15. CHORES AND MAKING MONEY
Many people think of life on a farm as a serene and ideal way of living, but there is another side to be considered. Farming is as full of cares, thorns, and thistles as the land which Adam tilled after he was driven from the Garden of Eden. There are droughts, blights, hail, and frosts. Weeds spring out of the soil to choke the tender plants, and armies of insects come to plunder and devour.
Up in our rural section we learned farming the hard way. The plowing and harrowing was done with the oxen, but all the planting, hoeing and harvesting was done by hand. I began dropping corn and seed potatoes at an early age. Using a short scythe, I learned to mow while still in my early teens. We raked up the hay by hand, and pitched it onto the two-wheeled cart. The only excitement occurred when we sometimes had to hurry under a hay-stack to keep from getting wet during a sudden thunderstorm.. Still, we looked forward to the harvest, the rewarding part of farming. The hope of extra-large pumpkins and big, smooth potatoes which might win a prize at the fair kept up our interest in the work.
One of my most monotonous chores was churning, which I did with an up-and-down plunger in a tall earthen crock. In the cold weather there seemed to be a tribe of obstinate witches who kept the butter from coming. The only way to beat them was by following the suggestion of Robert Burns: “Whether striving, suffering, or forbearing, miracles can be wrought by persevering.”
Another tiresome job was turning the grindstone. Our land, if not founded on a rock, was at least inlaid with them, and they were forever getting in the way of scythes and axes. I have heard that when the lady who much later became my wife was a little girl, she took a hammer and badly mutilated her father’s grindstone. I had the same inclination, but never had the courage to show how I felt. Even when one has the improved type of grindstone which operates by foot power, there are still difficulties. The lesson that it is much better to take time to sharpen your tools than it is to go work with dull ones remained with me, and later in an essay contest on the meaning of education, I won first prize by illustrating with the old grindstone.
Since our wealth was our cattle and crops and the resources around us in the mountains and woods, ready cash was sometimes at a minimum. However, we never had to go hungry, and although our furnishings were modest they were adequate, and replaced when necessary. In fact, I recall a time when Mother called attention to the lamentable state of our silverware by placing a badly worn spoon at the head of the table. When Father saw it beside his plate, he picked up the spoon, carried it to the door, and threw it as far as he could. Soon after that he brought home a shiny set of knives, forks and spoons.
It was always a special occasion when Father got a check for his furs. He had these checks cashed at the village store where he had to accept a lot of change. When he got home, and after supper and the devotions were finished, he would spread his money out on the table for an extra counting. Father not only shared some of the coins with us, but liked to give Mother money for a new dress or bright material.
As soon as we children were old enough, we were taught to earn money for ourselves; and though paper and magazine routes did not exist in our mountain district, there were some interesting substitutes. We climbed all the mountains that surrounded us, looking for the sweet juicy blueberries which were so good for pies and puddings, and which we could also sell for ten cents a quart. The wider views that met our eyes as we ascended the several peaks were also an exhilarating reward, and as I looked out over the many mountains, lakes, ponds, and streams, I felt an urge to see the things that lay beyond them.
As we traveled from one mountain ledge to another, we frequently saw the places where bears had been feeding on the berries, and on one trip my eldest brother and I disturbed a sleeping bear. As the animal stood on his hind legs to see who was encroaching on his wild domain, we came face to face. But only for a moment. Even though the beast had the right of possession, he seemed more than willing to leave. My brother hastened his departure by throwing a pail with such force that the bear did not turn out for small shrubbery, but broke bushes down in his straight-line rush away from us.
Father encouraged us to plant and tend an extra patch of potatoes, which we could sell to earn money for our winter clothing. We were so far from the market that we never acquired much wealth for our labor. With a one-man saw which had been presented to me, I cut and split a cord of white birch wood for use in a kitchen range, but the man who bought it was so slow in paying that I had to take my pay in peanuts, on the installment plan, as I called at his small store.
We three brothers imitated our father by learning to trap small game; and the merchant at the store once remarked that if the Roberts boys needed a shirt or a pair of overalls, they brought in the pelt of a skunk or a mink to swap for the article.
We caught and sold trout during the summer months. And at times we kept them alive in a pail of water to sell to people who had fishponds. In such cases the poor fish had to be caught twice.
When I needed a Fourth Reader for the fall term of school, I caught over a hundred small frogs, which I sold to fishermen for bait. The trip to the store was a memorable one, for not only was I to have the coveted book, but I was to pay for it myself. This was my first step in the process of education, and it was a rather wobbly step for brother Ruel and I drove down the lake road with a very ancient horse and crude homemade buggy. After every step the horse seemed to have to meditate awhile before taking the next one, and on our return trip darkness overtook us. This horse evidently believed that the night was made for sleeping, for when we were within two miles of home he lay down by the side of the road and called it a day. Ruel and I had to walk home; but I had my book, and though it had been impregnated with the aroma of tobacco smoke from the general store, it smelled and looked good to me.
I also had a brief career as a salesman at the little village then called Bartonville, down at the outlet of Brant Lake, where the general store was located. Sister Clara had bought some celluloid, from which she made some very fine napkin rings. Fastened as they were with pink ribbon, they had such appeal to the eyes of the ladies that I sold my entire stock in one day. Since I had called at all the houses and supplied the market, the business ended almost as soon as it started.
Ginseng roots formed another source of income for us. This plant, so highly prized by the Chinese as a cure-all, grew in our woods and in many places round about. In a way, looking for ginseng is like prospecting for gold. We loved to wander through the woods, looking for the plant with the golden tubers. At one time ginseng was very abundant in the Brant Lake area, but forest fires had destroyed much of it by the time I came along. What was left, though, was all the more valuable. One pound of the dried, man shaped root was worth three or four dollars, and eventually carried a much higher price. I think we could have become rich had we seen the possibilities of cultivating the plant and giving up space for it. The discouraging feature is that it takes about seven years for a seed to produce s sizable tuber.
Once when I was with Father I gathered seed which I planted in our woods, but a number of years later someone found it and dug it all up, without planting more seed. It was that attitude of grabbing all one could reach, without thinking of conservation, which helped to make ginseng scarce.
Even when he did not have a bear to skin, Father made his inspection trips profitable by taking time to search for ginseng. When he found more than he could dig before dark, he would sleep in the woods and finish the work in the morning. If it looked like ran, he would cut enough boughs to lean against a large fallen tree for shelter; and when he wanted to make a fire, he could find tinder in the hollow butt of such a tree. Once, when he was looking for a suitable place for his lodging, he noticed some fresh earth at the end of a tree which the wind had blown down, and discovered a newly-made den which a bear had dug under the upturned roots. Gathering an armful of dry leaves to serve as clean sheets, Father enjoyed a good night in the bear’s bedroom. Fortunately, the bear must have spent the night out. In the morning Father dug up the rest of the valuable roots and returned home with a big bag of them.
I can vouch for Father’s peaceful slumber in the forest, for one night when I was with him we slept in an open shanty which porcupines were gnawing to pieces. We had no lantern, but judging by the noises, the animals were converging upon us from all directions. The frogs were croaking in the nearby creek, owls answered one another from a distance, and hedgehogs kept up their persistent scraping on the few remaining boards of the shanty. I must confess to a sleepless night, but if Father heard these forest sounds at all, they were a soothing symphony which lulled him into blissful repose.
