PADDLES AND PALETTES.BY EDWARD L. CHICHESTER.Concluded from page 510.
BY EDWARD L. CHICHESTER.
Concluded from page 510.
A
AFEW miles below Seneca Falls the river forks. One branch, flowing in a northeasterly direction, is used as the canal; the other, probably at one time the only course of the river, turns southeast toward Cayuga Lake. A loose pile of rocks, forming an irregular wall, keeps the water from entirely forsaking the commercial channel, but enough gushes over and through the barrier to form a very respectable stream that eddies off between its own banks with a kind of jolly flow of freedom, like a boy escaped from school.
On reaching this fork, we lifted the canoes over the obstruction and joined our fortunes with the runaway, much preferring its adventurous course to the one laid down by the State.
Large trees hung over the water, and an occasional rock or snag, crowned with a matted mass of eel-grass that floated back on the surface like a mermaid’s hair, lifted its head in front of our bows and seemed to rush toward us. The stream, though far from being rapid, was at first swift enough to give us plenty of occupation to avoid obstructions, but, like some people, gained both breadth and repose as it neared its end.
The village of Cayuga is built on a gentle slope near the foot of the lake by that name. A railroad passes through the place and turns abruptly west, carried over a mile or so of water on a trestle. North of the trestle extends the foot of the lake, very shallow here, and full of weeds that end in a bank of cat-tails, stretching away toward Montezuma. The outlet cuts a broad swath in the flags and winds slowly northward, now widening into a reedy lake and again narrowing, till the current becomes perceptible enough to bend the rushes at its sides.
As we glided quietly along our course through the outlet, an occasional duck darted among the rushes, or a big blue heron lifted himself from the water and flew slowly overhead, preserving his air of dignity in spite of the long, bare legs sticking out behind. Bass and sunfish, lying close to the surface, shot away from our bows, streaking the water with little wakes. As the day advanced, we looked anxiously about for a place to camp, and at last came to an island that lifted itself like a whale’s back from the surrounding swamp.
To be sure, it was rather bare—a stony ridge, growing mullen stalks and teasels, and inhabited by some retired army mules, whose gaunt forms stood black against the sky; but it was a relief to see something higher than the flags, and we gladly landed at the first opening and pulled the boats well up on the shore.
We had a visit here from a genuine son of the soil, if such a country could be said to possess a soil. He sauntered down to the camp before we were well settled for the night, and frankly gave us his opinion of the boats and our other belongings.
He was a queer youngster, not more than fourteen years old, with innocent blue eyes and the modest air of a little child when he asked questions, but changing instantly to the most reckless braggadocio when he referred to his own experiences. He was born, he said, at Montezuma, pointing to a distant spire, and hoped some day to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge. It has been a query in our minds ever since, whether the mere fact of being born on a flat would gender such ambitions.
Below this island the stream flows under the aqueduct of the Erie Canal, and putting waterproof blankets over our heads we shot under a dripping arch, coming out dry, but with decks glistening with the shower-bath. The river widens here, becomes very shallow, and at last spreads out in all directions like a huge Delta. It was often difficult to find the current, and the air seemed loaded with the heaviness of the swamp.
Acres of water-lilies spread before us, small flowers of a waxy whiteness gleamed among patches of sagittaria, and the interminable walls of reeds were weighted down with a plant resembling the hop-vine, andbearing clusters of pink blossoms, that added their perfume to the heaviness of the air.
A bit of Clay
Slowly we worked our way through this strange region, the paddles after every stroke coming up laden with dripping plants, while we were kept anxiously alert lest we should lose our way in the labyrinth. We occasionally stood up in the boats in vain efforts to see where we were. At one spot theSybarismoored herself in a lush mass of lily-pads and grasses, from which the soft mud oozed as her keel pressed it down, while Simpson, who had been exerting himself manfully, ceased his efforts in disgust. I took advantage of his experience to avoid the slough, and as I paddled past, heard him remark, as if to himself: “Query, is this land or water?”
But, like Bunyan’s pilgrims on the enchanted ground, we “made a good shift and wagged along,” and before night struck aState ditch—not a canal, but a broad channel dug to drain the region—a channel with a current that bore us along with scarcely an effort on our part.
We were glad enough to escape, even through a ditch. This was our last day spent in a swamp, for the country soon became more broken, the water clearer, and the air lost its malarial heaviness and blew fresh over green hills. Even the mosquito stayed behind.
One evening Simpson was sitting by the fire, having arrived at a good camping-place and put theSybarisin order for the night before I had come up. He was frying potatoes, holding the spider in one hand and running his eye over a letter that had reached him through the Weedsport post-office. He had laid a stone on the letter to prevent its being blown away, and occasionally his eye would wander from the closely-written page to the graceful lines of the canoe, whose jauntily striped tent was flapping back and forth in the breeze.
