A Stolen Day at Acadia

I know you don’t have time for this.

The garden needs attention. That painting project that got postponed last fall is waiting. Your kids have baseball games, track meets, spring concerts and music lessons peppered all over the calendar.

This string of bright warm days has turned our attention to the chores that need to be done before summer begins and we can relax. We are running in place through some of the very best days of the outdoor year.

Sometimes we need to steal things in life. The temptation to grab a day or two that does not really belong to us becomes overwhelming. Nobody will give us these days — they must be stolen — snatched from the jaws of responsible parenthood and citizenship.

Go now — before you lose your nerve! Grab your kid from school — ignore the Vice-principal’s glare. Quickly…quickly.

Throw your bicycles and some random camping gear into the family pick-up. Drive fast for however long it takes to get to Bar Harbor. Pull up to Blackwoods Campground in Acadia National Park and pay the nice Ranger $20 to camp and $10 for a park pass. You won’t need a reservation — most responsible campers are home raking their lawns.

Drive to your campsite — unload only the bikes. Unless it’s pitch dark — the thievery begins now.

The 20-mile loop auto road in Acadia is rightfully famous. A month from now it will be clogged with slow-moving, rubber-necking tourists. Two months from now the tide of humanity that sweeps northward every summer will inundate Mount Desert Island.

But today — and for a short time only — no cars are allowed on the road. The pavement is pristine — federal-money-impeccably-maintained-pristine. No salt or sand is ever spread on its smooth surface. No snowplow ever cuts its edges.

Now ride.

Ride like you only imagined in those winter daydreams. Ride like you’re escaping from a gulag of spring-time responsibilities.

Just ride.

When I was selected as a permit holder in the 2011 Maine Moose Permit Lottery my mailbox was inundated with offers and sales pitches from Maine Guides and outfitters who wanted me to pay for their services. That’s because the list of selected moose hunters, our addresses, and our permit details were public information that was distributed to anyone who requested it from the Dept. of Inland Fish & Wildlife. My name, town of residence and permit details were also published in nearly every state newspaper.

When I purchase a firearms hunting license each year – the information I am required to provide, including my physical address, is available to anyone who makes a request for the records from the Department of Inland Fish and Wildlife. The Sportsman’s Alliance of Maine made a big fuss in 2010 when the department initially was reluctant to release these records. SAM won.

This week the Maine legislature passed a bill requiring that the names and addresses of concealed weapons permit holders be excluded from public information. “This is a bill about privacy. This is not a bill about guns,” Sen. Linda Valentino, D-Saco, said, introducing the bill.

Last summer, those same Maine legislators were driving all over their districts with a voter registration list in their hands. Those lists detailed the name, address and political party affiliation of every registered voter in their legislative district. The legislators got these lists from the town clerks who are required to turn the list over to anyone who requests it as public record.

I fully expect that the details of my Maine Guide license, my license to practice law, my driver’s license and my dog license are also available for the public to review if they wish to do so. I’m sure this would make for some fascinating reading. None of this is shocking to me.

I do not possess a concealed weapon permit. I have never applied for one. And despite more than 20 years of confronting and prosecuting criminals in Maine courts — I have never felt the need to carry a concealed weapon during my daily activities.

Applications for concealed weapon permits in this state have doubled or tripled in the last few years. The crime rate in Maine has remained relatively flat during this same period of time. It’s easy to conclude that the permits are being sought as some sort of a hedge against future regulation, or as symbols of membership in the “Don’t Tread On Me” club.

That’s fine. But what part of applying for a permit to allow a person to be excluded from a general law against carrying concealed firearms should make it confidential?

It’s not about safety. Permit holders are no less safe than deer hunters when the address of their home (which is likely to contain a firearm) is made public. Also, in my experience home burglars almost never file a Freedom of Information Act request prior to choosing a home as a target.

It’s not about exercising constitutional rights. What right could be more precious than our right to vote? But we freely distribute voter registration information.

It’s not about embarrassment – most permit holders seem truly proud of their status – view the Governor’s recent Twitter post where he gleefully displayed his own concealed weapons permit for the camera.

It’s not about privacy, folks — it’s about paranoia.

Many outdoors people say that canoeing the Allagash Wilderness Waterway is the trip of a lifetime. I have always been curious about that.

If a person has paddled this river once, it is a mystery to me how they could be satisfied for the rest of their life without doing it again. It would be a heartbreaking journey if approached with the preconceived notion that one would never repeat the trip.

I hope that on my very last Allagash trip, whenever that might be, I will be making plans for my next one.

The stretch between Round Pond and Allagash Village lends itself to contemplation about the next trip down the river. It’s a big waterway here, wide and gradually curving in huge sweeping turns across miles of northern forest.