Later a man who had come up from the city to do some fishing in the vicinity was camping in this same dilapidated shack, and had a frightening experience. He thought the owls were wolves coming to attack him; and furthermore, as he excitedly explained to Father the next morning, a lumberman apparently bereft of his reason had been driving oxen on one of the mountains during the night. He explained that the lumberman must have been skidding logs, for he continually called to this oxen: “Whoa, whoa-ho!”
“I must have caught a bear,” said Father. “That’s the kind of noise they make when they’re in distress.”
The city man, fearing bears even more than phantom lumberjacks, remained close to his camp until he saw Father returning with a bearskin on his back. With relief and delight he accepted Father’s gift of bear steak which could be shared with friends who might have teased him if he had only an empty basket to show for the fishing trip.
***
It so happened that our own property provided me with one more source for earning money. The brook which wound its way through the length of our farm was not only interesting because of the traces of former beaver dams and the pools where we caught the speckled trout, but also because of a peculiar rock formation. Beginning at a waterfall a few hundred feet back of our house, and turning at a right angle, the brook descended into a miniature canyon with rapids and a natural stone bridge, and then disappeared underground. A little farther down were two round, well-like openings where we could hear the water rushing below. We often took good-sized fish from this place. On the west side of the rise the stream bubbled forth again and flowed on toward Brant Lake.
High on the steep hillside, above the place where the brook vanished, I had observed a cavity among the rocks. So far as I remember, no one had expressed any curiosity about this, and since it looked to me very much like a bear’s den, I kept away from it until I was about thirteen years old. That summer a young minister who liked to hike and fish stopped at our house. Since there is boldness in numbers, I told him about the mysterious cave and we agreed to explore it.
With a lantern we crawled between some narrow ledges, followed a downward fissure and were soon in a large room with stalagmites and stalacitites. About two hundred feet from the entrance of the cave, our progress was blocked by a dark pond of water.
No treasures or Indian relics were found, but later something of real financial value developed for me. People who spent their summer vacations at the lake heard about the cave and came to see it. I served as guide, and while I did not charge for my services, I nevertheless received many pieces of silver. With an eye for business, I put up a sign over our front door: CAMP CAVES. On the whole, I had no regrets about looking into this hole among the rocks.
16. SCHOOL DAYS AND DISTRACTIONS
Between two trout streams which flow into the head of Brant Lake, and just where a second dead-end dirt road leads up the valley, stood our weather-beaten schoolhouse, a one-room structure where all grades were taught. Attached to one side of the building was a woodshed, usually well-fitted with seasoned birch, beech, and maple. As if to protect us from the cold north and east winds, seven small mountains curved around in the shape of a horseshoe, for good luck—or, as some felt, an oxbow to represent service. First, Second, and Third Brothers, were on the east side, a mountain for each of the Roberts boys. Thunderbolt stood in the center of the bend, then extending around to the north were Stevenson, Chub-pond, and Big Hill. To the south, surrounded by lower hills, lay the shining water of the lake.
If the schoolhouse had ever been painted, not a trace of red remained when I began to seek learning there. But reading, writing, arithmetic, spelling, geography, physiology, and American History were taught year after year. We never graduated, but kept going over the same fundamentals, progressing through the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Reader books until we, or our parents, felt we had learned all there was to learn before taking up full-time work on the farm or in the nearby towns.
The location of our school must have been conducive to learning, for though our teachers had little more education than that provided by a district school, there was no Johnny among us who was not taught to read. In my own case, I marvel that I absorbed from my books and the recitations of others the little knowledge which has remained with me from those days. At that time, we did our arithmetic and wrote lists of words and sentences on slates. We took these to the teacher for correction, after which the slates were cleaned for further use. At school the blackboards were used in the same way. Paper would have been too expensive.
Our home-study work during the long winter evenings was done by the light of candles. Our parents, fearing that kerosene lamps might break, or explode and set the house on fire, were reluctant to make a change. They thought that candles were safer to have on the table, to carry upstairs when we went to bed, and to show the way to vegetable bins and shelves of preserves in the cellar. Even after my sisters brought us oil lamps from the city, Father preferred to read his Bible by candlelight. At times it was my task to help make the candles. Long cotton wicks, tied to small, round sticks, were inserted in hollow forms, and the melted fat of sheep was poured in to harden into what were known as tallow candles. Gas and electric bills were unknown on our road.
During the spring and summer the urge to go fishing seemed much stronger than the urge to learn arithmetic or spelling. Moreover, at times nature itself conspired against my education. As I looked out the schoolhouse window I frequently saw a fish hawk circle over the lake, make a sudden dive, and then, with some difficulty, bear his prize aloft.
Further outside distraction was offered by many red-winged blackbirds, orioles, and scarlet tanagers which found the shrubbery along the swampy shore land an ideal feeding ground and nesting place. A major diversion occurred one day when all of us were permitted to go out in the yard to see the body of a big bear which a neighbor had dispatched as it was swimming across the lake.
Recently when we asked our grandson, who had just begun to attend kindergarten, what he liked best about school, he answered, “I like the retesses.” At our country school, we too enjoyed the recesses, when we played tag, three-old-cat and four-old-cat baseball. Personally, I liked fishing better. Playing Post Office might have been as interesting as fishing, but the truth was that up our way nobody dared to kiss anybody—at least not when someone might be watching.
***
Occupied as we were with farming, making maple sugar, fishing, trapping, hunting and going to school in the little building which never got its red coat of paint, there were few dull moments in our lives at Brant Lake. We did take time out for jumping on the hay, climbing trees, playing hide-and-seek, and swimming. Our best place for swimming was a half-mile down the road at the Bentley farm, where a sandy beach was easy on our feet, but there was a swimming hole in our brook which we made deeper and wider by means of a sod dam. It was fun to do this, and also to remove the obstruction afterwards to cause a miniature flood.
When a fair was held at Pottersville in the fall of the year, we had a few rides on the merry-go-round, but for the most part we found riding on a load of hay or on a sled through the deep snow to gather sap more satisfying. Brother Ruel, at the age of nine, conceived the idea of hitching his sled to the tail of a young ox. The sudden acceleration and the terrific spill which resulted caused him to lose all confidence in this method of transportation, and he was content to take the slower rides with the rest of us.
The nearest country church was some seven miles distant, too far to go behind slow oxen. Father, who was an indefatigable walker, attended church quite often, but the rest of us only in the summertime when ministers came to our schoolhouse to hold services. During the summer we also maintained a Sunday School, of which I was once appointed superintendent at the age of twelve.
But unless there was a Sunday School to attend, Sundays seemed extra long. We all were too full of vitality to enjoy being quiet and sitting still. Walks along the brook and through the woods broke the monotony, and we were allowed to crack nuts and pop corn. Since Jesus and His disciples walked through a corn field, shucking and eating the kernels as they went along, it was not considered wrong for us to do something similar. We were grateful for the liberal ruling of our parents on this point. I suppose, however, that we were not behaving in an overly pious manner when we pretended that the exploding corn was ammunition in a fierce battle for our independence. I still recommend the use of popcorn as a safe way for small children to celebrate the Fourth of July. They can fire off these crackers and eat them, and no one is hurt.
