With the Matagomon and the  Pangokomook?
Lake Leman, or Como, what care I for them,

When  Maine has the Moosehead and Pangokwahem,
And, sweet as the dews in the  violet’s kiss,
Wallahgosqueqamook and Telesimis;
And when I can share in  the fisherman’s bunk
On the Moosetuckmaguntic or Mol’tunkamunk?
And  Maine has the Eagle Lakes, Cheppawagan,

And the little Sepic and the little  Scapan,
The spreading Sebago, the Congomgomoc,
The Milliemet and  Motesoinloc,
Caribou and the fair Anmonjenegamook,
Oquassaac and rare  Wetokenebacook-
‘acook, ‘accook

Oquassac and rare  Wetokenebacook.
And there are the Pokeshine and Patquongomis;
And there  is the pretty Coscomgonnosis,
The Pemadumook and the old Chesuncook,
Sepois and Mooseleuk; and take care not to miss
The Umbazookskus or the  Sysladobsis.
‘dobsis, ‘dobsis, The Sysladobsis.

O, Give me the rivers  and lakes of Maine
In her mountains or forests or fields of grain,
In  the depth of the shade or the blaze of the sun,
The lakes of Schoodic and  the Basconegun,
And the dear Waubasoos and the clear Aquessuc,
The  Cosbosecontic and Millenkikuk-
‘kikuk, ‘kikuk, The Millenkikuk,
The  Cosbosecontic and Millenkikuk!

Transcribed by Janice  Farnsworth

“The rivers of Maine, in their wild solitudes, bring a thunderous sound from the depth of the woods.”     The places of the wild solitudes shrink every year yet  the Passadumkeag and the other rivers of  Maine still have them.  You can still canoe around a corner on a misty morning, gliding by the steaming banks to surprise a moose, or a bear, or have your fishing line tighten with the bite of a wild brook trout.

Before the highways and byways of our time, waterways were used for travel, and America’s history is full of tales of the rivers used for travel and trade.

When you look at a topographic map of Maine, you can begin to easily pick out the routes that our forebears used to travel from one place to another. The Passadumkeag River’s translation to the native tongue means above the gravel bar, and is named for a distinct gravel bar in the Penobscot River. That gravel bar is an old river highway exit sign when traveling upstream. The Passadumkeag River was a very important route as it allowed for easterly travel. The Native American language also incorporates an easy way for you to tell whether or not the river is hard or easy to paddle by the name itself. If the river is relatively easy to paddle, it has a “keag” at the end – such as Passadumkeag, Mattawamkeag, and Kenduskeag. If the river is hard to paddle it has a “hunk” at the end such as Nesowadnehunk, Madunkehunk, and O’zwazo-ge-hunk streams. Interestingly the translation of O’zwazo-ge-hunk is “when they come by here they wade their canoes”. So, the Native American names for rivers and lakes in Maine are not named randomly – they all have a specific meaning, worth looking up if you can before attempting a first paddle. My experience with the Passadumkeag begins where the entrance of Cold Stream enters the river a few miles up from Route 2. The river is flat, calm, and deep here and has a marshy/boggy area that extends some distance on either side. Paddling up Cold Stream is fun as well, winding through the marsh. I have yet to paddle down, but someday I want to paddle the length of the stream from Cold Stream Pond down to the Passadumkeag, I think it would be a great paddle.

Last year while slowly paddling and trolling upriver there was quite a disturbance on the bank to my right. I watched for a bit as the commotion continued, and got a glimpse of what I thought was an otter. I whistled and gave a little call out, and shortly a mother otter appeared, steaming across the water with two babies rapidly following her right towards the canoe! They got close enough for me to get a little nervous and she alternated between whistling and hissing at us. She and the young would swim far out, and then back again to the boat, vocalizing all the while. I pulled up my line, and when she would go under, I would give chase, stopping when she came up. We then alternated, and I would paddle away fast with her giving chase. Finally they tired of the fun and swam off downriver in search of other adventures. Otters are such curious creatures – their curiousity is quite similar , in my opinion, to that of a cat, if not more so. My friend Peter once saw one playing with a stray balloon on a stream in the middle of nowhere.

I’ve also seen some large moose roaming the banks in the summer time, and found it interesting that back in the day the Passadumkeag “had some of the best hunting in Maine.” It certainly is teeming with wildlife.

I learned something new when I was looking at things to write about the Passadumkeag. On the knoll that overlooks the Passadumkeag and Cold Stream confluence there is a small farm (Hathaway Farm) and there is also an old cemetery there, references for the cemetery and history of the region can be found here, here, and here.  Take the time to scroll down and through the last link – it’s a good read.

