Allagash Part 3

Charlyn and I decided to marry but needed time to plan our future. Our time away from each other was hard, but it made us grow closer with each day, each letter that passed through the many miles between us. My trips to the Telos logging camp were always filled with the anticipation of receiving mail from the love of my life. Likewise, her trips to the tiny post office in Layton New Jersey were filled with the same anticipation. Suffice to say, her diligence in writing greatly surpassed mine, a pattern that predictalby survives today. The time, place and details of the events in these stories are chronicled in those letters. Reading them now, I feel I am reading about someone else from a time so distant. Like an old flannel shirt, the color in the memories has faded, but the love and warmth that passed between us in those letters in those times has matured and endured.

It was a warm, windless, mid summer evening in the early 1930s. After months of planning, hoarding of supplies and raft building, a different twenty-something couple were about to begin their dream together. The huge log raft 40 feet wide by 50 feet long was loaded down with supplies, tools and provisions and was ready to be launched from what is now known as Telos Landing at the southern end of Telos Lake.

This was to be the opening chapter in a decades-long love story, not only for the young couple who obviously adored each other, but a love for the Allagash Wilderness. Al Nugent and Patty Pelkey were about to establish the now famous Nugent’s Camps on the east shore of the Chamberlain Lake.

By any standard these were exceptionally capable people. Born to parents who lived the life of the north woods as cooks for the river drivers, Patty had what was known as grit. She could fish, shoot, trap, cook, sew, knit, cut firewood and entertain. This is only a portion of a very long list of her talents. She could literally bring home the proverbial bacon and cook it up in a pan.

I like to say that in the old days the phrase “make a living’ literally meant, “make a living”. It actually referred to providing for ones self the essential parts of keeping alive. Food, shelter, protection from outside danger, entertainment and health care were all up to you. The better educated you were about doing these things for yourself, the better life you had. I think as a society we’ve forgotten most of this since our “make a living” has evolved to mean “make enough money” to hire everyone else to provide for our wants and needs.

One legend about Patty goes like this: When under suspicion by the game warden about why Al had an extra deer hanging in the yard, the warden asked her, “Did you shoot that deer, Patty? The suspicion and doubt in his voice made Patty ask the warden, “I see you have a new watch on your wrist. How about you put it on the fence rail over there and see if I can hit it with my .38-40. ?” Needless to say, the line of questioning was quickly dropped and the warden disappeared shortly afterwards.

The “law of the land” in the Allagash was pretty much like the Wild West in those days. In a story Al told me himself, he said that if a warden was disliked too much and made a lot of trouble for people, he might mysteriously disappear, never to be heard from again. In so many words, a warden had to get the hang of local law, a set of rules well-established over many years of wilderness survival. “Hunting to survive or hunting for sport are two different things”, he explained. “If you didn’t fill the icebox, cold storage or pantry with enough food for winter, you starved, and the government’s rules around hunting didn’t rank too high on your list of priorities”.

I was at the check-in area at the bridge in early June that summer. I remember seeing a pickup truck heavliy laden with propane gas cylinders so that the rear body of the truck was nearly rubbing on the tires. It started backing down the ramp near the dock and float near the bridge where a white boat with a canvas top and outboard were parked. Soon, a big man dressed in tan work clothes, Id estimate at well over 6’ with broad shoulders and large hands got out of the truck. Id never seen him before but something told me who he was by reputation. Bear in mind, that in 1974, Al Nugent was about 72 years old with heart disease, emphysema and arthritis.

I will never forget what happened next. Mr. Nugent came around to the rear of the pickup, grabbed a 100 pound propane tank by its base and top, put it on his shoulders and walked to the boat, then setting it down in the boat like it weighed next to nothing. I have since read of his legendary strength, single-handedly moving stoves, refrigerators and other incredibly heavy objects, but seeing a man of his age doing this made a lasting impression on me. I offered to help and grabbed one too, but was reduced to rolling it on the ground to the dock. I’m pretty sure Al found this amusing.