9. LION, THE BEAR DOG
Lion soon became a strong, husky dog. He was a good farm dog, and learned to be gentle with the cattle and sheep as he helped to drive them from the pasture to the barn. He was always on the alert for opportunities to be of service. If Father was fishing the brook Lion would stand by quietly in order not to frighten the fish, and if a trout happened to drop off the hook, Lion would retrieve it before it had a chance to flop back into the water. However, he liked hunting best of all. Whenever he saw Father reach for his gun he would go into ecstasy. Since I was a small boy at the time, I do not recall much about Lion as a young dog but I have gathered his story from older sisters and brothers, and certain images of him are stamped on my mind. I can see him jumping up and down when the mere handling of a gun suggested the possibility of going after game. I remember that I had to keep out of the way to avoid being knocked over. At that time I could not have been more than two or three years old.
Lion grew to be a larger and stronger dog than Prince, and was so quick that he made short work of raccoons and other small animals. When he had a chance to go to Father’s aid at a time when a wounded bear was charging, he proved that he had the spirit of old Prince. He not only stopped the mad rush of the beast, but more than held his own in the fight which ensued.
Father always taught his dogs obedience and good manners. He did not want them to fight like common curs, but on one occasion he made an exception. A man named Davis, who lived down on the crossroad, owned a dog of large size and mean disposition called Ruff. This ill-trained dog, if not restrained, attacked all other dogs that came along, and sent them on their way limping and bleeding. He was also very menacing to us children, growling and rearing up when we walked innocently along the road that he considered his domain. Davis boasted that his dog could lick anything on four legs.
Whenever Father had Lion with him as he passed the Davis house, he kept the dog close to his side and avoided trouble. Lion himself showed no inclination to scrap. As a fighter against wildcats and bears, he seemed to consider himself above a run-in with a mere house dog. Davis scoffed at Father and Lion, and misinterpreted their behavior as cowardly. He said, “It’s natural for dogs to bark and bite. They soon learn which one is boss, and after that they get along all right.” Father replied, “Lion is still a young dog, and on my trapping trips I have to pass many houses where there are dogs. I don’t want Lion fighting with every new dog he sees.” But when Davis added, “My husky would eat up your pampered bear-dog.” Father yielded. He agreed to a fight but suggested that the dogs be separated before either one could do the other much damage. Davis said, “No, let them fight until one of them knows he’s licked.”
Ruff was growling out his challenges and insults as Father said, “Take him, Lion.” No time was lost in sparring or circling for position. Lion must have sensed all the crimes that had been committed, against the smaller and weaker members of his kind, and was eager to avenge them. The two big dogs came together with furious impact, and the Davis dog went over backwards. As if he were an animal to be killed and skinned, Lion caught his adversary by the throat and began to shake the life out of him.
The fight did not last more than a minute. Davis shouted to Father, “Take him off, take your dog off! He’s killing my dog!” Father readily consented, and pulled Lion away. “That’s enough, Lion; that’s enough.”
Mr. Davis no longer had any doubt about which dog was the champion in that neighborhood.
More than once Lion saved his master from being injured by a bear. And in the spring of the year, when bears prey on sheep that are bearing their young, Lion was a faithful guard in our pasture. He also made our valley so unhealthy for wildcats that they moved away. In fact, it was his reputation for ridding the woods of these marauding cats that almost cost him his life.
Father’s nephew from Vermont asked permission to take Lion over to his state to hunt down and drive out the many bobcats which were decimating the small game of that region. He promised to take good care of our dog and to bring him back to us by spring, when the bears would be emerging from their dens. However, circumstances arose which interfered with the keeping of the agreement.
On a long hike through crusted snow Ally, as our cousin was nicknamed, injured a leg so severely that soon after his return home he had to leave the dog with a friend, who was then courting a young lady, gave his undivided attention to her and even presumed to ask her to help him care for the dog. One cold, blustery day she ordered Lion out of the house. Quite naturally he refused to obey, and was given a cruel beating by the suitor. At the first opportunity, Lion ran away.
A few weeks later a letter was delivered to us telling of the disappearance of our beloved dog. We were terribly distressed, but tried to reassure ourselves that a dog as smart as Lion would be able to find his way back to us, even though he had been transported first by foot, then by train, and again by foot, over a distance of more than seventy-five miles. To be sure, Lake George and Lake Champlain formed intervening barriers and the water at that time of the year was very cold and covered with ice around the shores.
A second letter, close on the heels of the first, brought more disturbing information. A farmer had found in his pasture a dead yearling heifer which, according to visible tracks, had been killed and partly eaten by a large dog. The letter went on to say that a hunter had followed the large footprints of a dog in the snow and had set traps near a rocky den.
It was difficult for us to believe that our Lion was the culprit, for he had never molested any livestock in our valley. On the contrary, he had frequently slept among our sheep. Still, he might have been driven by hunger to help himself to the only food available.
Father headed immediately for Vermont. Defying a blinding snowstorm that overtook him on Hague Mountain, he made his way by foot to Ticonderoga and, when night came on, continued steadily down to Whitehall, across to Poultney, and then in a southerly direction to Dorset, Vermont. At dawn he had traveled sixty-five miles, and had several miles to go to reach the back district where Lion was in jeopardy.