From a standing position, seeking out the deepest channel, the canoeist can see the gradual tilt of the landscape toward the St. John River Valley. The horizon line, described by the tops of the tall spruces that line the river bank, slowly falls away ahead of you under a vast northern sky.

After a solid month of being on the trail the realization that this trip will end soon has seeped into my daily thoughts. A few short days from now I will no longer be traveling under my own power.

Even two days upstream from Allagash Village, the sense of impending closure hangs in the clear late-summer air. How long before I can get back to the now-familiar routine of breaking camp, loading the boats, then canoeing downstream along pristine shores, then unloading , setting up camp and repeating the next day? The rhythm is intoxicating.

The Commander and Bob Goldman search for a channel.

The single-time Allagash traveler could never understand that the river is a different place on every trip. This late-summer river is a very different one from the Allagash that the Commander and I have paddled in past years. Rapids that can be challenging in high water have disappeared, and the only obstacle is finding enough water in the channel to float the loaded canoes.

Allagash Falls

Allagash Falls is reduced to a muted roar and the landing area for the portage trail is a big dry field of exposed rock.

Portage Trail

It is our last night on the river and we have our pick of campsites along the portage trail. Despite the fact that we have cached some of the heavier gear at Michaud Farm — there is plenty left to carry

Heavy Gear at Michaud Farm

From my sleeping bag I can hear the murmur of the falls and the last few cracklings of the dying campfire. It’s difficult to imagine that there is any life in modern-day America that could not be improved with more nights spent like this.

In the large pool below the falls the conditions are ripe for salvaging gear lost by other canoe trippers. I have often seen the Commander bring his truck to a full stop on Interstate 95 to retrieve a roadside bungee cord or tie-down strap lost by less prudent travelers.  The sighting of  a pancake griddle stuck in the sand under four feet of water proves too much of a temptation for his thrifty nature. And so the first swim of the day comes shortly after embarking from the downstream portage landing

Sunken Treasure

The final day of river travel is a long one. The distance to Allagash Village is only a moderate day’s worth of ordinary canoeing. But under these water conditions every mile is more like two. The deepest channel is sinuous, twisting ghost that sometimes disappears altogether.

The saving grace is the dry, clear air and the incredible view of the river falling away down into the St. John Valley.

Reaching Mrs. McBreairty’s Landing at the Route 161 bridge in Allagash Village is always bittersweet — but never more so than on this long strange trip that I am committed to finish tomorrow.

McBreairty’s Landing

The bridge at Umsaskis Thoroughfare is not an imposing structure. From an approaching pickup on the American Realty Road it could be any one of a dozen bridges crossed on the long drive from Ashland or Allagash Village.

Umsaskis Bridge

But for many canoeists this unassuming bridge marks the beginning of their Allagash adventure. At one time the quintessential Allagash wilderness trip began in faraway Greenville at the southern tip of Mooshead Lake. Modern trippers have less time, and arguably less tolerance, for extended periods of time away from modern conveniences. A canoeist who starts at Umsakis can comfortably be in Allagash Village in four days.

Purists detest this slow slide toward buffet-style snippets of wilderness snacking. They argue that the full-meal experience is necessary to fully appreciate the meaning of a wilderness river.

We arrived at the bridge on August 29. A bright sunny morning that seemed to finally promise an end of the fickle, gusty winds that had plagued us for several days. I landed ahead of The Commander and Bob and then napped on a sun-drenched picnic table at one of the thoroughfare campsites until they arrived.

Morning Nap Spot

There is a ranger cabin at the bridge — this was the year-round home of Helen Hamlin and her Game Warden husband “Curly” during a period in the 1950′s — as recounted in the Maine literary classic “Nine-Mile Bridge”.

The thoroughfare and the bridge mark the southern end of Long Lake. After the big Tripper canoe finally arrived — Bob switched into my bow seat and the Commander set out on a solo trip down the lake with his tiny outboard motor pushing the big canoe.

I recruited Bob because Long Lake is shallow and notoriously windy — it is oriented perfectly for the prevailing winds to pile up big curling, south-bound waves. But for the first time in days, the water was completely placid.

This is a more familiar part of the Allagash Trip for the Commander and I. It felt like home territory and I was able to act as tour guide for Bob — pointing out campsites and rest spots from past trips. It seemed luxurious to be able to paddle without fighting the wind.

The campsite at Long Lake Dam is Kevin Regan’s favorite in the State of Maine. A high

Long Lake Dam

grassy knoll overlooks the remains of a cobble and log dam that dates from the 19th century logging days.  Bob and I found him there resting comfortably after his motor trip down the length of the lake.

The Commander and I both marveled at how low the water level was compared to other trips. On early spring trips the whitewater at the dam can often be run without much concern. But at this water level — even lining the boats through was impossible– and a portage was required.

It was the first foreshadowing of the difficult water level that would make the remainder of the trip to Allagash Village a constant risk to the hulls of our canoes.

We pushed on toward Round Pond, anxious to spend our planned night at the famous and familiar Jalbert Camps . Jalbert’s is the northern equivalent of Nugent’s Camps on

Jalbert’s Guest Camp

Chamberlain Lake. And the two sporting camps share a common rogue history, When the Jalbert brothers established a sporting camp on Windy Point at Round Pond in the early post-war years the formalities of deeds, leases or other legal paperwork troubled them very little. When they were invited to leave they simply refused. And when the Allagash Wilderness Waterway was established in the 1960′s they persevered. While other camps and logging structures were being purchased and burned along the entire length of the waterway — the camps at Windy Point were granted a lease that permitted their continued operation.

Today the camps are still operated by the Jalbert family with the assistance of a few trusted local guides and extended family members. Our host for many years now has

Norman near the Camp Kitchen

been our friend Norman Marquis — a longtime guide and boatman from the Fort Kent area. Norman worked at the camps back in the heyday of their operation and he is an expert canoeist in the tradition of Allagash Guides — which means upstream with a side-mounted outboard motor or downstream with the current.

A wood-fired hot tub, a cold beer, an indoor meal and a soft bed to sleep in. After nearly a month on the trail I find that my thirst for such luxuries has no bounds — and no shame.

Ranger Talk on Round Pond

The rush of wings was so loud, so close to my head -that I involuntarily ducked down and took a knee on the hard granite ledge. As my arms rose up to protect myself  I sensed, more than saw, the six-foot wing-span of the huge bird as it climbed hard from its perch on the broken stub of a lightning-struck pine.

It was only after the big raptor gained some altitude that I dared to look and could identify the morning sun glinting off the pure white headdress and tail feathers of the bald eagle. I found that my heart was racing as I watched it wing away over the vast landscape to the west of Umsaskis Lake. The reptilian core of my brain had my body primed to either run like hell or fight for my life.

The eagle’s perch was only ten or twelve feet off the deck of the nearly-flat granite slab where I had pitched my tent the night before.  We were camped at The Ledges campsite  on the east side of Umsaskis — and I had taken down my tent before sunrise in hopes of getting an early start. The eagle must have landed on the pine stub while I was packing the canoe.  I had returned to search for any overlooked gear — and of course for the sunrise view.

The adrenaline rush was still making me shaky as I traced the path of the big bird across the early-morning sky. Down the trail a short ways I could hear Kevin and Bob putting together breakfast. But up here on the ledge the Neanderthal shadow of my

Camp at The Ledges

brain was convinced that I had narrowly missed becoming breakfast.

These stabs of fear are a vital part of any wilderness trip.  To be completely unplugged from the modern digital world takes a great deal of effort and the effect — the serenity and simplicity — is transforming in itself. But the flip-side, the darker side of remote trekking is just as important.

The natural world is not up to code. The invisible safety net of man-made laws and regulations that we take for granted in modern American life are non-existent out here. The precipitous lip of the granite ledge I was standing on had no fence , rail or warning signs. The good folks at OSHA would never approve.

At Chase Rapids, on the previous day,  nobody was pointing out the safest route through the whitewater. When the blustery wind blew my canoe sideways and  the boat prepared to wrap itself  around a mid-stream boulder — there was no rewind button or man-made cushion to rely on.

Sometimes outdoor enthusiasts carry this theme too far and we get dramatic stories like – “My Death-Defying Attempt to Toast the Perfect Marshmallow”.  What we really mean is that we have visited a part of the world which has not yet been sanitized and stripped of its ability to inspire, at least in short bursts,  the primal “fight or flight” reflex.

Our camp on Umsaskis was a welcome respite from two days of windblown canoe travel. A hard overnight rainstorm we experienced at the north end of Eagle Lake (Little Eagle Campsite) had slowly given way to clearer weather. But it was a stubborn

Wet Night: Little Eagle

transformation accompanied by occasional blustery showers on Tuesday (8/28) as we navigated Churchill  Lake.

Merganser Ducklings on Churchill Lake

At one point, during a showery lunch stop,  I eagerly accepted a kind invitation to take shelter under a tarp at a campsite on Schofield Point. Three generations of a Canadian family from Halifax were gathered there around a campfire. I enjoyed my first cold beer since forever as we exchanged stories.

