Stream Archives - Pour Le Pays Sauvage!

Posts Tagged ‘Stream’

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

0 Comments

Keep Reading →

The Ballad of the Black Fox Skin

Another one of my favorite Robert Service poems;

There was Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike living the life of shame,
When unto them in the Long, Long Night came the man-who-had-no-name;
Bearing his prize of a black fox pelt, out of the Wild he came.

His cheeks were blanched as the flume-head foam when the brown spring freshets flow;
Deep in their dark, sin-calcined pits were his sombre eyes aglow;
They knew him far for the fitful man who spat forth blood on the snow.

“Did ever you see such a skin?” quoth he; “there’s nought in the world so fine–
Such fullness of fur as black as the night, such lustre, such size, such shine;
It’s life to a one-lunged man like me; it’s London, it’s women, it’s wine.

“The Moose-hides called it the devil-fox, and swore that no man could kill;
That he who hunted it, soon or late, must surely suffer some ill;
But I laughed at them and their old squaw-tales.
Ha! Ha! I’m laughing still.

“For look ye, the skin–it’s as smooth as sin, and black as the core of the Pit.
By gun or by trap, whatever the hap, I swore I would capture it;
By star and by star afield and afar, I hunted and would not quit.

“For the devil-fox, it was swift and sly, and it seemed to fleer at me;
I would wake in fright by the camp-fire light, hearing its evil glee;
Into my dream its eyes would gleam, and its shadow would I see.

“It sniffed and ran from the ptarmigan I had poisoned to excess;
Unharmed it sped from my wrathful lead (’twas as if I shot by guess);
Yet it came by night in the stark moonlight to mock at my weariness.

“I tracked it up where the mountains hunch like the vertebrae of the world;
I tracked it down to the death-still pits where the avalanche is hurled;
From the glooms to the sacerdotal snows, where the carded clouds are curled.

“From the vastitudes where the world protrudes through clouds like seas up-shoaled,
I held its track till it led me back to the land I had left of old–
The land I had looted many moons. I was weary and sick and cold.

“I was sick, soul-sick, of the futile chase, and there and then I swore
The foul fiend fox might scathless go, for I would hunt no more;
Then I rubbed mine eyes in a vast surprise–it stood by my cabin door.

“A rifle raised in the wraith-like gloom, and a vengeful shot that sped;
A howl that would thrill a cream-faced corpse–and the demon fox lay dead. . . .
Yet there was never a sign of wound, and never a drop he bled.

“So that was the end of the great black fox, and here is the prize I’ve won;
And now for a drink to cheer me up–I’ve mushed since the early sun;
We’ll drink a toast to the sorry ghost of the fox whose race is run.”

II.

Now Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike, bad as the worst were they;
In their road-house down by the river-trail they waited and watched for prey;
With wine and song they joyed night long, and they slept like swine by day.

For things were done in the Midnight Sun that no tongue will ever tell;
And men there be who walk earth-free, but whose names are writ in hell–
Are writ in flames with the guilty names of Fournier and Labelle.

Put not your trust in a poke of dust would ye sleep the sleep of sin;
For there be those who would rob your clothes ere yet the dawn comes in;
And a prize likewise in a woman’s eyes is a peerless black fox skin.

Put your faith in the mountain cat if you lie within his lair;
Trust the fangs of the mother-wolf, and the claws of the lead-ripped bear;
But oh, of the wiles and the gold-tooth smiles of a dance-hall wench beware!

Wherefore it was beyond all laws that lusts of man restrain,
A man drank deep and sank to sleep never to wake again;
And the Yukon swallowed through a hole the cold corpse of the slain.

III.

The black fox skin a shadow cast from the roof nigh to the floor;
And sleek it seemed and soft it gleamed, and the woman stroked it o’er;
And the man stood by with a brooding eye, and gnashed his teeth and swore.

When thieves and thugs fall out and fight there’s fell arrears to pay;
And soon or late sin meets its fate, and so it fell one day
That Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike fanged up like dogs at bay.

“The skin is mine, all mine,” she cried; “I did the deed alone.”
“It’s share and share with a guilt-yoked pair”, he hissed in a pregnant tone;
And so they snarled like malamutes over a mildewed bone.