 

And interestingly in reading about the cemetery there on the hill they talk about the “Red Paint People”, a mystery in and of itself. The Red Paint People flourished between 3,000 and 10,000 BC and were found from Labrador to New York on the coasts and rivers. For their time, they had elaborate burial ceremonies and used Red Ochre to paint shrouds and gravesites. Olamon stream, which is very close to the Passadumkeag and also flows into the mighty Penobscot translates to “Red Paint” and is known for its naturally occurring Red Ochre. They used tools, but did not have pottery or metal. They fished the Passadumkeag before the pyramids of Egypt were even built. They are somewhat of a mystery because they seem to have disappeared without much of a trace, other than their elaborate burial ceremonies and leaving lots of speculation as to what happened.

I find it very fascinating that a cemetery used by the Red Paint people is overlooking my little piece of the Passadumkeag River where I love to go fishing, and apparently where people have loved to go fishing since 10,000 BC. Now that’s transcending history!

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Hunting, Maine Life

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Canoe Racing in Maine

I could hear the roar of the falls in the distance as we paddled closer to them. This was the part of the race I had been dreading – my first time over 6 mile falls, in front of a throng of spectators, and captured on local television for a myriad of other watchers, all of who were waiting for the same thing – watching people in The Kenduskeag Stream Race tipping over at 6 mile falls.

Refreshed from paddling the 100 mile trip down the Allagash river that previous summer, I felt exhilarated. Paddling the wilderness river had taught me a lot about how to handle whitewater and fastwater, a stumbling block for me up until then, and I had felt confident about paddling the Kenduskeag race.  As the falls approached closer, I could feel nervousness building in my body, the adrenaline making my hands shake a little as we paddled onward. The current enveloped around us and perpetually led us closer to the brink. There was no turning back now. We held back as much as we could, wanting a clear path without other canoes in our way. 6 Mile falls is aptly named – it’s 6 miles up Kenduskeag Stream from the Penobscot River. The race itself is about 16 miles – I’ve always wished the whitewater was the first part of the race, but it’s the last, and you have just finished racing 10 miles of flat water when you get to the fast water sections. The most important thing about 6 mile falls is to be lined up properly before you take the class III plunge over the drop. As we got closer I didn’t think I was ready any more. I subconsciously spoke what I was thinking at the moment – “just don’t dump on camera.” Fred, my paddling partner for the race laughed and said “some times you watch the entertainment, and sometimes you ARE the entertainment.” I for one, didn’t want to be the entertainment. As we rounded the last corner of our route in the upper falls, the spectators came into view. It was a lot different seeing things from a river view than a television view. There were people everywhere! The river grabbed my attention as we headed river center and approached the falls. When I felt the moment was right, I pushed with the paddle to get our bow headed straight down over the falls and into it’s throat. There was a drop, and a couple of big bumps and then suddenly, as fast as it began, it was over. We had made it, and Fred twirled his paddled over his head in victory. I’ve run that race many times since, and the falls are always the part of the race where I still worry about dumping over in front of the crowd. Knock on wood, so far it has never happened.

Maine has a healthy and vibrant canoe racing circuit with no shortage of rivers, stream, and lakes to race, and largely organized by the Maine Canoe and Kayak racing organization or Mackro.  Races take place from the last weekend in March until October.  Their website and the updated race schedules, pictures, and race results can be found here;

MACKRO

6 Mile Falls during race day;

6 Mile Falls

 

The other highlight of racing here in Maine for me was Souadabscook Stream. I had a few years of racing under my belt when I decided to give it a shot. I was immediately discouraged from other paddlers I knew because it’s a tough stream, which is why I wanted to try it. I worried a little about what I was hearing, but it eventually only increased my resolve to give it a try. I raced a lot that spring, and I had gotten in shape over the winter in the gym. Race day came, and I was nervous and antsy to get on the river. My paddling partner and I decided that if we got to the Emerson Mill bridge and we had encountered problems getting to there, we would just stop and pull out there. There were two places on this river I was concerned about – the first being Emerson Mills, which is a three foot drop that has to be run “just right, or you will certainly swamp”. The other was just downstream of that and (depending on which map you have)  is either called the Hairpin turn, or Crawford’s drop, a Class III pitch. Described as “technically demanding”, “rock littered chute” and “excruciating hairpin turn” gave me pause to look the area over carefully before doing the race. That year, Hammond Pond, which is a small part of the race was still frozen before race day, and a channel was cut through the ice so a canoe or kayak could negotiate through to the stream. That’s when things get interesting. I had never encountered current that was quite as pushy as that was, and the first turn we went around had different currents on the bow of the 17′ canoe then were at the stern, and I remember thinking that this stream was going to test my mettle and take all the skills that I had. Negotiating that first turn wasn’t pretty, but we made it. The class III ledge drop above Emerson Mill was a bit of a surprise, I could hear it coming, and then as we rounded the bend, there was a horizon line that worried me, but we were committed at this point, and made the drop just fine. The current then took our full attention and I could see in the distance the bridge indicating that Emerson Mill was approaching. I headed to river left to take the extreme left channel that I had read about in the river running  description – here’s a pic of us going over the drop that day.

