Charles Lanman

The Adirondac Mountains—Trout Fishing in the Boreas River—A night in the woods—Moose Lake—Lake Delia—Mount Tahawas—Lakes Sanford and Henderson—The McIntyre Iron Works.

John Cheney’s Cabin. June.

The Adirondac Mountains are situated on the extreme head waters of the Hudson, in the Counties of Essex and Hamilton, and about forty miles west of Lake Champlain. They vary from five hundred to five thousand feet in height, and with few exceptions are covered with dense forests. They lord it over the most extensive wilderness region in the Empire State; and as I have recently performed a pilgrimage among them, I now purpose to give an account of what I saw and heard during my expedition.

The tourist, who visits these mountains, finds it necessary to leave the mail road near Lyndsey’s Tavern on the Scaroon. If fortune smiles upon him, he will be able to hire a horse to take him in the interior, or perhaps obtain a seat in a lumber wagon; but if not, he must try the mettle of his legs. With regard to my own case, fortune was non-committal; for, while she compelled me to go on foot, she supplied me with a pair of temporary companions, who were going into the interior to see their friends, and have a few days’ sport in the way of fishing and hunting.

One of my friends, (both of whom were young men), was a farmer, who carried a rifle, and the other a travelling country musician, who earned a fiddle. Our first day’s tramp took us about fifteen miles, through a hilly, thickly wooded, and houseless wilderness, to the Boreas River, where we found a ruined log shantee, in which we determined to spend the night. We reached this lonely spot at three o’clock in the afternoon; and having previously been told that the Boreas was famous for trout, two of us started after a mess of fish, while the fiddler was appointed to the office of wood chopper to the expedition.

The Boreas at this point is about one hundred feet broad, winds through a woody valley, and is cold, rapid and clear. The entire river does not differ materially, as I understand from the point alluded to, for it waters an unknown wilderness. I bribed my farmer friend to ascend the river, and having pocketed a variety of flies, I started down the stream. I proceeded near half a mile, when I came to a still-water pool, which seemed to be extensive and very deep. At the head of it, midway in the stream, was an immense boulder, which I succeeded in surmounting, and whence I threw a red hackle for upwards of three hours. I never saw trout jump more beautifully, and it was my rare luck to basket thirty-four, twenty-one of which averaged three quarters of a pound, and the remaining thirteen were regular two-pounders. Satisfied with my luck, I returned to the shantee, where I found my companions, one of them sitting before a blazing fire and fiddling, and the other busily employed in cleaning the trout he had taken.

In due time followed the principal event of the day, which consisted in cooking and eating a wilderness supper. We had brought a supply of pork and bread, and each one having prepared for himself a pair of wooden forks, we proceeded to roast our trout and pork before a huge fire, using the drippings of the latter for seasoning, and a leather cup of water for our beverage. We spent the two following hours in smoking and telling stories; and having made a bed of spruce boughs, and repaired the rickety partition which divided one end of the cabin from the other end, which was all open, we retired to repose. We had no blankets with us, and an agreement was, therefore, entered into that we should take turns in replenishing the fire, during the night. An awfully dark cloud settled upon the wilderness, and by the music of the wind among the hemlock trees we were soon lulled into a deep slumber.

A short time after midnight, while dreaming of a certain pair of eyes in the upper part of Broadway, I was awakened by a footstep on the outside of the cabin. I brushed open my eyes, but could see nothing but the faint glimmer of an expiring ember on the hearth. I held my breath and listened for the mysterious footsteps; I heard it not, but something a little more exciting,—the scratching of a huge paw upon our slender door. In an exceedingly short time I roused my bed-fellows, and told them what I had heard. They thought it must be a wolf, and as we were afraid to frighten him away, yet anxious to take his hide, it was resolved that I should hold a match, and the farmer should fire his rifle in the direction of the mysterious noise, which operation was duly performed. A large pine torch was then lighted, the rifle reloaded, and the heroes of the adventure marched into the outer hall of the cabin, where we found a few drops of blood, and the muddy tracks of what we supposed to be a wild cat. The rifleman and myself then commissioned the fiddler to make a fire, when we again threw ourselves upon the hemlock couch.