In addition to these occupations he was singing something about his “Bonny over the Ocean,” and his voice, which is not unmusical, came floating up to where I had moored theRena, and was trying to catch a sunset effect. The musical cadence fell in with the place and hour, and I found myself humming the air while I worked; but suddenly it stopped, and I paused a moment in my drawing, thinking I heard thunder.
Certainly there was a roar, though there was no sign of a storm overhead. I put my sketch under the deck, pushed off the boat, and paddled down toward the camp.
On rounding a point I caught sight of Simpson, running toward the water with theSybarisclasped in his arms. She would weigh fully ninety pounds with her tent and bedding, and I was astonished to see him lug her along in that reckless manner; butin a moment a bull tore through a hedge and bore down upon him. The canoeist had a good start, and in another moment had run into the river, plunged head-first into the boat, leaving his heels sticking out from under a torn tent-flap as he floated away, while the bull stopped short on the shore, pawing and bellowing.
Entrance to Montezuma Swamp; Cross Lake
When my friend’s head emerged from the cockpit the boat was some rods away, and the bull had turned his attention to the potatoes. It was only by means of a red Jersey flaunted on the end of a paddle that the animal’s attention was diverted from the camp long enough to rescue the duffle. I diverted him, as Simpson flatly refused to again assume that rôle.
Nothing was injured but the letter, which had been trampled in the mud.
I naturally felt elated at escaping with so little loss, but Simpson was grumpy all the rest of the evening.
From Weedsport to Cross Lake the Seneca River winds through a rich, rolling country, and we were delighted with views of farm-yards with weather-beaten barns and stacks of grain. Fine cattle stood in shallow places in the stream, chewing their cuds and lazily switching of the flies, and herds of colts tossed their heads and galloped away as we came suddenly upon them. A settlement of old houses clustered about the end of a bridge bore the name of Mosquito Point. Though the place provided us with excellent bread and butter, we did not want to remain there, notwithstanding the inhabitants stoutly asserted that the village bore a misnomer. “It’s nawthin’ to Montezumy,” remarked one gray-bearded citizen, whom we took for the oldest inhabitant, and we believed him. They told us a legend here of the Great Swamp.
The story ran, that a single pair of mosquitoes had their abode there, and these specimens were so large they would devour an Indian without taking the trouble to peel off the canoe, much as a pig would eat a beech-nut. In time, the tribes grew restive under this annoyance, and organized a grand hunt, which resulted in the destruction of their enemies; but while rejoicing over the victory, myriads of a smaller breed rose from the carcasses, and have infested the country ever since.
One of the pleasantest spots along the whole course of the Seneca River is Cross Lake, a beautiful sheet of water crossed by the stream. Here we remained some time. The camp was made on a gravelly beach not far from the village of Jordan. The scenery had that peculiar quality found in an uneven, partially cleared country.
It composed well.
Some buttonwood grew near us on a side hill. A strip of swampy shore stretched away to the south, and above us some bars, opening through a rickety fenceoverhung with bushes, led into a pasture beyond.
“ASTRIDE THE DECK.”
“ASTRIDE THE DECK.”
The owner was going to fix the fence, but had not “got round to it.” We were glad he had not. Early in the mornings we were awakened by the shrill cries of the tip-ups that fed in the marshy spots with the woodcocks and schytepokes, the last-mentioned a brown-backed, wading bird, resembling at a distance a crook-necked squash on stilts. Simpson was fond of shooting at this fowl with his revolver, for, though holding the views promulgated by the Audubon Society, he said he had not signed the pledge to abstain from wearing the feathers of non-edible birds—“besides,” he argued, ignoring this point to make another, “we could eat a schytepoke.” We did not try it, however, mainly because he never hit one.
On the last night of our stay here we neglected to button down the tents and were well-nigh drowned out by a storm; but the rain ceased with the first streak of dawn, and the grand panorama that was disclosed as we stepped out into the fresh wind was worth hours of discomfort to witness. The clouds, though still black and threatening, were whirling off in ragged masses, and the lake stretched a steely gray plain, seamed with the dark lines of its waves, and reflecting the first dull glow of the morning.
The freshness of the air and the sense of conflict felt in a storm made one want to shout, while the wild grandeur awed one to silence. It did not clear until late that afternoon, and the wind that blew all day in wet gusts carried us swiftly down the river.
We found the current more rapid as we advanced, and the stream wound between rocky and, at times, precipitous banks.