When he came to the more remote houses among the hills, he learned that Lion had managed to escape from the den where the hunter had trailed him. The traps had been sprung, and the large one was missing. The chain had been broken close to the stake to which it had been fastened. Tracks which the fleeing dog had made in the snow led to another cave farther back in the mountains. To make sure that his prize would not elude him again, the hunter had blocked the entrance to the cave and hurried home for help. Father was informed that four men had started off before daylight to do his big dog to death.
The men had armed themselves with muskets, loaded with buckshot. They expected to smoke Lion out of the cave, so had taken a bag of old rags for producing smoke, and blankets to force the suffocating fumes into the more distant recesses. They were eager for sport, and for the fifty-dollar reward that was on Lion’s head.
In spite of their careful preparations, the plan did not work as well as had been anticipated. An aperture in the ledges produced an upward draft which carried some of the smoke away. Additional rags were ignited, and a long pole used to push them farther into the cavity. After a long wait the sound of a cough proved that the smoke was reaching its intended victim. The blankets were removed from the opening, and the men raised their guns to shoot. The clinking of metal on stones told them that the dog was coming out for air.
At this moment Father came racing through the woods and ordered the men to stop. Considerably surprised at the appearance of this black-bearded stranger, the men looked suspicious, and annoyed at being interrupted. One of them asked Father who he was.
"I’m not surprised you don’t remember me,” Father answered. “I’m Ed Roberts, son of Allen Roberts, the Green Mountain bear hunter some of you must recall.” Two of the men nodded.
“I left these parts some twenty years ago and moved over the Adirondacks where I do considerable bear hunting myself. This dog you plan to kill once saved me from an enormous bear.”
Since the heavy trap had apparently slowed Lion’s progress in emerging from the smoke-filled cave, the men had to listen.
“I got this dog from your own town, seven years ago when he was a pup. He’s a great bear dog. He’s also death on wildcats. In fact, it was to help clear the wildcats out of your county that I agreed to lend him to my nephew Ally. I was told that your turkeys and small game were being destroyed.”
Father told them briefly of Ally’s bad luck and of the events leading up to Lion’s misfortune. “I can’t explain it,” he added. “Lion was a sheep dog before he ever learned to hunt—one of the best I ever had. But being lost and among strangers, he had to turn to hunting for his food. I guess it was the only thing he could do.”
The rough-looking woodsmen and hunters acknowledged the truth of this last remark. Reassured by their attention, Father continued. “Over in my neighborhood we’re not troubled by wildcats. Lion drove them all off.”
“Come to think of it,” one of the men said, “I haven’t lost a turkey for six weeks, and I haven’t heard of anyone else losing any either. Maybe the dog has earned his keep. Besides, the runt heifers he killed weren’t worth much anyway.”
“Of course I’ll pay for heifers,” Father said. “I’m a trifle short on cash right now, but I expect to sell some fur soon, and when the check comes I’ll make things right with you.”
“What about my reward?” another of the men complained. “I’ve spent more than a week following tracks and setting traps. Are you going to cheat me out of the money now?”
The first man who had addressed Father was evidently the leader of the group. “The reward’s off! I started this thing before I knew the facts. Dogs as well as people have a right to a fair trial. Let’s help Ed Roberts get this dog out of that damned trap.”
A plaintive whine from the dark hole indicated that Lion had heard his master’s voice and was calling for his help. It didn’t take long for Father to crawl in beside his dog and to release Lion’s badly swollen hind leg from the jaws of the trap. Fortunately, the leg was not broken and Father bound it up with rags. The party was soon on its way out of the rough terrain.
Although weak from lack of food, Lion could hobble along down the trail. The men who had so recently been bent on shooting him now did what they could to make amends for their cruelty. They helped Lion over the hard places and offered him dried venison and a place by the fire when the group reached the mountain community.
For the return home my cousin Ally contributed a wagon, heaped with straw on which Lion was content to rest and lick his injured paw. We children vied with one another to give Lion the welcome he deserved, hugging him and rubbing coon oil on his wounds. Lion endured this attention with remarkable patience, thumping his great tail on the floor. Probably his best reward was provided by Mother and my sister Cordie, who baked him a cornbread johnnycake with bacon drippings.
Lion was as gentle as ever toward us children, and contrary to the claim that a dog who has once killed and tasted the warm blood of cattle can never be trusted with farm stock, he remained dependable in rounding up our cows and sheep.
He lived on to increase his reputation as a hunting dog. In his older years Lion was seldom called on to tackle a bear, but he could still make short work of the largest raccoon, and he found great pleasure in stalking woodchucks. Because of this advancing age and a slight limp during the cold weather, we tried to keep him by the fireside as much as possible. However, if Father so much as got up to go outside for more firewood, Lion was the first at the door, eager to be tracking down the scents and following the wild trails that gave him such delight.
In the summer, as he grew older, Lion used to lie on some hay near our barn door, where he could watch our comings and goings. I remember how the warm sun shone down on his magnificent golden coat. Then one morning we found him, stretched before the door he had guarded so faithfully and long, in his last sleep. We felt sure that he had slipped quietly away to join our other brave dogs.