Checkers and dominoes were occasionally played during the long, winter evenings, but “Authors” was the only card game allowed.
Christmas in our valley was observed with simplicity. In our stockings we found such articles as hickory nuts, candy, and a bit of money, but we felt rich nonetheless. After all, riches are a matter of the heart. The tin elephant on wheels which an older sister gave me one Christmas pleased me as much as a new automobile did thirty years later. And I have a clear recollection of joyful anticipation when some member of the family confided to me that Mother had a special Christmas present for me. After peeking into things in vain to find it, I was not disappointed when I received a pair of bright suspenders, proof that I was on my way to manhood.
A community Christmas Tree was put up in the schoolhouse and the various families would bring their gifts. At the right moment Old Santa brought his reindeer to a stop outside and Austin Ross, a Civil War veteran with a natural Santa face, would burst into the room to start the festivities. A few Christmas songs would be sung and some of the children called on for recitations. I was always expected to rattle off some verses which had been laboriously memorized.
Aside from the community Christmas tree, there were not many social events to be enjoyed in our neighborhood. Occasionally we had a community picnic, and with the coming of the summer people to Brant Lake, we were sometimes treated to Fourth-of-July fireworks. A man who owned a beautiful house on the shore of the lake generally invited the whole neighborhood to a lawn party, where paper balloons floated up toward the sky. Fire rockets, Roman candles, and other dazzling illuminations were discharged over the water. Even though we had had a long, hard day in the hay field, Father was always willing to hitch the oxen to our bumpy, two-wheeled hay cart and take us to the July Fourth celebration.
Although very strict in his religious beliefs, Father was quite liberal in some ways. He not only permitted us to attend the county fair, where various worldly things were on display, but he even entered his oxen in a race and won first prize. Of course, I was fascinated by the gambling machines, and ventured a nickel, which I lost—but I kept this secret to myself. I kept quiet also about some rank cigars which I won by throwing balls at a dodging clown’s head. The punishment that I brought on myself by smoking the cigars were severe enough.
When a circus which was booked for Chestertown, twelve miles away, gave its first performance, my older brother and I were there. We had obtained Father’s consent on the ground that it would be educational to see the elephant. However, considering the side show and all, we saw a great deal more than the elephant. The ease and grace with which men and women, scantily dressed in tights, turned somersaults and performed on the trapeze, and the skill of the cowboys in roping cattle, put ideas in my head.
On the first convenient day after returning from the circus, brother Ruel and I shut ourselves in the barn, piled up some hay, climbed up to a beam, and began our acrobatic training. I do not know just how Ruel came out, for he declined to tell. I was equally reticent about what happened to me in my attempt to spin around in the air. It may be sufficient to say the first-magnitude stars which I discovered as my knees collided with my forehead convinced me that swinging bars and acrobatic turns in mid-air might be a hard way to earn a living.
Not to be entirely disillusioned, though, I decided to try my hand at the cowboy tricks. For convenient practice just at this time, we had a sleek, black heifer. I made a slipknot in a rope, threw the loop at the frightened creature, and, after several tries, succeeded in lassoing her around the neck. As I held to the rope she bolted for her freedom, keeled over on her head, and came up with a broken horn. Mortified that I had marred the appearance of the beautiful young cow, and fearful of what Father might think of my awkward prank, all my visions of becoming a circus celebrity faded away.
Lest anyone think that I lacked the perseverance which is essential to success, I should mention my experience in learning to ride a bicycle. When my brother John rode home from Vermont on the first bicycle that we had seen on our rocky road, I was determined to learn to ride the thing. However, even though the seat was lowered as far down as it could be, my legs were not long enough. When the pedals were up I could push them down for a couple of inches, but then had to wait until they came up again. This maneuver hardly provided enough momentum for balancing the vehicle, but mounting and pushing off a big rock by the side of the road I could ride a few yards. Always, just as I would get started on a slight down grade, the sprocket chain, or one of the solid rubber tires, would come off. Without exaggeration I can say that I must have fallen into the dusty road a thousand times. Eventually, of course, I learned to balance the high and heavy bicycle, and experienced the thrill of triumph.
By using foot pressure on the front tire for braking purposes, I coasted down the hills to school. At times the balky bike brought me humiliation, as when the chain came off the sprocket on a bridge and both boy and bicycle fell in the brook, but at other times I was the envy of my schoolmates as they ran along beside me, and great was my glory.
17. FISHING: THE FAVORITE PASTIME
We boys thought our father showed wisdom at its best when, on rainy days, he told us to quit work in the cornfield and go fishing. Rain was good for the crops, and the fish were easier to catch on such days. Even the trip through the wet brush was a reminder of the treat ahead, for we knew the brooks and pools where the best fish were likely to be, and Father had taught us how to catch them.
We progressed rapidly from the twine and bent-pin stage to that of the stronger lines and steel hooks, and became ardent fishermen. We loved best to fish for the lusty trout. In accordance with Father’s instruction, we learned how to use long ash fishpoles and to approach the pools quietly, taking care to see that we cast no reflection on the water to frighten the fish.
On rainy days it did not take us much time to get from the fields of growing things to our favorite brooks. Getting our tackle together was a simple process. Hastily we dug angleworms, put our fish lines—which were wound on pieces of dry corncobs—in our pockets, and started off through the woods and over the hills. On our way we cut fishing rods to which we tied our lines when we reached the brook. Sometimes we spent an entire day fishing in a soaking rain, with water running down our backs, arms, and legs, but we always returned home with good strings of speckled trout and great appetites.
As Brant Lake was only a half mile from our house, we also did considerable lake-fishing for pickerel, bass, perch, and bullheads. During the early spring, when the pickerel came near the shore to sun themselves, we speared them or shot them with a rifle. I never learned the art of spearing fish, but one day when the lake had receded, leaving a sizable pickerel in a small pool from which there was no escape, I thought I would have a chance to try my luck. At that moment the poor fish, frightened at my approach, made a dash for freedom and came to a flopping stop on dry ground, several feet from the water. Not having the heart to impale the fish in his position of disadvantage, I picked it up and carried it home intact. So far as I know, this was a new method of landing fish.
During the long winter months we added to our food supply by fishing through the ice. This was not all fun, for we frequently had to cut holes through the ice that was from eighteen inches to two feet thick. It was no boy’s job to make eight or more such holes, but for some reason we put more zest into that kind of work than we usually did in chopping wood. When the holes were ready we used a small hook to catch perch which, in turn, we put on a larger hook for pickerel bait. We then continued fishing through the same holes. After all the lines had been set, it was interesting to watch the various flags as they moved, now slightly as the perch slowly swam about, and now more actively when the pickerel came near to frighten them. While the average weight of the pickerel was from two to three pounds, we were sure that there were much larger ones to be caught.