Later that day the sky blew itself clear but the wind never stopped and also never stopped changing directions.  Hugging the shoreline too closely meant struggling through mud flats and weed mats. Cutting across open water meant challenging a rising blow from the northwest that had no compunction about switching around to the west or even to the northeast.  Eagle sightings and loon calls kept us going. We landed

Sunset at the Jaws

exhausted at an extraordinary site named “The Jaws” at the northern outlet of Churchill Lake.

We planned to run Chase Rapids the next day (Wednesday 8/29) and at dawn the wind was completely calm. A cow moose grazed in the thoroughfare near camp, while a blue heron fished nearby. It couldn’t last — and it didn’t. By 8:00 AM the wind was back. I

Quiet Morning Interlude

pressed on early, ahead of  Bob and the Commander, hoping to avoid the worst of it.

Arriving at the dam early, I had a chance to scout the rapids and meet the ranger stationed there. Waterway Rangers offer a portage service for gear (and sometimes canoes) to be transported  by truck around the rapids below the dam.  This was a point in the trip that I had been nervously anticipating.

Chase Rapids is a Class II run that would ordinarily not concern me, especially if my gear was being transported by truck. But my 1953 wood and canvas, Old Town canoe was giving me pause. I worried about maneuvering through whitewater with the 3/4″ keel that runs the entire 17-foot length of the boat. I worried about green paint, canvas, aged and brittle cedar ribs.

She Keeps Me Up at Night

The Commander and Bob were slow to arrive, probably due to the wind. Churchill Dam was once a village that was the hub of logging operations in this part of the state. It had a school and a post office along with the ubiquitous company store. A museum has been installed in one of the surviving barns — it holds mementoes large and small from the glory days. I took a quick look but I was distracted.

I had a canoe pole with me — I told myself I would use it to pick my way slowly down through the worst of the rapids. But I agonized over this. I walked along an old portage trail on the east side of the river. It was obvious that it was never used anymore. I scouted the rapids for a mile downriver — still no closer to a final decision.

Back at the dam the boys had arrived and were packing the gear from the

To Ride or Not to Ride

Commander’s super-sized Old Town into the ranger’s pickup truck for the shuttle. It was decision time. Although I had owned the canoe for three years, I had never run it in any kind of whitewater. I pulled the boat up onto the dock and prepared to heft it onto my shoulder — still undecided . The varnished interior gleamed in the mid-morning sun.

“That’s a beautiful boat,” remarked Matt Larouche.  Matt is the supervisor for all of the

Churchill Dam Crew — Bob Goldman photo

rangers on the AWW. He just happened to be at Churchill Dam that morning and was assisting Rachel, the young ranger assigned to the Dam for the summer months, in transporting our gear.

I explained my dilemma. His exact quote was: “If that was my boat I wouldn’t take it down through those rapids.”  I have made canoeing decisions based on much less reliable authority in the past — and I had no intention of  ignoring such direct advice.

In the end I borrowed a 17-foot Royalex canoe from the ranger camp to make the solo run through the rapids. I used my canoe pole for the first mile and it was heaven. To be able to play in rapids — unencumbered by the bundles of gear that had been my lifeline for the last several hundred miles — was a vacation.

About a mile below the dam the Allagash makes a sharp bend to the left, which on this day meant a turn directly into the howling northwest wind. Poling became hopeless. I dropped to my knees, to lower my profile, and paddled hard. But the unloaded boat skittered across the river on every fickle gust of wind. The last half-mile of the rapid was pure misery. Between the wind and the current it was almost impossible to control the empty, keel-less canoe. I got blown sideways repeatedly –scraping across partially-submerged boulders.

I consider myself a fair solo canoeist on water like this. I have soloed both the northern half of the Allagash and the St. John River on several occasions. And those trips were in a boat that was identical to the canoe I had borrowed. But the wind was relentless here — at one point in the quickwater section below the main rapid –  I actually moved up to the front of the empty canoe in an attempt to paddle against the wind and maintain control.

We landed at Bissonette Bridge –

Lunch at Bissonnette Bridge

a washed out road crossing that served as an end point for the ranger shuttle. Our gear and my canoe had arrived ahead of us. I fretted over the fresh scars I had made in the Royalex hull of the borrowed canoe during the run. After lunch we reloaded both canoes and moved on toward Umsaskis Lake — leaving the borrowed canoe at the shuttle spot.

It actually felt good to be loaded with gear and to have the big wooden keel to help me keep a straight course.  I began to realize that the keel had become my silent paddling partner on the trip. One that I would have been lost without on more than one occasion.

Five miles later, Umsaskis Lake proved to be the perfect example. The wind was fierce

Battling the Breeze on Umsaskis

as we entered the southern end of the lake. We ducked behind marshy islands and considered stopping for the night — but we moved on and fought the wind to the very end when we finally landed, exhausted at The Ledges site.

