Posts Tagged ‘wilderness’

Gramps Garage

While randomly passing by somewhere today I smelled my Gramp’s old garage and a wave of nostalgia washed over me.  I’m not sure how one would even describe it to someone and come close to getting it right.  How do you describe a combination of fresh air, cigarette smoke, firewood, gunpowder, whiskey,chain saws, deer meat, gardening tools, work boots, and wood smoke combined and steeped in lots and lots of time.  I’ve read that smell can be a strong trigger for memory, and I instantly remembered poring over old pictures, listening to stories, shooting guns, looking for deer, fishing…but most of all I remembered wanting to be here…in Maine.  Exploring whats around the next bend in the river or the next rise of the trail.  Jumping at the explosion of the flushing grouse.  Throwing out a lure and seeing the line instantly tighten with a fish.

Centerfolds from Playboy magazine hung on the walls as did the names and dates of his friends who had passed.  In those days in Maine drinking during the day was an accepted practice, and the estate caretakers and gardeners would often congregate at Gramps garage for a drink at 9 am which was morning break.  I would sit with them, a child some 60 years their junior and listen to all their stories, taking everything in.  Ted Donnell, Clyde Carter, David Hyde, Tony Hamor, Elmer Green, Hap Haskell, Waldo Damon, Donald Bryant, Ralph Young, and Hughie Wright were part of the crew that would visit his garage.  As I sit here today I can still hear and see them in my mind.  Before 9 am Gramp would say he was having “apple juice” but after 9 he would  call it a snort.  You can read more about Gramp here.

I’m not religious but I always had a deep respect for how our town’s minister handled funerals.  When Gramp died he took the time to grieve with us and learn some of Gramps stories and special quirks.  The minister knew of Gramps garage, and after the funeral quietly handed my mother a piece of paper with a quote from Frederick Buechner.

Only God is Holy, just as only people are human.  God’s holiness is God’s Godness.  To speak anything else as holy is to say that it has something of God’s mark upon it.  Times, places, things, and people can all be holy, and when they are, they are usually not hard to recognize.

One holy place I know is a workshop attached to a barn.  There is a wood-burning stove in it made out of an oil-drum. There is a workbench, dark and dented, with shallow, crammed drawers behind one of which a cat lives.  There is a girlie calendar on the wall, plus various lengths of chain and rope, shovels and rakes of different sizes and shapes, some worn-out jackets and caps on pegs, an electric clock that doesn’t keep time.  On the workbench are two small plug-in radios both of which have serious things wrong with them. There are several metal boxes full of wrenches and a bench saw.  There are a couple of chairs with rungs missing.  The place smells mainly of engine oil and smoke–both of wood smoke and pipe smoke.  The windows are small, even on bright days what light there is comes through mainly in window-sized patches on the floor.

I have no idea why this place is holy, but you can tell it is the moment you set foot in it if you have an eye for that kind of thing.  For reasons known only to God, it is one place God uses for sending God’s love through.

Frederick Buechner’s Beyond Words, p. 156

Posted by fuck0500 in Hunting, Maine Life

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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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Alone in the Wilderness Dick Proenneke

 

DESTINATION-  BACK AND BEYOND

 

 

I have often thought about what I would do out here if I were stricken with a serious illness, if I broke a leg, cut myself badly, or had an attack of appendicitis. Almost as quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. Why worry about something that isn’t? . . . I have thought briefly about getting caught in rock slides or falling from a rock face. If that happened, I would probably perish on the mountain in much the same way many of the big animals do. I would be long gone before anyone found me. My only wish is that folks wouldn’t spend a lot of time searching. When the time comes for a man to look his Maker in the eye, where better could the meeting be held than in the wilderness?

If you have never come across the name Richard Proenneke (May 4, 1916-April 28, 2003), and there is a part of you that listens to the Wilderness calling, if you yearn for the way life should be, and enjoy the comfort of a hearth in a cabin on a snowy night, then you will probably be interested in his story.