10. THE BLIZZARD OF ‘88
Early in March, 1888, when a big thaw indicated that winter might be breaking up, Father thought the weather conditions right for one more try at trapping fisher and marten far back among the higher Adirondacks. Since the maple sugar season was rapidly approaching, there was hardly a day to spare for such a trip, but Father urgently needed ready money. One of our oxen had broken a leg, and had had to be killed. We needed a new yoke of oxen to draw up the sap and to do the spring plowing. A man who lived a few miles away had a pair of three-year-old steers for sale, but they were so perfectly matched that he was asking one hundred dollars for them; and at that time one hundred dollars was a lot of money for us to raise.
So Father loaded his packbasket with traps and other necessities and started off for the valuable pelts. He left long before dawn, and by 9 P.M. reached Mt. Marcy, more than sixty miles from our house. There was no abandoned shanty in the locality for shelter, so he made his headquarters in a cave where he had often camped before. The next day he set his traps, gathered wood to cook his pork and beans, and brought in evergreen boughs for his bed. He saw numerous animal tracks and these made him confident and hopeful. On his first round to his traps he was not disappointed, and even felt that he might make a record catch if his luck continued. But suddenly the weather changed to an intense cold, and the furbearers, as if warned of an approaching calamity, disappeared. Father retired to his cave on Marcy, and according to his custom, prepared to rest on Sunday, which was the next day. If, as the signs told him, a storm was coming, he was ready for it; but instead of an ordinary late-winter storm, the blizzard of ’88 caught him on the isolated, wind-swept mountain.
Father anticipated only a few inches of snow, and hoped that the storm would be over by Monday morning. It became increasingly evident, however, that this was no usual fall of snow. As if in great wrath, and fighting for the right-of-way up and down this highest peak of the Adirondacks, the biting wind whistled and howled through the swaying trees, and tried the strength of every cliff. Many trees came crashing to the earth, and broken limbs were blown about like scraps of paper. The Bible reading trapper recalled the time when the prophet Elijah took refuge in a cave, “and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and broke in pieces the rocks before the Lord.” Through the night and day, and on through the following night and day, the fury of the storm built the bulwarks of snow higher and higher.
I was five years old at the time, too young to know much about anxiety, but Mother, even though she realized Father’s resourcefulness in taking care of himself, must have been tempted to worry as the terrific wind wrestled at our doors and windows. She knew that he was acquainted with caves and dens into which he might go for shelter, and that if it was necessary he would not hesitate to take over the sleeping quarters of a bear. But there was the danger that he would become so concerned for the safety of his family that he would attempt to make his way back home. She had heard of other strong men losing their lives in such a vain effort.
We did not fear that our bread-winner would starve. A skillful trapper can usually provide himself with plenty of food in any emergency. Rabbits, raccoon, and partridges are easy to catch or shoot, and were nearly always available among the hills and mountains. And Father generally carried with him a few easily prepared food-stuffs such as cornmeal, beans, and salt pork. Nor did he have to worry lest we run out of provisions at home. With the barrel of flour, bag of cornmeal, potatoes in the cellar, and milk and butter, from our cows, we were stocked almost as well as a neighborhood grocery store.
However, we were prisoners of the storm. The full fury of the blizzard hit the Adirondack region. The temperature went down to twenty and thirty below zero, felt all the more because of the high wind. The snow was four feet deep around our house, and back in the woods it was deeper still. Great drifts ten to twenty feet high were everywhere. Our road was impassable, and not a single neighbor was able to come to our house to speak a word of encouragement or ask after our welfare.
Fortunately, there was wood in the shed, though it was covered with snow that had been driven through the cracks between the boards. My own task was to keep the woodbox full, and to make pine shavings at night with which to rekindle the fire in the morning. I remember putting sticks in the oven to warm and dry, so that we would be assured of a steady fire when the wood was laid on the glowing coals above. John and Ruel shoveled a path to the barn, which was more than a hundred feet away, fed the cattle and sheep, and milked the two cows. Keeping this path open was not easy, for if there is anything that drifting snow likes, it is filling a narrow path. To get water for the stock, and for cooking and washing, it was necessary to bring in pails of snow to be melted on the stove.
At the height of the howling wind, when our small house vibrated and loose clapboards rattled, it seemed to me that packs of wolves must be huffing and puffing to blow our doors down. Indeed, the fine snow found cracks in our loft through which it came in the drifts close to my straw mattress in the attic. I snuggled close to my brother John for warmth and comfort.
When Father had prepared to take this trip, Mother had urged him to include snowshoes in his pack, but he had thought the winter too far gone for such equipment. He changed his mind when the storm continued through Monday and the snow rose up to his shoulders. There was only one thing for him to do: he must make himself some snowshoes. Fortunately, he had learned how to weave web-like supports for both feet and hands. Cutting some flexible sapling branches, he bent them to the shape of snowshoes, fastened them in this form with copper wire (which he carried for mending traplines and making snares to catch rabbits), and crisscrossed them with strong withes. To lighten his pack, he left everything that he could spare in the cave, but the sub-zero weather had frozen his four fishers and two sable so quickly that he had been unable to skin them.
