  No matter how Fredericton may be approached, from north, east, south or west, by land or water, train, carriage, in steamboat or canoe, the impression sure to be received, as the capital is neared, is that of forest depths, great rivers and immense natural resources. A feeling of admiration and awe, akin to that felt by our humble Indian brother as he roamed the depths of these noble forests, casts a spell over the thinking mind. “For,” says Bryant in his ‘Forest Hymn’:— “His simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty.” ST. JOHN RIVER, above Fredericton As is meet and proper, we do not plunge into the hurly-burly of modern life in Fredericton, the capital city of the province. Instead, we reach a peaceful, tree-embowered and altogether delightful forest city. Here is refinement of life and civilization enough to meet all reasonable demands, yet back of all there still reigns the too-quickly-vanishing spirit of rest, the absence of haste, the old-time simplicity. How delightful if all towns and cities were no larger than charming Fredericton, with its modest 8000 inhabitants. No trusts! No cold storage! No horrid skyscrapers! No cars! It sounds too good to be true. And yet at Fredericton no cars are needed; and, as a result, all who visit the homelike capital will know more of it than they possibly do of their own city. Here it is a delight to walk and ramble; and, of course, driving is a great joy with such woodland surroundings and fine river scenery. An inhabitant of Fredericton once actually expressed a desire to live in New York! Incredible! Impossible! you cry. And so say all of well-balanced mind. But mortals do not always know when they are well off; and a fit of temporary insanity sometimes gains a flitting lodgment in the brightest mind. Few cities are better or as well situated as Fredericton. It stands on the noble St. John, which here is nearly three quarters of a mile wide. The five older streets and the two newer ones all run parallel with the river. There are shady trees on pleasant streets wherever you go. In the heart of the city you are still in the country. Nature everywhere is so profuse and abundant that it almost shuts out the view of Cathedral Church and Parliament Buildings, and enwraps fountain, statue and river-bank-seat with its wealth of foliage; while in many a shady street the tree branches knock at the house windows for admittance, and place smiling clusters of bloom in the hands of those who throw open the casement in response to the call. Queen Street is the principal thoroughfare. At its west end is the substantial building known as Government House, the official residence of the Lieutenant-Governor of New Brunswick. Between Queen Street and the river, in a central situation, are the large barracks that were formerly the headquarters of the British army in this province. At the lower end of the street is the handsome Parliament Building, where a small but choice library may be consulted, and from the dome of which building an extensive view may be enjoyed. Christ Church Cathedral, the recent fire damage to which has been repaired, is patterned after that delightful type of old English church The substantial building so firmly seated on the southern hills is the University of New Brunswick, the higher education centre of the province. Here there is a geological museum; and from the cupola of the building a wide view may be had of the river and surrounding country. The glory of Fredericton is the St. John River with its fine scenery and numerous excursions up and down stream; nor must there be forgotten the added pleasure of sailing over the tributary streams such as the Nashwaak, the Nashwaaksis, the Keswick, the Oromocto, the Jemseg, etc.; and of reaching Grand and Washademoak Lakes, and the numerous smaller lakes that are all about. There are excursions up the river to Woodstock and the numerous riverside places on the way. It is even possible to go all the way to Grand Falls by water. Then the St. John River steamboats go down the river daily to St. John and the towns and villages along the banks of the river. Nearly opposite Fredericton at the mouth of the Nashwaak formerly stood an old French fort erected by Villebon. Acadian refugees flocked to Ste. Anne at the time of the “Expulsion,” and sought refuge under the protection of the fort; but after the American Revolutionary War the exiled American Loyalists drove away the Acadians to Madawaska, and settled themselves along the shore in their place. A world of pleasant exploration lies above the Grand Falls in the upper waters of the St. John and its tributaries, but this region while quite accessible from Fredericton, is somewhat remote for the average summer visitor, and the Middle St. John from Grand Falls to Fredericton is the district herein described. Like many of the great rivers that have numerous tributaries and increase in their descent almost to the proportions of inland seas, the middle waters of the St. John, deep in places, have shallow reaches and rapids where the current is very swift. Some distance above Fredericton it becomes turbulent and foaming in many a seething descent; but it is possible to take an outing over a considerable distance, without portages, in a canoe with two men using poles. A swift motor-canoe of light draft may easily make a two-days’ journey up, giving four days on the St. John, with stops for Boiling