I was ten years old when I did my first fishing through the ice. My brother Ruel was eager to try out some new tackle that he had bought. Although we could see that I was anxious to go with him he did not offer to take me, thinking me too young to begin ice-fishing. In addition he had succeeded in getting some minnows which were thought to be irresistible bait, and he didn’t want to share them with his inexperienced brother.
However, luck was with me on this particular mild Monday. Monday was the day when Mother did her washing, and it was Ruel’s job to get the water from the brook. He was in such a hurry to get his lines set that he offered to give me three of his smallest bait fish and let me go with him if I would do his work for him. The offer was accepted, and the tubs were filled in record time.
Some time previously, in anticipation of this happy event, I had tied together several short pieces to make myself a line long enough for the deep-water angling. To this I had fastened a three-way hook, and so was ready to take my share of the big ones as soon as the weather got warmer.
When I reached the lake I selected a spot quite a distance from the favorite location, which was already occupied by Ruel’s six strong lines. I hacked a hole through the thick ice, put a minnow on my hook, and waited for a hungry fish to bite. Since my patience was not quickly rewarded, I walked over to see Ruel. He was not having much luck.
On my return to my improvised tip-up I found all the slack line pulled into the water. The stick to which the end of the line had been fastened was drawn across the hole. When I took hold of the line and felt the heavy weight on it, my excitement was unbounded. But I was afraid that some parts of the knotted string might break with the stress and, moreover, since I felt no lively jerks, it was possible that I might have only weeds on my hook. I kept hauling in and finally a big mottled head came up through the rather small opening and I had my fish safely out on the ice. Loud shouts of triumph brought my brother to me at top speed. Ruel could hardly believe his eyes, for there before us lay a pickerel—perhaps more technically a pike—exactly three feet long.
At my age, I was not tall enough to keep my fish’s tail from dragging on the snow, but I insisted nevertheless on carrying him all the way back to our house. Pride must have gleamed on me like the morning sun when I held my catch up to be admired and announced, “Look, I caught myself a fish.”
***
Some four miles over the mountains to the north of our house lay an enchanted lake, named after and pronounced like the Pharaoh of ancient Egypt. Perhaps the mountain, towering beside it somewhat in the shape of a pyramid, suggested the name. Many exciting encounters with bears occurred under the cliffs of Pharoah Mountain and its companion to the east, Old Treadway. However, we Roberts boys were mainly interested in the excellent trout of this deep, cool, secluded, and picturesque body of water. Here in this two-mile-long and mile-wide lake were the kind of fish that we liked best, and, in addition, they were usually larger in size and of superior, pink-meated color.
One man whom we knew claimed to have taken a five-pound brookie there one windy day, and, occasionally, others of two and three pounds. Father was a worthy follower of Izaak Walton in fishing brooks, but we had never learned how to catch trout in Pharaoh Lake. Many times when I went to a bear trap with him, we spent a few hours trolling there, but never caught a single fish. My older brothers had no better luck. Although Mother would ask us to bring her some of these special trout, we could never seem to get them to bite. Such a situation for otherwise respectable anglers had to be changed.
I had no difficulty in persuading a relative to join me on a camping trip one summer during which we hoped to discover the secret of catching those coveted fish. Loading our bicycles with such supplies as we could carry, and also afford, we pedaled to the head of Brant Lake. Then, pushing and pulling the bicycles over the rocky remains of an old logging road, we traveled another five miles to the outlet of Pharaoh. At this point we took a boat, for which we had made arrangements, and rowed another mile up the creek to an ideal camping place called Watch Rock.
After supper we expected to lie down to pleasant slumber on the sturdy and unyielding primeval mattresses, but sleep did not come easily. In order to eliminate weight we had brought only thin cotton blankets, which were easily penetrated by the crisp mountain air. The only way to endure the discomfort was to get up and keep the fire going. Imitating the Indians, we made a small fire and hovered near it, catching short naps between the shivers.
Up with the sun, we went forth to attempt what so few people had been able to accomplish. At first, with not another person in sight, we trolled around the shores and out in the middle of the lake, but caught nothing but sunfish. Eventually we saw another camper, sun-tanned and wrinkled Irishman who explained to us that he had come out to get a fish or two for his dinner. Mr. McGuire, for this was his name, was not very talkative, and apparently not anxious to reveal any tricks that he knew about catching fish; and when we inquired about the trail up the mountain where we might get some blueberries, he was equally vague. He said, “I’ve been up, and taken others up, but I never go in the same place once.”
As we were watching the veteran fisherman we saw him drop his oars suddenly, seize his fishpole, and give a long, swift pull on it. Having set the hook, he pulled in his line carefully by hand, and at the side of his boat used a net to take in a sizable trout. We saw also that he had a heavier sinker than we had brought with our tackle, which indicated that he had been trolling his bait down in deep, cool water.
It didn’t take us long to remedy our failure to fish farther below the surface. Down by the outlet of the lake, we found some big nails which we used instead of lead. Luck began to come our way. We caught three trout for supper. The next day we landed five, and the following day, eight. Mr. McGuire, not ready to give us too much credit, explained our success with these words: “Sometimes the trout like nails better than they do lead.” Undaunted by this dour appraisal, we came back on subsequent trips with plenty of lead sinkers, and have been catching our full share of these wonderful fish ever since.
The sheer joy of camping under the pines and among the cedars of any one of the three islands of Pharaoh was a good vacation in itself. The work of building or repairing the fireplace, finding and arranging flat stones for tables and seats, and gathering wood, both for cooking and for a campfire in the evening, was more like play than labor.
In earlier days, pine stumps stood everywhere, like gravestones in a cemetery, reminding one of the great trees which had once crashed to the earth. The stumps themselves were no dwarfs, but two and three feet in diameter and some of them five feet high, having been cut down by men who stood on deep packed snow. These remnants of forest giants, with roots clinging to stones and ledges like the tentacles of a huge octopus, made excellent firewood. To entertain friends on a dark evening cheered by such a fire, and then serve an early breakfast of trout, griddlecakes and maple syrup, was an experience long and pleasantly remembered.
If I seem to be approaching fantasy in calling this lake with the ancient Egyptian name “enchanted,” I will mention an unusual phenomenon in justification. It occurred on an afternoon when I was fishing with a friend who had never been to Pharaoh before, and who doubted that we could catch anything. But the wind was just right, and our luck the best that I had ever known. We pulled in trout as if they were on a waiting list.
Presently, coming down from the north, a thin column of rain appeared, and then another from the east. As I heard the sound of raindrops on the trees, I began rowing toward our tent on Little Island. I hoped that the steady west wind, which was bending the sheets of rain backward, might prevail and keep us from getting wet. However, the roar of the approaching storm encouraged me to quicken my speed. It was fortunate that I did this, for as we reached shelter the currents of air which had been coming from three directions converged on the lake and gave us an exhibition of something which I had never seen before—and have not seen since—The Dance of the Mistmaids.
In a space about the size of a merry-go-round, liquid sprays rose and fell and revolved rapidly in a mad pursuit of each other. The fantastic dance lasted no more than half a minute, but in this short time the water was churned into foamy waves which expanded in widening circles to cover all the lake and wash all the shores. I do not know how our old flat boat would have stood up against the freakish wind and waves, and was satisfied to watch the show which nature provided for us from a safe observation point.