Dick was born in Iowa, and spent time as a carpenter in the Navy during which he contracted rheumatic fever, and was bedridden for almost 6 months, vowing after to spend the rest of his life working on the strength and health of his body.   After being discharged, he went to school and became a very adept diesel mechanic – his skill were well known and sought after in Kodiak Alaska where he had eventually moved.  Dick’s heart was captured by the wildness of Alaska.  In the spring of 1967, a contractor that Dick was working for was under pressure to hire only union men – Dick always felt he was his own man, and he did the job he had to do without worrying about the hours or conditions.  It was the excuse he needed to plan his retirement at Twin Lakes, and at 51 Dick headed into the Wild and never looked back.

I was here to test myself,  not that I had never done it before, but this time it was going to be a more thorough and lasting examination.

It would be a tough argument  to win to find a person on earth that was more hardcore than Dick Proenneke.  I can imagine one bit of his experience as I’ve built my own cabin from scratch using wood from the surrounding property, but I had the benefit of a chain saw. Dick did it all by hand, including a stone hearth and chimney.  One thing that I found amazing when reading the book is that not only did he use only hand tools, to save on weight he only packed in the axe heads and other steel items and built the handles after he got there.  Who does that????  It would be such a daunting task for me I would certainly quickly feel overwhelmed to think that I had to build my axe handle before starting to build my cabin.

Thankfully Dick kept a journal of all of his activities which is now a book “One Man’s Wilderness”  and shot lots and lots of film, which is now a movie ” Alone in the Wilderness”, both of which are available at the end of this post.  I am so thankful that he had the forethought to know that there are many of us that would relish and envy his life.

The book begins with one of my favorite poems by Robert Service – I’m Scared of it All;

I’m scared of it all, God’s truth! so I am;
It’s too big and brutal for me.
My nerve’s on the raw and I don’t give a damn
For all the “hoorah” that I see.
I’m pinned between subway and overhead train,
Where automobillies swoop down:
Oh, I want to go back to the timber again –
I’m scared of the terrible town.

I want to go back to my lean, ashen plains;
My rivers that flash into foam;
My ultimate valleys where solitude reigns;
My trail from Fort Churchill to Nome.
My forests packed full of mysterious gloom,
My ice-fields agrind and aglare:
The city is deadfalled with danger and doom –
I know that I’m safer up there.

I watch the wan faces that flash in the street;
All kinds and all classes I see.
Yet never a one in the million I meet,
Has the smile of a comrade for me.
Just jaded and panting like dogs in a pack;
Just tensed and intent on the goal:
O God! but I’m lonesome — I wish I was back,
Up there in the land of the Pole.

I wish I was back on the Hunger Plateaus,
And seeking the lost caribou;
I wish I was up where the Coppermine flows
To the kick of my little canoe.
I’d like to be far on some weariful shore,
In the Land of the Blizzard and Bear;
Oh, I wish I was snug in the Arctic once more,
For I know I am safer up there!

I prowl in the canyons of dismal unrest;
I cringe — I’m so weak and so small.
I can’t get my bearings, I’m crushed and oppressed
With the haste and the waste of it all.
The slaves and the madman, the lust and the sweat,
The fear in the faces I see;
The getting, the spending, the fever, the fret –
It’s too bleeding cruel for me.

I feel it’s all wrong, but I can’t tell you why –
The palace, the hovel next door;
The insolent towers that sprawl to the sky,
The crush and the rush and the roar.
I’m trapped like a fox and I fear for my pelt;
I cower in the crash and the glare;
Oh, I want to be back in the avalanche belt,
For I know that it’s safer up there!

I’m scared of it all: Oh, afar I can hear
The voice of my solitudes call!
We’re nothing but brute with a little veneer,
And nature is best after all.
There’s tumult and terror abroad in the street;
There’s menace and doom in the air;
I’ve got to get back to my thousand-mile beat;
The trail where the cougar and silver-tip meet;
The snows and the camp-fire, with wolves at my feet;
Good-bye, for it’s safer up there.