At one point a blasted oak stood white against the forest behind, and then flashes of sunlight lit up stretches of stony pasture or revealed the wet roof of a barn hidden among the trees. As we bowled along under full sail, I let out the trolling-line and captured some fine black bass and a pike before we reached Baldwinsville, eight miles away.
Onondaga Lake empties into the Seneca River through a narrow outlet, scarcely a mile long, and when we reached the mouth of this stream we turned and paddled against the current. As we entered the lake the city of Syracuse loomed in sight, looking a smoky purple in the distance.
On the left rose the high chimneys of the salt-works of Liverpool, making the village look like a huge burying-ground dotted with the monuments of a former industry. We secured supplies at this place, and wandered through some of the buildings, now falling to decay.
In some places nature had tried to soften the outlines of ruin with grass and creeping vines; but tall brick chimneys do not readily lend themselves to decoration, and there is something in rusting machinery that reminds one of unburied bones, a kind of skeleton in chains doomed to be a blot on the landscape so long as the gallows stands.
Half a day’s paddle from the lake brought us to the village of Clay, or New Bridge, as it is commonly called. This place was old and ruinous, but presented a most picturesque aspect as we came suddenly upon it, perched on the hillsides on either side of the river.
The unpainted houses, stained a dingy gray by the weather, were embowered in thick masses of apple and plum trees, and down by the water stood a forsaken warehouse with a sunken canal-boat before its doors. We spent a Sunday within a mile of the town, and rainy weather kept us some days longer in the vicinity, so that we had a fine opportunity to study the old place. “God forsaken,” the farmers called it. It was a sort of supply depot for passing canalers and certainly not a flourishing port, but perhaps possessed an artistic interest in proportion to its ruin.
“If you want any good eatin’ apples, you’ll find ’em under them trees, an’ there’s green-corn in the garden beyond; help yourselves.” This hospitable remark was made by a farmer who came to see our sketches, and it was accompanied with a handful of ripe tomatoes and cucumbers.
“LANDED FOR SUPPLIES.”
“LANDED FOR SUPPLIES.”
This sort of open-handedness had become a feature of the cruise, and on our last day on the river we gave a lock-tender a goodly supply of superfluous vegetables. In fact, our living expenses were made so small by the bounty of the people on whose land we camped, that we felt like distinguished foreigners who had been given, not the liberty of the town, but of the whole country.
A few miles below Clay the Seneca unites with the Oneida River, the two forming the Oswego at Three River Point, and by following this broad stream we reached the milling town of Phoenix. We were delayed here by a short portage, but again in the canoes the stream carried us on, now heaving under the boats as its deep volume eddied over hidden rocks, or spreading out into placid stretches that seemed to have no perceptible current.
At one point we were whirled through an eel-weir rift and well spattered with spray; and again, while passing under a bridge, a sunken pier caught one of the canoes as a submerged monster might snatch a fly, but fortunately with no damage to the boat. A muskrat, drawing a long line across the stream, ended it suddenly with the quotation mark of his tail as our bows came almost on him. Then the river grew broad and still, and paddling on we entered the canal at Fulton. I had an embarrassing adventure here. I had landed for supplies, and was again getting into the boat that lay some four feet below, when the uneasy craft slipped under the docking, carrying my feet with her, leaving me hanging by the elbows and shouting for Simpson, who was some distance away.
The muddy water of the canal never seemed less inviting than during those anxious moments, as I hung with my arms gradually slipping, certain, if theSybarisdid not come quickly, of going in head foremost. But fortunately she came quickly and I was rescued dry.
Below Fulton lies the historical spot known as Battle Island, the theatre of some exciting events of the war of 1812. Near this island the river is obstructed by a dam, and here we lowered the boats over with ropes.
TheSybariswent first, and, once over, shot off through a stretch of rapid water.
Simpson, in his efforts to guide her, broke his paddle, and was obligedto jump overboard in order to keep her off the rocks. He came back dripping to help me with theRena, and told me exactly how to steer when I was cast adrift; but in rapids a little experience is certainly worth more than a good many directions; and once started I found it useless to try to recall a word he had said. The sensation of being carried through a rift is certainly peculiar. With the attention so closely exerted to avoid danger, the boatman has no opportunity to watch the shores, and, as the Irishman expressed it, “see himself go by.” On the contrary, he must fix his gaze forward, and soon has the feeling of standing quite still, while the rocks bob up in front of him and rush at his boat. As I whirled along, a formidable line of boulders rose at my left and swung steadily around to embrace me. Work as I would, they came nearer and nearer, then there was an ominous grating, a rattle of iron (I carried the pots and kettles), and theRenastuck fast, with the water surging and boiling round her. I expected she would roll over, but she lay wedged just where she struck, and observing there was no change, I pulled off my shoes, and, taking hold of the combing, raised myself out, and sat down astride the deck just back of the cockpit.