Many people think of life on a farm as a serene and ideal way of living, but there is another side to be considered. Farming is as full of cares, thorns, and thistles as the land which Adam tilled after he was driven from the Garden of Eden. There are droughts, blights, hail, and frosts. Weeds spring out of the soil to choke the tender plants, and armies of insects come to plunder and devour.
Up in our rural section we learned farming the hard way. The plowing and harrowing was done with the oxen, but all the planting, hoeing and harvesting was done by hand. I began dropping corn and seed potatoes at an early age. Using a short scythe, I learned to mow while still in my early teens. We raked up the hay by hand, and pitched it onto the two-wheeled cart. The only excitement occurred when we sometimes had to hurry under a hay-stack to keep from getting wet during a sudden thunderstorm.. Still, we looked forward to the harvest, the rewarding part of farming. The hope of extra-large pumpkins and big, smooth potatoes which might win a prize at the fair kept up our interest in the work.
One of my most monotonous chores was churning, which I did with an up-and-down plunger in a tall earthen crock. In the cold weather there seemed to be a tribe of obstinate witches who kept the butter from coming. The only way to beat them was by following the suggestion of Robert Burns: “Whether striving, suffering, or forbearing, miracles can be wrought by persevering.”
Another tiresome job was turning the grindstone. Our land, if not founded on a rock, was at least inlaid with them, and they were forever getting in the way of scythes and axes. I have heard that when the lady who much later became my wife was a little girl, she took a hammer and badly mutilated her father’s grindstone. I had the same inclination, but never had the courage to show how I felt. Even when one has the improved type of grindstone which operates by foot power, there are still difficulties. The lesson that it is much better to take time to sharpen your tools than it is to go work with dull ones remained with me, and later in an essay contest on the meaning of education, I won first prize by illustrating with the old grindstone.
Since our wealth was our cattle and crops and the resources around us in the mountains and woods, ready cash was sometimes at a minimum. However, we never had to go hungry, and although our furnishings were modest they were adequate, and replaced when necessary. In fact, I recall a time when Mother called attention to the lamentable state of our silverware by placing a badly worn spoon at the head of the table. When Father saw it beside his plate, he picked up the spoon, carried it to the door, and threw it as far as he could. Soon after that he brought home a shiny set of knives, forks and spoons.
It was always a special occasion when Father got a check for his furs. He had these checks cashed at the village store where he had to accept a lot of change. When he got home, and after supper and the devotions were finished, he would spread his money out on the table for an extra counting. Father not only shared some of the coins with us, but liked to give Mother money for a new dress or bright material.
As soon as we children were old enough, we were taught to earn money for ourselves; and though paper and magazine routes did not exist in our mountain district, there were some interesting substitutes. We climbed all the mountains that surrounded us, looking for the sweet juicy blueberries which were so good for pies and puddings, and which we could also sell for ten cents a quart. The wider views that met our eyes as we ascended the several peaks were also an exhilarating reward, and as I looked out over the many mountains, lakes, ponds, and streams, I felt an urge to see the things that lay beyond them.
As we traveled from one mountain ledge to another, we frequently saw the places where bears had been feeding on the berries, and on one trip my eldest brother and I disturbed a sleeping bear. As the animal stood on his hind legs to see who was encroaching on his wild domain, we came face to face. But only for a moment. Even though the beast had the right of possession, he seemed more than willing to leave. My brother hastened his departure by throwing a pail with such force that the bear did not turn out for small shrubbery, but broke bushes down in his straight-line rush away from us.
Father encouraged us to plant and tend an extra patch of potatoes, which we could sell to earn money for our winter clothing. We were so far from the market that we never acquired much wealth for our labor. With a one-man saw which had been presented to me, I cut and split a cord of white birch wood for use in a kitchen range, but the man who bought it was so slow in paying that I had to take my pay in peanuts, on the installment plan, as I called at his small store.
We three brothers imitated our father by learning to trap small game; and the merchant at the store once remarked that if the Roberts boys needed a shirt or a pair of overalls, they brought in the pelt of a skunk or a mink to swap for the article.
We caught and sold trout during the summer months. And at times we kept them alive in a pail of water to sell to people who had fishponds. In such cases the poor fish had to be caught twice.
When I needed a Fourth Reader for the fall term of school, I caught over a hundred small frogs, which I sold to fishermen for bait. The trip to the store was a memorable one, for not only was I to have the coveted book, but I was to pay for it myself. This was my first step in the process of education, and it was a rather wobbly step for brother Ruel and I drove down the lake road with a very ancient horse and crude homemade buggy. After every step the horse seemed to have to meditate awhile before taking the next one, and on our return trip darkness overtook us. This horse evidently believed that the night was made for sleeping, for when we were within two miles of home he lay down by the side of the road and called it a day. Ruel and I had to walk home; but I had my book, and though it had been impregnated with the aroma of tobacco smoke from the general store, it smelled and looked good to me.
I also had a brief career as a salesman at the little village then called Bartonville, down at the outlet of Brant Lake, where the general store was located. Sister Clara had bought some celluloid, from which she made some very fine napkin rings. Fastened as they were with pink ribbon, they had such appeal to the eyes of the ladies that I sold my entire stock in one day. Since I had called at all the houses and supplied the market, the business ended almost as soon as it started.
Ginseng roots formed another source of income for us. This plant, so highly prized by the Chinese as a cure-all, grew in our woods and in many places round about. In a way, looking for ginseng is like prospecting for gold. We loved to wander through the woods, looking for the plant with the golden tubers. At one time ginseng was very abundant in the Brant Lake area, but forest fires had destroyed much of it by the time I came along. What was left, though, was all the more valuable. One pound of the dried, man shaped root was worth three or four dollars, and eventually carried a much higher price. I think we could have become rich had we seen the possibilities of cultivating the plant and giving up space for it. The discouraging feature is that it takes about seven years for a seed to produce s sizable tuber.
Once when I was with Father I gathered seed which I planted in our woods, but a number of years later someone found it and dug it all up, without planting more seed. It was that attitude of grabbing all one could reach, without thinking of conservation, which helped to make ginseng scarce.
Even when he did not have a bear to skin, Father made his inspection trips profitable by taking time to search for ginseng. When he found more than he could dig before dark, he would sleep in the woods and finish the work in the morning. If it looked like ran, he would cut enough boughs to lean against a large fallen tree for shelter; and when he wanted to make a fire, he could find tinder in the hollow butt of such a tree. Once, when he was looking for a suitable place for his lodging, he noticed some fresh earth at the end of a tree which the wind had blown down, and discovered a newly-made den which a bear had dug under the upturned roots. Gathering an armful of dry leaves to serve as clean sheets, Father enjoyed a good night in the bear’s bedroom. Fortunately, the bear must have spent the night out. In the morning Father dug up the rest of the valuable roots and returned home with a big bag of them.
I can vouch for Father’s peaceful slumber in the forest, for one night when I was with him we slept in an open shanty which porcupines were gnawing to pieces. We had no lantern, but judging by the noises, the animals were converging upon us from all directions. The frogs were croaking in the nearby creek, owls answered one another from a distance, and hedgehogs kept up their persistent scraping on the few remaining boards of the shanty. I must confess to a sleepless night, but if Father heard these forest sounds at all, they were a soothing symphony which lulled him into blissful repose.