The fiddler attended faithfully to his duty, and in less than twenty minutes he had kindled a tremendous blaze. The brilliant and laughing flame had such an exhilarating influence upon his nerves, that he seized his instrument and commenced playing, partly for the purpose of keeping off the wild animals, but mostly for his own amusement. Then laying aside his fiddle, he began to sing a variety of uncouth as well as plaintive songs, one of which was vague but mournful in sentiment, and more wild in melody, as I thought at the time, than anything I had ever before heard. I could not find out by whom it was written, or what was its exact import, but in the lonely place where we were sleeping, and at that hour, it made a very deep impression on my mind. The burthen of the song was as follows, and was in keeping with the picture which the minstrel, the fire-light, and the rude cabin presented.

“We parted in silence, we parted at night,

On the banks of that lonely river;

Where the shadowy trees their boughs unite

We met, and we parted for ever;—

The night bird sang, and the stars above

Told many a touching story,

Of friends long passed to the mansions of rest,

Where the soul wears her mantle of glory.

But sleep, the “dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health” soon folded the singer and his listeners in her embrace, and with the rising sun we entered upon the labours of another day. While the fiddler prepared our breakfast, (out of the few trout which certain beastly robbers had not stolen during the night), the rifleman went out and killed a large hare, and I took a sketch of the cabin where we had lodged.

After breakfast we shouldered our knapsacks and started for the Hudson. We struck this noble river at the embryo city of Tahawas where we found a log house and an unfinished saw-mill. Here we also discovered a canoe which we boarded, and navigated the stream to Lake Sanford. This portion of the Hudson is not more than one hundred feet broad, but quite deep and picturesque. On leaving our canoe we made our way up a mountain road, and after walking about four miles, came out upon an elevated clearing of some two hundred acres, in the centre of which was a solitary log cabin with a retinue of out-houses,—and this was the famous Newcomb Farm.

The attractions of this spot are manifold, for it lies in the vicinity of Moose Lake and Lake Delia, and commands the finest distant prospect of the Adirondac Mountains, which has yet been discovered.

Moose Lake lies at the west of the Farm, and about six miles distant. It is embosomed among mountains, and the fountain head of the Cold River, which empties into the St. Lawrence. In form it is so nearly round, that its entire shore may be seen at one view; the bottom is covered with white sand, and the water is perfectly cold and clear. Considering its size, it is said to contain more trout than any lake in this wilderness; and it is also celebrated as a watering-place for deer and moose. In fishing from the shore, one of our party caught no less than forty pounds of trout in about two hours. There were two varieties, and they varied from one to three pounds in weight.

Our guide to this lake, where we encamped for one night, was Steuben Hewitt, the keeper of the Newcomb Farm, who is a hunter. This woodsman got the notion into his head, that he must have a venison steak for his banquet. We had already seen some half dozen deer walking along the opposite margin of the lake, but Steuben told us that he would wait until after dark to capture his game. He also told us that the deer were in the habit of visiting the wilder lakes of this region at night, for the purpose of escaping the tormenting flies; and as he spoke so confidently of what he intended to accomplish, we awaited his effort with a degree of anxiety.

Soon as the quiet night had fairly set in, he shipped himself on board a wooden canoe (a rickety affair, originally bequeathed to this lake by some departed Indian,) in the bow of which was a fire-jack or torch-holder. Separating this machine from himself, as he sat in the centre of the canoe, was a kind of screen made of bark, which was sufficiently elevated to allow him to fire his gun from underneath; and in this manner, with a loaded rifle by his side, did he paddle into the lake. After floating upon the water for one hour, in perfect silence, he finally heard a splashing near the shore, and immediately lighting his torch, he noiselessly proceeded in the direction of the sound, where he discovered a beautiful deer standing knee-deep in the water, and looking at him in stupified wonder. The poor creature could see nothing before it but the mysterious light, and while standing in the most interesting attitude imaginable, the hunter raised his rifle and shot it through the heart. In half an hour from that time the carcass of the deer was hanging from a dry limb near our camp fire, and I was lecturing the hard-hearted hunter on the cruelty of thus capturing the innocent creatures of the forest. To all my remarks, however, he replied, “They were given to us for food, and it matters not how we kill them.”