I pitched my tent at the top of the ledge, unaware of the eagle perch just above me, and fell into a deep sleep.

Port in a Windstorm

A Solo Paddler’s View of Chamberlain

Nugent’s Camps were started in 1936 when Al and Patty Nugent put a wood cook stove and all their other worldly possessions on a log raft and made their way down the length of Chamberlain Lake. When the found a suitable spot they landed the raft and built their first log structure on the eastern shore. They did not have a deed. They did not have a lease. They did not have permission.

An Allagash Institution

Even in 1936 this caught the attention of the State of Maine which owned the public lot. Despite repeated requests, and then orders, from the Maine Forest Service — Al & Patty simply refused to leave. The Nugents kept cutting wood, building camps and inviting guests.

Eventually the state conceded that the camps where here to stay and granted a lease for the property. Thirty years later, when other structures along the newly-designated Allagash Wilderness Waterway were being torn down or burned — the state didn’t even put up a fight to have the Nugents removed.

Bob Goldman Checks the Map

Today Al & Patty are gone. But their spirit of defiance in the face of purported bureaucratic authority over these wild lands and waters is alive and well along the entire length of the Allagash.  And the set of camps they established here remains as a monument to their hard work and philosophy.

Nugent’s Dock: Two Ways to Travel Chamberlain

The camp was a real luxury after so many nights on the trail. But I set out along the lake ahead of Kevin and Bob, hoping to have calm winds, and knowing that they would quickly overtake me with Kevin’s small outboard. The outboard is a concession to Chamberlain’s reputation for heavy northwest winds that have sometimes kept canoeists windbound for days at a time.  It will allow the Commander more flexibility  in dealing with the time constraints and the reality of moving a 20-foot canoe, with a 1000 pound payload against a heavy chop.

The Commander’s Tripper — Outfitted for Lake Travel

Small outboard motors (under 10 horsepower) are permitted on almost all of the Allagash waters. The Allagash Wilderness Waterway was envisioned, in its purest form, as a nearly-100 mile cross-section of Maine’s most remote lands. It would have one permitted entry point and one exit — in between there would be no bridges, no motors and no signs of human habitation or industry. This vision is still promoted by some groups in the ongoing political machinations that inevitably accompany any wilderness designation.

A Compromise Wilderness

The futility of that kind of extreme view is evident in a land where loggers, who did not care for God’s hydrologic choices, simply changed the direction of an entire watershed to meet their needs. The modern-day ancestors of those loggers from the 1800′s — and their corporate assignee landowners — have a limited amount of patience with extreme wilderness advocacy.

And so the Allagash is a compromise.  For the folks from down south it is a week-long expedition through a pristine wilderness setting interrupted occasionally by the sound of an outboard  or the view of a logging truck crossing a bridge.  For the locals it is a part of their backyard playground, suitable for daytrips or weekend excursions, surrounded by a commercial forest that has sustained them for generations.  As in any compromise, each party’s view harbors contradictions, hypocrisies and petty  grievances that will outlive us all.

The stop at Nugent’s  positioned us on the eastern shore of the lake, subject to the wind and waves that have the entire length of the huge water body to gain speed and strength. Fortunately,  the whitecaps were steady and intimidating but not unmanageable. For months, I worried that the substantial keel on my 1953 Old Town, wood and canvas canoe would make solo paddling on this trip a misery. Today, I was thankful for every last inch of it as I hugged the shoreline and worked to keep a straight course through quartering waves and gusty cross winds.

Tall pines hugged the shore and pocket-beaches beckoned me for a swim along the

A Tempting Swim Spot

seven-mile paddle to Lock Dam. But I resisted all temptations to stop except at the site of the former Chamberlain Farm. The farm was a depot that once supplied hay, garden produce, equipment and other supplies to the logging camps that dotted the area. It is reduced now to a single building, salvaged from the old structure, and used as an outlying camp for Nugents. One of the steamships that towed booms of logs across the lake in the

Industrial History

early days was abandoned here and the remains of the boiler and the gears rust quietly among shoreline brush.

Lock Dam is also much reduced from what it was in its heyday.  At one time a series of locks here allowed booms of logs from Eagle and Churchill lakes to be raised more than 20 feet in elevation and floated out onto the surface of Chamberlain. Today an earthen dam simply holds back Chamberlain’s waters, maintaining an artificial but long-standing lake level, and requiring a short portage to a brook that feeds Eagle Lake.  This brook is our first inkling that low-water will be an issue for the rest of the trip.