And so they fought, by fear untaught, till haply it befell
One dawn of day she slipped away to Dawson town to sell
The fruit of sin, this black fox skin that had made their lives a hell.

She slipped away as still he lay, she clutched the wondrous fur;
Her pulses beat, her foot was fleet, her fear was as a spur;
She laughed with glee, she did not see him rise and follow her.

The bluffs uprear and grimly peer far over Dawson town;
They see its lights a blaze o’ nights and harshly they look down;
They mock the plan and plot of man with grim, ironic frown.

The trail was steep; ’twas at the time when swiftly sinks the snow;
All honey-combed, the river ice was rotting down below;
The river chafed beneath its rind with many a mighty throe.

And up the swift and oozy drift a woman climbed in fear,
Clutching to her a black fox fur as if she held it dear;
And hard she pressed it to her breast–then Windy Ike drew near.

She made no moan–her heart was stone–she read his smiling face,
And like a dream flashed all her life’s dark horror and disgrace;
A moment only–with a snarl he hurled her into space.

She rolled for nigh an hundred feet; she bounded like a ball;
From crag to crag she carromed down through snow and timber fall; . . .
A hole gaped in the river ice; the spray flashed–that was all.

A bird sang for the joy of spring, so piercing sweet and frail;
And blinding bright the land was dight in gay and glittering mail;
And with a wondrous black fox skin a man slid down the trail.

IV.

A wedge-faced man there was who ran along the river bank,
Who stumbled through each drift and slough, and ever slipped and sank,
And ever cursed his Maker’s name, and ever “hooch” he drank.

He travelled like a hunted thing, hard harried, sore distrest;
The old grandmother moon crept out from her cloud-quilted nest;
The aged mountains mocked at him in their primeval rest.

Grim shadows diapered the snow; the air was strangely mild;
The valley’s girth was dumb with mirth, the laughter of the wild;
The still, sardonic laughter of an ogre o’er a child.

The river writhed beneath the ice; it groaned like one in pain,
And yawning chasms opened wide, and closed and yawned again;
And sheets of silver heaved on high until they split in twain.

From out the road-house by the trail they saw a man afar
Make for the narrow river-reach where the swift cross-currents are;
Where, frail and worn, the ice is torn and the angry waters jar.

But they did not see him crash and sink into the icy flow;
They did not see him clinging there, gripped by the undertow,
Clawing with bleeding finger-nails at the jagged ice and snow.

They found a note beside the hole where he had stumbled in:
“Here met his fate by evil luck a man who lived in sin,
And to the one who loves me least I leave this black fox skin.”

And strange it is; for, though they searched the river all around,
No trace or sign of black fox skin was ever after found;
Though one man said he saw the tread of HOOFS deep in the ground.

Posted by fuck0500 in Poems, Trapping

0 Comments

Keep Reading →

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

1 Comment

Keep Reading →

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.

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Maine Life

0 Comments

Keep Reading →

Allagash River

Looking down Chamberlain Lake

The Allagash River. What image comes into your mind when you read those words? A riverman standing on the spring log drive to the mill? A fir tipped horizon on a calm lake at sunset? Class III whitewater? Or how about an American Indian watching you silently from the bank? A large trout bending your fly pole? Allagash itself seems a harsh word, invoking images of jagged dark rocks and dense seemingly impenetrable forests. At one point in history any one of those images would be true. The Allagash cuts a 100 mile ribbon from Chamberlain Lake to its confluence with the St. John. American Indians used the Allagash extensively as a travel route and Above the Gravel Bar: The Native canoe routes of Maine is a very interesting book, and well worth the read if you live in Maine or not. The book (linked at bottom of post) describes how and why the waterways are named the way they are, and the different routes Native Americans used.

Standing at the official put-in for the trip on the Chamberlain Lake thoroughfare is seemingly like standing at an old fork in the road. Heading to the right takes you into Telos pond, portage around Telos dam, down Webster cut (famously described by Thoreau), into Webster Lake and down Webster stream into Grand Lake Matagamon. There are gorgeous views of the mountains in Baxter Park, which is on your right going down Webster Stream. Webster Stream is wild and narrow, and should only be attempted by very accomplished paddlers. Baxter State Park maintains the campsites on Grand Lake Matagamon as well. At the end of the lake is the East Branch of the Penobscot river, which after wonderful views and lots of portages, dumps you into the Penobscot itself. Taking the left way though leads you to Chamberlain Lake, and into the heart of the Allagash river.