Lake Delia, through which you have to pass in going to Moose Lake, lies about two miles west of the Newcomb Farm. It is four miles long, and less than one mile in width, and completely surrounded with wood-crowned hills. Near the central portion this lake is quite narrow, and so shallow that a rude bridge has been thrown across for the accommodation of the farm people. The water under this bridge is only about four feet deep, and this was the only spot in the lake where I followed my favorite recreation. I visited it on one occasion with my companions, late in the afternoon, when the wind was blowing, and we enjoyed rare sport in angling for salmon-trout, as well as a large species of the common trout. I do not know the number that we took, but I well remember that we had more than we could conveniently carry. Usually, the salmon-trout are only taken in deep water, but in this and Moose Lake, they seem to be as much at home in shallow as in deep water.

On one occasion I visited Lake Delia alone, at an early hour of the morning. It so happened, that I took a rifle along with me, and while quietly throwing my fly on the old bridge, I had an opportunity of using the gun to some purpose. My movements in that lonely place were so exceedingly still, that even the wild animals were not disturbed by my presence; for while I stood there, a large fat otter made his appearance, and when he came within shooting distance, I gave him the contents of my gun, and he disappeared. I related the adventure to my companions on my return to the Farm, but they pronounced it a “fish story.” I finally vindicated my veracity, however, for, on the following day, they discovered a dead otter on the lake shore, and concluded that I had told the truth.

I must not conclude this chapter without giving my reader an additional paragraph about the Newcomb Farm. My friend Steuben Hewitt’s nearest neighbour is eight miles off, and as his family is small, you may suppose that he leads a retired life. One of the days that I spent at his house, was an eventful one with him, for a town election was held there. The electors met at nine o’clock, and the poll closed at five; and as the number of votes polled was SEVEN, it may well be supposed that the excitement was intense.

But, with all its loneliness, the Newcomb Farm is well worth visiting, if for no other purpose than to witness the panorama of mountains which it commands. On every side but one, they may be seen fading away to mingle their deep blue with the lighter hue of the sky; but chief among them all is old Tahawas, king of the Adirondacs.

The country out of which this mountain rises is an imposing Alpine wilderness; and as it has long since been abandoned by the red man, the solitude of its deep valleys and lonely lakes, for the most part, is now more impressive than that of the far-off Rocky Mountains.

The meaning of the Indian word Tahawas, is Sky Piercer, or Sky Splitter, and faithfully describes the appearance of the mountain. Its actual elevation, above the level of the sea, is five thousand four hundred and sixty-seven feet, while that of Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, is only six thousand two hundred and thirty-four; making a difference of only seven hundred and sixty-seven feet in favour of Washington. Though Tahawas is not so lofty as its New England brother, yet its form is by far the most picturesque and imposing. Taken together, they are the highest pair of mountains in the United States.

Before going one step farther, I must allude to what I deem the folly of a certain state geologist, in attempting to name the prominent peaks of the Adirondac Mountains after a brotherhood of living men. If he is to have his way in this matter, the beautiful name of Tahawas will be superseded by that of Marcy, and several of Tahawas’ peers are hereafter to be known as Mounts Seward, Wright, and Young. Now if this business is not supremely ridiculous, I must confess that I do not know the meaning of that word. A pretty idea, indeed, to scatter to the winds the ancient poetry of the poor Indian, and perpetuate in its place the names of living politicians. For my part, I agree most decidedly with the older inhabitants of the Adirondac wilderness, who look with perfect indifference upon the attempted usurpation of the geologist already mentioned.