To be forming good habits up there;
To be starving on rabbits up there;
In your hunger and woe,
Though it’s sixty below,
Oh, I know that it’s safer up there!

In 1998 Dick entrusted his cabin and cache to the Park Service, after spending some 30 years alone in the Alaskan Wilderness.  What an adventure it must have been.  The Park Service is maintaining it as a historic site, and there was an agreement that he could return to stay in his cabin anytime he wished.

Dick lived out the last years of his life with his brother in California, and passed on Easter Sunday 2oo3 at the age of 87, reportedly from a stroke.

An amazing man, and an amazing life…thankfully he allowed us to share some of it.


 

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The Two Maines

Nanny and Gramp

Portland ME

 

I think Maine is especially unique, and that uniqueness has always been what has drawn me to this state and instilled my desire to live here.  Maine has always been a state of rough wilderness with people known for their self reliance, individuality, ruggedness, and a sense of independence.   Over the years however, Maine has become increasingly divided along many avenues.  I tried to put forth some of it, or at least a microcosm of it in PO Box 311 but I’m not sure how successful I was in getting the point across.

I like that things are different here, and that we don’t fit into any of the big box thinking that happens in more urban areas. It makes me feel unique.  For example, when the Federal Government mandated reservoir water filtration in the early 1990′s, the town I live in got a waiver because in all seriousness..having an expensive filtration system was just not necessary here.   I like that Maine by and large still represents individual freedoms, one example being that despite threats from the Federal Government to withdraw funding for certain things, Maine still extends the middle finger their way when it comes to motorcycle helmet laws.  I’m not going into citing all of them here, but the statistics back up that a large percentage of motorcycle accidents happen during the first year one has a license.  Therefore Maine has a mandatory helmet law while on a learners permit, and for the first year you have your license.   And while when I had a motorcycle I often chose to wear a helmet, I dearly loved those sultry July nights riding with the wind in my hair and no one else on the road but me and I’m so thankful that I had the freedom to experience it.

Maine has been slowly dividing for some time and there is always the occasional smattering of secession brought up here and there.   If you took a random sampling of Mainers, and asked them where the dividing line was I’ll bet that the general consensus would be Bangor.  Therefore most people would already be in agreement as to how to divide up the state along north and south lines – which I would think would be a major issue already overcome.  I doubt that  it will ever happen, but sometimes it’s fun to think about.   I don’t think someone from Portland has any business at all voting on something that will effect someone that lives in the Allagash, and vice versa.   I would suspect that a good percentage of the Southern Maine folks are originally from another state and carry with them the big box thinking they were brought up with.  The dilemma is spelled out eloquently and beautifully in essay form, in a series of books beginning with First Person Rural by Noel Perrin.

It details the dilemma of folks from away moving into rural Vermont for the “charm” and then trying to change everything because they don’t like the smell of the neighbors pigs and some of the other finer details of rural life.    As Noel says you should have to live here for 10 years before you’re even allowed to vote…amen.  I’ve never been much of a political person, other than voting for who I wanted, but that all changed over an issue that divided Maine along it’s Bangor North/South boundary in 2004.  That issue was the bear referendum.  Funny thing is, I didn’t and don’t even hunt bears (other than trying for two seasons when the referendum came up)…I just don’t really have any interest.  Regardless of where you stand on the issue, and it is extremely emotional on both ends of the spectrum, hear me out, and let me tell you from experience that it isn’t easy.  The specific issue was hunting over bait, with hounds, and trapping.  This incensed me because by and large, voters would be voting on emotion, and not common sense and the opposition, which was largely from out of state, played on that emotion at every opportunity.  This is an exact parallel to what Noel Perrin was talking about in his essays.   When the referendum came up I had never  tried to harvest a bear before, by any method.  But, when  I realized that I may lose the freedom to chose whether or not I could, I bought my license, and the proper gear and tried to trap one before I couldn’t anymore.  Now this wasn’t just some half cocked plan. Although I don’t go much anymore, I do have almost 10 years experience as a trapper, and I do know what I’m doing.  I contacted some folks that do go, and learned their techniques.  I gave it a shot…and I failed.  Two seasons in a row.  So, if perhaps  part of the issue for you is  unfair advantage, it’s just not true.

