What follows are some more clippings from the pages of the RANGELEY LAKES newspaper January 21, 1897. Once again, on page one of this edition, Deacon Lake, known locally at the time as ‘Old Laker’, shares some memories of the “Old Days” in Rangeley. This refers to the period around the 1840-50’s.

When one considers that Rangeley’s first non-native settlers arrived in 1815, “Rangeley Recollections” offers a rather unique account of the region’s beginnings. In this 1897 installment “Old Laker” shares, just as we do today in “Snapshots in Time”, some of what this place was like in the early days of Non-Native American habitation. “Memories of even older memories”, so to speak.

Enjoy these excerpts from long ago and be sure to make some great memories of your own in in this special place. Who knows, maybe the Highlander will report it, and then…someone will reprint it 170 years from now!

(Editor’s note: Contemporary commentary in italics, otherwise copy is reprinted just as it was in 1897).

RANGELEY RECOLLECTIONS.

I have a pleasant memory of a night in a Kennebago logging camp with William Hoar and his brother, Daniel, who were part of a considerable crew of choppers. I went in with Raymond Toothaker, whose skill as a reinsman did not save us from a spill into the snow at a declivitous point of the tote road. We carried a bag of onions, and as we reached the camp before the men had got in after their day’s work, the odor of the vegetables, mingling with that of frying pork, gratefully accosted their nostrils at a distance. Only one man of the gang objected to the smell, and he was nearly driven back by it. The others were made happy by the unexpected treat, which agreeably varied the regular fare of pork and beans baked in a pit, and fried pork and molasses with hot biscuits. Those who have not tested the last-named combination, at the end of a cold day of hard work in winter, have missed the treat of a lifetime. The sleeping area of the camp that night was a little overtaxed by the visitors, and one veteran woodsman was driven from the field bed for a nap on the deacon seat—a sacrifice to hospitality for which he was rewarded by a long life and the power to work at logging until he had passed the scriptural limit of life.

Shooting the rapids of the outlet of Lake Oquossoc (Rangeley lake’s original name) was one of the unsuccessful adventures of my boyhood at the Lakes, but I was only one of a party of three. We launched our boat just below the old mills (Squire Rangeley’s original Saw & Grist Mills) and went along swimmingly until we came to a great tree which had fallen across the stream and rested close to the water. We went against the obstruction with a great bump, and then the boat whirled around and went under the tree sidewise. But we had suddenly concluded not to go with it, and three astonished youngsters were sitting astride the tree when the boat emerged below and was proceeding to leave us on our perch and make the rest of the voyage to Indian Rock without a pilot, when the muscular boy of the crew seized hold of the craft and detained it. Then we crawled ashore, hauled the boat out of water and laboriously dragged it along the old carry as far as the Eddy. There we made another launch and completed the voyage without mishap. After a good time of several days in camp at Indian Rock and in fishing the adjacent waters, we returned to Rangeley via Haynes’ Landing, carrying the boat across to the Oquossoc outlet on our shoulders—a task in which the athlete of the trio (Briceno M. Eastman) again distinguished himself. He has long been a prosperous merchant of Portland, but he loves to revisit the old stamping ground.

I believe the now six-foot-high junior editor of the R a n g e l e y L a k e s made his first passage of the carry to Indian Rock on the shoulders of his present senior associate in the newspaper business (Harry P. Dill). It is to be hoped he will live long enough to make the same trip on a bicycle path which shall not much interfere with the native trees and shrubbery which make hiding places for partridges and rabbits. At all events, he should be urgently recommended not to essay the trip by water until the channel is freed of obstructions, unless he should be seeking startling adventures for the entertainment of his readers. I think the first formal celebration of the Fourth of July at the lakes was in 1850 and on Ram Island (Once known as Doctor’s Island and now known by the original Native American term; Maneskootuk). There were no steamers then, of course, and only one sailboat, then recently built by John Haley, jr. The wind was not favorable, and passengers to the island by the sailboat were late in arriving. But crowded rowboats were there and on time. There was an address, a prayer and music from a stand, and a picnic spread on a table under the trees. The amiable Nathaniel Mardin was master of ceremonies and fired salutes with his old musket. Gilbert L. Kempton came from Phillips with his violin and led the music. He was assisted by Harriet Stanley, of Phillips, Almira Quimby and others of Rangeley. The chaplain was Samuel Peary. “Elder Peary,” said the master of ceremonies, will you give us a prayer?” And so, he did.

In 1843 Capt. Kimball’s “home camp” near the head of Lake Cupsuptic sheltered a party of ladies and their escort from Boston, with John Oakes as guide. There was an early row to the bog for a moose, who failed to put in an appearance, and nobody was hurt but the boy of the party, who got a tap on the ear with a paddle for making too much noise, with another paddle. When we got back to camp for a breakfast of fried partridges, we found that the hungry camp keepers, fired by the odor of the cooking birds, had taken them from the frying-pan with their fingers and disposed of them without ceremony. Near the present site of the camp of Senator Frye we found a patch of blueberries which we added to our commissary and stewed for dinner, and I guess we enjoyed it all as well as we should have enjoyed a table d’hote repast in the club dining room at Indian Rock. (And speaking of that fine old camp at Indian Rock, Camp Kennebago and its rustic, yet palatial, dining room…)

An early visit to the old home camp was one winter with Ira Plaisted and Alonzo Butler. We had stopped at the Narrows to fish through the ice and while the two older ones were so engaged the young scamp of the party (the author “Old Laker”) drove away with the horse and pung (sleigh) up the lake. With a purpose not to be overhauled until he had given his companions a good bit of exercise, he was standing up and plying the whip when the horse justifiably struck back with both hind feet and the boy received a fair knockout well above the belt. Then he tumbled out of the sleigh and awaited his pursuers while the horse made for the nearest point of land. When Plaisted and Butler arrived at the scene of the catastrophe and saw the physical distress of the boy, they considerately decided not to add to it by a deserved “licking,” and then went after and captured the fugitive horse. When we reached the home camp, we found snow in the fireplace, but it soon yielded to a cheerful blaze, before which we sat and discussed the contents of our lunch box. (“Camp” seems to Camp Oquossoc which still stands at Indian Rock and old fireplace and all, is lovingly kept in its original 19th Century grandeur by today’s membership of the Oquossoc Angling Association).

Next to the distinction of getting struck by lightning, I suppose, is just escaping an electric bolt. One night when going home with my father from the mill at the outlet we got under a wayside pine tree for partial protection from a sudden shower. In passing by that tree the next day we noticed that lightning had passed down almost its entire length, splitting off a long, narrow ribbon’ of bark and fibre. I do not remember that anybody or any building at the Lakes ever came any nearer harm by lightning than this. -O l d L a k e r.

(I am reminded of those lovely, now giant pines of Oquossoc comprising a beautiful grove stretching from the outlet, surrounding the Old Log Church & Gingerbread House and over to the Museum, and wonder what they might have looked like 170 years ago). Have a great week everyone!

 

 

Comments are not available on this story.