the Kettle For those who desire to spend several weeks on the river it is necessary to have guides, canoes and tent equipment, especially if remote places are to be visited. There can be no doubt that camping out on the St. John is one of the most delightful ways of spending a healthful vacation. A plan by which the expense of guides may be avoided is that of camping out in a choice place not far from a settlement, or a farm, and where there is plenty of recreation in walks, sailing the river, fishing for trout, etc., without the necessity for exploring the untrodden woods. Where any kind of exploration is to be done, or unfrequented places visited, it will be understood that guides are necessary; and it is illegal to go without them for hunting, etc. In camping on the river to enjoy boating, bathing, fishing and outdoor life, the plan is recommended of employing someone in In addition to choosing a convenient place for water, shade and supplies, etc., care should be taken to place the camp at some point on the shore where there is a good stretch of easy water for several miles above and below. This will afford pleasant cruising, without the constant labor of poling through swift water. Such a place is the “Reach,” above Long Island, and below Tapley Bar and the Koack Islands. In the neighborhood of Hawkshaw and Pokiok will also be found good camping-grounds meeting all needful requirements, and within easy reach of the Shogomoc River and Lakes. There are other good places nearer Fredericton if desired. Of course, if there are athletic young men in the party—not forgetting young women who love outdoor life and are able to handle pole and paddle—the locality of a difficult piece of swift water, or even that of a sheer rapid, may purposely be chosen to have plenty of fun close at hand. For those who have never yet cut loose from the ties of hotel or other stopping-place, a vacation of this kind is strongly recommended; for the freedom and joy of living so close to nature, and, it may truthfully be added, nature at her best, is an experience that brings back youth to the middle-aged, and exuberance of spirits to young and old alike. Oh! the fascination of the musical rapid, and ah! the glory of the starlit evening with its gentle breeze and its hours of calm repose followed by sweet and health-giving sleep—the tent well open to the fragrance of the balmy air. As an example of a pleasant excursion from Fredericton, an account of a two-days’ journey of some 45 miles up the St. John in a motor-canoe is now given, and this could be extended to a trip of some weeks, or even months, by exploring the upper tributaries to their headwaters. Many of the places nearer Fredericton may be reached, and the starting point regained, in a day, or even in half a day, and the route may constantly be varied by taking the different tributaries in turn. A start was made from Fredericton in the early morning; and, in addition to handbag and raincoat, a bag of fruit was taken to give variety to our meals at the farmhouses along the river. Our eighteen-foot canoe with a 2½ h.p. motor, piloted by the able and obliging Davidson, of Fredericton, started gaily up-stream and passed under the graceful iron town-bridge—the sun behind thick banks of cloud, and apparently threatening rain. As the clouds screened us from the hot rays of an August sun, we took little thought of the dark sky: for we knew by experience that such a beginning often ended in a bright and clear noonday. After splendid running for a few miles, we tied up at Springhill and climbed the path up the bank to the lumber-camp and boarding-house above. Here were roadside inns in the olden days, with their quaint names, such as “Dewdrop inn,” or “Rest and be Thankful.” Here the jolly and amphibious red-shirted raftsmen used to congregate, and here, too, their good-hearted successors make their down-river headquarters. It took a few minutes to prepare our breakfast of coffee, toast, fresh eggs from the fine poultry run, and new milk from the cows browsing in the pretty tree-bordered meadows hard by. Breakfasting and taking a refreshing draught of cool spring water, we regained our canoe, and as the upward course was resumed the sun burst through its cloudy barrier and shone down with cheering effect. Passing Percy Bar and the Keswick Islands we have an opportunity of testing the important question of speed, for in the narrower channels the current has a velocity of four to six miles an hour, and sometimes even faster. Before entering a rapid or piece of swift water, we carefully oil the working parts of the motor, and see that everything is in trim for our struggle against the stream. Off we go for our first tussle, and in a minute more we are in swift water, with circling eddies and a foam-lined shore. The water is higher than usual, owing to recent rain and well-swollen tributaries. The whole current of the great river flows through the one channel we have just entered. Fortunately, the river is deep here, and it gives a good hold for our rapidly revolving screw. The engine working well, the lever is pushed to “full-speed,” and in a moment we are cleaving the water into two high ridges at our bow, while the throbbing motor settles down to its best speed. We look ashore a little anxiously, it must be admitted, for we appear unequal to our task, the trees alongside and the rocks by the shore holding fixed positions on