Later a man who had come up from the city to do some fishing in the vicinity was camping in this same dilapidated shack, and had a frightening experience. He thought the owls were wolves coming to attack him; and furthermore, as he excitedly explained to Father the next morning, a lumberman apparently bereft of his reason had been driving oxen on one of the mountains during the night. He explained that the lumberman must have been skidding logs, for he continually called to this oxen: “Whoa, whoa-ho!”
“I must have caught a bear,” said Father. “That’s the kind of noise they make when they’re in distress.”
The city man, fearing bears even more than phantom lumberjacks, remained close to his camp until he saw Father returning with a bearskin on his back. With relief and delight he accepted Father’s gift of bear steak which could be shared with friends who might have teased him if he had only an empty basket to show for the fishing trip.
***
It so happened that our own property provided me with one more source for earning money. The brook which wound its way through the length of our farm was not only interesting because of the traces of former beaver dams and the pools where we caught the speckled trout, but also because of a peculiar rock formation. Beginning at a waterfall a few hundred feet back of our house, and turning at a right angle, the brook descended into a miniature canyon with rapids and a natural stone bridge, and then disappeared underground. A little farther down were two round, well-like openings where we could hear the water rushing below. We often took good-sized fish from this place. On the west side of the rise the stream bubbled forth again and flowed on toward Brant Lake.
High on the steep hillside, above the place where the brook vanished, I had observed a cavity among the rocks. So far as I remember, no one had expressed any curiosity about this, and since it looked to me very much like a bear’s den, I kept away from it until I was about thirteen years old. That summer a young minister who liked to hike and fish stopped at our house. Since there is boldness in numbers, I told him about the mysterious cave and we agreed to explore it.
With a lantern we crawled between some narrow ledges, followed a downward fissure and were soon in a large room with stalagmites and stalacitites. About two hundred feet from the entrance of the cave, our progress was blocked by a dark pond of water.
No treasures or Indian relics were found, but later something of real financial value developed for me. People who spent their summer vacations at the lake heard about the cave and came to see it. I served as guide, and while I did not charge for my services, I nevertheless received many pieces of silver. With an eye for business, I put up a sign over our front door: CAMP CAVES. On the whole, I had no regrets about looking into this hole among the rocks.
16. SCHOOL DAYS AND DISTRACTIONS
Between two trout streams which flow into the head of Brant Lake, and just where a second dead-end dirt road leads up the valley, stood our weather-beaten schoolhouse, a one-room structure where all grades were taught. Attached to one side of the building was a woodshed, usually well-fitted with seasoned birch, beech, and maple. As if to protect us from the cold north and east winds, seven small mountains curved around in the shape of a horseshoe, for good luck—or, as some felt, an oxbow to represent service. First, Second, and Third Brothers, were on the east side, a mountain for each of the Roberts boys. Thunderbolt stood in the center of the bend, then extending around to the north were Stevenson, Chub-pond, and Big Hill. To the south, surrounded by lower hills, lay the shining water of the lake.
If the schoolhouse had ever been painted, not a trace of red remained when I began to seek learning there. But reading, writing, arithmetic, spelling, geography, physiology, and American History were taught year after year. We never graduated, but kept going over the same fundamentals, progressing through the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Reader books until we, or our parents, felt we had learned all there was to learn before taking up full-time work on the farm or in the nearby towns.
The location of our school must have been conducive to learning, for though our teachers had little more education than that provided by a district school, there was no Johnny among us who was not taught to read. In my own case, I marvel that I absorbed from my books and the recitations of others the little knowledge which has remained with me from those days. At that time, we did our arithmetic and wrote lists of words and sentences on slates. We took these to the teacher for correction, after which the slates were cleaned for further use. At school the blackboards were used in the same way. Paper would have been too expensive.
Our home-study work during the long winter evenings was done by the light of candles. Our parents, fearing that kerosene lamps might break, or explode and set the house on fire, were reluctant to make a change. They thought that candles were safer to have on the table, to carry upstairs when we went to bed, and to show the way to vegetable bins and shelves of preserves in the cellar. Even after my sisters brought us oil lamps from the city, Father preferred to read his Bible by candlelight. At times it was my task to help make the candles. Long cotton wicks, tied to small, round sticks, were inserted in hollow forms, and the melted fat of sheep was poured in to harden into what were known as tallow candles. Gas and electric bills were unknown on our road.
During the spring and summer the urge to go fishing seemed much stronger than the urge to learn arithmetic or spelling. Moreover, at times nature itself conspired against my education. As I looked out the schoolhouse window I frequently saw a fish hawk circle over the lake, make a sudden dive, and then, with some difficulty, bear his prize aloft.
Further outside distraction was offered by many red-winged blackbirds, orioles, and scarlet tanagers which found the shrubbery along the swampy shore land an ideal feeding ground and nesting place. A major diversion occurred one day when all of us were permitted to go out in the yard to see the body of a big bear which a neighbor had dispatched as it was swimming across the lake.
Recently when we asked our grandson, who had just begun to attend kindergarten, what he liked best about school, he answered, “I like the retesses.” At our country school, we too enjoyed the recesses, when we played tag, three-old-cat and four-old-cat baseball. Personally, I liked fishing better. Playing Post Office might have been as interesting as fishing, but the truth was that up our way nobody dared to kiss anybody—at least not when someone might be watching.
***
Occupied as we were with farming, making maple sugar, fishing, trapping, hunting and going to school in the little building which never got its red coat of paint, there were few dull moments in our lives at Brant Lake. We did take time out for jumping on the hay, climbing trees, playing hide-and-seek, and swimming. Our best place for swimming was a half-mile down the road at the Bentley farm, where a sandy beach was easy on our feet, but there was a swimming hole in our brook which we made deeper and wider by means of a sod dam. It was fun to do this, and also to remove the obstruction afterwards to cause a miniature flood.
When a fair was held at Pottersville in the fall of the year, we had a few rides on the merry-go-round, but for the most part we found riding on a load of hay or on a sled through the deep snow to gather sap more satisfying. Brother Ruel, at the age of nine, conceived the idea of hitching his sled to the tail of a young ox. The sudden acceleration and the terrific spill which resulted caused him to lose all confidence in this method of transportation, and he was content to take the slower rides with the rest of us.
The nearest country church was some seven miles distant, too far to go behind slow oxen. Father, who was an indefatigable walker, attended church quite often, but the rest of us only in the summertime when ministers came to our schoolhouse to hold services. During the summer we also maintained a Sunday School, of which I was once appointed superintendent at the age of twelve.
But unless there was a Sunday School to attend, Sundays seemed extra long. We all were too full of vitality to enjoy being quiet and sitting still. Walks along the brook and through the woods broke the monotony, and we were allowed to crack nuts and pop corn. Since Jesus and His disciples walked through a corn field, shucking and eating the kernels as they went along, it was not considered wrong for us to do something similar. We were grateful for the liberal ruling of our parents on this point. I suppose, however, that we were not behaving in an overly pious manner when we pretended that the exploding corn was ammunition in a fierce battle for our independence. I still recommend the use of popcorn as a safe way for small children to celebrate the Fourth of July. They can fire off these crackers and eat them, and no one is hurt.