Portaging Lock Dam

By the time we reached the open part of Eagle, threatening clouds , gusty , variable winds and a heavy chop had become the norm. Again, I was thankful for my wooden keel that made solo-paddling in the 17-foot Old Town a possibility under these conditions.  A possibility… but a difficult, strenuous one. I got blown ashore by a thundershower near the Pump Handle campsite. Here, I ran into a father/son team from the Sebago area on a two-week trip that had started at Chamberlain Bridge. They were cheerfully trimming brush to make the campsite sign more visible from the lake.

After Kevin and Bob caught up to me in the support boat we moved on to the Little Eagle campsite at the north end of Eagle. It was an eighteen-mile day, with a short portage, and through tough conditions — we were grateful to make landfall. The tarp was barely up over the picnic tables before a heavy rain shower began pounding it.  We set the tents between showers and managed a campfire despite occasional dousings from downpours.

Tarp Time

I have been canoe-camping on a regular basis with Kevin Regan for more than 15 years, much of it on the Allagash and St. John Rivers. We’ve hunted and fished together all across the state, and our camp-setting routine is said to sometimes resemble the well-practiced dance of a long-married husband /wife team.

Bob Goldman, on the other hand, is a novice canoeist  and this trip is his very first on the Allagash.  He has a wealth of backcountry camping experience in Yellowstone,

End of a Long Day

Baxter State Park  and  other venues. He also has a great sense of humor — which is maybe the most important piece of camping gear ever invented. It is amazing to be able to experience the Allagash again through the eyes of an eager newcomer. And the campfire conversation is much more interesting when one participant is a wolf-advocate  and a supporter of the Maine North Woods National Park.

Instruction From the Commander

Early Morning on Webster Lake

For thousands of years, Webster Lake ( see page 50 of the DeLorme’s atlas) at the northwest corner of Baxter State Park, was nothing more than a quiet headwater pond in the drainage that fed what we now know as the East Branch of the Penobscot River.  A few small brooks and underground springs were its only contributories.  Its outlet stream ran east toward Matagammon Lake and eventually into the Penobscot.

This quiet existence all changed in 1841 when lumbermen dammed and flooded neighboring Telos and Chamberlain lakes, raising their level more than ten feet,  to the point where they overflowed into a  canal that was dug between Telos and Webster Lake. With the water came hundreds of thousands of logs cut from the virgin shores of Chamberlain, Telos, Eagle and Churchill lakes. All of these logs were  bound for the many  sawmills that lined the banks of the Penobscot River in Bangor and other towns.

Along with the several dams and the canal, the Allagash headwaters in those days also

Old and new technology at a swim break.

boasted a railroad, a log tramway, steamships, steam-powered log haulers, huge logging camps and a large farm to supply food and silage to the camps.  This is the stuff wilderness is made of.

Webster is a quiet place again these days — part of a Maine Public Reserve land unit. This morning the only sound was from the loons on one side of the pond which echoed hauntingly against a hill on the other. The water was a flat calm mirror at sunrise and the air temperature was already in the 70′s. It promised to be a hot day but we had cool water under our keel and a decision to stop and swim never required a unanimous vote.

Dave and I  canoed west on Webster toward the inlet stream that still flows down the old canal from Telos Lake. The Old Town moved effortlessly over the flat water and I was again thankful that the hiking portion of the trip was behind me.

Despite my best efforts, I had been unable to speak to anyone who was familiar with the inlet and any portage trails that might lead up to Telos Dam. We were relieved to find an easy trail over an old woods road that ascended to Telos on the south side of

Portage Trail

the stream. The trail wasn’t steep but it was a mile long. My canoe is a beautiful, handcrafted piece of working art — but it’s an 85 pound piece of artwork. Dave is convinced that this portage is the only reason I invited him on the trip. In my defense — I also like his coffee.

Telos Dam was bigger than I expected and a big rambling dam keeper’s residence sat next to it. Bangor Hydro  generated electricity here up until the 1960′s. The residence is scheduled for demolition later this year. This dam marks the official southern terminus of the federally designated Allagash Wilderness

Telos Dam

Waterway. With a few exceptions, old buildings are considered to be not in keeping with the maximum wilderness character that the waterway strives for. When the

Scheduled for demolition

waterway was created in 1966 many of the structures along its banks were demolished or burned.

After the portage, a last lunch of tuna surprise  and another swim we continued on our way down Telos Lake toward the thoroughfare that connects with Chamberlain. A headwind kicked up on Telos and it required stopping for a few more swims — but we had made it almost to Chamberlain Bridge when we spied another canoe approaching from the opposite direction.

The Commander and Bob Goldman

It proved to be Kevin Regan (affectionately known as “The Commander”) at the helm of his huge Old Town Tripper XL, along with Bob Goldman of South Portland in the bow.  Kevin and Bob would be joining me on the Allagash portion of the trip. Dave Fisher planned to drive Kevin’s truck back home from Chamberlain Bridge.  The Commander had come to warn me of high northwest winds and white caps on Chamberlain. The lake is famous for this.