As soon as the storm subsided a bit, Father put his heavy, awkward burden on his back, fastened his improvised snowshoes to his feet and hands, and, on all fours, began his descent. Down the slopes and past the flows, he made his way over gigantic drifts and treacherous snow pockets. As he took each laboured step, the usually well-loved forest seemed more like a prison of snow. Finally, reaching the clearings, Father saw men with oxen attempting to break roads from one house of another. And now, in spite of drifting snow, he was able to discard his cumbersome supports. With many zigzags, he pushed on with more speed in an upright position. His large rubbers, pulled on over homemade sheepskin moccasins, not only kept his feet warm but also enabled him to make rapid progress.
Late in the evening of the second day after the storm had abated, a familiar stamping at our back door indicated that Father was trying to leave all traces of the great blizzard behind him. With energy that did not know the meaning of the word “tired,” he had made his way over those more than sixty miles of snow-filled roads in record time.
Even though I was then so young, I remember seeing Father standing by the kitchen stove as he pulled the ice from his beard, and I recall the joyous relief that filled our hearts. Father had not only lived through the storm, but also had brought back with him valuable furs which, later on, were sold for considerably more than was needed to purchase the splendidly matched yoke of oxen. I know also that after eating his late supper, he took his Bible from the shelf back of the table and read a full chapter from its pages. We all then kneeled for the evening prayer.
During the next few days a warmer south wind and bright sun melted the snow and the sap began to run. The maple-sugar season was upon us, and the Blizzard of ’88, for our family at least, became only a pleasantly exciting topic of conversation.
11. MAKING MAPLE SUGAR
While wood-chopping, fishing, skating, and sliding down hill broke the monotony of long winters, the spring sugaring brought us the sweetest delight. Along about the middle of March, when warmer sunshine encouraged the crows to return and favored the industry of the woodpeckers, we tapped our maples. It was hard work to gather enough wood to boil down a barrel of sap until it thickened into a gallon of syrup, and the task of making paths to the trees through the accumulated snows of winter and collecting the liquid from the buckets afforded plenty of exercise. However, the prospect of quick returns in the form of wax on snow, and the later pleasure of pure maple syrup for griddle cakes and corn bread made the labor much more exciting than hoeing potatoes and getting up the hay.
I remember that a few days after the Blizzard of ’88, when the snow had settled, I followed in Father’s footsteps with brace and bit, spouts and buckets, he tapped some of our big maples over on the south side of a hill. In our region, in spite of occasional thaws, the snow remained on the ground until mid-April. Late snows, and of course the Blizzard of ’88, naturally made the task of collecting the sap more difficult, since we had to remove snow from each bucket and, not infrequently, ice as well. The sap we gathered was boiled down in milk pans on our range; and the syrup was as clear as crystal.
It is a well-known fact that sap is sweeter and syrup of higher quality when the sun warms the maple trees after a hard freeze. For this reason people who know about sugaring prefer the products from the first run of the trees, instead of the sap which comes later in milder weather. I recall hearing it said that the deep-freeze of early March, 1888, made for a particular clear and tasty syrup and whiter cakes of sugar.
At our house the feast of maple sweets was not one of short duration. The big cakes of sugar for year-round use were stored in a large tin trunk, in order to keep mice and other intruders from sampling them. Small cakes were laid by as candy. I have often held a stalk of rhubarb in one hand and a piece of maple sugar in the other, and by taking alternate bites of the sour and the sweet given my sense of taste a rare treat. The syrup for griddle cakes and corn bread was kept in bottles in the cool-cellar, where the canned berries were.
Did you ever eat shortcake made with wild strawberries, thick cream, and grated maple sugar? If you have, you know what I mean when I speak of Mother’s baking. She mixed the berries, cream, and sugar in a bowl, and then spread both layers of the cake with this tasty mixture.
Grated maple sugar also made a tempting filler for the sandwiches we took to school for lunch; and blueberry pudding, sprinkled with maple sugar, was a dessert fit for royalty. I have imitated some of the little food tricks that Mother used, and have grated maple sugar over the oatmeal served to friends on camping trips. Of course, out in the open, people have keener appetites, but I have found that oatmeal served in this manner will call forth exclamations of praise.
For a delightful variation of taste, we stirred butter-nut meats into thick maple syrup and made a soft-textured candy which no one can resist once he has tried it.
I am not advertising for any maple products company, but I have wondered why it is that so many people living in New England have never tasted maple wax on snow. One reason may be that the snow does not last long enough in the more southern sections; but if one will store up a gallon or two of maple syrup, and exercise the necessary self-control to keep some of it until the snows of January and February come, he will be well rewarded. The syrup must be boiled down until it begins to drip lazily from a spoon or ladle as it is tested by dropping a bit on a pan of clean, packed snow. When the syrup hardens into a ribbon almost as soon as it touches the cold snow, it is ready for eating. Pour the reddish liquid slowly around in circles, or in any way you wish, and then, with fork in hand, break it up, or wind it up, and begin to enjoy the rich fruit of the maples. If you serve the treat to anyone with false teeth, take special pains not to have the syrup too thick when it is poured on the snow! We boys sometimes played tricks on our dog by giving him rather hard maple wax that stuck his teeth together.