our beam. It is only for a moment, however, for soon we creep along shore, slowly, very slowly; and yet we are gaining. After half-an-hour’s steady going we emerge into a wider channel, the current loses its force and now we go ahead with increasing speed. Here we are in a run that is clear save for the quantities of logs floating downstream, and which are being gathered in and made up into rafts to be towed or guided with poles to the maws of the rapacious mill. The long boom of logs fastened together end-wise, the walking platform and the small floating shanty, together with the constant downward stream of logs of all sizes going down singly, in “twos” and “threes,” and, at times, in great bunches, all make an interesting incident in the trip; and to thread a devious way in and out of the swiftly passing timber keeps our rudder in constant oscillation as we follow the ever-changing path. Here is Lunt’s Ferry. We see the high, steel cable strung across the river, with the running block and gang ropes connecting it with the side-railed flat barge or ferry. These floats are often propelled across stream by the force of the current. Just as a ship makes headway by the side wind running off her sails obliquely, so does a boat cross a stream by the action of the tide, if care is taken to have the boat’s head turned partly against the current. The boat being fastened to a transverse cable and running block to prevent it from being driven down stream, the tide strikes the hull obliquely and causes progression in that direction towards which the boat is headed. When the tide is sluggish a gasolene boat is frequently used to ensure more rapid progress. Moored alongside, it soon pushes the ferry across; and when traffic is active this is the best motive power. Wanawassis Falls Soon we run under high bluffs and notice the fine growth of woods covering the almost perpendicular heights, and which touch the side of the steep slope with their projecting side branches. The varying shades of green in the woodland, the giddy height, the far-extending reflection in the now sunlit river, all combine in a beautiful picture; and again are we tempted to land and drink of a sparkling stream that can be seen flowing down the mountain side in a minute but clearly-defined rivulet. Giving the engine a few minutes’ rest, we again push on, and, after passing French Village, the pretty little Macinquac stream joins ours on the right, and directly under the picturesque bluff, with its quaint white church showing like a beacon through the trees, a landing is made and we push our canoe tip into the mouth of the little stream, drinking in the while all the beauties that are on every hand. Once more afloat, for we are thinking of a place for dinner, and we wish to find refreshment without waiting. In this way we may push forward and cover the considerable distance of swift water that intervenes before we reach our destination where we are to sup and lodge. Fortunately, a suitable place is fairly close at hand, and, dinner over, we resume our course upstream. The engine now “kicks-up” a little, as all self-respecting motors must do, sooner or later. Again oiling the parts, we push from off-shore again, for we had pulled in to avoid being drawn down by the current, and thus losing ground. But we do lose ground, for when we push off into deep water to give the screw a chance to revolve without chipping the rocks, the canoe is turned right around, and downstream we go, the engine obstinately refusing a single turn. Back to the shore we go with paddle, and after a few operations with the motorist’s beloved tool, the wrench, and sundry squirts here and there from his much cherished oil-can, the engine starts to revolve with savage energy. It came so unexpectedly “Variety is the spice of life,” so we take to the shore again and hold fast to a log conveniently stranded for our use. These little incidents, it may be remarked, give added pleasure to the excursion, and for the true motorist they supply that fulness and joy in life that cannot be obtained in any other way. This time the real seat of the trouble is found—moisture bridging the spark-gap. Hurrah! Now we are off, in real earnest, and triumphant smiles come quickly as swift water is passed and we finally get over Big Bear Island Bar with only a few glancing knocks of the propeller on a stray rock or two. Twilight has come and gone. The trees are still, and not a breath ripples the long and straight course of the river wide and ghostly, and reaching into darkness at the end of a lengthy vista that is only dimly defined—partly by the tall trees on each side, but more by the patch of faint light that falls on the water down the avenue before us. Gray forms float on the surface of the stream, turning a ghostly white as they near us. We look over to examine more closely, and find small floating islets of froth or foam, made hours before far up, and now borne on the glassy surface of the tranquil stream, gathering in size as they descend, or breaking against obstructions and vanishing suddenly out of sight. Soon the surface of the river shows a pale gleam of light, and the white trunks of the silver birches begin to lose their spectral appearance as they stand out, one by one, from the dense pall of overhanging foliage. We look behind and enjoy to the full that glorious spectacle, moonrise on a wide and beautiful river, in a country rich