Haddencroft 12

Dean scuffed along the darkened path, finally catching a glimpse of the flashlight beams partially revealing the girls faces as they turned toward him. With the wine bottle tucked under his arm, he paused, reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt, deftly shaking one of Phil’s cigarettes from the red and white box directly to his lips. Far from a stranger to the pleasures of smoking, Dean flicked one of the safety matches over the sandpaper strip on the pack, the flash briefly illuminating his face as he lit the cigarette. As he approached the girls he dramatically blew a smoke ring that drifted through his flashlight beam and into the still air of the night. The girls looked up, expectantly, stopping their conversation in mid-sentence.

Now fully awake with adrenaline flowing, Joanne quickly came to the realization that she’d screwed up. Erroneously assuming that all her charges were fast asleep, she had let her guard down. Pissed off that she couldn’t go to the party with the others, shed allowed herself the luxury of some cheap wine and a short nap, when she should have been on duty. Her mind raced as she scrambled for her flashlight. Her first thought was Dean, of course. He’d snuck in; stealing her wine while she was sleeping, taking off into the darkness to who knows where. She knew Dean all too well, having dealt with him the previous summer, falling victim to his devious charm, always regretting giving him a second or third chance. She could see it now, dragging Dean back to his cabin, puking drunk on her wine: then having to explain her lapse.

Slipping on her errant sandal, she bolted out the door, letting it slam, shattering the silence of the humid summer night, running to Dean’s cabin, just a few yards away. Quietly, she opened the screen door of the cabin, letting her flashlight beam travel over the bunks. All were occupied with sleeping campers except Dean’s. His empty sleeping bag lay on the floor, along with empty potato chip bags, empty candy wrappers and his dirty clothes.

Now panicked, Joanne turned on her heels and ran in the direction she had last seen the flashlight beam as Dean had fled. She ran to the path and the sign’s fluorescent letters came into view. The words “Fire Circle” glowed back at her as she paused briefly, gathering her thoughts.

Patty and Jenny greeted Dean like an old friend, which was funny because they usually regarded him like a slimy snake that had found its way into their sleeping bag. After a brief spout of bragging about how he’s scored the smokes and the wine, the three sat on the wooden benches together, savoring the secrecy of the meeting.

Dean could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of finally seeing what had been promised. The warm, turgid feeling in his loins made him dizzy. The blood supply normally dedicated to his adolescent brain had been diverted elsewhere.

Jenny was a bundle of mixed emotions. While she wanted to flee in embarrassment over the pending scene, she was so curious; she became frozen, virtually glued to the wooden log bench in anticipation.

Patty was oblivious to all of this, wanting it all to be over with so she could simply enjoy her smokes. The aspect of having some real alcohol in addition to the smokes was an added bonus.

I took a long cool swallow of my 12 oz. Budweiser. I tossed the last shovel full of dirt from the fire pit I was digging near the shore of our lot at the lake. Char had covered the picnic tables with plastic tablecloths and arranged the paper plates, napkins and plastic silverware on the flat area of lawn near our little green bunkhouse. Our two coolers, filled with ice and beer sat at the foot of the picnic tables.

It was about 6:30 PM and the shadows of the tall oaks that populated our lot were beginning to lengthen but the mid-July evening promised to be pleasantly warm. The lake was flat calm and the fading daylight cast its glow on the west face of Megunticook Mountain as it towered from the opposite shore. The glassy surface of the lake carried the echoes of the voices of summer residents and distant radio music. The smell of charcoal barbeques and campfires mingled with the near-still evening air. A small motorboat with an older couple trolling eased past the dock, its small wake making a gentle thumping noise as it hit our float. Schools of white perch broke through the shimmering reflection of the mountain and tall pine pines along the far shore.

I had arranged some chunks of dried maple in a tee-pee formation over some kindling at the center of the fire pit. I then stacked some smooth, softball-sized rocks over the maple tee-pee. The day before, Char and I had gone to Lincolnville Beach, hiking the rocky shoreline, gathering mounds of seaweed into large plastic garbage bags that now sat next to the fire pit. I envisioned cooking clams, steamed corn on the cob and lobsters on the steaming seaweed, replete with baked potatoes deep in the heat of the rocks, covering the whole affair with a huge canvas tarp to hold the steam and heat.

I surveyed my work, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and took a deep breath, doubt creeping in. This whole pit fire deal was a big, calculated risk. Among the staff at Tanglewood, I was known as the woodsy, outdoor “camping guy” after all, and everyone expected me to know what I was doing. If I failed and the pit fire cooking went awry, I’d look pretty foolish. If it came off well, it would be pretty cool, the party a success and my reputation intact. Truth be told, this was the first time I’d ever attempted it but I pressed on anyways, hoping for some beginners luck. I took a deep breath and another long draw on my Budweiser.

I grabbed some of “Bacteria Bill’s” strike-anywhere matches and scraped one over a rock. The crackling min-explosion at the tip of the wooden match sent a tiny plume of burning sulfur smoke into the air. I tossed the flaming match in the spaces between the rocks and into the kindling beneath them. It stuck to the edge of a piece of dry birch bark that was wedged among the cedar kindling under the split maple chunks. Gray plumes of fragrant smoke rose and mingled with the light breeze, creating a pleasant aura to the descending dusk. It wasn’t long before the fire was hot and the interior surfaces of the rocks began to glow a deep crimson. So far, so good.