He and Bob motored on to our destination at Nugents Camps while Dave and I switched out my gear after finishing our paddle to Chamberlain Bridge. I chatted with one of the rangers at the forest service cabin for an hour or more, hoping that the wind would drop as the afternoon waned. Also, after nine straight days on the trail, it felt great to sit on the cabin’s shady, screened porch, in a real chair with a back rest.

By the time I paddled solo into the open part of Chamberlain the wind had indeed decreased. The four miles of open lake paddling to Nugents proved to be less daunting than advertised — but still tiring.  I was relieved to come around the point and find Bob and Kevin comfortably seated on the cabin porch at Nugent’s.

Safe Haven at Nugent’s Camps

Tonight — a real bed to sleep in, maybe even a shower.  And if I know Kevin Regan — tuna surprise will not be on the menu.

If the trail through Pogy Notch seemed little-used, this one seems almost forgotten.  Blowdowns block the way occasionally and no human footprints mark the soft spots in the trail. Moose tracks are everywhere and clearly show who the predominant users of these trails tend to be. A spruce grouse, within arm’s reach, checked us out thoroughly before letting us pass.

No zoom lens necessary.

This area in the northwest corner of Baxter State Park contains the Scientific Forestry Management Area. It is far from the amenities that surround the park’s star attraction — Katahdin. The SFMA portion of the park works under different rules and logging is permitted here under the supervision of park officials. Hunting is allowed here as well. This was all part of a compromise struck before this area was added officially to the park.

We hiked for what seemed like forever on the Wadleigh Brook Trail until we reached Hudson Pond  - where a nap, a swim and lunch revived us.

A few miles further  on we reach the intersection with the Freezeout Trail – and turn west toward Webster Lake Outlet. The Freezeout Trail is an old logging road along Webster Stream. We found ourselves walking over ancient skid logs laid perpendicular to the trail in corduroy road fashion.  Old telephone wire also lined parts of the trail. Off behind the trees we can hear Webster Stream cascading towards Mattagammon Lake. It’s not hard to imagine that despite the evidence of logging — not much has changed here in over 100 years.

Parts of this trail resembled a bushwhack experience  - finding trail blazes was a challenge. The closer to the outlet of Webster Lake we came, the tougher the hiking got.

But the payoff was a stunning lean-to campsite that was on the beach and looked down the length of Webster Lake. An immediate swim was in order.

Lean-to at Webster Lake.

We appear to have the lake to ourselves - with the exception of a few loons, a barred owl, and osprey and the ususal lean-to resident mice and red squirrels.

A half-moon is rising into a clear sky with a southerly breeze carrying the lake smell into the lean-to. My canoe is here compliments of good friends Peter Broderick and Maureen McCool — who volunteered to transport it from Farmington to park headquarters in Millinocket. From there, Park Director, Jensen Bissell generously arranged to have it trucked and carried to Webster Lake by park personnel. This was a vital cog in the machinery of the entire trip. I’m relieved and grateful to see that everything went as planned.

It’s great to see an old friend.

I’ve been promising Dave a ride in a “real” canoe. He”s never paddled a wood & canvas. Tomorrow we canoe up Webster Lake and then portage up into Telos Lake and the start of the Allagash Wilderness Waterway.

The park is a monument to the foresight of Gov. Percival Baxter. It’s not difficult to imagine that he anticipated many of the changes that continue to degrade the quality of Maine’s North Woods.  His mandate that the park be kept “forever wild” makes this 200,000 acre sanctuary the closest thing to a wilderness Maine will likely ever have.

Dave and I started early for the 8 mile hike to Russell Pond Campground.  Unlike the area immediately around Katahdin, most of the park is quieter and receives a lot fewer visitors.

We met only a few people along the trail that follows a tributary of Wassataquoik Stream.  A sun-drenched group of boulders in the steam made the perfect spot for a swim and lunch.

Dave taking a lunchtime rest.

We reached the campground just as an afternoon rain shower set in. But it was very clear that it would be a small blip in the ongoing perfect late-summer weather.

After finding our lean-to, the sky cleared and the evening sun lit up the surrounding mountains as we attempted to fish the pond.

A neighboring camper caught five brook trout while we gawked at the mountain view.

The daily miles with the pack have begun to exact a toll on my arthritic right knee - but with Katahdin behind me the miles ahead are fairly flat and will hopefully be doable.

Russell Pond Campground acts as kind of a hiker’s traffic circle for the center of the park.  Trails extend out in all different directions.  The Pogy Notch trail leading north to South Branch Pond Campground is less used than other trails.