Lion soon became a strong, husky dog. He was a good farm dog, and learned to be gentle with the cattle and sheep as he helped to drive them from the pasture to the barn. He was always on the alert for opportunities to be of service. If Father was fishing the brook Lion would stand by quietly in order not to frighten the fish, and if a trout happened to drop off the hook, Lion would retrieve it before it had a chance to flop back into the water. However, he liked hunting best of all. Whenever he saw Father reach for his gun he would go into ecstasy. Since I was a small boy at the time, I do not recall much about Lion as a young dog but I have gathered his story from older sisters and brothers, and certain images of him are stamped on my mind. I can see him jumping up and down when the mere handling of a gun suggested the possibility of going after game. I remember that I had to keep out of the way to avoid being knocked over. At that time I could not have been more than two or three years old.
Lion grew to be a larger and stronger dog than Prince, and was so quick that he made short work of raccoons and other small animals. When he had a chance to go to Father’s aid at a time when a wounded bear was charging, he proved that he had the spirit of old Prince. He not only stopped the mad rush of the beast, but more than held his own in the fight which ensued.
Father always taught his dogs obedience and good manners. He did not want them to fight like common curs, but on one occasion he made an exception. A man named Davis, who lived down on the crossroad, owned a dog of large size and mean disposition called Ruff. This ill-trained dog, if not restrained, attacked all other dogs that came along, and sent them on their way limping and bleeding. He was also very menacing to us children, growling and rearing up when we walked innocently along the road that he considered his domain. Davis boasted that his dog could lick anything on four legs.
Whenever Father had Lion with him as he passed the Davis house, he kept the dog close to his side and avoided trouble. Lion himself showed no inclination to scrap. As a fighter against wildcats and bears, he seemed to consider himself above a run-in with a mere house dog. Davis scoffed at Father and Lion, and misinterpreted their behavior as cowardly. He said, “It’s natural for dogs to bark and bite. They soon learn which one is boss, and after that they get along all right.” Father replied, “Lion is still a young dog, and on my trapping trips I have to pass many houses where there are dogs. I don’t want Lion fighting with every new dog he sees.” But when Davis added, “My husky would eat up your pampered bear-dog.” Father yielded. He agreed to a fight but suggested that the dogs be separated before either one could do the other much damage. Davis said, “No, let them fight until one of them knows he’s licked.”
Ruff was growling out his challenges and insults as Father said, “Take him, Lion.” No time was lost in sparring or circling for position. Lion must have sensed all the crimes that had been committed, against the smaller and weaker members of his kind, and was eager to avenge them. The two big dogs came together with furious impact, and the Davis dog went over backwards. As if he were an animal to be killed and skinned, Lion caught his adversary by the throat and began to shake the life out of him.
The fight did not last more than a minute. Davis shouted to Father, “Take him off, take your dog off! He’s killing my dog!” Father readily consented, and pulled Lion away. “That’s enough, Lion; that’s enough.”
Mr. Davis no longer had any doubt about which dog was the champion in that neighborhood.
More than once Lion saved his master from being injured by a bear. And in the spring of the year, when bears prey on sheep that are bearing their young, Lion was a faithful guard in our pasture. He also made our valley so unhealthy for wildcats that they moved away. In fact, it was his reputation for ridding the woods of these marauding cats that almost cost him his life.
Father’s nephew from Vermont asked permission to take Lion over to his state to hunt down and drive out the many bobcats which were decimating the small game of that region. He promised to take good care of our dog and to bring him back to us by spring, when the bears would be emerging from their dens. However, circumstances arose which interfered with the keeping of the agreement.
On a long hike through crusted snow Ally, as our cousin was nicknamed, injured a leg so severely that soon after his return home he had to leave the dog with a friend, who was then courting a young lady, gave his undivided attention to her and even presumed to ask her to help him care for the dog. One cold, blustery day she ordered Lion out of the house. Quite naturally he refused to obey, and was given a cruel beating by the suitor. At the first opportunity, Lion ran away.
A few weeks later a letter was delivered to us telling of the disappearance of our beloved dog. We were terribly distressed, but tried to reassure ourselves that a dog as smart as Lion would be able to find his way back to us, even though he had been transported first by foot, then by train, and again by foot, over a distance of more than seventy-five miles. To be sure, Lake George and Lake Champlain formed intervening barriers and the water at that time of the year was very cold and covered with ice around the shores.
A second letter, close on the heels of the first, brought more disturbing information. A farmer had found in his pasture a dead yearling heifer which, according to visible tracks, had been killed and partly eaten by a large dog. The letter went on to say that a hunter had followed the large footprints of a dog in the snow and had set traps near a rocky den.
It was difficult for us to believe that our Lion was the culprit, for he had never molested any livestock in our valley. On the contrary, he had frequently slept among our sheep. Still, he might have been driven by hunger to help himself to the only food available.
Father headed immediately for Vermont. Defying a blinding snowstorm that overtook him on Hague Mountain, he made his way by foot to Ticonderoga and, when night came on, continued steadily down to Whitehall, across to Poultney, and then in a southerly direction to Dorset, Vermont. At dawn he had traveled sixty-five miles, and had several miles to go to reach the back district where Lion was in jeopardy.