Sunrise over Chamberlain Lake

Chamberlain lake is both beautiful, and slightly forbidding because of its sheer size. The day I set forth on Chamberlain it was windy and rainy, and the lake was like a kettle of boiling water with waves reaching up to the gunnels of the canoe. Hindsight being 20/20 I probably should have stayed at the campsite at the end of the thoroughfare and gotten an early start the next morning, but I was anxious to get started. The weather was unforgiving and began to get worse as sheets of rain blew down the lake and into my face. A good portion of the shore is rocky, and prevents an easy canoe landing. Finally I found a spot to stop and take a rest, huddled under a thicket of cedar. As the afternoon wore on, it began to clear, and by late afternoon the wind had calmed down, eventually turning to glass as I paddled along and landed at Lost Spring campsite for the night. After dinner I went down to the shore and caught trout after trout on the flypole, right from the bank. One of the things I find fascinating about camping , especially in Maine, is that as the night darkens and you are sitting by a campfire, lost in your thoughts, it is a timeless moment. With the loons beginning their calls, it could be any moment in history. If you want to travel through time, go camping in the remote Maine wilderness. It’s been wild and free forever. That first night on Chamberlain had that feeling.

Most guidebooks tell you to go across the lake at Ellis Brook to Lock Dam to continue into Eagle Lake. I disagree for a couple of reasons, first being that you will miss some of the tramway. The tramway was a railway that took the logs to the mill, and was a vast improvement over booming them down the lake to the Penobscot river. At most of the campsites on the west side of Chamberlain a short walk leads you to the old railbed, which is now grown up, but still visible. Stand there and imagine the roaring of the steam engine as it passed laden with its load of logs. I wish I could have gone for a ride on one. As you go up the lake it’s a short jaunt up into the start of Allagash Stream to see the old trestle. The right side has fallen into the water, with the rails from the left decending into the depths. It’s a shorter distance now to the east side of the lake, where you will find a portage trail that is about a mile. This is the other thing you would miss if you went via lock dam. Prior to the tramway, there was a steam (donkey engine) conveyor that hauled all the logs from Eagle across to Chamberlain to be boomed up for the journey down the lake. Everything is still there in various stages of decay. A short walk into the woods reveals more, and how nature will always grow back. If memory serves it took the better part of three hours to accomplish the portage, with a special treat at the end. The locomotives that ran on the tramway are still there in the woods in all their glory. They have been somewhat restored (over time one of them had fallen over) by a local group. To get the locomotives there, they were hauled across the thick ice during the winter. Imagine…each one of them weighs 90 tons, looking at a chart of what weights ice can support, it would require 60 inches of ice. The thickest I’ve ever seen was 38 inches. It is magnificent to view, and worth spending some time poking about the area, which is a good place for lunch. These are accessible by taking the Lock dam route as well, but it’s a bit of a paddle.

Locomotives at Eagle Lake

Eagle Lake has an interesting story surrounding it. In 1976 4 men claimed to have been abducted by a UFO and subject to testing by aliens. A good story to relate around the campfire at night. Check out the story here .

When I left the trains to paddle across Eagle Lake, I was taught a valuable lesson about paddling big lakes. Eagle was glass when I started out, without even a ripple on its surface, or a cloud in the sky, headed for Farm Island. Suddenly and without warning, as the shore I was headed to was in view, and the shore I was coming from a good distance behind the wind came up with a vengeance. If you know anything about boating, you want your bow into the wind and into the waves. With this wind that came up it was behind me, and so I had what is called a following sea. The waves grew in size, enough so they would break over the stern and get my back wet. I was in a predicament for sure, and I was becoming more worried by the minute. The trouble with a following sea is that the waves are rolling with you, which makes it a lot easier to get swamped. I pictured the canoe swamped with water, with my gear in disarray around me, as I paddled along, quartering to the waves before each one came through. As I described it after, I swore my way across Eagle Lake. After what seemed like hours, it looked like I would make Farm Island, and it was with relief that I stepped onto its shore for the night. Preparing to be windblown (too windy to paddle) is a must for your itinerary on this trip. The wind slowed at sunset, but did not stop through the night, and I had one more big lake to make before I got onto the river, so at three am under the moon I got up, packed, and with a last look at the Katahdin range, set out to put Eagle Lake to my stern. The wind typically picks up during the day, so I knew this was the prime time to make some distance before it got too windy to go anymore, and I didn’t stop. There is nothing like watching the sun come up from a canoe. By noontime I had made it to the end of Churchill Lake safely and stopped for the night. After setting up camp I wandered down to the sandy shore, went for a swim, and spent the afternoon napping with my feet in the cool water, watching the puffy clouds, and relaxing. All of the campsites are maintained by the Allagash Wilderness Waterway (AWW) and are great places.

The magic thing about any remote camping trip, starts on the third day. For the first couple of days you are “settling in” and still have some of the vestiges clinging to you of the life you are leaving behind. Typically on day three I become free. I deliberately usually don’t bring a watch, or a way to keep time, one of our biggest enslavements as a society. You get to find what cycle of time fits your body the best. When you wake up, eat, sleep all of that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s out the window. And it all starts on day three. I did bring a watch on a long canoe trip once, and discovered how my rhythm compares to our society’s time. I’m usually up and packed around 4 am, watching the sunrise from shore, or while paddling. Lunch on a pretty spot on the river is right around 10. Depending on if I find a spot where I just have to stay there because it’s so nice, or depending on how far I want to go that day I usually have camp set up by 1pm, afternoon snack and a nap, followed by swimming, fishing, or exploring. Dinner around 6, and a paddle, fish, sunset watch. A drink by the fire lost in thought and then bed around 10 or 10:30. That’s who I am when I’m free, and without the constraints of time. Try it – find your rhythm and see who you are when you don’t “have” to do anything but what you want.

After dinner I walked down to Churchill Dam to scout for the next morning, for I would be officially on the river in the morning, and running Chase rapids. One of the great things about the Allagash is there is a ranger at Churchill who for a modest fee (when I was there it was $10.00) to portage all of your gear 10 miles downstream where the river opens up into Umsaskis Lake, and is well worth the price. Chase rapids is rated a strong class II or mild Class III rapid depending on water level. I don’t remember it being all that difficult to get through, most of the time it’s basically just dodging rocks, and exciting. A group of Boy Scouts behind me overturned and broke a thwart. I gave them some duct tape (a must have item to repair a canoe on a trip) so they could get it fixed. One fascinating and exciting thing for me about running rapids is the decision making – you make a calculated best decision with your knowledge, and you instantly know if you were right or not. Where else do you have that instant gratification? In life you always wonder if you are making the right decision, here on the river if you are right, you stay afloat. If you are wrong, you get wet. It’s basic and simple principles, and I like that. After what seems like a long time, around one of the bends is your gear on the bank where the ranger put it. There is still moderate current that brings you into Umsaskis. On the right as you approach the lake is a campsite called Chisholm Brook. I didn’t stay there, but the next time I run the river I am, what a beautiful campsite tucked away in the tall spruce and fir trees…absolutely beautiful. After a short narrow spot you come to Long Lake, where I stayed at Grey Brook campsite.

Morning at Long Lake

After a short piece of river, you come to Harvey Pond and then Long Lake dam, which I portaged. It is possible to run it, although supposedly there are spikes still sticking up that can damage your canoe should you hit one, so I played it safe. Of course, if I was thinking, there is a campsite there where it would be easy to stay since you have all of your gear out anyway. After the dam is a good stretch of river that brings you to Round Pond, the river divides up into threads before emptying in to the pond, and the water is quick. I think all of the separate channels are runnable, I picked the river right channel and made it safely. I stayed at outlet campsite on the end of the pond, before it becomes river again. A passing ranger told me about a must see firetower that was a short walk on the other side of the pond. Her definition of a short walk and mine I believe are quite different. After I finally got to the tower it looked (to me) too rickety to climb. I did climb halfway up and took a look around, and it was a pretty good view. Halfway down the trail I got caught in a thunderstorm that I had to wait out before heading back to camp.

Sitting around the fire that night, a giant frog suddenly appeared just within the firelight. I had never seen, nor have I seen since, a bigger frog. We both sat there looking at each other for a few minutes, when I hatched an idea. I had nightcrawlers for fishing with me, and I slowly reached in the cooler and got one out, and placed it in front of the frog. The frog sat there for a few minutes, and just when I began to think he wasn’t interested, with lightning fast speed he grabbed the worm with both of his front legs and stuffed it in his mouth, pushing it in. It seems it took a millisecond to happen, and then he went back to just sitting there with a blank look on his face. I fetched him another, and then two more. The fifth one he ignored, and then as quick as he was there, he was gone, probably thinking about how lucky he was.

The next morning started uneventfully, but just after getting settled into a good paddling stroke I came around the corner to find a big moose in the middle of the river. The river was narrow here, and I hesitated, trying to decide what to do, and what he was going to do. There didn’t seem to be enough comfortable room on either side of him for me to get by, so I backpaddled and waited. He stood at looked at me for a bit, and then ate a little and then stood some more. Some time passed and I was beginning to think I should make a go of it, when something in the woods caught his interest, and he stared intently at the opposite bank. Shortly another moose appeared on the bank, and they looked at each other for a while. Then, the moose on the bank turned and ran into the woods. The one in the river started chase, running across the river on the side I had thought about getting by him on, making an incredible bow wave in front of him. Lots of excitement that morning. Just past Round Pond on the right is the tornado path. I remember you have to turn around to see it, and I’m not sure what year it happened, but its on the side of a hill and you’ll know it because in the midst of all the conifers is a narrow swath of birch and maple trees. There are occasional rapids and a beautiful stretch of river through here, I pushed hard and made it to Ramsay Ledges just before a fast moving thunderstorm. Exploring that evening I came to a beaver dam and fished it for a bit, and had the pleasure of watching a couple of beavers come over the dam and swim right under the boat. It was a warm July night, and after dinner I waded out into the shallow water and laid down in it, letting the current of the Allagash pass over me for a while. During the night I was awakened to a loud splashing in the river, I stuck my head out of the tent, and shined the headlamp out onto the river to see a big moose staring at me. She raised her ears just like a horse does, and stared at me for a few moments before proceeding upstream, now oblivious to my presence.

Upriver from Ramsay Ledges is a campsite called Cunliffe Depot. Stop in here to see a derelict Lombard steam log hauler, invented in the early 1900′s. It was essentially a steam locomotive with skis on the front to steer, and caterpillar tracks on the back. Truly a leviathan of the woods.

Downriver a ways is Michaud Farm, and past that you will begin to here the roar of Allagash Falls, an unrunnable falls that you portage on the right. Start staying to the right when you hear the falls, and you will see the trail. It’s worth spending some time at the falls for it’s beauty.

Allagash Falls

Between the Falls, and the end of your journey there are some interesting places. The AWW gives you a free map at the beginning of your journey, with the campsites and rapids listed on it. Look for a site called Ghost Landing bar. During the 1800′s a large pine tree fell on and killed the man that was cutting it. The log was found to have a hollow heart when taken taken to the water in preparation to be floated to the mill and was left on the bank. Since then, some folks passing down the river have reported seeing a ghost of the logger standing next to the log crying out to them to put the log in the river so his soul could rest.

Also watch for McGargle Rocks ( I wasn’t quite sure where they were) which are not a problem for canoeists, but were a big problem for loggers. The area is named for a river driver that was killed trying to loosen a log jam.

After Allagash Falls, I stayed at Twin Brook for the night, and prepared to get back to civilization the next day. It got really cold that night, down into the mid 40′s. The next day brought twin brook rapids, Eliza hole rapids, and finally Casey rapids, none of which are bad, before coming around the corner to see the road at Allagash, and bringing the trip to an end.

So there you have it -you have tested your mettle, and found out what you are made of. You have found yourself and lived as we should live. You have disappeared off the map for several days without news, phones, or other distractions other than making the trip. Congratulations.

Here’s a short video of the trip down the river I took in 1997;

And a video of the history of the river;

Some interesting books:

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Maine Life

2 Comments

Keep Reading →

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

1 Comment

Keep Reading →

Posts Tagged ‘Stream’

The River Why

The Ballad of the Black Fox Skin

Maine Beaver Tails

Canoe Racing in Maine

Allagash River

Allagash Lake

Sites worth checking out

Categories

Meta

Blog Traffic