These quieter trails in the park see more moose traffic than hiker traffic. We noticed during our hike on Friday that the trail was more overgrown than others.

One of the overgrown sections of trail in the northern part of Baxter.

A stop at Pogy Pond lean-to for lunch and a swim was mandatory. To the south were views of Katahdin and from the pond Traveler Mountain loomed above the trees.

I had visited here before, many years ago with my wife and another couple. On that visit we saw exactly no one on a weekend long visit. Today Dave and I met no one on the trail until we reached Upper South Branch Pond.  We celebrated with another swim there.

The final miles of the 10-mile hike here to South Branch Pond Campground were tiring.  We’re a little worried about the long miles (14) to Webster Lake tomorrow.

Upper South Branch Pond

Upper South Branch is a popular place – the views down the lake and the many hiking opportunities make it busy this time of year. But tomorrow we go into the furthest, least-visited corner of the park.

This kind of thing is not possible in any other state east of the Mississippi River.  The Maine Woods comprise the biggest dark spot on any night-time aerial view of the eastern U.S.  The darkest  spot may well be Baxter State Park, where I have been hiking for the last two days.

After leaving Abol Bridge and logging trucks behind on Tuesday morning, I entered the park along the AT at the southern boundary.  It had begun spattering rain at about 6:00 am and it showered off and on all morning.  A cow moose seemed unbothered by the weather.

The AT follows the West Branch of the Penobscot for several miles before turning north along the banks of Nesowadnehunk Stream.  At the junction of the two waterways is a small ledge drop and deep pool on the steam that made me stop to assemble my pack rod.

After no luck in the big pool I turned upstream to fish a small run.  The sound of the falls masked any other noises and when I turned around I discovered I was no longer alone. 

A group of rafters on the West Branch had pulled into the mouth of the stream and were using the ledge drop that I had just fished as a waterslide. After everyone had a turn they piled back into the rafts and headed down river.

Upstream on the Nesowadnehunk the fishing was better with lots of eager tiny brook trout and the scenery was incredible.  The steam repeatedly falls and pools here over large boulders and ledges. The sun-dappled pools kept beckoning me to fish and I could not or would not resist.  Tall spruce, fir, pine, hemlock and cedar trees shaded the stream and the trail. 

After leaving the stream near Daicey Pond I took my time hiking the last few miles to Katahdin Stream Campground.  I have camped here in the past on weekend dashes to Katahdin’s summit sandwiched between long car rides to the Park and back home again.  Approaching on foot gives a completely different perspective.  Andy Robinson arrived with supper and an upbeat attitude about our summit attempt on Wednesday.

We awoke to perfect weather and started climbing the Hunt Trail early.  The best part of a Katahdin climb is the rise above tree-line early in the morning.  Those first ultra-clear views of surrounding peaks make even the view from the summit pale in comparison. 

We were at the peak by 11:30 and met a few of the northbound thru-hikers I had talked with over their last few days on the trail.  The peak was crowded with as many as 30 hikers gathered around, taking turns for photos in front of the famous trail sign.

It was the second time in two days that I observed vacationers in remote places, patiently standing in line to experience an iconic Maine Woods experience.  The rafters seemed as pleased as the hikers with their accomplishment.

It’s impossible to travel in these places and come away with any other conclusion - there is a real hunger and desire to experience remoteness from modern civilization.

This appetite comes in all different sizes and duration for different people.  Most would find a three week 200 mile self-propelled trip that traverses a huge semi-wilderness to be too remote.  Others would find a half-day raft trip on the West Branch with a stop at a plunge pool and ledge slide to be not remote enough.

After lunch, Andy and I began to hike the most dangerous and difficult mile of the trail in the State of Maine.  The Knife’s Edge isn’t really even a “hiking” trail.  It’s more like an hour long rock scramble, with maximum exposure and serious physical danger if a fall occurs.

Andy negotiating the “trail” on Knife’s Edge

Even in perfect weather – and I only do the trail in perfect weather – I am amazed by the number of people who attempt to do this hike.  Sometimes small children can be seen on the trail.  Or some poor agoraphobic will be spotted crouched on the trail, refusing to move, with tears streaming down their face.  We saw both of these sights on Wednesday.

After reaching Pamola Peak and taking a short rest we descended the Helon Taylor trail to Roaring Brook Campground.  There we met Kevin Regan and Dave Fisher who had set up camp at our lean-to, started a camp-fire and started supper cooking.

Andy had to drive back home, but Dave will join me tomorrow to start a three day hike north through the Park and then a paddle to Chamberlain Bridge.  I will see Kevin again when he joins me on the Allagash next week.