When he came to the more remote houses among the hills, he learned that Lion had managed to escape from the den where the hunter had trailed him. The traps had been sprung, and the large one was missing. The chain had been broken close to the stake to which it had been fastened. Tracks which the fleeing dog had made in the snow led to another cave farther back in the mountains. To make sure that his prize would not elude him again, the hunter had blocked the entrance to the cave and hurried home for help. Father was informed that four men had started off before daylight to do his big dog to death.
The men had armed themselves with muskets, loaded with buckshot. They expected to smoke Lion out of the cave, so had taken a bag of old rags for producing smoke, and blankets to force the suffocating fumes into the more distant recesses. They were eager for sport, and for the fifty-dollar reward that was on Lion’s head.
In spite of their careful preparations, the plan did not work as well as had been anticipated. An aperture in the ledges produced an upward draft which carried some of the smoke away. Additional rags were ignited, and a long pole used to push them farther into the cavity. After a long wait the sound of a cough proved that the smoke was reaching its intended victim. The blankets were removed from the opening, and the men raised their guns to shoot. The clinking of metal on stones told them that the dog was coming out for air.
At this moment Father came racing through the woods and ordered the men to stop. Considerably surprised at the appearance of this black-bearded stranger, the men looked suspicious, and annoyed at being interrupted. One of them asked Father who he was.
"I’m not surprised you don’t remember me,” Father answered. “I’m Ed Roberts, son of Allen Roberts, the Green Mountain bear hunter some of you must recall.” Two of the men nodded.
“I left these parts some twenty years ago and moved over the Adirondacks where I do considerable bear hunting myself. This dog you plan to kill once saved me from an enormous bear.”
Since the heavy trap had apparently slowed Lion’s progress in emerging from the smoke-filled cave, the men had to listen.
“I got this dog from your own town, seven years ago when he was a pup. He’s a great bear dog. He’s also death on wildcats. In fact, it was to help clear the wildcats out of your county that I agreed to lend him to my nephew Ally. I was told that your turkeys and small game were being destroyed.”
Father told them briefly of Ally’s bad luck and of the events leading up to Lion’s misfortune. “I can’t explain it,” he added. “Lion was a sheep dog before he ever learned to hunt—one of the best I ever had. But being lost and among strangers, he had to turn to hunting for his food. I guess it was the only thing he could do.”
The rough-looking woodsmen and hunters acknowledged the truth of this last remark. Reassured by their attention, Father continued. “Over in my neighborhood we’re not troubled by wildcats. Lion drove them all off.”
“Come to think of it,” one of the men said, “I haven’t lost a turkey for six weeks, and I haven’t heard of anyone else losing any either. Maybe the dog has earned his keep. Besides, the runt heifers he killed weren’t worth much anyway.”
“Of course I’ll pay for heifers,” Father said. “I’m a trifle short on cash right now, but I expect to sell some fur soon, and when the check comes I’ll make things right with you.”
“What about my reward?” another of the men complained. “I’ve spent more than a week following tracks and setting traps. Are you going to cheat me out of the money now?”
The first man who had addressed Father was evidently the leader of the group. “The reward’s off! I started this thing before I knew the facts. Dogs as well as people have a right to a fair trial. Let’s help Ed Roberts get this dog out of that damned trap.”
A plaintive whine from the dark hole indicated that Lion had heard his master’s voice and was calling for his help. It didn’t take long for Father to crawl in beside his dog and to release Lion’s badly swollen hind leg from the jaws of the trap. Fortunately, the leg was not broken and Father bound it up with rags. The party was soon on its way out of the rough terrain.
Although weak from lack of food, Lion could hobble along down the trail. The men who had so recently been bent on shooting him now did what they could to make amends for their cruelty. They helped Lion over the hard places and offered him dried venison and a place by the fire when the group reached the mountain community.
For the return home my cousin Ally contributed a wagon, heaped with straw on which Lion was content to rest and lick his injured paw. We children vied with one another to give Lion the welcome he deserved, hugging him and rubbing coon oil on his wounds. Lion endured this attention with remarkable patience, thumping his great tail on the floor. Probably his best reward was provided by Mother and my sister Cordie, who baked him a cornbread johnnycake with bacon drippings.
Lion was as gentle as ever toward us children, and contrary to the claim that a dog who has once killed and tasted the warm blood of cattle can never be trusted with farm stock, he remained dependable in rounding up our cows and sheep.
He lived on to increase his reputation as a hunting dog. In his older years Lion was seldom called on to tackle a bear, but he could still make short work of the largest raccoon, and he found great pleasure in stalking woodchucks. Because of this advancing age and a slight limp during the cold weather, we tried to keep him by the fireside as much as possible. However, if Father so much as got up to go outside for more firewood, Lion was the first at the door, eager to be tracking down the scents and following the wild trails that gave him such delight.
In the summer, as he grew older, Lion used to lie on some hay near our barn door, where he could watch our comings and goings. I remember how the warm sun shone down on his magnificent golden coat. Then one morning we found him, stretched before the door he had guarded so faithfully and long, in his last sleep. We felt sure that he had slipped quietly away to join our other brave dogs.
