Satirical Stories - 'Of a Maine Outing'

 

Joe Cone

    Old Saybrook, Conn.

    P.O. Box 47

   

 

                                  OF A MAINE OUTING.

 

                               (A true chronicle of 21 days in the wild.)

 

     Truth is the greatest thing in the world – even in the fish story. This log has been kept with that end in view. Therefore if the interest lags in spots it will be because truth clings to the log in spots. Truth is stranger than fiction, but, of course, it isn’t always so exciting. However, as it is the log we are after and not truth – except when it makes better reading – here goes for the log.

 

                               Wednesday June 20.

     Left Saybrook, in the southern part of the good old Nutmeg State, immediately after dinner. I was left also, as I found when I arrived at the station, the 20-42 express for Boston leading me by about a minute and a half. The air was blue from something beside what came out of the smokestack of the engine. I wouldn’t have been so “MAD” (backwards) MAD ordinarily, but there was a pretty girl on the train whom I was to chaperone as far as Boston. Took the accommodation which followed, arriving in the city of crooked streets about 6 instead of 4. I don’t see why they are called accommodation trains unless they are meant to accommodate passengers who want to get out and walk along-side to stretch their legs. Of course this would be impossible if one were travelling by a fast express. Took the trolley immediately for Allston in search of Newton Newkirk, better known as “Unkl Newt”, the bald-headed humorist of the Boston Post, who was to accompany me or whom I was to accompany, I forget which, who was on the verge of nervous prostration for fear I hadn’t arrived. And for a long time after I was ushered into the subduing presence of said Newkirk he was fearful that I had come merely to inform him that it would be impossible for me to come. The next few hours were spent in polishing up fishing tackle and discussing plans for the morrow and disposing of a few feet of Pittsburg Stogies, for which Newkirk is famous.

 

                               Thursday, June 21.

     Passed the night at the Newkirk villa. Upon entering the dining room I found a most beautifully prepared bluefish for breakfast, Mrs. Newkirk incidentally remarking that we mightn’t have any more fish until we returned to Boston! We considered that the unkindest cut of all. Kissed his wife – he, Newkirk – good bye at just 8 A. M., and we hit the North station in time for the 9 o’clock Pullman for Portland. Trip without incident except that uncle Newt insisted on buying two glasses of ginger ale and he knows better now. Dined at the West End hotel, Portland, and there’s no better. It’s a fine half-way house for sportsmen, but there is nothing half-way about the service.

     Caught the 1 – 16 over the Grand Trunk arriving at South Paris at 3-20.

     Transferred here to a one-horse – or rather a one-car train and in a short time pulled into Norway. (I might incidentally remark here that this was Norway, Maine, and not Norway away over. We could hardly make that in so short a time, six and a half hours from Boston.) Found the roomy old stage in waiting and in a few moments were jolting toward North Lovell the end of our destination. While waiting for the stage to “round up” our fellow passengers on Norway street we took occasion to look in taxidermist Nash’s windows. He’s a great stuffer, is Nash. Looking in silence for a long time at some of the mounted feathered tribe Newkirk eased himself by remarking: “Ain’t they birds?”

     The sight of lakes and streams along the route stirred up my fishing muse to the extent that I dashed off – no, scrawled off a fishing poem which a few days later I sold to the “Sun.” One has to be a pretty good side-stepper with a pencil to dash off a poem in an Oxford County stage coach! Since receiving the check for the verses I can honestly say that I’ve never enjoyed a stage ride as I did that one. Really one should be paid well for riding twenty miles on a coach like that.

     Arrived in North Lovell, tired, dusty, sleepy, hungry, but full of hope – for it looked like a good salmon day on the morrow – at 8 -15 in the evening and put up at good George Harriman’s. Beside being postmaster George is a credit to his State.

 

                               Friday, June 22.

      An early rise!

     After witnessing a fierce fight between a bantam rooster and a large Scotch collie in front of the post office we packed our dunnage into a two-horse team and followed it over a two mile, stone boulevard to “Camp Newkirk.” This is really a macadam road, only the big stones are on top.

     “Camp Newkirk” is situated on “Unkl Nut’s Nub,” and “Unkl Nut’s Nub” is under the eastern shadow of “Pine Knob,” and “Pine Knob” commands the upper end of Kezar Lake, the prettiest, fishiest lump of water I ever dropped a hook into.

     We struck camp at 9 – 30 and had to go out on the front piazza and take a long look down the longer lake before we could even say “we’re here!” The view down the lake from Newkirk’s site is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Nine miles of ledges and islands, and pines and dark blue water that covers the gamiest black bass and salmon that ever thrilled a rod holder.

     After working for 6 hours unpacking dunnage, provisions etc., and straightening camp we launched the “little tin boat,” Ben Brown’s pet phrase, and crept toward the salmon grounds.