In any event,  I was incensed that a group of people and outside interests wanted to take away something from the people of Maine.  Something that makes us special.  In my opinion, and I suspect Noel Perrin would agree with me, if you disagree or have a problem with hunting methods – live in a state that caters to your beliefs.  Against trapping?  Massachusetts and Colorado agree with you.   Why can’t there be just one place left where you can do those things?  Why is it some people always want to try to take away something from others just because they personally have a problem with it?  I got involved in the process as much as I could including  writing the following letter to the director of the Sportman’s Alliance of Maine.

My beloved grandfather instilled in me the desire to live and love the outdoor life, back when a woodsman and a hunter were considered to be a special person.  I guess I can’t put it into words better than “special person” but I think you may know what I’m talking about.  Hunting, fishing, trapping, camping and canoeing stories were always being told in the garage, where my grandfather went to get away from everyone, smoke, and drink “apple juice” (whiskey).  Everybody loved him and he was what you would call a character here in Maine.  My grandfather grew up in a time in this state when there was little work and if you did not get a deer in the fall you did not eat well, and for some, a fur check meant whether you had christmas or not. Unfortunately he was too old to take me hunting but his stories and my imagination took me afield as a boy.  He died shortly before my seventeenth birthday and I recieved his present in the mail  – a new mackinaw plaid hunting jacket, with $20 bills in each of the pockets. I inheritited his Winchester lever action .30-.30 and when I was able to get a hunting license I took it aflield.  I had to learn a lot by trial and error, but eventually the day came when I was on the track of a big buck.  I tracked him for hours and I knew I was close, and I asked my grandfather for help to get my first deer.  Shortly thereafter, he broke from cover on my left.  Had he gone left I never would have seen him but he went to my right in a semi-circle around me and I had time to steady myself aim and fire.  When I realized he was down I began to shake uncontrollably from the excitement and I thanked the  deer for his life and my grandfather for his help. He was 8 points, and 230 pounds.  I will never forget that day.  I saved the shell and in the spring, buried it at my grandfathers headstone.

I always believed the media when it came to trapping- I thought it was cruel as they told me it was, yet one day I decided to give it a try to see for myself. I got a trapping license, joined the Maine Trappers Association, and learned how to trap, and immediately learned that the media was wrong.  The reason I am writing this to you is I am terrified of the upcoming referendeum. I have never previously had the desire to hunt or trap for bear but I understand the implications should this referendum pass.  I have given as much as I can afford to the coalition, and explained the facts to those that want to listen.  I wish the general public realized that the foot snares used on bears is the same device used by the state to perform research studies and does not harm the bear. In closing, I read in today’s paper about the possibility of a constitutional amendment that any voter initiatives related to hunting, fishing, or trapping must pass by a 2/3 supermajority, and I think regardless of what happens with the referendum Maine needs that amendment.

I still shake my head to think there are actually people in Maine that want to take my rights away as a hunter.  I wonder what my grandfather would think.

There are a few things left out, but essentially that’s the brunt of it.  I received a nice reply from their office, asking for permission to put it in the newsletter, and that I had made them cry in the office.   Thankfully the referendum did not pass, and the amendment requiring issues surrounding hunting, fishing, and trapping never made it anywhere either which is too bad.  Most people these days live so far outside of the “basics” that they have no idea what it would take to survive on their own any more.

There are some great thoughts on the issue of bear baiting here.

