What follows was found on page one of the August 1,1895 edition of the RANGELEY LAKES newspaper. It nicely captures the timeless allure and the simple pleasures to be found in “camp life”. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the region’s past and that you can somehow experience today, some of the common joys delightfully shared some 136 years ago. If not, maybe you should work at it a little more? I know I should! We are so blessed to be here.

Note: “Oquossoc Lake” is the old name for Rangeley Lake. (Original article was redacted for space reasons)

On the Shores of Lake Oquossoc

It is safe to assert that every owner of a cottage by the lakes has, at some time, been questioned on returning home, much in this fashion; “Do you really like to live out in the woods?” “Is it not lonely?” And “Are you not glad to get back to civilization?” As an answer to these queries a visitor of many summers thus replies. “Do we really like it?” As the children say, “don’t we,” and pray why should we not, when the first warm day in spring turns the thoughts of old campers lakeward. The man of the house brings forth his fishing tackle and wonders what new flies he can get this year to tempt the big fish, he sees in imagination, being drawn into the landing net. The wife looks on with an amused smile as one who knows the weakness of the sterner sex, but all the while she too is thinking what will be needed to make the already homelike cottage still more cozy. And the children, how anxiously they look forward to the holidays and how they regale their less fortunate companion with stories of the fun they have at camp. The first migration occurs “when the ice goes out” and the good man comes after the aforementioned big fish. Sometimes he gets him but more often he does not, yet there is the tale to tell of the still bigger fish that got away. By and by comes July, which is both rhyme and reason, and then the tired mother, and the little ones, make their appearance, and what a happy party it is.

…It was the work of a few minutes to make the landing, but before we were a stone’s throw away the children were scattered in every direction seeking, out remembered spots.

…On rising, the lake is hardly to be seen so heavily does the mist lie over it but by the time breakfast is eaten the morning is a glorious one. Morning walks and rows, boating, berry and fishing parties, bonfires, excursions on the steamer, and drives to other lakes and ponds fill the days full to overflowing for the young people. The water is the natural highway and is used as freely as if it were solid ground.

…Visits to neighboring camps, which means anywhere from two to five miles away, are much enjoyed. Informality is the rule, and one appreciates their friends as never before.

… “Is it not lonely at your camp and how do you employ your time?” Someway the time seems to employ us and we “take no note of it but by its flight.” Early rising is not the virtue by the lakeside that it is in towns, and the matron of the family finds it hard to place the three meals a day in regular order. However, “they never will be missed,” for the air of Rangeley is such an appetizer that people* are hungry from morning till night and the simplest fare is pronounced delicious.

…Books too are a delightful pastime, while newspapers seem to lose their savor, so far back in the woods. You read them, and enjoy them, but not with the same zest that you do in town, but books, and especially the dear old ones that seem like friends, are what one likes the best. Nowadays most camps are well provided with reading matter and when comes a cold, wet day and the fireplace glows with warmth and light, the value of a library is felt.

…But all too soon comes night and sleep, and such sleep. We have from our copy-book days been familiar with “tired natures’ sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” but never realized its full meaning till we lived for a few days by the lake. By nine o’clock you “have a tired feeling” and 10pm is positive dissipation, and you “won’t sit up a minute longer.” As you drift away into dreamland, the lullaby you hear is a gentle murmur through the trees, or the soft Lap, Lap of the waves on the shore.

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