Emerson Mill

We pulled off to the side to bail the water out of the boat that we took on doing the drop, and I remember my hand shaking as I bailed out the canoe. We decided that we were doing just fine in the race and continued on to Crawford’s drop. There was a small crowd here as we started down the rock littered chutes. My paddling through here was far from elegant, and was probably the equivalent of over-correcting when a car is skidding, but we dodged where we had to dodge, and turned where we had to turn, and negotiated our way through the pitch. Having just enough time to recover from that, we were at the drop underneath the next bridge. Had we not had airbags in the boat, this is the only place during the race that we would have swamped. There was just too much water there, and it poured in over the bow and flooded the boat. The airbags worked though and we stayed afloat enough to paddle to the portage take out, swaying dangerously from side to side as we did so.

Here’s a pic of us right after that drop, on the first “bounce”  after burying the bow in the wave, and the stern underwater.

 

We finished the race without tipping over, and I felt a huge sense of accomplishment at having negotiated the stream.  In fact, we even got third place in our class that year.

For me the canoe is a fascinating way to go across water, because it is never a perfect craft. Everything in canoe building is a compromise. If you want a flat-water racer, it’s not going to be good in whitewater, and conversely a whitewater boat is not going to do well at all on the flat-water.  Compromises between the two extremes  are innumerable and life long arguments exist for which is best.  Although it’s popularity is soaring, I’ve never liked  being in a kayak.   The canoe is preferred for me, and it’s just more of a romantic craft I guess. There is something to be said for negotiating a Class III in an open boat, and being able to  stand up to visually inspect a rapid before you are in it.  Being able to add enough gear  and food for a week or more expedition is a plus as well.  It’s also interesting  for me to think about the history that I am in a sense repeating when I paddle down a spring snowmelt raging river.  Before there were roads,  there were waterways. One of the old canoe travel routes has been “revived” in recent years as the Northern Forest Canoe Trail, a 740 mile route from Old Forge New York to Fort Kent Maine.  Take a look at topo maps of Maine and imagine the blue ribbons of water you see as highways, as that’s what they were.   Native Americans used them for travel, and I’m sure raced one another to see who was the better canoe builder or paddler.   After trapping for the winter months, early trappers used the waterways to get their furs to market on the spring freshet.   In those days the faster you got your furs to market, the more you got paid, and they raced each other to get there as fast as possible.  Here in Maine for years and years there were river drives that brought winter harvested logs down river to the mills. The practice of  running logs down rivers started here in Maine and ended with the last drive in 1976, on the Kennebec River, a river that I paddled  with my father.  My great uncle worked for Great Northern Paper, and was present for some of the log drives.   It was a way of life for so many people.  Please take the time to watch  the video  here.     Look at the sheer rivers of logs, and the huge booms of logs that went across Moosehead Lake.  I wish I could have done it once, or at least witnessed it.  So, when I race a canoe down the rivers of Maine, I am a Native American proving my worth, I am a fur trapper racing to get my furs to market, and I am a river driver on the spring drive to the mills.    I am living history, and that makes an amazing timeless connection for me.

I put together a video of some of the canoe races over the years below.