Checkers and dominoes were occasionally played during the long, winter evenings, but “Authors” was the only card game allowed.
Christmas in our valley was observed with simplicity. In our stockings we found such articles as hickory nuts, candy, and a bit of money, but we felt rich nonetheless. After all, riches are a matter of the heart. The tin elephant on wheels which an older sister gave me one Christmas pleased me as much as a new automobile did thirty years later. And I have a clear recollection of joyful anticipation when some member of the family confided to me that Mother had a special Christmas present for me. After peeking into things in vain to find it, I was not disappointed when I received a pair of bright suspenders, proof that I was on my way to manhood.
A community Christmas Tree was put up in the schoolhouse and the various families would bring their gifts. At the right moment Old Santa brought his reindeer to a stop outside and Austin Ross, a Civil War veteran with a natural Santa face, would burst into the room to start the festivities. A few Christmas songs would be sung and some of the children called on for recitations. I was always expected to rattle off some verses which had been laboriously memorized.
Aside from the community Christmas tree, there were not many social events to be enjoyed in our neighborhood. Occasionally we had a community picnic, and with the coming of the summer people to Brant Lake, we were sometimes treated to Fourth-of-July fireworks. A man who owned a beautiful house on the shore of the lake generally invited the whole neighborhood to a lawn party, where paper balloons floated up toward the sky. Fire rockets, Roman candles, and other dazzling illuminations were discharged over the water. Even though we had had a long, hard day in the hay field, Father was always willing to hitch the oxen to our bumpy, two-wheeled hay cart and take us to the July Fourth celebration.
Although very strict in his religious beliefs, Father was quite liberal in some ways. He not only permitted us to attend the county fair, where various worldly things were on display, but he even entered his oxen in a race and won first prize. Of course, I was fascinated by the gambling machines, and ventured a nickel, which I lost—but I kept this secret to myself. I kept quiet also about some rank cigars which I won by throwing balls at a dodging clown’s head. The punishment that I brought on myself by smoking the cigars were severe enough.
When a circus which was booked for Chestertown, twelve miles away, gave its first performance, my older brother and I were there. We had obtained Father’s consent on the ground that it would be educational to see the elephant. However, considering the side show and all, we saw a great deal more than the elephant. The ease and grace with which men and women, scantily dressed in tights, turned somersaults and performed on the trapeze, and the skill of the cowboys in roping cattle, put ideas in my head.
On the first convenient day after returning from the circus, brother Ruel and I shut ourselves in the barn, piled up some hay, climbed up to a beam, and began our acrobatic training. I do not know just how Ruel came out, for he declined to tell. I was equally reticent about what happened to me in my attempt to spin around in the air. It may be sufficient to say the first-magnitude stars which I discovered as my knees collided with my forehead convinced me that swinging bars and acrobatic turns in mid-air might be a hard way to earn a living.
Not to be entirely disillusioned, though, I decided to try my hand at the cowboy tricks. For convenient practice just at this time, we had a sleek, black heifer. I made a slipknot in a rope, threw the loop at the frightened creature, and, after several tries, succeeded in lassoing her around the neck. As I held to the rope she bolted for her freedom, keeled over on her head, and came up with a broken horn. Mortified that I had marred the appearance of the beautiful young cow, and fearful of what Father might think of my awkward prank, all my visions of becoming a circus celebrity faded away.
Lest anyone think that I lacked the perseverance which is essential to success, I should mention my experience in learning to ride a bicycle. When my brother John rode home from Vermont on the first bicycle that we had seen on our rocky road, I was determined to learn to ride the thing. However, even though the seat was lowered as far down as it could be, my legs were not long enough. When the pedals were up I could push them down for a couple of inches, but then had to wait until they came up again. This maneuver hardly provided enough momentum for balancing the vehicle, but mounting and pushing off a big rock by the side of the road I could ride a few yards. Always, just as I would get started on a slight down grade, the sprocket chain, or one of the solid rubber tires, would come off. Without exaggeration I can say that I must have fallen into the dusty road a thousand times. Eventually, of course, I learned to balance the high and heavy bicycle, and experienced the thrill of triumph.
By using foot pressure on the front tire for braking purposes, I coasted down the hills to school. At times the balky bike brought me humiliation, as when the chain came off the sprocket on a bridge and both boy and bicycle fell in the brook, but at other times I was the envy of my schoolmates as they ran along beside me, and great was my glory.
17. FISHING: THE FAVORITE PASTIME
We boys thought our father showed wisdom at its best when, on rainy days, he told us to quit work in the cornfield and go fishing. Rain was good for the crops, and the fish were easier to catch on such days. Even the trip through the wet brush was a reminder of the treat ahead, for we knew the brooks and pools where the best fish were likely to be, and Father had taught us how to catch them.
We progressed rapidly from the twine and bent-pin stage to that of the stronger lines and steel hooks, and became ardent fishermen. We loved best to fish for the lusty trout. In accordance with Father’s instruction, we learned how to use long ash fishpoles and to approach the pools quietly, taking care to see that we cast no reflection on the water to frighten the fish.
On rainy days it did not take us much time to get from the fields of growing things to our favorite brooks. Getting our tackle together was a simple process. Hastily we dug angleworms, put our fish lines—which were wound on pieces of dry corncobs—in our pockets, and started off through the woods and over the hills. On our way we cut fishing rods to which we tied our lines when we reached the brook. Sometimes we spent an entire day fishing in a soaking rain, with water running down our backs, arms, and legs, but we always returned home with good strings of speckled trout and great appetites.
As Brant Lake was only a half mile from our house, we also did considerable lake-fishing for pickerel, bass, perch, and bullheads. During the early spring, when the pickerel came near the shore to sun themselves, we speared them or shot them with a rifle. I never learned the art of spearing fish, but one day when the lake had receded, leaving a sizable pickerel in a small pool from which there was no escape, I thought I would have a chance to try my luck. At that moment the poor fish, frightened at my approach, made a dash for freedom and came to a flopping stop on dry ground, several feet from the water. Not having the heart to impale the fish in his position of disadvantage, I picked it up and carried it home intact. So far as I know, this was a new method of landing fish.
During the long winter months we added to our food supply by fishing through the ice. This was not all fun, for we frequently had to cut holes through the ice that was from eighteen inches to two feet thick. It was no boy’s job to make eight or more such holes, but for some reason we put more zest into that kind of work than we usually did in chopping wood. When the holes were ready we used a small hook to catch perch which, in turn, we put on a larger hook for pickerel bait. We then continued fishing through the same holes. After all the lines had been set, it was interesting to watch the various flags as they moved, now slightly as the perch slowly swam about, and now more actively when the pickerel came near to frighten them. While the average weight of the pickerel was from two to three pounds, we were sure that there were much larger ones to be caught.
I was ten years old when I did my first fishing through the ice. My brother Ruel was eager to try out some new tackle that he had bought. Although we could see that I was anxious to go with him he did not offer to take me, thinking me too young to begin ice-fishing. In addition he had succeeded in getting some minnows which were thought to be irresistible bait, and he didn’t want to share them with his inexperienced brother.