Things have calmed down since then, and the outside interests have moved on.  I know this because after a certain op-ed appeared in the local newspaper I searched for the author and had a lengthy email discussion with them.  The person moved here specifically for championing the referendum, and left shortly after it was not passed, as did the others.   Particularly infuriating, and thankfully most of Maine voted on the science.  However, this is just one issue.  There will be others coming down the line you can be sure of that.  And I think something needs to change – Portland has such a high population of people, folks in Northern Maine can be easily outvoted on issues that are important to them.  Northern Maine retains the self reliance, individuality, ruggedness, and a sense of independence, whereas Southern Maine has only vestiges of its former history, and neither Northern or Southern should be voting on issues that are regionally specific to one another….The two Maines.

Posted by fuck0500 in Maine Life

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Tales of An Empty Cabin

Tu es mon compagnon de voyage!
Je veux mourir dans mon canot
Sur le tombeau, près du rivage,
Vous renverserez mon canot!

When I must leave the great river
O bury me close to its wave
And let my canoe and my paddle
Be the only mark over my grave.

Translated by Oliver Call.

 

I can’t recall for sure where I first came across the book Tales of an Empty Cabin, written by Grey Owl. It was possibly just a random book search. I’m glad I did though, because it is a remarkable book, and extremely well written. Grey Owl’s entire life was a bit of an enigma. The world first heard of him through his writing, and then eventually speeches that he was asked to give. To the world he presented himself as a Native American who had an Apache mother and moved to Canada to join the Ojibwa and first was a wilderness fur trapper, who then turned conservationist. His writing is very pervasive, romantic, and tugs at the heartstrings. For me the pendulum swung the other way – I started out as a conservationist, swung to a trapper, and now things are evening out between the two. Time will tell where that ends up for me.  If you choose to read the book, keep in mind the time frame that it was written. In the early 1900’s beaver populations were drastically reduced due to exploitation. With the benefit of conservation laws, seasons, and limits, the beaver population is back with a vengeance. Here in Maine current laws are very liberal for the taking of beaver as the state has a large population. I believe that the ambivalence lies within all who take to the woods to some degree, and the pendulum can swing fast or slow in the process. Certainly reading Grey Owls account of listening to the mate of the beaver they had shot calling out through the night for its mate is very emotional.   In the story one of the people in the traveling party kills a beaver, and during the night they hear it’s mate calling out for it.  The member of the party sleeping next to Grey Owl asks what that noise is, and Grey Owl dismisses it to him as nothing.  But he knows what it is.

Trappers understand animals and their habits more than anybody, and it’s often hard to explain the conundrum of being able to empathize and befriend a creature of the wild whilst running a trapline for another. I guess I can empathize somewhat more with the coyote with mange, or the beaver with mallocclusion. Beaver, like other rodents have teeth that continuously grow, and they need to gnaw to keep them sharp, and the correct length. Mallocclusion is when one becomes out of alignment, or grows past the point where the beaver can gnaw it back, and the creature is left unable to eat, and sometimes the teeth grow long enough to puncture the skull. I’ve seen it.

My favorite story in the book is The Tree. The author describes in great detail the very long life of a tree, from when a squirrel accidentally dropped a nut on the ground, to the deer browsing it’s neighbors, the rabbit eating its bark, and the moose using it for sparring practice. It goes on to describe the native American that visited it, the white man that explored it, and the road coming through that killed it. It is a fantastic story that puts a lot of life and time into perspective for me.

Grey Owl is most famous for his cabin at Ajaawan Lake, where a beaver house was incorporated into the cabin, and he was made Honorary Warden for the protection of the beaver colony. The story is in the book, and is a well regaled account of the daily activities of the beaver, who were allowed to roam the cabin. It is also probably the first case study of its kind on beaver behavior. I love the stories of the beaver tetter-tottering around the cabin on their rear legs carrying mud for the lodge, of how the male would become aggressive and jealous of the author when the female would come into heat, and the stories of chairs and other woodwork being eaten and chewed in the authors absence. It must have been some interesting times, and it is great to be able to share them in the book.

Grey Owl never made it to his 50th birthday. For someone that passed so young, he had an incredible life. After his death, the enigma of his life was discovered. He was born in England in 1888, and had no Native American ties at all,  a fraud that dented the conservation movement he had created, but certainly did not change what he did, or his experiences.  It’s just who he wanted to be, and what he became.

Here is a video of Grey Owl, his cabin, and the beavers – I wish I could hear the real sounds in the video, the narration is a little cheesy, but the video makes up for it -

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And a short video of his cabin and the lake;

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And apparently I missed the memo when the movie came out – but one did – I’ll be watching it soon – here is the trailer:

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Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Hunting, Trapping

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The Way Life Should Be

 

Having a cocktail sitting on the porch in front of an open fire, with a snowshoe hare pausing in it’s nightly travels to stare for a second.  Listening  to the rain pattering on the roof during the night, with a small warming fire in the woodstove.  Hearing the sounds of the forests without the clamor of other people – the drops of rain dripping from the trees onto the forest floor.   A bird in the hemlock singing in the morning despite the dreary weather.   Going to the small store down the road for breakfast and being asked if I want my bacon soft or crunchy, and whether or not I want onions in my home fries hon.  Having more food served than I can eat for less than six bucks.  Overhearing the owner offer someone that had some bad luck  breakfast on the house, and intentionally paying that forward by leaving a hefty tip for my more than I could eat breakfast eliciting a “God Bless you Dear”.  Stepping outside for a pee at two in the morning to realize again that when there is no man-made light for miles, it never really gets dark.  Even in  the rain I could see some of my shadowy surroundings.  Moments to live for, and the way life should be.

 

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A Beast Caged in the Heart of the City

I long to awake in the morning, and put on an old flannel shirt and corduroy pants that are mended and moccasins covered with dirt – I care not a cuss where the place is, nor how far away it may be, so long as its up in the open where I can unleash and be free.

Anon 1947

I remember a line in a book I was reading years ago that said you could blindfold someone and put them on the tarmac in any city, and all they would be able to tell you is where they weren’t.   If you think about that for a minute you’ll realize it’s true.  Everything looks the same, there is no uniqueness or individuality.   As much as people complain (yet still go) to Wal Mart, as Americans we’re essentially living in one to some extent.

It always surprised me at the University of Maine when a student from an urban area of a different state would exclaim that there was nothing to do here.  It’s true that you can’t go hit a few comedy clubs at 11pm if you want, and there is a small part of me that misses that too.  But had I gone to college in an urban setting I would have said there is nothing to do here too.  We had a great time in college – we hunted, fished, explored, snowmobiled, and canoed.  I’ll always remember cutting classes on the first day of partridge season to go hunting in the warm October sun, and hanging out in the (now defunct) Rams Horn and Oronoka listening to live music in an intimate atmosphere.

Kids growing up these days aren’t exposed to the “other “ side of life that much anymore, and it wanes with each passing year.  As Aldo Leopold aptly said – “There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm.  One is supposing that food comes from the grocery store, and the other is that heat comes from the furnace.”  I would propose that his quote has more meaning today than ever.   With the unstable economies around the world, food prices being jacked up out of site because our nation’s corn is being converted to ethanol, and fuel prices never going back to the levels they were before, I think it behooves all of us to revisit the skills of our past.  There is a fantastic book called “back to basics” that pretty much has everything in it you would ever need to know on how to take care of yourself and become independent again.

Land in rural areas of this country is still cheap to buy.   When I built my cabin I had very rudimentary carpentry skills and yet with some determination was able to clear and stump a spot, cut, peel, and lug out of the woods each cedar log, and build it from scratch using hand tools.    Imagine no mortgage, no utility bill, and a small food bill.  Imagine the satisfaction of being independent, of not being tied to the latest woes of the economy.  Imagine no longer being a beast caged in the heart of the city.

Here is a video of camp going up.  I started harvesting the wood in 2003 and 2004.  In the fall of 2004 the cement piers went in – 2005 it got build, and in early 2006 I finished the inside.

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Hunting, Maine Life, Trapping

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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;

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And a video of the history of the river;

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Some interesting books:



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Maine Life

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