Char had been busy wrapping the washed Russets in aluminum foil, now handing them to me one by one as I set them at the base of the hot rocks. As I placed the last of about a dozen of the big spuds, I heard the unmistakable sound of cars parking at the top of the driveway;doors opening, then thumping shut. The Haddencroft staff were beginning to arrive. Cars lined up in the field at the top of our lot, the tall grass brushing their doors as people piled out, laughing and talking. Most of them gravitated to the fire, like people always seem to, popping beers open, wrestling with corks and pouring wine into plastic glasses. One by one they plopped down their ice-filled styrofoam coolers and canvas tote bags filled with bathing suits, flip-flops and towels. It promised to be a fun filled,happy, summer night.

Haddencroft 10

Boone’s Farm now firmly in hand, Dean eased the screen door to the little cabin open and slipped out into the night, gently replacing the door in its frame without a sound. As he was about to make his way down the path to meet the girls, he turned to take one more glance at Joanne through the screen.

As he did, she shifted slightly, and the rhythm of her snoring broke suddenly into a few short grunts. Dean froze. She shifted again and as she did, she uncrossed her blue-jeaned legs, striking a splayed pose across the mattress. With one leg now dangling off the edge of the bunk, her leather sandal seemed to be poised to drop from its precarious perch at the end of her left big toe.

Dean thought about going back and adjusting the sandal, or perhaps even taking it off completely but her the risk of waking her would be too great. Quietly as he could, he darted down the path towards the fire circle. Not far down the path, he broke into a run. Mere seconds after Dean left the doorway, Joanne gasped, jolting upright, grabbing for air after a period of apnea, her sandal clattering to the floor. Fully awake now she glanced at the door. Through the corner of a blurry eye, the beam of Dean’s flashlight bounced irratically from the spruce trunks as he made his getaway. She sprung from the bunk to the door, confused but wary. “Hellooooo, who’s there?” The woods were silent, and dark.

Jenny and Patty had made their way to the abandoned fire circle, safe in the knowledge that Dean would soon arrive. Passing time, they started to talk as they often did at the end of the day in their bunks, trading stories from their past, comparing notes in the darkness.

Patty went on about the abuse she’s experienced at the hands of her father and uncle, though she didn’t discuss it in the way one might think of as abuse. Rather, the tone of her discourse was “matter of fact”, almost bragging about it as if it represented some sort of conquest.

“I used to catch dad watching me undress at night” Patty related. I’d get my pajamas on and he’d find some excuse to come to tuck me in. I knew he was watching, so sometimes I’d take extra time making sure he got a good look.”

Patty caught a glimpse of Jenny’s face in the beam of her flashlight. She could see the wide-eyed admiration she got from Jenny as she spun her tale. This only encouraged her to fill in the “details”. Even though exaggeration wasn’t really necessary, Patty couldn’t resist. This was delightful to Patty since it served to both embarrass and excite her friend even further. She went on to say that she had discovered she could manipulate her father and get whatever she wanted, eventually extending that influence to her uncle.

Clearly, Patty felt she was in control of all of this, despite the fact she was only about 10 years old when it all began.

Jenny’s experiences were similar in some ways but her reaction to them was totally passive. Her way of dealing with them was to close her eyes and imagine herself detached, pretending they weren’t actually happening to her. For this reason, the details were mercifully blocked from conscious memory but the unspeakable damage harbored itself in other quarters.

Patty was about to go on with her story when the sound of Dean’s footfalls and the wagging beam of his flashlight entered the clearing.

Haddencroft9

Char and I took off for the lake as soon as our respective shifts at Tanglewood were over. We needed to hustle to get ready for the party at my parents summer place on what is now known as “Dickens Road”. In those days it was just plain “Fire Road 63”.

We had given directions to our co-workers at Tanglewood: “It’s just a mile and a half down Hope Road from Petunia Pump”. Petunia Pump served for at least a century and a half as a public well with a cast iron pump covered with a cupola. This local landmark got it’s name because it was decorated in the summer with wooden boxes filled with petunias.

Along the way we stopped at the Center Store for wine, beer, chips and wooden matches for the pit fire I’d planned. The little convenience store, “kitty corner” from Petunia Pump is in the heart of what we jokingly referred to as “Downtown Lincolnville Center”. It had been purchased a few years back by a couple of older folks from “away”. Bill and Jessie Warrington had recently renovated the old two-and-a-half story Victorian that had been built in the era of President Lincoln. To most local folks it was still known as Knights Store.

Bill Warrington sat perched on his stool behind the glass topped counter smoking an endless chain of cigarettes and looking relaxed with his chosen retirement in the sleepy Maine village. His black cardigan sweater was pulled over a wrinkled blue shirt covering his bony frame. Even in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold, so the sweater was a permanent feature.

Regarding Char and I, he peered over his black-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his pointed nose and flipped a strand of long black hair away from his forehead. “What can I get you kids?” his raspy, but friendly tone escaping in a half wheeze, punctuated with a smokers cough.

“Bacteria Bill” as he’d been nicknamed due to his lack of attendance to personal grooming and hygiene, had remarkably attained nearly instant acceptance in the little town with his easy manner and laid-back approach to absolutely everything.

The place was neat enough, but still had enough stray dust and randomness to qualify as an authentic country store. Its mainstays were beer, wine, bread milk and eggs, but an ever expanding array of exotic beer and wine choices brought folks from towns as far away as Belfast, Searsmont, Camden or Appleton for the selections. Low walk-in coolers lined the back walls next to pin-ball machines and blinking neon beer signs. Antiquated ice cream coolers with heavy white sliding doors served as partitions, separating the customers from the cigarette and candy shelves. The original white tin ceilings were mostly intact, though yellowed from years of neglect.

