Having satisfied the household that something extraordinary had occurred, and excited the posthumous fear of some of them for my own safety, I went down into the valley to get help.The great bear-hunter, who keeps one of the summer boarding-houses, received my story with a smile of incredulity; and the incredulity spread to the other inhabitants and to the boarders as soon as the story was known.
However, as I insisted in all soberness, and offered to lead them to the bear, a party of forty or fifty people at last started off with me to bring the bear in.Nobody believed there was any bear in the case; but everybody who could get a gun carried one; and we went into the woods armed with guns, pistols, pitchforks, and sticks, against all contingencies or surprises,--a crowd made up mostly of scoffers and jeerers.
But when I led the way to the fatal spot, and pointed out the bear, lying peacefully wrapped in his own skin, something like terror seized the boarders, and genuine excitement the natives.It was a no-mistake bear, by George! and the hero of the fight well, I will not insist upon that.But what a procession that was, carrying the bear home! and what a congregation, was speedily gathered in the valley to see the bear! Our best preacher up there never drew anything like it on Sunday.
And I must say that my particular friends, who were sportsmen, behaved very well, on the whole.They didn't deny that it was a bear, although they said it was small for a bear.Mr...Deane, who is equally good with a rifle and a rod, admitted that it was a very fair shot.He is probably the best salmon fisher in the United States, and he is an equally good hunter.I suppose there is no person in America who is more desirous to kill a moose than he.But he needlessly remarked, after he had examined the wound in the bear, that he had seen that kind of a shot made by a cow's horn.
This sort of talk affected me not.When I went to sleep that night, my last delicious thought was, "I've killed a bear!"II
LOST IN THE WOODS
It ought to be said, by way of explanation, that my being lost in the woods was not premeditated.Nothing could have been more informal.
This apology can be necessary only to those who are familiar with the Adirondack literature.Any person not familiar with it would see the absurdity of one going to the Northern Wilderness with the deliberate purpose of writing about himself as a lost man.It may be true that a book about this wild tract would not be recognized as complete without a lost-man story in it, since it is almost as easy for a stranger to get lost in the Adirondacks as in Boston.I merely desire to say that my unimportant adventure is not narrated in answer to the popular demand, and I do not wish to be held responsible for its variation from the typical character of such experiences.
We had been in camp a week, on the Upper Au Sable Lake.This is a gem--emerald or turquoise as the light changes it--set in the virgin forest.It is not a large body of water, is irregular in form, and about a mile and a half in length; but in the sweep of its wooded shores, and the lovely contour of the lofty mountains that guard it, the lake is probably the most charming in America.Why the young ladies and gentlemen who camp there occasionally vex the days and nights with hooting, and singing sentimental songs, is a mystery even to the laughing loon.
I left my companions there one Saturday morning, to return to Keene Valley, intending to fish down the Au Sable River.The Upper Lake discharges itself into the Lower by a brook which winds through a mile and a half of swamp and woods.Out of the north end of the Lower Lake, which is a huge sink in the mountains, and mirrors the savage precipices, the Au Sable breaks its rocky barriers, and flows through a wild gorge, several miles, to the valley below.Between the Lower Lake and the settlements is an extensive forest, traversed by a cart-path, admirably constructed of loose stones, roots of trees, decayed logs, slippery rocks, and mud.The gorge of the river forms its western boundary.I followed this caricature of a road a mile or more; then gave my luggage to the guide to carry home, and struck off through the forest, by compass, to the river.I promised myself an exciting scramble down this little-frequented canyon, and a creel full of trout.There was no difficulty in finding the river, or in descending the steep precipice to its bed: getting into a scrape is usually the easiest part of it.The river is strewn with bowlders, big and little, through which the amber water rushes with an unceasing thunderous roar, now plunging down in white falls, then swirling round in dark pools.The day, already past meridian, was delightful; at least, the blue strip of it I could see overhead.
Better pools and rapids for trout never were, I thought, as Iconcealed myself behind a bowlder, and made the first cast.There is nothing like the thrill of expectation over the first throw in unfamiliar waters.Fishing is like gambling, in that failure only excites hope of a fortunate throw next time.There was no rise to the "leader" on the first cast, nor on the twenty-first; and Icautiously worked my way down stream, throwing right and left.When I had gone half a mile, my opinion of the character of the pools was unchanged: never were there such places for trout; but the trout were out of their places.Perhaps they didn't care for the fly: some trout seem to be so unsophisticated as to prefer the worm.Ireplaced the fly with a baited hook: the worm squirmed; the waters rushed and roared; a cloud sailed across the blue: no trout rose to the lonesome opportunity.There is a certain companionship in the presence of trout, especially when you can feel them flopping in your fish basket; but it became evident that there were no trout in this wilderness, and a sense of isolation for the first time came over me.