For nine months in the year, old Tahawas is covered with a crown of snow, but there are spots among its fastnesses where you may gather ice and snow, even in the dog-days. The base of this mountain is covered with a luxuriant forest of pine, spruce and hemlock, while the summit is clothed in a net-work of creeping trees, and almost entirely destitute of the green which should characterize them. In ascending its sides, when near the summit, you are impressed with the idea that your pathway may be smooth; but as you proceed, you are constantly annoyed by pit-falls, into which your legs are foolishly poking themselves, to the great annoyance of your back-bone, and other portions of your body, which are naturally straight.

I ascended Tahawas, as a matter of course, and in making the trip I travelled some twenty miles, on foot and through the pathless woods, employing for the same the better part of two days. My companion on this expedition was John Cheney (of whom I have something to write hereafter), and as he did not consider it prudent to spend the night on the summit, we only spent about one hour gazing upon the panorama from the top, and then descended about half way down the mountain, where we built our watch-fire. The view from Tahawas is rather unique. It looks down upon what appears to be an uninhabited wilderness, with mountains fading to the sky in every direction, and where, on a clear day, you may count no less than twenty-four lakes, including Champlain, Horicon, Long Lake, and Lake Pleasant.

While trying to go to sleep on the night in question, as I lay by the side of my friend Cheney, he gave me an account of the manner in which certain distinguished gentlemen had ascended Mount Tahawas, for it must be known that he officiates as the guide of all travellers in this wild region. Among those to whom he alluded, were Ingham and Cole, the artists, and Hoffman and Headley, the travellers. He told me that Mr. Ingham fainted a number of times in making the ascent, but became so excited with all that he saw, he determined to persevere, and finally succeeded in accomplishing the difficult task. Mr. Hoffman, he said, in spite of his lameness, would not be persuaded by words that he could not reach the summit; and when he finally discovered that the task was utterly beyond his accomplishment, his disappointment seemed to have no bounds.

The night that I spent on Tahawas was not distinguished by any event more remarkable than a regular rain-storm. Our canopy was composed of hemlock branches, and our only covering was a blanket. The storm did not set in until about midnight, and my first intimation of its approach was the falling of rain-drops directly into my ear, as I snugged up to my bed-fellow, for the purpose of keeping warm. Desperate indeed were the efforts I made to forget my condition in sleep, as the rain fell more abundantly, and drenched me, as well as my companion, to the very skin. The thunder bellowed as if in the enjoyment of a very happy frolic, and the lightning seemed determined to root up a few trees in our immediate vicinity, as if for the purpose of giving us more room. Finally Cheney rose from his pillow (which was a log of wood), and proposed that we should quaff a little brandy, to keep us from catching cold, which we did, and then made another attempt to reach the land of Nod.

* * * * * * * *

At the break of day, we were awakened from a short but refreshing sleep by the singing of birds; and when the cheerful sunlight had reached the bottom of the ravines, we were enjoying a comfortable breakfast in the cabin of my friend.

The principal attractions, associated with Tahawas are the Indian Pass, the Adirondac Lakes, the Adirondac Iron Works, and the mighty hunter of the Adirondacs, John Cheney. The Pass, so called, is only an old-fashioned notch between the mountains. On one side is a perpendicular precipice, rising to the height of eleven hundred feet; and, on the other, a wood-covered mountain, ascending far up into the sky, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Through this Pass flows a tiny rivulet, over which the rocks are so thickly piled, as frequently to form pitfalls, that measure from ten to thirty feet in depth. Some of these holes are never destitute of ice, and are cool and comfortable even at midsummer. The Pass is nearly half a mile in length, and, at one point, certain immense boulders have come together and formed a cavern, which is called the “meeting house,” and is, perhaps, capable of containing a thousand people. The rock on either side of the Pass, is a grey granite, and its only inhabitants are eagles, which are very abundant, and occupy the most conspicuous crag in the notch.