As an afterthought, Bill and Jessie had tacked on a small addition for serving take out ice cream in the summer. During the summer months, barefoot kids and adults alike made the trek from “Breezemere Park” at Norton’s Pond for the cold treats offered at the sliding glass window.

“Just the beer chips and wine for now, Bill”, Char announced, fishing her wallet from the depths of her handbag. “You got any wooden “strike anywhere” matches, Bill? I couldn’t find ‘em” I added. Bill pointed a bony finger at the shelf over the canned goods and I followed it, locating the matches. Chatting pleasantly as she always does, Char asked about Mary, Bill and Jessie’s ten-year-old daughter. “Oh, she’s around someplace, probably riding her bike” Bill responded as he lit another cigarette, well before the last one was finished. “Party at the lake, I bet!” Bill guessed knowingly. He’d seen my sisters and I take advantage of our summer place at the lake over the last few years, often hosting family get-togethers, parties with our friends and even a couple of wedding receptions.

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Phil’s yellow ‘70 Mustang convertible roared to life as he pulled out of the staff parking lot at Tanglewood, tires spinning, throwing gravel as he accelerated up the hill. Freshly showered, he’d sprayed himself with a liberal dose of “Old Spice” aftershave and combed his jet black hair back away from his high forehead. A gold chain hung from his neck, mingling into the thick mat of curly dark chest hair, exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.

Wanting to arrive after the Dickens party was well underway; he plotted his “moves” with the 20 year old lifeguard. As he negotiated the bumps and potholes of the Tanglewood Road, he patted the chest pocket of his bright yellow flowered Hawaii shirt groping for the Marlboros he was sure were there. Finding nothing, he swore, remembering the course of events with Dean, finally putting the pieces together.

”That little shit!” he muttered to himself smiling, admiring Dean’s ingenuity as he fished out a fresh pack from the glove compartment of the Mustang. With a flick of his wrist, he’d finished shifting into third, found his “Zippo” and lit the cigarette. Barely missing a beat, he hit the button and the 8-track fired up. Trumpets blaring, strains of Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” echoed through the otherwise quiet woods. “Tonight is going to be a good night”, he mused, breaking out a fresh, cold Budweiser from the six-pack he’d set in its paper bag on the passenger side floor, savoring a deep swallow of the cold brew.

Dean flicked the flashlight on, making his way through the maze of trails that connected the cabins of Tanglewood’s now dark forest. “Tonight was going to be a good night” he mused to himself. He had dreamed of actually seeing a woman’s bare breasts in person for as long as he could remember. Before tonight, the closest he had ever come was looking down the open blouse of his residential counselor, Joanne, a dowdy, 35 year old.

She was middle-aged from his perspective, and not terribly attractive, but had large breasts that she rarely treated to a bra. Opportunistically, he would position himself for a look if she bent down for any reason, offering a shot of cleavage, and if the angle was just right, perhaps even a fleeting but heavenly glimpse of a nipple.

As he quietly made his way through the pathways, he had only one more cabin to get by on his way to the fire pit. It just so happened it was Joanne’s. The cabins were not terribly well lit, but in the dark, Dean could see inside clearly. The single bulb hanging from the rafters of the cabin had been left on. Initially it looked as if no one was inside. He couldn’t resist, and quietly made his way to the window, peering cautiously inside.

Apparently, Joanne did not go to the party. It was only 9 pm and she was sleeping soundly already. “Pathetic”, Dean thought to himself as he silently eased the screen door open. Joanne’s arms were folded over her ample chest as she reclined atop the down-filled sleeping bag spread on her bunk bed. On the bench beside her there was a paperback novel with a macramé bookmark splitting the pages. Next to that, there was a half empty-bottle of “Boone’s Farm” wine. Joanne was snoring. Tonight might just have gotten even better.

Haddencroft 7

Jenny Solemn was a slightly overweight, 15 year old brunette with sad eyes. Most of her enthusiasm for life had been stolen, but you couldn't help wondering if there was a lot more to her than met the eye. She spoke in short monotone sentences in a quiet voice, just above a whisper. For Jenny, a commitment to any point of view was absent. She always chose loose-fitting, dark clothing that revealed a desire to blend into the background. She could rarely seem to get emotional about anything. It occurs to me that Jenny had a soul being held hostage to the abuse that had been inflicted on her. These aspects were the armor she wore.

Patty was her alter ego. She and Jenny were both in the throes of budding womanhood and had reacted differently to he events that infected their young lives. On one hand, Jenny had retreated into a comfortable shell of denial and shrouded herself with dark clothing, non-committal relationships with everyone, while Patty had unconsciously reverted to the role of "pleaser" and would stop at nothing to elicit the approval of any male that would give her the slightest nod. Jenny saw her as a role model, desperately dreaming to be like her, yet only being able to blindly follow her lead.

That night, on the way to meet Dean, Jenny followed Patty down the path to the fire circle. Inside her burned the desire to act out and be like Patty. All she could do was follow. "Are you really going through with it?" Jenny asked breathlessly as he tried to keep the pace with Patty on the dark trail. "Hell yeah, why not? He cant do anything about it anyways, he's only 12. He cant hardly even get a hard on yet, and he's only got a two-inch dick anyways." Jenny blushed, but it was too dark to see her embarrassment at Patty's coarse language. "You are actually going to show him your......?" she stammered. " You mean my boobs?" Patty blurted, making Jenny shudder at her bluntness. "Its no biggie they're only my tits and Im not going to give him much more than a quick flash and its over, that was the agreement. He gets to see these and we get our free cigarettes. After that we have our smokes and he probably goes back to his cabin and whacks it. Done deal!"

