In their own words #3 - H. H. Thompson

Henry Hunn Thompson wrote prolifically about his camping trips to the Adirondacks. Many of his articles, including the one reproduced here, appeared in Forest and Stream. He also wrote for The American Angler of which he served as assistant editor in 1887 - 88. His writing often raised concerns about the depletion of Adirondack fish and game caused by novice hunters and fishermen. This attitude contrasts sharply with that expressed in the previous two posts where the sportsmen boast about how many fish they caught in a single day.

Henry Hunn Thompson’s trip to Salmon Lake in 1876 occurred shortly after he began to work in the finance department of the Erie Railroad Company in Buffalo, NY. Another officer of the company, Mr. R. B. Cable, accompanied him on the trip. It should be noted that the Salmon Lake featured in this article is located at the head of the east branch of the Shingle Shanty Brook on the Brandreth Preserve, not the lake of the same name on the Red Horse Trail.

 

H. H. Thompson was born in Pompey, NY in 1824 and died in Passaic, NJ in 1918. He was educated at Hamilton College in Clinton, New York. In 1863 he was appointed Clerk in the office of the U.S. Treasury. While living in Washington he happened to be at Ford’s Theater the night President Lincoln was assassinated.

H. H. [Henry Hunn] Thompson, “On the Wilderness Trail,”

Forest and Stream, September 28, 1876, Vol. 7, p. 114

 

The number of business men and office clerks in this city who persist in resting their brains and invigorating their bodies by camping out for a few days or weeks every summer in the magnificent wilderness of from three to five thousand square miles within the borders of their own State is yearly increasing. A constantly increasing proportion of these are novices. It is not unusual to meet in the woods a party of four or more, not one of whom has ever before enjoyed this sensible sort of healthful recreation. For the benefit of such let me describe, with considerable detail not interesting, perhaps to the general reader, an excursion recently made by Mr. R. B. Cable of the Erie Railway Company, Augustus Rockwell, artist, of Buffalo, and your correspondent. The whole trip was carefully planned, and it was so smoothly successful in every particular that some minuteness in recital, for information of beginners, may be excused by old stagers. 

 

Making a pleasant, easy start by taking the Saint John, at 6 p.m. for Albany, we breakfast next morning at the Delevan in time for the 9 a.m. train west, which connected us with the noon train north on the Utica and Black River Railroad. We alighted (3:05 p.m.) at Lowville, Lewis County, and in 13 minutes were off, bag and baggage, for No. 4, 18 miles woodsward, in the best wagon for rough travel I ever saw, and which Fenton, of aforesaid numeral, had sent out for us, in charge of one, Dan, a knowing driver, who reels off his miles to an eighth of a minute, and cannot be bullied, coaxed, or bribed to vary his timetable. His schedule made us due at No. 4 at 9 o’clock, and precisely 17 seconds to 9 he pulled up in front of the Fenton House and let out three men hungry enough to “eat a horse and chase the rider.” 

 

This hotel is pleasantly situated six miles within the wilderness, in a large clearing, overlooks a pretty lake, commands an extended mountain view, is well-kept, and is patronized a good deal by Syracuse folk. Its proprietor furnishes supplies except blankets and clothing, for camping parties at fair prices, and is not unreasonable in his charges for transportation.

 

Next morning our mile-measuring prince of Jehuas [sic] drove us eleven miles further to the Stillwater (Beaver River) over a road whose horrible conditions three years ago sets my bones aching to think of, but which now, by reason of the hot, dry weather of this season, is in unusually good order. Here Henry Burke provides meals and lodging in the log house formally occupied by Wardwell, and here we met our guides – Jack McGrath and Charley Carter – with their boats in readiness for an immediate start up the Beaver River. We had sent Jack in a week previously to select camping ground and build shanties. He informed us that he had never seen the water so low, and that we had before us a very hard road to travel, but that unless we faltered, he should get us through in time to a place that would please all concerned. So we rowed that afternoon up the river about 10 miles to Burnt Lake Camp, which we expected to find unoccupied, but which we found in possession of a party of young gentleman from Syracuse, on their way out from Smith’s Lake. They kindly allowed us the use of their fire and table, and to have a spare tent cloth for a roof to our bedroom on the outside of their fireplace. 

 

The toils and delays of the difficult navigation prevented us getting further than the head of Albany Lake the next day. We passed the night in a snug little bark shanty close to and facing the water, and within sight of the old Partridge camp, occupied by three men with their wives from Jefferson County. 

 

Next morning we crossed the “carry” and pushed up into Smith’s Lake, a large, beautiful sheet of water 1,775 feet above tide, and guarded by a mountain 2,273 feet high, and displaying one of Colvin’s automatic self-reflecting signals. Lunching at Syracuse camp we crossed the lake, worked up the inlet five or six miles, and called a halt where the stream flows at the base of a high bank, crowded with evergreens. The roots of a big tamarack formed a convenient landing place. We cleared off a spot on top of the bank, stretched our rubber and oil cloths over a ridge pole laid on crotches, boughed the ends, built a fire in front, made up our balsam and hemlock bed, and slept the sleep of the tired and happy. And that tabernacle shall be known as Tamarack camp, for so we named it. 