“NOT EXACTLY A PADDLE.”
“NOT EXACTLY A PADDLE.”
I had not calculated the effect of this change of position on the boat, for her stern dropped instantly, and rearing like an impatient sea-horse she dashed forward, while I clung on as well as I could, feeling like an amateur Neptune, or “a water imp,” as Simpson said. But I was really a little nervous at the time and much relieved to reach still water in safety.
Lower down we landed, and my friend mended his paddle, and then stretched himself out in the sun and read “Lorna Doone” till his clothes were dry. Then we went on—gliding under overhanging trees, passing bare sand-banks crowned with sumac, and catching glimpses of little gullies full of poplars, and fence corners yellow with golden-rod. Some houses and barns strung along the hill-top marked the outskirts of Bundy’s Corners, and later we heard the roar of a fall, down at Minetto.
When we reached this village we found another high dam with a wooden apron below.
We inquired particularly about the channel: Was it deep under the dam? Did boats ever go over?—Questions the people who came down to see the canoes answered readily. Itwasdeep on the other side, andflat-bottomboatshadgone over. “Then we can go,” said Simpson, and pushed off with his paddle.
I followed, and we skirted the upper edge of the dam, cautiously working across the river. The water overflowed the obstruction in one thin sheet, and fell spattering among piles of ugly-looking stones, until we reached the extreme east end; here a breach had been made and a heavy stream poured itself through, tumbling into a great white, seething pool some ten feet below. We landed and surveyed the place thoroughly, then removed the sketches, together with a pail of milk and some eggs from theSybaris, when Simpson entered the boat, worked a few rods back, and rested on his paddle.
Slowly the little craft moved forward, then her speed increased as she felt the resistless drawing of the current, and in a moment her delicate bow was trembling on the brink. She seemed to hesitate an instant—then plunged!
As her keel struck the apron she turned on one side, and the same instant the rudder bearings caught some obstruction and whirled her bottom up. A dark hull and a weather-stained felt hat bobbed about, making two blots in the white foam that swirled and tossed under the fall; then the hat moved toward the boat, and in less than a minute Simpson’s broad shoulders emerged, hauling theSybaristoward the bank. Two fishermen, catching caddice-worms for bait a short distance below, hastened to the rescue, and came up in time to help in bailing out; and before I was ready to follow with theRenathe canoe was again afloat, uninjured, but with a slightly damaged cargo. I consideredthe situation very carefully, and in view of the fact that it was late in the afternoon and the only spare dry suit of clothes between us was stowed in my boat, decided, for Simpson’s sake (who, I remembered, had a slight cold), to go round through the canal.
I did so, and the fishermen carried my craft down to the river.
This caution on my part proved quite unnecessary, so far as Simpson was concerned. I left him an hour later, clad in my best suit and with sails unfurled to dry; but the wind gradually drew the boat off, and when he discovered her she was well out in the river. Of course, in the absence of the other canoe, there was nothing to do but run for it, and when I returned it was to find him steaming by the fire. We stayed in this, our last camp, for some time. It was only four miles from Oswego, and we lingered, reluctant to leave the river we had followed so long. In the cool evenings we would sit by the fire and watch its flickering blaze reflected in the water, or strolling along the shore would startle the fish that had come up into the shallows.
The season was approaching Indian summer, and all nature seemed hushed and expectant. Some mornings the sun rose in a burst of splendor, converting the whole earth, wet with dew, into a vast sparkling mirror. Again a bank of fog made it seem as if our point were the end of the earth, projecting into space, till the light in the east glowed through and showed us the forms of trees and houses looming up like phantoms across the river. A kindly old man living near often came to see us, and seating himself on a camp-stool would give long accounts of the country in the early days. But one morning we pushed off and took our last voyage on the Oswego, drifting down through its broad mouth into Lake Ontario, where, putting the canoes on board a steamer, we sailed for Charlotte.
The passengers were most of them from the Thousand Islands, one of those well-mixed companies. There was the jaunty girl who read a novel all the way, and actually looked stylish in a hat as forlorn as Simpson’s. And the aggressive old gentleman with convictions, who hammered his theories of government into the self-satisfied senator from Maryland—the latter a large English-looking man, with sandy hair, a tweed suit and green necktie, who listened with an air of amused patience.
The lake was very quiet, and the steamer left a long, shining wake in the greenish-gray expanse, while the smoke rolled back till it settled into a haze on the darkening horizon.
Gradually the colors faded from the sky. The groups on deck drew their wraps about them and moved closer together. It grew quite dark, then a bell clanged—we moved slower.
Lights flashed, people started to their feet. We had reached Charlotte, and our cruise was over.
End of Article