However, luck was with me on this particular mild Monday. Monday was the day when Mother did her washing, and it was Ruel’s job to get the water from the brook. He was in such a hurry to get his lines set that he offered to give me three of his smallest bait fish and let me go with him if I would do his work for him. The offer was accepted, and the tubs were filled in record time.
Some time previously, in anticipation of this happy event, I had tied together several short pieces to make myself a line long enough for the deep-water angling. To this I had fastened a three-way hook, and so was ready to take my share of the big ones as soon as the weather got warmer.
When I reached the lake I selected a spot quite a distance from the favorite location, which was already occupied by Ruel’s six strong lines. I hacked a hole through the thick ice, put a minnow on my hook, and waited for a hungry fish to bite. Since my patience was not quickly rewarded, I walked over to see Ruel. He was not having much luck.
On my return to my improvised tip-up I found all the slack line pulled into the water. The stick to which the end of the line had been fastened was drawn across the hole. When I took hold of the line and felt the heavy weight on it, my excitement was unbounded. But I was afraid that some parts of the knotted string might break with the stress and, moreover, since I felt no lively jerks, it was possible that I might have only weeds on my hook. I kept hauling in and finally a big mottled head came up through the rather small opening and I had my fish safely out on the ice. Loud shouts of triumph brought my brother to me at top speed. Ruel could hardly believe his eyes, for there before us lay a pickerel—perhaps more technically a pike—exactly three feet long.
At my age, I was not tall enough to keep my fish’s tail from dragging on the snow, but I insisted nevertheless on carrying him all the way back to our house. Pride must have gleamed on me like the morning sun when I held my catch up to be admired and announced, “Look, I caught myself a fish.”
***
Some four miles over the mountains to the north of our house lay an enchanted lake, named after and pronounced like the Pharaoh of ancient Egypt. Perhaps the mountain, towering beside it somewhat in the shape of a pyramid, suggested the name. Many exciting encounters with bears occurred under the cliffs of Pharoah Mountain and its companion to the east, Old Treadway. However, we Roberts boys were mainly interested in the excellent trout of this deep, cool, secluded, and picturesque body of water. Here in this two-mile-long and mile-wide lake were the kind of fish that we liked best, and, in addition, they were usually larger in size and of superior, pink-meated color.
One man whom we knew claimed to have taken a five-pound brookie there one windy day, and, occasionally, others of two and three pounds. Father was a worthy follower of Izaak Walton in fishing brooks, but we had never learned how to catch trout in Pharaoh Lake. Many times when I went to a bear trap with him, we spent a few hours trolling there, but never caught a single fish. My older brothers had no better luck. Although Mother would ask us to bring her some of these special trout, we could never seem to get them to bite. Such a situation for otherwise respectable anglers had to be changed.
I had no difficulty in persuading a relative to join me on a camping trip one summer during which we hoped to discover the secret of catching those coveted fish. Loading our bicycles with such supplies as we could carry, and also afford, we pedaled to the head of Brant Lake. Then, pushing and pulling the bicycles over the rocky remains of an old logging road, we traveled another five miles to the outlet of Pharaoh. At this point we took a boat, for which we had made arrangements, and rowed another mile up the creek to an ideal camping place called Watch Rock.
After supper we expected to lie down to pleasant slumber on the sturdy and unyielding primeval mattresses, but sleep did not come easily. In order to eliminate weight we had brought only thin cotton blankets, which were easily penetrated by the crisp mountain air. The only way to endure the discomfort was to get up and keep the fire going. Imitating the Indians, we made a small fire and hovered near it, catching short naps between the shivers.
Up with the sun, we went forth to attempt what so few people had been able to accomplish. At first, with not another person in sight, we trolled around the shores and out in the middle of the lake, but caught nothing but sunfish. Eventually we saw another camper, sun-tanned and wrinkled Irishman who explained to us that he had come out to get a fish or two for his dinner. Mr. McGuire, for this was his name, was not very talkative, and apparently not anxious to reveal any tricks that he knew about catching fish; and when we inquired about the trail up the mountain where we might get some blueberries, he was equally vague. He said, “I’ve been up, and taken others up, but I never go in the same place once.”
As we were watching the veteran fisherman we saw him drop his oars suddenly, seize his fishpole, and give a long, swift pull on it. Having set the hook, he pulled in his line carefully by hand, and at the side of his boat used a net to take in a sizable trout. We saw also that he had a heavier sinker than we had brought with our tackle, which indicated that he had been trolling his bait down in deep, cool water.
It didn’t take us long to remedy our failure to fish farther below the surface. Down by the outlet of the lake, we found some big nails which we used instead of lead. Luck began to come our way. We caught three trout for supper. The next day we landed five, and the following day, eight. Mr. McGuire, not ready to give us too much credit, explained our success with these words: “Sometimes the trout like nails better than they do lead.” Undaunted by this dour appraisal, we came back on subsequent trips with plenty of lead sinkers, and have been catching our full share of these wonderful fish ever since.
The sheer joy of camping under the pines and among the cedars of any one of the three islands of Pharaoh was a good vacation in itself. The work of building or repairing the fireplace, finding and arranging flat stones for tables and seats, and gathering wood, both for cooking and for a campfire in the evening, was more like play than labor.
In earlier days, pine stumps stood everywhere, like gravestones in a cemetery, reminding one of the great trees which had once crashed to the earth. The stumps themselves were no dwarfs, but two and three feet in diameter and some of them five feet high, having been cut down by men who stood on deep packed snow. These remnants of forest giants, with roots clinging to stones and ledges like the tentacles of a huge octopus, made excellent firewood. To entertain friends on a dark evening cheered by such a fire, and then serve an early breakfast of trout, griddlecakes and maple syrup, was an experience long and pleasantly remembered.
If I seem to be approaching fantasy in calling this lake with the ancient Egyptian name “enchanted,” I will mention an unusual phenomenon in justification. It occurred on an afternoon when I was fishing with a friend who had never been to Pharaoh before, and who doubted that we could catch anything. But the wind was just right, and our luck the best that I had ever known. We pulled in trout as if they were on a waiting list.
Presently, coming down from the north, a thin column of rain appeared, and then another from the east. As I heard the sound of raindrops on the trees, I began rowing toward our tent on Little Island. I hoped that the steady west wind, which was bending the sheets of rain backward, might prevail and keep us from getting wet. However, the roar of the approaching storm encouraged me to quicken my speed. It was fortunate that I did this, for as we reached shelter the currents of air which had been coming from three directions converged on the lake and gave us an exhibition of something which I had never seen before—and have not seen since—The Dance of the Mistmaids.
In a space about the size of a merry-go-round, liquid sprays rose and fell and revolved rapidly in a mad pursuit of each other. The fantastic dance lasted no more than half a minute, but in this short time the water was churned into foamy waves which expanded in widening circles to cover all the lake and wash all the shores. I do not know how our old flat boat would have stood up against the freakish wind and waves, and was satisfied to watch the show which nature provided for us from a safe observation point.