     Nothing doing.

    Trolled faithfully till dark with nothing to show except two likely black bass. The doughty bass, however, in the estimation of the undersigned, in the matter of gaminess and frying pan, is a pretty close second to the much admired salmon. This would be regarded as blasphemy by Newkirk, but then –

 

                                  Saturday, June 23.

     I forgot to say that twice yesterday we were driven ashore by severe thunderstorms, and thunderstorms on Kezar are usually pretty busy. This disturbance no doubt hindered “good fishing.” Newkirk simply won’t fish in a rain especially if it’s a wet one, which accounts for our going ashore.

     Rain again today by spells, but we rubbered up once and tried it during a lull. Best we could do was a little fly-casting under the lea of “Rattlesnake Island,” gathering in three black bass.

   “Rattlesnake” is owned by 10 Harvard graduates who are building some choice cottages in its wooded depths. Rattlesnakes were never seen there, I believe, till several of these students summered eight or ten years ago. The island is dense with tall pine making a beautiful camping place and I understand that when the 10 cottages are completed there will be a large club house erected on the most elevated point where the owners will dine and otherwise recreate. There is good bass fishing all around its rocky shores and many salmon have been “struck” just off the point.

     We went ashore to escape a heavy downpour and when it had passed put to sea again – two wise men of Gotham. Passing a large rock (here is where I don’t like to mention names) the man who was with me cast a tempting Parmachenee Belle alongside the sunken ledge. A break, a swirl, a splash, a tautened line and the “old fellow” was off like a sub-marine auto boat. The man who was with me immediately got down to business and the fun began. Now, gentle reader, he is an experienced fisherman, and his tackle was of the best, but he was no companion for the sub-marine auto boat, and in less than three minutes the man who was with me, his form bent and his spirit crushed, held up a dangling line minus hook, fly, gut and leader. Our first sign of big fish!

 

                                 Sunday, June 24.

      All quiet along Kezar.

     Newkirk doesn’t believe in fishing Sundays if he can dodge it and I have found him a very clever dodger. There are lots of people who won’t fish Sunday if the fishing is exceptionally poor. We felt that we could afford to rest and let the fish do likewise.

     Went to the village for mail, stopping on the way to visit “Bill” Allen. If you don’t know Bill Allen you’ve missed a part of Maine. Bill frequently tells you that “there’s just as much difference in folks as there is in anybody.” Bill had been cooking for himself all summer so after a pressing invitation he agreed to come over and dine with us Sunday evening. In describing a piece of marsh land located somewhere near his own camp Bill declared in his unique way: “It ain’t good for nothing except for holding the world together.”

     Early to bed for an early rise – meaning salmon.

 

                                   Monday, June 27.

     Up early all cocked and primed for a day’s sport. I wonder if sportsmen ever noticed how much easier it is to get up early when off on a fishing or hunting trip than at home in the hum-drum business life.

     Weather, however, not good. Clouds heavy; atmosphere wet and muggy. There is no doubt at all that fish feel the dog days. The dampness palls on them.

    Turn after turn over the best salmon grounds brought no comfort. Tried Blue Minnow, Phantom Minnow, White Feathered Spoon and various flies. Newkirk waxed really desperate for live minnows, but our trap set a few days before had yielded nothing as yet, so we dropped it in a new place.

     Two pickerel caught on a common spoon off the mouth of ‘Cold Brook” ended the day’s campaign. This may not impress one as being high-grade fishing, but men must fish and men must eat. We were off on this expedition partly to fish and partly to do literary work, and as fish are counted as great brain fodder it can easily be seen how we were placed.

     A large front room, a roaring fire in the open hearth, with plenty of books and magazines, a good bright hanging lamp, and five evenings in the city, with all its life and comforts, wouldn’t compare with this one in the Maine woods. The weird call of the loon, the sigh of the whippoorwill and the incessant chorus of frogs and other marsh land habitants, make home as “nothing like this.”

     A good fisherman goes to bed early because the next morning is full of possibilities. When the last log had broken in the middle and fallen in a heap of glowing coals we closed camp and stole upstairs.

 

                                  Tuesday, June 26.

     As a cook Newkirk certainly takes more than the cooky. He could easily take a slab of cookies and still have something coming. I tell him something like this about two or three times a day, and as he is willing to do most of the cooking I am willing to do the fair thing and let him.

     Thinking perhaps I ”Jonahed” his yesterday he went off alone today, while I did the dishes and scalded out a cider jug against another trip to the village. Mind you, we purchased no cider in the village. You recall I am writing of Maine. Newkirk is a long-headed fellow – he has to be; it’s his job. He has a barrel, or so, of apple juice squeezed out in the fall and stored in another man’s cellar. Then, whenever he wants vinegar for his baked beans he goes over for the mail.