 

The next day up the stream, through ponds and small lakes, and over a “carry” or two, to a lake and a camp and a sunset that compensated for all our fatigue, and made us feel at home in Paradise. The artist saw certain atmospheric effects over the lake and on the mountain side opposite, in the last rays of the setting sun, that he will never forget. Cable was beside himself with delight over the location, beauty, and picturesque surroundings of “Camp Centennial,” and the subscribers cup of pleasure was full. 

 

Salmon Lake is about three miles long and over half a mile in average width, and so framed in by wooded hills and mountains as to make a charming picture. Our camp was at the bottom of a little sheltered bay indenting the western shore, and had a densely wooded hill towering up behind it, and a pleasant outlook over the lake. No words at my command satisfy me in depicting such scenery, or in expressing our enjoyment in this forest home. Every day seemed happier than his predecessor, every meal “the best one yet,” and we left it, when compelled to do so, with extreme reluctance. The unusual lowness and warmth of the waters had forced the speckled trout into the hidden spring holes, but we had no trouble in procuring what we needed for our table, including a few whoppers for the delectation and study of Mr. Rockwell, who had commissions for trout pictures from Treasurer Shearman, of the Erie Railway Company, and from Mr. W. W. Snow of Ramapo. He is painting for Mr. Cable, from an oil sketch on the spot, a picture of our camp that, in its general composition, main features, and minor accessories, pleases me more than anything of the kind I have ever seen, and I hope it may be placed in your office on exhibition when finished. He also made a fine study of a couple of lake trout, which, as they are taken from the cool depths, are almost as handsome as the speckled. We caught only three, although we baited and finished almost every morning and evening at the buoy we found anchored in fifty feet of water. It is the only method of taking them late in the season, and is generally successful in these lakes, which, the truth is, are being rapidly depleted of trout by the greedy and graceless scamps who illegally gridiron them with set lines in the spring. We killed only one deer, for that furnished all the venison we wanted. I saw six others, three at one time.

 

I will not speak of our slow and sad leave-taking of Camp Centennial. It was not a cheerful performance, and is not, in remembrance, a sweet morsel to be rolled under the tongue. Our journey back to Stillwater was made with more ease and in less time. Tramping and camping had braced us up so that we could double a “carry” under a heavy load and call it sport.  We noticed a great many fresh bear tracks on the banks of the Beaver River. It may be that Bruin had been routed out of his haunts by dogs, for the poor deer are being driven to death daily, in season and out of season by baying hounds, in direct violation of the law. For instance, Bridge camp, Albany Lake, was occupied, when we passed up, by six men from South Adams, Mass., three guides, and three hounds. A deer swam across Salmon Lake when I was fishing one morning before breakfast at the buoy, and soon the hounds on his track were heard in the distance, and not long after two men and two dogs were seen skirting the shore opposite our camp in search of the trail. We had to sleep at Burnt Lake Camp, on our way out, next-door to a party, arriving after we did, of four men and two dogs from Evans Mills, Jefferson County. I saw dogs at Burke’s, and walking thence to No. 4 met on the road two men and a hound, and further on a hound and two men. Thus, the deer and trout of this great natural park are abandoned to the hounds and set lines while the State Sportsman’s Association, next to protection in trap shooting, seems most intent upon enforcing the game laws in the New York refrigerators rather than in the haunts of the living game, and the National Association gives symptoms of “ceasing to exist or of being reduced to the mere skeleton of an organization without vigor or usefulness.” 

 

I will close by giving a copy of our supply list for five men for twelve days, for guidance of parties new to the woods: -- 12 pounds ham, 12 pounds bacon, 12 pounds pork, 8 pounds butter, 10 pounds flour, 8 pounds cornmeal, half pound green tea, half pound black tea, 10 pounds granulated sugar, 10 pounds maple sugar, 3 pounds of Java coffee, 4 cans milk,  1 paper saleratus, one paper cream of tartar, 10 pounds mixed crackers and pilot bread, eight dozen eggs, one bushel potatoes, 2 quarts Ashton salt, one tin box pepper, one bar soap, one bottle mixed pickles, one dozen lemons, one dozen short adamantine candles, matches, etc. There are other good things to have in camp, such as oatmeal, rice, split peas, beans, dried fruit, jellies, etc., but to keep down bulk and weight I should leave them out. Every time I go into the woods, I find myself inclined to take less than I carried on the previous trip, both in the provision line and in personal outfit. For the latter, all that is essential in summer or early fall -- besides the rough corduroy, duck or cassimere suit and thick boots or shoes for daily wear – is an old heavy overcoat, one pair thick pants, woolen socks and flannel body clothes, one pair of large, course, silver gray blankets, rubber cloth or coat, a pair of wading shoes or water-proof top boots, and a pair of old shoes or leather slippers.