in mountain and vale; and as the increasing light brings into view one feature after another of the unfolding landscape, we marvel at its beauty, and at the softness and delicacy of all when pencilled by that companion and friend of the traveller by night—the gentle moon. As we look behind at the dancing wavelets left in our wake, the crest of each gleams white and brilliant ere it subsides in milky foam; while down the widening and rippling channel just made by the revolving screw a thousand gleams of light are refracted into a glorious play of ever-changing color. The sound of the motor is jarring when viewing a scene so fair. So turning the canoe and stopping the engine, we drift inshore to view the surroundings in perfect quiet. How bright the planets show when seen from a deep valley on such a night, and how marvellous and grand the sight when from almost total darkness and confused or indistinguishable detail the whole beauty of the view steals out, line by line, giving time to admire each new feature as it springs into sight, until finally the whole glorious landscape and wondrous river are spread before in a soft blending of light and shade impossible to adequately picture or describe. Reluctantly, though supperless, we turn our canoe and continue our way upstream. We are now on a river of molten silver, floating down a path at once fantastic and beautiful. The reflected and inverted banks of the river are close to us on each hand, the tree branches sharply outlined and gently quivering under the influence of a balmy zephyr that now steals with velvet touch over the surface of the water. Are we really in cloudland? we ask, so spiritual is the scene—and as if to dispel all uncertainty a distant gleam of light reveals the far-away course of the river, as it seems to pass on to the sky, where it flows through the splendid portals of a gorgeous palace built in the clouds and limned with outlines of pale silver by the artist moon. “All journeys have an end.” Journeys are also said to “end in lover’s greetings.” Sometimes, however, they terminate with a fine supper cooked by the obliging wife of a good-hearted farmer for two supperless men dropped from the clouds, as it were, one hour before midnight. And here we are at Davidson’s Ferry, a good supper with a night’s repose on a comfortable bed surely making a happy ending for one part of our trip. After a 6 o’clock breakfast next morning the canoe is headed up the lovely St. John—for are we not bound to reach the Nacawick stream, Pokiok, the narrow gulf, and its waterfall, Clare Mountain, the Meductic Fall and the Shogomoc Rapids. And we do reach these in good time, and after admiring the rocky banks of the river near Hawkshaw, the beautiful views at Pokiok, the narrow chasm What an exhilarating spectacle, and how the waters dash, foam and roar as they are hurled headlong down the steep descent. What a splendid place to camp anywhere near here—one would surely never tire of such delightful surroundings. As we sit and watch the water assume ever-changing forms, we think of the Indians and their life on these waters in the long ago, and in fancy we see them mounting the crests of the billows and passing up and down the river in perfect safety. Up and down is doubtless wrong, for who could propel a boat upstream against a foaming current going over ten miles an hour, and often nearer fifteen! Discussing this with our guide, he declares he feels like going up in the motor-canoe as far as he can, and, he adds, “By George, I believe I can get through!” We laugh him to scorn. He persists in trying it. At last we decide to join in the experience. We oil up and make all ready. Off we go! right into the midst of the foam at the lower end of the rapids. The engine works furiously at full speed while we watch results. We are making rapid progress in the wrong direction; for working full speed ahead, we gain just enough way to get into the direct current and then downstream we go, stern first, Davidson joining in the laugh at his expense. “Never mind,” we say, “we were right in the midst of it, and the boat did splendidly.” FREDERICTON
Is there need to describe the pleasures of the return journey? How our host of the previous night, Davidson’s brother—who had come with us from his ferry to the rapids—insisted on our stopping off at his house for dinner; how we did so and found by experience that city “cream” has a very rich but distant relative known as “country cream” which turns tea into nectar. Nor is there need for a description of how we operated the ferry, said “good-bye” and went downstream—wind, current and gasolene all in our favor—at a clip of twelve miles an hour and sometimes faster; nor how we sped by the men poling their rafts downstream, giving them time only to greet us with a friendly call and wave of the hand before we were well by; or how we gasolened triumphantly into Fredericton by eight at night, just in time for a nice supper at the hostelry near to the steamboat landing, and to take a little turn on the Promenade before retiring for sleep that came so fast as to almost close our eyes before head could be well cushioned in downy pillow........ all the details attending these various incidents must be left to the imagination: and also those of the moose we saw in the woods, the wild birds on the wing, the flocks of wild ducks in the water—twenty and more at a time—that allowed us to pass close by without taking fright, the young deer that watched us cunningly from woodland and thicket, the partridges, the soaring eagles, the leaping salmon, and the fishermen hauling in their well-stocked nets. On the way to Pokiok two small streams are passed, the Indian names of which have been humorously embodied in the last two lines of this extract from De Mille:— “Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy, Shall we seek for communion of souls Where the deep Mississippi meanders Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls? Ah no! in New Brunswick we’ll find it— A sweetly sequestered nook— Where the sweet gliding Skoodawabskooksis Unites with the Skoodawabskook.” Few who reach Fredericton and the Middle St. John River will care to turn back without seeing the Grand Falls. It is one of the three greatest cataracts of the upper continent. It has almost a perpendicular drop, and the volume of water falling and thundering on “Split Rock” below is a sight to be long remembered. A great column of spray surmounts the lower rocks, and throws to the bright sunlight a play of rainbow-color with beautiful effect against the sombre foam-washed rocks. It is a splendid sight to see great logs passing over the brink. Even in the channel above great timbers of forty feet in length are tossed out of the water bodily, and when they are hurled headlong over the fall and into the depths below—often piled there momentarily, in almost inextricable confusion—the spectacle has a fascination in it that compels intent observation. There is a winding gorge below, and there are places such as “Pulpit Rock,” the hollowed-out “Great Well” and the “Coffee Mill” whirlpool that are of great interest. Logs are sometimes caught in the whirlpool, where the fierce spinning round to which they are subjected rapidly wears away the ends to sharp points, just as they would be if turned in a lathe. Of the approach to and general aspect of the cataract, the view from above is a fine one, for here the river after making a wide and grand sweep makes an abrupt turn and takes a forty-foot plunge in a solid mass. In continuous succession below is one fall after another until a total descent of 80 feet is reached. The water rushes through a high and winding chasm after it falls by rocky walls that are perpendicular. From the first fall to the last the water is lashed into angry sheets of foam; and no matter from where viewed, the scene is impressive and striking, and holds the onlooker spellbound. The full significance of the Indian legend connected with this locality will be realized as the gaze goes over the whole mass of turbulent and seething water. The legend, in brief, is this:— Long ago a great war party of 500 Mohawks came by Temiscouata Lake and the Madawaska River to destroy the Maliceet village of Medoctec on the St. John. Before they reached the mouth of the Madawaska they surprised a Maliceet hunter with his family. The man and his family were instantly killed, but the woman was spared on condition that she should guide the war party to the doomed village by a safe path. (One version has it that it was a Maliceet maiden who was thus captured.) She was placed in the chief’s canoe and guided them safely over the portage by the Madawaska Falls and into the St. John River. Tobique Narrows, St. John River At Hawkshaw Bridge Assured by their guide that there were no more falls to pass, the canoes were lashed together and drifted down the tide while the weary Mohawks sank in slumber. By and bye a sound of falling water aroused one of the chiefs; but being told that it was only the noise of the waterfall at the mouth of a nearby river, he again slept. But suddenly the full roar of the tremendous cataract strikes on the ears of the sleepers. Springing to their feet the horror of the situation is at once apparent. Paddles are seized and frantic efforts are made to stem the fierce tide. It is useless, and a terrible cry of despair goes up as they are swept to the brink of the foaming cataract. She had saved her father and her native village: “Then with a shout of triumph, the Indian maiden cried, ‘Listen, ye Mohawk warriors, which sail on Death’s dark tide! Never shall earth grave hold you, or wife weep o’er your clay. Come to your doom, ye Mohawks, and I will lead the way.’ * * * * * “And many a day thereafter, beyond the torrent’s roar, The swarthy Mohawk dead were found along the river’s shore. But on brave Malabeam’s dead face no human eyes were set— She lies in the dark stream’s embrace, the river claims her yet. “The waters of five hundred years have flowed above her grave, But daring deeds can never die while human hearts are brave. Her tribe still tell the story, and round their council fires, Honor the name of her who died to rescue all their sires.” Almost needless to state, there are many other legends and tales of the Indians in connection with their villages that are on the banks of the St. John above and below Fredericton. The whole district is so full of beauty, has so many attractions for the vacationist and nature lover, and is such a superb centre for hunting, fishing, boating, canoeing, etc., that no one may hope to exhaust its possibilities, even if a lifetime of summers should be spent in the exploration and unfolding of all that it contains. Reversing Fall, St. John River decorative border
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