     Nothing today except a rise, to all appearances a salmon. But a rise isn’t a salmon by several pounds. After today’s experience Newt will probably have more confidence in me and let me go along and row him around. (I should have been named “Friday.”

 

                                   Wednesday, June 27.

     Newkirk’s turn to do up the dishes – this is a once-a-day performance – and I’m off to the mountains alone for brook trout. Lake fishing and I are on the outs for a while. Newt “fanned” yesterday and we need fish badly.

     Started at 6 A. M. for the “interval,” whatever that may be; it is a local expression so I am going to “express” it. I had been told by “Bill” Allen that trout “was just waitin’ round to be ketched” up in the “interval.” Fish are always waiting round to be caught, and people are always waiting round to catch them, but it is queer how seldom people and fish get together.

     A four mile walk up a mountain valley in the cool of morning is a good thing for any man. If he caught nothing but the seat of his pants he would feel well repaid.

   Handicapped by not having wading boots so had to skip the choicest places, the undergrowth being too thick to allow of fishing from the banks. Whipped less than a mile and had the satisfaction of bagging 18 of the lively “specs’, half of which I sent back to the kindergarten. Where fish are plentiful and the family is small there’s no use keeping the small ones or acting the porker.

     Newkirk had agreed to meet me at three o’clock on the opposite shore of the lake with his “little tin boat,” thus shortening my walk about two miles. Those nine shining beauties cheered him more than any dozen jokes I had written since our advent at Kezar.

     An hour’s trolling at sundown discovered nothing – and no live minnows yet! Verily, Kezar, the scarcity of your large fish is exceeded only by the absence of your small fish.

     Made a trip to the village at dark with two jugs. Newt uses more vinegar than any six good cooks I know of. I suppose that accounts for his disposition. Possibly you have never met it.

      Letters, newspapers and magazines from home. Fine things for two sad looking humorists in the heart of the Maine woods!

 

                                 Thursday, June 28.

       Another rainy day!

      I have noticed that when it rains up in this Maine country it rains for fair; that is, it makes a business of raining while it is at it. None of your Boston south-east drizzle about this.

     The stage driver, on our arrival at North Lovell, remarked that we were pretty lucky to have escaped the rainy season; said it was just over, and that we could look for good weather now for quite a spell. We’ve about made up our minds that the wet season has come back for another spasm. To try it on us, so to speak.

     Having found fishing in the rain such dry business we concluded to hug camp all day and try to produce some equally dry humor.

     Here is one of Newt’s very best: “If a man should fall from Bunker Hill monument and escape what would he do next?” he asked. “Try the museums,” I replied. “No, try the Washington,” said Newt dashing off another column for the Post.

 

                                   Friday, June 29.

       A fair morning at last.

     After breakfast I allowed Newt to go out alone after salmon while I remained in camp. I had a little story, founded mostly on fiction, about him which I wished to do on the typewriter unseen and undisturbed. When it comes out it is bound to create a “furrow.”

     About two in the afternoon Newt returned, sore over the salmon fishing. (He had forgotten to take along his cushion.) One strike off “Mill Brook” was all he struck, but it wasn’t hard enough to make an impression.

     After dinner, which cheered Newt up wonderfully, we concluded to go out again, taking a course far down the lake, and erstwhile visit good “Ben” Brown and his charming wife at their new hotel camps at the lower end of upper Kezar.

     If you don’t know “Ben,” his wife and their sporting establishment you have missed one good part of Maine woods life. They are equally at home handling the salmon rod, a hundred guests or a piano duet. We remained long enough to hear some excellent music, some good fishing stories, examine the salmon and bass record book for the year, deface the register, at “Ben’s” request, with pictures, verses and autographs, and be shown over the new hostlery.

      Saw no signs of salmon, except the long, beautiful, tantalizing stretch of water, but we always figured a “visit down to Ben’s” well worth the long row, fish or no fish.

 

                                   Saturday, June 30.

     A rainy forenoon, but a log fire and some brown sugar taffy concocted by chef Newkirk made camp life very pleasant. Then it gave us a chance to ease our minds of some very brilliant but pressing literary thoughts of which the waiting world will hear later.

     Newt started to write the first chapter of his famous “Check Book,” while I wrote a few dozen jokes and paragraphs at which “Mac,” Newt’s big collie, actually laughed and rolled over. I asked Newt why “Mac” rolled over, and he said he always did that when he wished people to stop doing things he didn’t like. I put this down as “sour grapes,” as Newt thinks he is pretty clever at the joke “resurrection” business himself.

     About four in the afternoon it let up a little and we poked along the near-by rocky shores fly-casting for bass. On this we broke about even, Newt hooking two big ones that he didn’t land and I landing six that come a little under the foot limit.

 

     The rest of this is either misfiled or lost. If misfiled, it will gat added when it reappears. In the meantime, here is “Mac”: