Allagash- the final chapter

As I paddle I look back at the tiny swirls that form like mini tornadoes, spinning and falling behind in my wake. The water is the color of the cloudless sky. Spruce, fir, pine and rotted vegetation from the forest floor scented the warm air with the unmistakable aroma of late summer.

There is only stillness except for my breathing and the light whisper of a breeze. The only other sound is made by my canoe paddle entering the water for one more pull among the thousands I will make this day on the Allagash Stream.

I’m 19 years old and easily more alone than I have ever been. It is at least sixty miles to the nearest town, and probably a good seven miles from the nearest human being. It also occurs to me that I am also still more than 500 miles from the woman I love. The summer is nearly over though and our separation will only last a couple more weeks.

For the first time in my life, I am utterly responsible for every aspect of my own survival. This is exciting and exhilarating. I think everyone should have this feeling at least once in their lives. Real wilderness camping alone can do this for you.

Earlier, I had decided to take the last few unpaid vacation days of my Allagash experience and have my boss, Skip Cram, drop me off at the outlet of Allagash Stream as it flows into the northwest section of Chamberlain Lake. He would tow my canoe filled with gear from the stern of our rangers work boat. From where he dropped me off, Allagash Stream drains into Chamberlain Lake and winds upstream through about 8 miles of old forest to Allagash Lake.

Along the way there is a bridge built from timbers heavy enough for logging trucks where an old tote road crosses. It is one of the few signs of human activity at that time. Ironically, if one were to fly overhead and look down on the entirety of the Allagash, it would look like a giant, green wooly caterpillar from the sky, because all around it, much of the woods has been clear-cut leaving this island of green in its midst.

We had arranged that Skip would pick me back up at the drop-off point four days later. My plan was to paddle and drag the 8 miles upstream and spend a few nights alone. I had made decent plans, filled my canoe with the proper supplies and was anticipating a good adventure.

The late summer had yielded little rain and the stream became more bony and shallow as I made my way towards Allagash Lake. It became a hard upstream hike, pulling my canoe over rocks and portaging around Little Allagash Falls. This made me grateful for my father’s lightweight “Indian Royalex” canoe and not packing too much.

It was early evening when I finally reached the mouth of Allagash Lake. I was once told that it was the only lake in the Waterway with a natural shoreline. The others had mostly been formed or enlarged by dams to direct the water for floating logs. Allagash Lake was notorious for good trout and lake togue fishing, and was one of the more remote portions of the Allagash. The water was clear and clean and you could see to the bottom from most places.

The only human contact you could have on the lake other than the occasional passing camper or two was from a Forestry Ranger who lived on the northwest shore. By the time I made it to his little log cabin it was early evening and I was exhausted. I spent the first night sipping bourbon, playing cribbage and talking about fishing with the ranger. He told me that the best campsite was vacant right now and it was across the lake, east about a mile. In the morning, I shoved off for it, with a mild favoring wind; I was there in no time.

The campsite was incredible. It consisted of a huge beach of fine sand, more than an acre in size with small pines scattered throughout the area. Well-drained and comfortable, this terrain provided an unexpected treat as a campsite. Soon I had pitched my tent, built a small fire and arranged my belongings and sleeping bag in my tent. I had brought a small tarpaulin to cover the area over my picnic table in case it rained. As it worked out, this was good planning.

I shoved my canoe out into the pristine lake and rigged my fly rod, in hopes of catching a meal of brook trout. I couldn’t detect any other human presence on the lake except for the Forest Ranger I had met earlier. Perfect!

As I fished, I noticed the clouds were beginning to thicken and as evening approached, it was totally overcast. No luck fishing so I was reduced to chowing on the canned Dinty Moore beef stew I had packed. I couldn’t decide if I was more hungry or tired, but the stew tasted good with some wheat bread I had toasted over the fire. It wasn’t long before it started to rain and I hustled to get everything under cover. Still somewhat tired from the long haul, I fell asleep to the sounds of pelting rain hitting the tent. Blissful!!

I think it must have been about 5 AM the next morning when a noise outside my tent had awoken me. It sounded like a weak whimpering of a small dog. I pulled the flap of the tent aside and looked out. In the dim light of early morning and through the heavy rain, I could make out the unmistakable shape of a fox. The poor animal was in dismal shape. It was wet and cold, and nearly hairless with large areas of its skin being totally bald with others bearing the long red fir. I immediately suspected that it had mange and/or rabies by its appearance and behavior. Fox are generally very reluctant to get this close to humans. In its desperation it was trying to get into the cooler full of food that I had left on the picnic table. I got up out of the tent and started to yell at it to go away. It just sort of hissed at me, bearing its teeth and kept pawing at the cooler. I finally grabbed a stick and threw it at the fox, hoping it wouldn’t attack me. The stick bounced harmlessly off the picnic table but did the trick and the fox finally disappeared into the woods.

I went back for a couple more hours of sleep and determined that I would fish in the morning, break camp about noon and start the two day journey to Chamberlain Lake after that. Later that morning the rain stopped and the sky cleared off. The heavy rains of the night before had swollen Allagash Stream which made the trip down far easier and way more fun than the long drag up.

On the way up the stream I had found the campsite at Little Allagash Falls which was roughly half way back to Chamberlain Lake where I started the trip. It was there that I would spend my last night of this trip. I anticipated the fishing above and below the falls might yield a few trout and that the pleasant white noise of the falls might be nice to sleep by.

It was there that I met two very “green” campers form Manhattan that had flown in to Johnson Pond and made the carry to Allagash Lake. When I say “green” I don’t mean environmentally conscious. These guys had never spent a day in a canoe before, much less in remote wilderness.

I have to give them this much; they had every piece of modern camping technology available at the time. They had this tent that when you flicked a button; it popped open like an umbrella all ready to sleep in. They had new cameras with two foot long lenses, the best down-filled sleeping bags money could buy, freeze dried food, light weight aluminum cook stoves and even a portable CB radio. They were dressed like they had raided LL Beans before the trip, buying the best clothes and gear you could imagine at that time.

Why they had not gone to the additional expense of a guide, I’ll ever know. That evening we talked over the campfire I built. They asked me to show them how to do that since fire starting was not in their skill set either. We talked through the evening about the corporate, Wall Street world of New York, girlfriends left behind and the camping tips they desperately needed. I shuddered when they told me they planned to go the distance to Allagash Village in a week.

After breaking camp the next morning, we all left the campsite at the same time. I shoved off into the pool in front of the campsite and nosed the canoe towards my destination. I soon I was downriver and out of sight of the two hapless city boys turned canoeists, but could hear them trying to talk themselves through this whole canoe navigating thing. At this point, the water was pretty tame and offered no real challenges, but it was funny to listen to just the same.

Not far downstream, I came to an area that was somewhat challenging. The maneuver through the rocks in this portion of the rapids first required one to quickly slip sideways to the stream; then abruptly get your canoe facing downward in preparation to go over a three foot drop. I was not a total expert, but the experience I had with my father in such situations made me more than a beginner at this, so I was able to anticipate the move and get through it just fine. No sooner had I made the drop to the deep pool below, I heard my former campmates about 100 yards back, banging the rocks, splashing and yelling directions at each other. In my minds eye, I had imagined the possible outcomes of what they might be facing here so I thought it wise that I temporarily tie up to an alder and watch them come through, just in case.

They approached the area and got their canoe sideways, just fine, but as you might have guessed, it stayed sideways as they went over the drop. In a split second, all the gear, paddles and screaming men were in the deep pool below the drop. I shoved off grabbing all the gear I could find, not being two worried about the guys who thankfully were wearing their lifejackets. I can still see them scrambling in the water to try and salvage what had fallen into the river. I was torn between really feeling sorry for them and wanting to split a gut laughing. Fortunately, the former won out at the time. I was able to help them get most of their gear back in the boat, although to this day, I wonder if they were able to salvage their expensive camera gear and food. I can tell you from personal experience that getting gear wet on a trip like this is miserable and getting dry is a huge chore.

It wasn’t long after that when we arrived at the rendezvous point where Skip was waiting for me and I had to part company with the new campers. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for the rest of their trip. I hope they made it and had fun. They were nice guys, just a little bit under prepared.

This marked the end of one of the most important and wonderful journeys of my life. I will carry memories of it for the rest of my life. What I have written here is all true with very few embellishments. What’s cool is that none were really necessary. So many details have long since left my fading memory banks, but writing about them has brought so many back. In the process, it has renewed my gratitude for the many wonderful experiences I have had the privilege of enjoying.