YouTube Preview Image

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Maine Life

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Allagash Lake


It took me three attempts in a five year period to finally reach this beautiful place, one of Maine’s most remote waters, Allagash Lake.  The lake is accessible only via a long hike in from Johnson Pond, or by canoe, and there are no internal combustion engines allowed on the lake.  To access the lake by canoe is more involved than it may sound. One way is to paddle all of Chamberlain Lake (an Allagash River headwater), a distance of about 16 miles, and then pole 6 miles UP Allagash Stream to the eastern end of Allagash Lake.   It is also possible to drive to a put in on Allagash Stream and paddle downstream to the western end of the lake.  Both methods involve their own set of hardships.  Another way I have read about to get in is via a carry trail coming in to the south end of the lake, which I never attempted to find, nor have I found any accounts of anyone that has actually entered the lake this way.  Allagash Lake covers 4,360 acres and spans 3 and a half miles, averaging 35 feet deep, it’s deepest being 89 feet.  It is renowned for it’s brook trout fishing. My first attempt to visit this lake was during a trip down the Allagash River.  In the deadwater that signifies the transition from lake to stream at the northwestern end of Chamberlain Lake, we glided by the derelict Umbazookus railroad trestle, with it’s twisted rails decending into the tannin colored water.  The canoe was laden with a weeks worth of provisions for the river, and the stream was swollen with three inches of thunderstorm rain from two nights previous.  The situation quickly became unmanageable and went from bad to worse.  I paddled and then fashioned a makeshift pole, and then hopped in the chest deep stream and pulled the canoe upstream before discretion became the better part of valor and I turned around.  Resting as the current took  it’s hold on us I noticed the beauty of the fir and spruce covered banks of this narrow stream, and the peaceful feeling of how remote this was.  I instantly vowed a return trip, and to make it a destination instead of a side trip.  After poring over maps, a year or so later I attempted the trip again, this time driving to the put in on Allagash Stream with the hope of  paddling down to the lake and returning back upstream, a distance of about three miles.  Due to the numerous logging roads a current and updated map is essential.  DeLorme map publishes  the Maine Atlas and Gazateer, which is a must have for this region.  Logging roads change constantly so use other landmarks such as streams when using a map to get to the put in on Allagash Stream.   Driving in this way had it’s own set of hardships, and I was very happy that I was in a 4 wheel drive vehicle.  There were numerous brook crossings and a beaver dam with a washed out culvert that had to be crossed as well.  I made it to the put in, there appeared to be enough water to float the canoe, and no shortage of black flies.  With the canoe packed, we headed downstream only to bottom out around the first bend.  We were able to walk the canoe for a while and ever the optimist I reassured myself by thinking surely around the next bend there will be enough water for us to float, but eventually were forced to turn back.  The return trip came in June of 2002, this time with my father who was a large part of my interest in canoeing and a fitting companion for a finally successful trip.  My main goal at the lake was the ice caves, which lie on the southwestern shore and take their name from the ice found in them year round. We arrived at the put in and loaded the canoe.  Our first trial was the clouds of black flies.  At one point I stuck my head in the truck to get my water shoes, and several minutes after closing the door the sun’s heat killed the black flies that had come in with me, which turned the dashboard black with their remains.   In all the years I have spent canoeing in Maine, I truthfully have never seen the black flies as bad as they were then, and I would have given my paycheck for a bug net.  The first bend, where I had bottomed out before floated us just fine.  I smelled success for a moment before the stream captured my full attention as we twisted and turned the canoe around the rocks and occasional spruce branch strainer.   On the way we noticed where turtles had crawled up onto a sandbar and deposited eggs.  The stream began with good current and as we neared the lake it got deeper and slowed down considerably.  We watched a huge trout zip under the canoe, headed upstream.  Rounding a bend the lake came into view – I had finally made it!  The first campsite was just past where the lake begins, and we waved to it’s occupants as we went by.  Maine fishing is legendary and Allagash Lake is renowned for it’s fishery.  I believe this lake is as good as it gets as far as the way “fishing used to be”.  The lake surface that day was smooth as glass which, as any person who has canoed a large Maine lake before would agree, is not the normal state of affairs.  So, without further ado, we hopped back in to the canoe after setting up camp for a little trolling.  Trolling by paddle is one of the best fishing techniques there is, because every stroke of the paddle varies the lure speed, and gives it a more natural appearance.  We fished for several minutes before my rod bent over, and the line began singing off the reel.  There we were on a lake that looked like a mirror, in the remote Maine wilderness, with a big fish on. For a moment I forgot the bugs in the excitement.  Several minutes later I landed a nice 17 inch brook trout.  We caught and landed several more fish in the 18 inch range before hunger brought us in off the water.  After an enjoyable dinner and evening, we went to bed amidst the chorus of loons. Early the next morning we had a quick breakfast and hit the lake again in search of brookies.  Someone was looking over us this trip, as my paddle made the only ripples across the surface for another day.  We explored the lake which is extremely beautiful and rugged.  After lunch, we went to the ice cave which had an easily visible path to it.  We made it in as far as I dared to go, which was a point where you would have to ease through a little crevice in the rocks, almost cervix like in appearance.  Upon getting back to camp I saw a timber-jack, a/k/a a canda jay.  Legend has it that these birds are deceased loggers that have come back to life and that it is good luck to feed them.  They are by nature very tame, and as I hadn’t seen one in many years, I fed it some crackers. There was a baby nearby in a tree, and it got some crackers as well, brought to it by it’s mother.  On the day we left, as we packed and took pictures of the sunrise, a bald eagle sat in a tree and watched us.  The trip upstream was much easier than I had anticipated, only taking us a couple of hours.  This trip was extremely rewarding, and the possibilities surrounding it, and other trips in the region are seemingly endless, all of it in fascinating country, both in history and scenery.

A great satellite image of Allagash Lake can be found  here.

Note: this is a portion of  a story I felt lucky to get published in the now defunct Paddle and Portage magazine Summer 2003.  I wish it was still in print, it was a great magazine.

 




Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Maine Life

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