"Whacks it???" Jenny thought to herself, not sure what she meant but afraid to ask.

Haddencroft 6

Phil lit a cigarette. Standing on the stone walkway behind the mess hall, he had just finished the dinner shift and was enjoying a smoke as the light of another July day at Tanglewood began to dim. He sat down on the wooden bench taking a deep drag as he sat, enjoying the cool night air. Phil had worked many such gigs, managing kitchens for other summer camps. More recently he worked the kitchen for the commons at the University of Maine at Farmington for Slagher Catering. Slagher had won the contract to cook for Tanglewood and this was a great summer job. Phil, unmarried and in his late twenties, was considerably older than most of his counterparts at Tanglewood. He loved to party, so a summer camp full of young college coeds working with handicapped kids seemed an ideal place to spend the summer. He contemplated attending a party at the Dickens camp on Megunticook Lake later that evening. He had met Maureen at the staff orientation and couldn’t stop thinking about the camps swimming instructor and was hoping to hook up with the pretty blonde at the party.

His mind wandered as he envisioned her in her form-fitting Speedo. Dean Brown watched Phil through the screen door as the puffs of smoke rose in the cool evening air. He eyed the newly opened pack of Marlboros Phil had set down on the bench beside him. Sensing that Phil was distracted, he pushed the screen door open and joined Phil on the walkway. “Nice night, huh, Phil?” Dean began. Phil, startled out of his pleasant daydream of the swimming instructor, instantly recognized Dean. “Hey Dean, whatcha doin out this late?” Casually, Dean threw his sweatshirt over the cigarettes and sat down next to Phil. “I wish I was old enough to smoke” Dean offered. Phil laughed and said, “I wish I could quit. Don’t ever take it up” Almost as if on cue, the kitchen phone rang. “Get along back to your cabin, Dean” Phil admonished as he got up to get the phone, “We’ll see you tomorrow”. “’K, Phil”, Dean chirped as he picked up his sweatshirt….along with the Marlboros, and headed into the darkening woods.


“You ready Patty?” Jenny Solemn whispered. “Yeah, let me get my flashlight” Patty Harriman whispered back. The woods was dark now and all but a few counselors had gone to the party or were sitting in their own bunk houses relaxing, secure in the knowledge that their charges were in bed. The two 15yr olds had hatched a plan to meet Dean at the fire circle, some half a mile down the river to “score some smokes”. Earlier, Patty had snuck into the infirmary and called the kitchen, just as Dean had instructed, providing the needed distraction. When Phil answered, Patty just breathed into the phone and said nothing for a few seconds, giving Dean time to slip away, then hung up. Exasperated, Phil slammed the phone down and swore. “Damn kids, where are the counselors? Cant’ they keep track of these brats?”, he grumbled to himself. Forgetting his cigarettes, he grabbed his jacket and headed for his cabin, then the shower to get ready for the party. Patty Harriman and Jenny Solemn had been close friends for two years, having been accepted into the states program at about the same time. Both were “wards of the state” having been taken from their homes. Neither was intellectually challenged but both posed severe disciplinary and behavioral problems for teachers and caregivers. Adoption of children this age especially with these types of issues was highly unlikely. Both had been sexually abused from an early age by their fathers and uncles. Patty’s terminated pregnancy and resulting investigation had led to the incarceration of her father. Jen’s mother was addicted to heroin and alcohol. Her father had been jailed for dealing drugs, leaving the state no choice but to take custody. Patty and Jen had similar backgrounds but the resulting emotional scars were markedly different from each other.

Haddencroft 5

Any resemblance to any actual person, place or event is purely coincidental.

Jimmy Wheelis is one 12-year-old that I will never forget. To say the least, Jimmy wasn’t so lucky in the genetic lottery. Aside from being developmentally disabled and having the intellect of a five-year-old child, he also had Cerebral Palsy. This manifested itself in several ways including a spastic condition of his left hand and elbow, making it look like he was negotiating a permanent salute. He dragged an inflexible left leg as he walked and his thick glasses magnified his crossed blue eyes. The twisted muscles in his neck made his head tilt in a way that made him look like he was always pondering something and about to ask a question. (Ironically, he usually was about to ask a question). Lack of control of his salivary glands and swallowing reflex usually ensured that he would be drooling. Despite all of this, Jimmy had an enthusiastic love for life and wanted the same things most 12-year olds want; a good meal, friends, a warm place to sleep and to have some fun at summer camp. Amazingly, he could negotiate the rough terrain of the Tanglewood trails and was actually one of my more physically capable kids. His right side functioned in a reasonably normal fashion, and he had learned to cope. As long as the topic was within his reach, he loved the discussions about birds, animals, the forest and the river and could keep up on our longest hikes. I remember Jimmy as always saying “Hi miha Dickens, how yah doin?” when he’d see me, smiling and waving his crooked hand as he cheerfully bopped along.