10. THE BLIZZARD OF ‘88
Early in March, 1888, when a big thaw indicated that winter might be breaking up, Father thought the weather conditions right for one more try at trapping fisher and marten far back among the higher Adirondacks. Since the maple sugar season was rapidly approaching, there was hardly a day to spare for such a trip, but Father urgently needed ready money. One of our oxen had broken a leg, and had had to be killed. We needed a new yoke of oxen to draw up the sap and to do the spring plowing. A man who lived a few miles away had a pair of three-year-old steers for sale, but they were so perfectly matched that he was asking one hundred dollars for them; and at that time one hundred dollars was a lot of money for us to raise.
So Father loaded his packbasket with traps and other necessities and started off for the valuable pelts. He left long before dawn, and by 9 P.M. reached Mt. Marcy, more than sixty miles from our house. There was no abandoned shanty in the locality for shelter, so he made his headquarters in a cave where he had often camped before. The next day he set his traps, gathered wood to cook his pork and beans, and brought in evergreen boughs for his bed. He saw numerous animal tracks and these made him confident and hopeful. On his first round to his traps he was not disappointed, and even felt that he might make a record catch if his luck continued. But suddenly the weather changed to an intense cold, and the furbearers, as if warned of an approaching calamity, disappeared. Father retired to his cave on Marcy, and according to his custom, prepared to rest on Sunday, which was the next day. If, as the signs told him, a storm was coming, he was ready for it; but instead of an ordinary late-winter storm, the blizzard of ’88 caught him on the isolated, wind-swept mountain.
Father anticipated only a few inches of snow, and hoped that the storm would be over by Monday morning. It became increasingly evident, however, that this was no usual fall of snow. As if in great wrath, and fighting for the right-of-way up and down this highest peak of the Adirondacks, the biting wind whistled and howled through the swaying trees, and tried the strength of every cliff. Many trees came crashing to the earth, and broken limbs were blown about like scraps of paper. The Bible reading trapper recalled the time when the prophet Elijah took refuge in a cave, “and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and broke in pieces the rocks before the Lord.” Through the night and day, and on through the following night and day, the fury of the storm built the bulwarks of snow higher and higher.
I was five years old at the time, too young to know much about anxiety, but Mother, even though she realized Father’s resourcefulness in taking care of himself, must have been tempted to worry as the terrific wind wrestled at our doors and windows. She knew that he was acquainted with caves and dens into which he might go for shelter, and that if it was necessary he would not hesitate to take over the sleeping quarters of a bear. But there was the danger that he would become so concerned for the safety of his family that he would attempt to make his way back home. She had heard of other strong men losing their lives in such a vain effort.
We did not fear that our bread-winner would starve. A skillful trapper can usually provide himself with plenty of food in any emergency. Rabbits, raccoon, and partridges are easy to catch or shoot, and were nearly always available among the hills and mountains. And Father generally carried with him a few easily prepared food-stuffs such as cornmeal, beans, and salt pork. Nor did he have to worry lest we run out of provisions at home. With the barrel of flour, bag of cornmeal, potatoes in the cellar, and milk and butter, from our cows, we were stocked almost as well as a neighborhood grocery store.
However, we were prisoners of the storm. The full fury of the blizzard hit the Adirondack region. The temperature went down to twenty and thirty below zero, felt all the more because of the high wind. The snow was four feet deep around our house, and back in the woods it was deeper still. Great drifts ten to twenty feet high were everywhere. Our road was impassable, and not a single neighbor was able to come to our house to speak a word of encouragement or ask after our welfare.
Fortunately, there was wood in the shed, though it was covered with snow that had been driven through the cracks between the boards. My own task was to keep the woodbox full, and to make pine shavings at night with which to rekindle the fire in the morning. I remember putting sticks in the oven to warm and dry, so that we would be assured of a steady fire when the wood was laid on the glowing coals above. John and Ruel shoveled a path to the barn, which was more than a hundred feet away, fed the cattle and sheep, and milked the two cows. Keeping this path open was not easy, for if there is anything that drifting snow likes, it is filling a narrow path. To get water for the stock, and for cooking and washing, it was necessary to bring in pails of snow to be melted on the stove.
At the height of the howling wind, when our small house vibrated and loose clapboards rattled, it seemed to me that packs of wolves must be huffing and puffing to blow our doors down. Indeed, the fine snow found cracks in our loft through which it came in the drifts close to my straw mattress in the attic. I snuggled close to my brother John for warmth and comfort.
When Father had prepared to take this trip, Mother had urged him to include snowshoes in his pack, but he had thought the winter too far gone for such equipment. He changed his mind when the storm continued through Monday and the snow rose up to his shoulders. There was only one thing for him to do: he must make himself some snowshoes. Fortunately, he had learned how to weave web-like supports for both feet and hands. Cutting some flexible sapling branches, he bent them to the shape of snowshoes, fastened them in this form with copper wire (which he carried for mending traplines and making snares to catch rabbits), and crisscrossed them with strong withes. To lighten his pack, he left everything that he could spare in the cave, but the sub-zero weather had frozen his four fishers and two sable so quickly that he had been unable to skin them.