Jimmy’s nemesis was Dean Rounds, another 12-year-old with a different set of challenges. Adept as he was at pushing buttons, Dean loved to tease Jimmy. Just like countless other groups of kids everywhere, the teasing and bullying took place here too. With all of Jimmy’s obvious issues, he was an easy target for Dean who had absolutely no intellectual or physical handicaps at all. In fact, Dean was a genius of sorts, a savant when it came to anything with locks and keys. He had a huge collection of keys he kept in a wooden box and could easily pick about any lock. This, along with being a serious sociopath with deep-seated emotional problems, the key and lock issue created a myriad of challenges for all of his caregivers and teachers. When Dean would steal, he did it for the thrill of getting away with it more than for any other reason. A handsome, red-haired, slightly pudgy kid, he was also adept at charming the socks off anyone, easily disarming them before eventually taking advantage. Watching Dean’s every move was a necessity but it was sort of like watching a slight-of-hand magician and trying to guess ahead of time which walnut shell the pea was under. Calling him a “con-man” didn’t even begin to cover it. I recall one instance where Dean stole the keys to one of the camp counselor’s cars, and conned another kid to take off with him on a joy-ride. The police eventually located them in Boston!

The most memorable of the many times Dean teased Jimmy was one day at the mess hall. One of Jimmy’s favorite meals was some sort of rice dish with chicken and vegetables. I remember clearly how Jimmy had just seated himself with a huge plate full of the meal and was about to dig into it when Dean leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Instantly Jimmy’s eyes flew open and he began to scream “MAGGOTS?!!! I DON’T LIKE MAGGOTS!!!!!!” He flew into a tearful rage jumping up and throwing his plate silverware and glasses across the room, continuing to scream as the food went everywhere. Dean just sat back in his seat and roared in derisive laughter as the whole mess hall full of kids erupted in mass confusion. All Jimmy could do was curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth, crying and loudly repeating over and over, “I DON’T LIKE MAGGOTS!”Later it was determined that Dean had simply whispered the mere suggestion that the white things on his plate were not grains of cooked rice, but in actuality live maggots. I’m pretty sure it took most of the rest of the day to calm poor Jimmy down and explain that Dean was just kidding. Jimmy’s highly limited sense of humor was unfortunately incapable of grasping that concept and it was a full week before he could be convinced to eat at the mess hall again.

Hadencroft4

From the staff meeting in Haddencroft, Char and I drove up US Route One along the coast through Camden, Lincolnville Beach and then a left turn up the Beach Road. Soon we were on the two mile long dirt road entrance to Tanglewood. At that time, it was really a very rough narrow road with little if any signs of settlement. These were familiar surroundings to me but new to my 20 year-old bride. As we unpacked our belongings, we excitedly discussed our future, anxious to begin a new adventure. We backed my 68 Ponitac Tempest up the dirt trail to our small bunkhouse cabin that was at the top of the wooded knoll in the heart of nearly a thousand acres in Tanglewood Forest. Built originally for the Conservation Corps in the 1940s, it matched most of the other 20 or so bunkhouses scattered throughout. At the foot of the incline were bath houses with rudimentary shower stalls and bathrooms. All of the structures in the forest complex were interconnected with gravel pathways featuring exposed root systems at the foot of the towering fir and hardwood trees that formed the canopy above. The trail networks connect everything from the bunkhouses, utility sheds and the mess hall with its huge stone fireplace. Wooden signs with carved painted letters directed the reader to locations like: "ballfield", "water tower" or "chapel". The markers were drawn with luminous paint and glowed in the dark for evening navigation. At the far end of one trail there was a log shelter for overnight camping. It had a huge stone fire circle and hewn log benches. For decades and even now, campers of all stripes and origin have spun tales and sung their songs, falling asleep to the sound of the Ducktrap River as it winds through the cathedral that is Tanglewood.

Haddencroft 3

I forget now exactly what we were told as we stood in the sunny courtyard at Haddencroft. I vaguely recall it was some long dissertation about the kids we were about to work with and what a great summer was about to unfold. I know we were instructed to meet and greet the kids we would soon be joining at Tanglewood, then we would make the trek there ourselves to prepare for their arrival.
Just as you might have expected as if during a movie scene, the long, charter busses rolled in over the dusty driveway and parked in a line right on cue before us. I think there were about six with their tinted windows huge windshields, New Jersey “motor coach” license plates and signs at the top showing “Maine” as the appointed destination.
As the air brakes hissed and squealed and the busses lumbered to a halt there was a short silence before the doors simultaneously lurched open and the occupants began to emerge. The drivers got out first and opened the large doors that housed the luggage beneath the bus, efficiently stacking large mounds of suitcases and bags on the ground.
Most of the kids were reasonably able to move on their own, some had wheelchairs while others needed help with balance and direction. Their residential caregivers had arrived ahead of them, preparing their quarters and greeting them like long-lost parents. This was their much-anticipated summer home having spent a long winter in the confines of their New Jersey asylum.
To those in the more “aware” category, this was a joyful time, full of the promise of fresh air, fun and new experience. Except for the fear of the unknown and a drastic change in structure that upset many of them, this was no different from any scene across the country as kids arrived at summer camp.
While many appeared like most normal kids arriving at summer camp, others, overdue for medication, were agitated. Some were vacant-eyed and apparently oblivious to their surroundings.
Organized chaos ensued as groups broke up and were sheparded to meet the staff. One by one, the “newbies” like myself we were introduced to these kids for the first time, while the more experienced among us, renewed old relationships. Reality hit hard, as the magnitude of the handicaps faced by these young people were revealed to us. "Holy crap what was I thinking?" comes to mind, as I look back at that moment.
Earlier in the day before our outdoor staff briefing, the Haddencroft adults had arrived and were already settled into their routines. Many of them were severely disabled and so drugged; they hardly interacted with anyone except the caregivers. Aside from being wheeled around the grounds in wheelchairs, being spoon-fed meals, bathed and given meds, these folks were little more than shells of humanity. Most of the adult population would not make the trek to Lincolnville.

Haddencroft 2

As an idealistic college junior, I was anxious to spread my wings, gathering up all my life experiences, my new found college major and earnest intentions. Fresh off my epic Allagash experience, I had big plans to educate the emotionally disturbed, mentally retarded youngsters I was about to encounter. Turns out, I didn’t have a clue, not even a sniff of a clue at what I was about to be involved in. As with many endeavors we undertake, it’s probably a good thing we don’t know, otherwise we would wisely cower into a corner, or run scared, seeking some safer, less hazardous route to our chosen goals and aspirations. Standing in the courtyard of the previously sedate Haddencroft Summer retreat in Eagles Head, I was surrounded by other clueless, idealistic 20 somethings, waiting instructions and the ultimate assignment that would soon take my summers work to Tanglewood in Lincolnville, just a few miles north. The Haddencroft New Jersey elites had run a school in New Jersey and Maine since the time of Abraham Lincoln. The northeast branch of their glorified asylum had been designed so that these children and deeply handicapped adults would be well cared for in the summer months while their wealthy parents jetted off to the Riviera or some other paradise, secure in the knowledge that they were “given the best care possible”. Appearances are everything, don’t you see? Most of these folks rarely visited their own, preferring to blithely pretend they didn’t really exist. Standing in the Haddencroft courtyard in Eagles Head as I listened to our briefing, my eyes wandered the grounds. I scanned the hilltop as I looked up at a stately 100+ year old mansion, a granite surf-side tidal pool and several institutional looking buildings, designed to house the “inmates” and staff. Later, I learned, the daunting 5000+ square foot 30 room mansion was to house the Haddencroft administration offices, hold dinner parties and lodging for the families when they came north to write their endowment checks and sip fine wine. Except for the dour housing for the handicapped, this was truly a resort setting, with views and frontage second to none on the beautiful granite coast of Maine. Looking back on it now, we, the educated, young idealists, were indeed the “hired help” on this plantation. It was like the set of a movie and the film would turn out to be eerily similar to “Cuckoo’s Nest”. Surveying the crowd of other young idealists, I counted about 20 of us. Prepared in our various fields to train, entertain, nurse and educate, we were ready to greet our charges. Some of us were older, more experienced having spent two or more years in the trenches of Haddencroft, working in the newly formed “winter program”. Separate from the “adults” who only migrated up from New Jersey in the summer, this program was designed for school-aged Maine kids and was as a result of a deal struck between the New Jersey Haddencroft folks and the State of Maine. Designed to handle “end of the road” severely handicapped children, it was a marriage between the established ways of isolating the damaged, uneducable from the masses and the needs of the state, yet somehow assuaging our collective guilt along the way. The Maine kids, ranging in age from 7 to 18 years old, had a variety of disabilities. Some were mentally disturbed, some with terrible physical deformities and others were simply retarded, (a term no longer acceptably used today). Without exception, each and every one of them had issues that defied labels. Brochures were given to the parents and legislators, written by the do-gooders responsible for justifying the programs provided at Haddencroft. If you read them and believed them, you, as a taxpayer, could feel good about of the comprehensive nature of the training and remarkable progress sure to be made with these severely handicapped kids. Afterall, we were highly trained staff in a "state of the art" facility in an idyllic setting. As a young naïve, newly educated teacher to be, I think I bought into it too, at first.

Haddencroft

Much of this story will, for the most part, reflect the truth. To protect the identities of the poor souls I write about, some of the names and facts are changed and perhaps even exaggerated a little. As usual, however, truth can be far stranger than fiction and often more interesting.

Haddencroft, Part One

Tanglewood Forest, located in Lincolnville Maine is an idyllic spot. Home to the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) after world war two, then later the 4H camps in the 50’s and 60’s it has cathedral forests and the Ducktrap River Running though it. Sprinkled with log cabin bunkhouses, a water tower, ball fields, a mess hall, several utility buildings and a myriad of woods roads and trails, this spot is a true woodland paradise. Alewives and trout run in the rapids of the Ducktrap, eagles nest in its high trees and it boasts the only remaining natural Atlantic salmon fishery in the world. Today, most of its shores and watershed are protected lands with some of the most beautiful forest in Maine. I’m proud to say, much of my life has had some connection to it.

As a young man, in the late 1940’s my father worked that forest as part of his job with Camden Hills State Park. This was the start of his long career as a ranger for the parks in Maine. As a 16 yr old, I helped cut many of the hiking trails still in use there today. My sisters and cousins attended 4H camp there and later on as a college student, I would work there as a camp counselor for Haddencroft School as a wilderness instructor to handicapped kids with my wife to be.

The rest of this story will focus on this experience but my connection doesn’t stop there. In the last 15 years as the local land trust obtained easements to the lands surrounding the Ducktrap River Watershed, I was hired to appraise the land that would eventually be protected by forever wild easements.

For all these reasons, it is no wonder; I feel a real connection to Tanglewood.

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.

Allagash 4

After a while, I started getting used to the old mobile home I shared with the survey crew. It was strangely similar to the one I had lived in at school in Farmington but had one major difference. It had mice, lots and lots of mice. These little guys had taken up residence in the winter and decided to stay. It seemed that no matter how many we caught in traps, more appeared. It became a grizzly but entertaining game to see if we could smack one with a frying pan, axe or other heavy object as we sat and had lunch or dinner at the table. It seemed that any available nook or cranny that might allow the passage of one of the little critters would eventually yield a potential target. It was sort of like the “Whack-A- Mole” game at the county fair, only with far more dire consequences for the mouse. Other differences included; no electricity or running water, gas lights and refrigerator, and window screens that were not exactly impervious to mingies, black flies and mosquitoes. About all you could say for it was that it provided shelter from the wind and rain with reasonably comfortable beds.

The survey crew guys, (whose names I’ve since forgotten) had been working and staying well upriver when I first arrived so it was a few days before I finally met them. Their job was to blaze the borders of the Allagash Waterway so that the loggers would know where paper company land ended and the states land began. This was a Herculean task, since the waterway was well over 100 miles long and not terribly straight, making the total line well over two hundred miles long. In addition, the terrain was rough and usually covered with blow-downs, cedar swamp and thick forest so it was understandable that they spent their evenings sharpening their axes. The sharper they were, the easier they could blaze trees, so they were diligent at it.

Not long after I got there, I heard they were looking for one more crew member. Not really wanting the job myself, I called my high school friend, Bob Mullen, who applied for and got the job. This was great since we were close friends and having someone familiar around to share the “Allagash experience” made it all the more enjoyable.

After a few weeks of working locally, Bob and the rest of the survey crew headed north to a line about 70 miles north along a particularly remote section of the Waterway.
Not too long after that, Bob’s axe slipped and left a bone-deep wound right through his heavy leather boot into his foot. This seems strange but I was told that the razor sharp edge of the ax made for a cleaner scar as opposed to a jagged one that might have been left by a duller blade. You’d have to ask Bob for his opinion about that, however.
The rescue plane had to make a tricky landing on a shallow part of the dead water on the Allagash River to Medivac him out. This was late summer, so the river was shallow and rocky and I just can’t imagine making that landing.

Later, after being stitched up at EMMC in Bangor, Bob returned to the Thoroughfare on crutches and we later rode home together at the end of the summer. Someday I want to get his recollections of that time.

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.

Allagash part two

OK, I’m backtracking a bit but it all fits in. It was late October 1973, early evening on a Thursday night. I had just gotten off work at the cafeteria at the Uniersity of Maine at Farmington dining hall. Getting sweaty mopping floors and washing dishes, working for the ARA Slater Co. was an ideal job for a sophmore in college who needed the money. It paid the rent, beer and gas and allowed me at least two free meals a day when I got the hours.

Wearily, I opened the door of the mobile home I shared with an ex Green Beret, freshly back from his stint in Viet Nam. Bill was at least four years older and way worldlier than I, having parachuted behind enemy lines in North Viet Nam. He had returned to college after his time in Southeast Asia to get his BS in education. The stories of his near-death exploits in the war impressed and riveted me. Looking back, I wonder if most of them were fiction, but at 19 I was naïve, and swallowed all of it. I looked up to him like the big brother I never had.

Bill’s red Toyota Land Cruiser was parked in the drive so I knew he was home. As I pulled off my coat and collapsed onto the ratty couch in our tiny living room, I could tell my entrance had gone undetected. I was already to call out and say hi when I noticed the unmistakable moans and thumping sounds emanating from the bedroom at the far end of the mobile home. The whole place shook rhythmically. This was not terribly surprising or unusual, since Bill was a creature of habit, often finding a young coed to satisfy his urges. He had regaled me with stories of the many brothels he had visited on leave in Saigon. Apparently, he had more women than I had socks, but changed them considerably more often.

I was already to leave and let them have some privacy, when the young woman he was with screamed out his name in passion. At that moment I instantly recognized her voice. I had been dating Gayla steadily for nearly two months. Incredibly hurt, angry and outraged, I suppressed the urge to burst into the room and tell then what I thought of them. Instead, I turned and left, opting for a long walk around the campus to lick my wounds and absorb the shock.

Later, when I confronted Bill, he dismissively told me he’d done me a favor and I’d get over it. In the long run, getting over her was no big deal, but I never got over Bill’s callousness. My admiration for him had instantly evaporated. As it turned out he was just another prick I’d crossed paths with and my naiveté was forever diminished. Expecting more of people has always been one of my flaws.

Ironically, he was right, though. He had, in fact, done me a favor.

About two weeks passed after that episode and I had spent most of that time brooding. I was too hurt to risk another relationship right away, but eventually the loneliness got the best of me and I was soon dating again. After all, the ratio of women to men at UMF was 5:1. Good odds in any book if you’re a guy. I wandered into Lockwood Hall on one of my long walks around campus. I had made a date for the weekend with someone new. But the date with Jama wasn’t supposed to happen until Saturday.

It was Friday night; I was off work and bored. As I walked into the lobby area, I noticed three girls watching TV in the lobby so I plopped down in a chair and just started in talking with all of them. One in particular looked somewhat familiar, but so cute I initially thought to myself” “She’s out of my league”. But what the hell, there was a dance being held at the Dearborn Gym. I didn’t typically care for dances, but it was something to do.

They introduced themselves as Madeline, Denise and Char. All three were nice enough but there was something special about that petite brunette, Char. Dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy jeans, her big white smile, dark brown eyes and hair made her irresistible to me. After making small talk for a few minutes gathering the nerve, I got up and started out the door.

Casually as I could muster, I turned and said, “Hey Char, want to go over to the dance with me?” Without hesitation, she replied, “No, thanks I’m pretty tired, maybe some other time”. “Ok, right, some other time” I said, trying valiantly to shrug off the rejection.

As I headed out the door, I remember clearly, I was in the airlock between the inner door and the outer glass doors, when I inexplicably turned around and went back to ask Char one more time to come with me. I didn’t realize it then, but life as I knew it was about to change forever.

It was one of those moments in time when you really don’t understand yourself why you did what you did. As I turned back and opened the inner door, I gestured to Char, “Oh come on !” and in an instant she was on her feet, saying, “Ok, ok gimmie a few, I have to go change.” I don’t recall making it to the dance that evening, instead just walking the campus with Charlyn Mary Lombaerde, getting to know the woman I would spend the rest of my life with. It wasn’t long before we made plans to marry.

This made my decision to work in the Allagash a bitter-sweet one. She would return to her parent’s home in northwest New Jersey for the summer and I would spend nearly three months in the woods more than 500 miles away from my future wife.

Allagash part 1

It was May 30, 1974. As I left the parking lot at the Shop-Rite in Millinocket, I still had about 50 miles to travel to my final destination at the Chamberlain Bridge Thoroughfare in the Allagash Waterway. Having been there with my dad several years before, I knew the way. I had stocked up on groceries for at least three weeks, since the stores in Millinocket were the closest to where I would be staying.

As my now jam-packed 68 Pontiac Tempest rolled out on to the street, I felt a rush of excitement at the idea of spending the summer in the wilderness as a ranger in the Allagash. Being the son of the Supervisor of Parks for the State of Maine had its perks.

The roads leading northwest out of Millinocket wind between huge stacks of pulpwood being kept wet by sprayers. They seem to go on for miles until the roads change from paved to well-groomed gravel highways, designed for the huge logging trucks that had the right of way over them at all times. Everyone else that uses these roads does so at the pleasure of the paper companies that own and maintain them.

A fully loaded hauler with logs stacked nearly 16 feet high would usually take the center of the road and not give an inch to any passenger vehicle coming in the opposite direction. Slowing down was not an option for them either as the incomes for these drivers and equipment owners depend on getting as many loads out of the woods as possible. These trucks would sway side-to-side so much they appeared in danger of toppling over as they came towards you in a cloud of dust. The roads were exceptionally good, with level gravel surfaces. Sometimes, however they were top-dressed with ragged chunks of sharp shale that could easily cut a tire. Traveling deep into the woods without at least one or two spare tires was a recipe for disaster.

Long after the Abol Bridge checkpoint, the road wound past views of the hills, Mt. Katahdin’s mile-high snow covered peak and scenes along the West Branch of the Penobscot River. I was on the famed “Golden Road”. I suspect it was so named because it was paved with and by the gold earned from the harvesting of the Maine woods.

A trucker I hitchhiked with up there once told me nearly the entire forest of Maine had been harvested five times since the earliest settlers cut trees for the King of England’s navy. I found this amazing since we tend to think of our Maine wilderness as “virgin forest” when in actuality it is far from that. At that time, it was rumored that some of the trees bearing the “Kings Mark” still existed in remote portions of the forest. These were giant pines that were marked as ideal for masts to go on the tall ships in the British Navy in the 1700’s. I never saw one, so I suspect it may have just been folklore.

Back in the 1970s the logging industry was undergoing a huge transition. Large logging settlements like the one called “Telos Camp” had several hundred residents. They were loggers, skidder operators, truckers or those that ran supporting services for them. These were all incredibly strong men, mostly French Canadians who worked long hours bringing trees to the yards to be hauled to the mills in Millinocket. The houses they lived in were little larger than ice fishing shacks. They were a comfortable warm place to rest weary bones, but not much else.

I remember being invited to dine with these guys at a huge mess hall where at least 100 men sat and ate like kings. Their caloric intake had to be very high to replace what they burned in the woods. The food was incredibly good and there was always lots of it. I walked in to the large dining area to a din of French conversation over the evening meal. As I sat down and was introduced, their language instantly changed to English. This was a bit unsettling for me since I did not know any conversational French, let alone the brand of Canadian French spoken in the logging camps.

Slowly but surely these men were being replaced with machinery. In some places the new hydraulic mechanical marvels that cut limbed and stacked trees in the blink of an eye were being used. The handwriting was on the wall for a centuries-old tradition of Maine logging. Skidders had replaced horses, trucks had replaced the river drives, chainsaws had replaced two-man raker saws and now these machines would replace the lumberjack. After what seemed like many long hours over dusty roads, I finally pulled into the Ranger quarters at Chamberlain Thoroughfare.

I was surprised to see a neat, newly built log cabin home with bright cedar logs and a green roof. Perhaps my quarters would be here. The building had a small section that was used to check in campers as most who did the Allagash trip over its hundred plus miles of waterway typically began here. At that time, more than 10,000 adventurers would do the entire length of the trip in a summer season. I got out of the car, stretched my legs and went to the door of the cabin and knocked. Soon, a big man with a red face and sparse blonde air met me and shook my hand. You must be Tom’s boy, he said. I’m Skip Cram, he said. You will be working for me. He was the head ranger at this checkpoint where I’d be spending the next two and a half months. “Let me show you to your quarters”.

Instead of going in, he pointed up the road towards a dilapidated singlewide mobile home that looked like it came from a junkyard. Inside, I was cringing at the thought of bunking there, but decided it would be ok.