As soon as the storm subsided a bit, Father put his heavy, awkward burden on his back, fastened his improvised snowshoes to his feet and hands, and, on all fours, began his descent. Down the slopes and past the flows, he made his way over gigantic drifts and treacherous snow pockets. As he took each laboured step, the usually well-loved forest seemed more like a prison of snow. Finally, reaching the clearings, Father saw men with oxen attempting to break roads from one house of another. And now, in spite of drifting snow, he was able to discard his cumbersome supports. With many zigzags, he pushed on with more speed in an upright position. His large rubbers, pulled on over homemade sheepskin moccasins, not only kept his feet warm but also enabled him to make rapid progress.
Late in the evening of the second day after the storm had abated, a familiar stamping at our back door indicated that Father was trying to leave all traces of the great blizzard behind him. With energy that did not know the meaning of the word “tired,” he had made his way over those more than sixty miles of snow-filled roads in record time.
Even though I was then so young, I remember seeing Father standing by the kitchen stove as he pulled the ice from his beard, and I recall the joyous relief that filled our hearts. Father had not only lived through the storm, but also had brought back with him valuable furs which, later on, were sold for considerably more than was needed to purchase the splendidly matched yoke of oxen. I know also that after eating his late supper, he took his Bible from the shelf back of the table and read a full chapter from its pages. We all then kneeled for the evening prayer.
During the next few days a warmer south wind and bright sun melted the snow and the sap began to run. The maple-sugar season was upon us, and the Blizzard of ’88, for our family at least, became only a pleasantly exciting topic of conversation.
11. MAKING MAPLE SUGAR
While wood-chopping, fishing, skating, and sliding down hill broke the monotony of long winters, the spring sugaring brought us the sweetest delight. Along about the middle of March, when warmer sunshine encouraged the crows to return and favored the industry of the woodpeckers, we tapped our maples. It was hard work to gather enough wood to boil down a barrel of sap until it thickened into a gallon of syrup, and the task of making paths to the trees through the accumulated snows of winter and collecting the liquid from the buckets afforded plenty of exercise. However, the prospect of quick returns in the form of wax on snow, and the later pleasure of pure maple syrup for griddle cakes and corn bread made the labor much more exciting than hoeing potatoes and getting up the hay.
I remember that a few days after the Blizzard of ’88, when the snow had settled, I followed in Father’s footsteps with brace and bit, spouts and buckets, he tapped some of our big maples over on the south side of a hill. In our region, in spite of occasional thaws, the snow remained on the ground until mid-April. Late snows, and of course the Blizzard of ’88, naturally made the task of collecting the sap more difficult, since we had to remove snow from each bucket and, not infrequently, ice as well. The sap we gathered was boiled down in milk pans on our range; and the syrup was as clear as crystal.
It is a well-known fact that sap is sweeter and syrup of higher quality when the sun warms the maple trees after a hard freeze. For this reason people who know about sugaring prefer the products from the first run of the trees, instead of the sap which comes later in milder weather. I recall hearing it said that the deep-freeze of early March, 1888, made for a particular clear and tasty syrup and whiter cakes of sugar.
At our house the feast of maple sweets was not one of short duration. The big cakes of sugar for year-round use were stored in a large tin trunk, in order to keep mice and other intruders from sampling them. Small cakes were laid by as candy. I have often held a stalk of rhubarb in one hand and a piece of maple sugar in the other, and by taking alternate bites of the sour and the sweet given my sense of taste a rare treat. The syrup for griddle cakes and corn bread was kept in bottles in the cool-cellar, where the canned berries were.
Did you ever eat shortcake made with wild strawberries, thick cream, and grated maple sugar? If you have, you know what I mean when I speak of Mother’s baking. She mixed the berries, cream, and sugar in a bowl, and then spread both layers of the cake with this tasty mixture.
Grated maple sugar also made a tempting filler for the sandwiches we took to school for lunch; and blueberry pudding, sprinkled with maple sugar, was a dessert fit for royalty. I have imitated some of the little food tricks that Mother used, and have grated maple sugar over the oatmeal served to friends on camping trips. Of course, out in the open, people have keener appetites, but I have found that oatmeal served in this manner will call forth exclamations of praise.
For a delightful variation of taste, we stirred butter-nut meats into thick maple syrup and made a soft-textured candy which no one can resist once he has tried it.
I am not advertising for any maple products company, but I have wondered why it is that so many people living in New England have never tasted maple wax on snow. One reason may be that the snow does not last long enough in the more southern sections; but if one will store up a gallon or two of maple syrup, and exercise the necessary self-control to keep some of it until the snows of January and February come, he will be well rewarded. The syrup must be boiled down until it begins to drip lazily from a spoon or ladle as it is tested by dropping a bit on a pan of clean, packed snow. When the syrup hardens into a ribbon almost as soon as it touches the cold snow, it is ready for eating. Pour the reddish liquid slowly around in circles, or in any way you wish, and then, with fork in hand, break it up, or wind it up, and begin to enjoy the rich fruit of the maples. If you serve the treat to anyone with false teeth, take special pains not to have the syrup too thick when it is poured on the snow! We boys sometimes played tricks on our dog by giving him rather hard maple wax that stuck his teeth together.