Adirondack Diary, 1853Henry Smith Huntington1

This story of an Adirondack trip is from the diary of the late Rev. Henry Smith Huntington. A native of Rome, New York, he had just been graduated from the theological seminary at Princeton and licensed to preach in the Presbyterian Church when he made this trip. The diaries are the property of his daughter, Miss Adelaide Huntington, of Grand Rapids, Michigan, and were forwarded to us [at the Conservationist] by Mrs. Alta Littell, also of Grand Rapids.

July 1, 1853 — Contemplating a long woods tramp for recreation, I did not desire to muster a very large company, as variety of opinion and much baggage would necessarily conspire to hinder dispatch. Accordingly B. H. Wright, Jr., my cousin, and myself departed from Rome on Monday, June 27, at 3:00 p.m. for Schenectady and Moreau Station, north of the city and some 18 miles from Lake George.

We reached Caldwell’s about 11 o’clock, occupying the stage by ourselves. The fire-flies illuminated the landscape most brilliantly, particularly in those portions in the intervale sections slightly covered with a flowing fleecy mantle of mist, which in the night have the appearance of forest lakes reflecting the starry firmament in their calm depths. These valley fogs so deceived me that I pointed out Lake George in imagination to Benny long before we had arrived there.

Next morning at 9 o’clock we proceeded up the Albany and Montreal Road in our hired carriage, unwilling to wait for the afternoon stage that runs to Pottersville and Schroon. The road, though long constructed and lately laid with plank, passes through a solitary and mountainous country of picturesque and sublime scenery. We came to Pottersville, 24 miles from Caldwell’s, early in the afternoon — having dined excellently at Chester on the way. Here we had to have another conveyance to transport us that night as far as Root’s Tavern, 17 or 18 miles north and situated near the junction of the Albany and Montreal Road and the one to the Adirondack Iron Works.

The Tavern was gained, after a long but very pleasant ride, before dark. It stands by itself in a wild looking country. Huge moose horns mounted on a neat pole adorned with gilt letters tell the traveller he is welcome there.

Mr. Root has about him a snug well tilled farm, plenty of workmen, a little store, a brook, a shed and several barns. He despatched us in good season Wednesday up the road to the Iron Works — as far as John Cheney’s, 19 miles. Cheney keeps teams to accommodate the traveler to the Adirondack. Here we dismissed the team and scraped an agreeable acquaintance with the sportsman. John’s farm was presented to him by the Iron Company with whom he is an acknowledged favorite. Shortly the good housewife spread before us a most delightful and delicious meal of venison (tender as a three months’ fawn) excellent bread, butter, maple syrup and tea, with a bowl of sweet milk.

B. and I bathed before breakfast Thursday morning in the Hudson River a mile above Cheney’s. A saw mill, two or three houses, and a new public house unoccupied and unfurnished stand along the dam. Near the new edifice turns off the famous forest

1 As reprinted in The Conservationist, Vol. 5 No. 1, August-September 1950

road towards Newcomb town, Long Lake, and Carthage. The river here is stocked with delicious trout.

Crossing the bridge, we at last fell in with a party engaged in repairing the road. Anthony Snyder was among them, the famous hunter who with John Cheney, his intimate friend and constant companion for 15 years, stands at the head of the Adirondack woodsmen. Taking up my rifle, he bid one of the workmen to chop off a strip of bark 4 inches square in a tree 25 rods distant; which done, he very coolly raised it to his eye without “a rest” and fired a ball through the centre! We prevailed upon the warm hearted enthusiastic hunter to accompany us over night. We crossed the Hudson ½ mile wide above the dam and then followed a path over a wooded hill to the Pond. Corking the boat’s bottom, we went to the shanty, tied up the dogs, and then lay out upon a marsh until dark for deer.

Friday we rowed down the Lake, crossed the portage with our packs, rifles and venison, and came to our boat on the Hudson. The river banks, being overflowed by the dam, were covered with innumerable dead cedars and hemlock, so as to retard boat navigation.

This afternoon we rode four miles along the Hudson to Lake Sanford. Here we shantied, examined a bear trap where a bear had recently got in but escaped with the loss of a huge claw and toe; and rowed up the Lake unsuccessfully trolling for pickerel with a “spoon hook.”

July 3, 1853 — As we rowed up the river Saturday towards the village, fine mountain vistas came in sight, among which Tahawus proudly towered loftiest. Here were scenes worthy of the studious contemplation of the painter and the poet. God’s Mighty Hand seemed visibly outstretched in the vast forest livery of waving green, and the sombre solitudes of the mountains and the glen. Here and there reflected the azure sky in the bosom of some lonely lake, while the never ceasing waterfalls and the songs of joyous birds responded in nature’s voices to the glory of our God.

It is 5 miles distant to Indian Pass (our present destination) from the Iron Works. The path is difficult and rough; and is followed by continuing along the notch stream, one of the principal branches of the Hudson River. By and by we found steep ascents and thickest underbrush before us. Now the path wound around some broken ledges of rocks, hurled from the distant summit of Mt. McIntyre on our right, in wintry avalanches; or conducted us along the dizzy sides of a yawning precipice.

My rifle soon encumbered me — although we got a partridge with it. The foot path runs through the notch to Keene some 20 miles beyond, along which occasionally came a few laborers to work in the Iron Furnaces. We struggled on to find a convenient spot for lunch, where we could see the pass in all its grandeur. We found the travelling more and more toilsome, until it seemed almost vain to go any farther. We had, in fact, got below the mountain trail into the legitimate channel of the stream which rippled around these vast piles of broken stone. Between these boulders the streams are of icy coldness, with large cakes of ice and even snow throughout the year! — where the sun never shines. Not far from our bivouack we were told the snow was then from 3 to 4 feet deep in July! On the left side of this ravine the cliff shoots upwards perpendicularly more than a thousand feet.

By 6:00 p.m. we reached the Iron Works village, and stopped at the store in the place to procure a few necessaries. The Iron Works are not now in operation. At one time more than 100 men were there employed and the little village was alive with the din of trade. There are two factories — a mile apart; the new one has a mammoth chimney of unnecessarily heavy masonry. The fires are to be kept alive by three huge bellows worked by steam. In front is the hearth where the melted liquid flows out.

The country round abounds with iron. The supply is inexhaustible — enough, says a report, for the use of the whole world! The first discovery of the metallic wealth of this country was made by an Indian — Benedict.

Another ore bed was discovered by Cheney, the hunter, for which and other services, the company presented him with his farm and house east of the Hudson. The Adirondack steel took the prize at the last year’s world’s fair at London!

Our Sabbath breakfast was of richest speckled trout, venison and potatoes, the best of which grow here.

July 6, 1853, Colden Lake — What charming scenery, thus to be shunned by man and living things! Tony had formerly seen game here. But now the well-beaten deer paths were a year old, and Tony thinks these beautiful creatures were hereabouts mostly destroyed by wolves last winter.

During the afternoon we left our pleasant shanty on Colden Lake. Fording the inlet of the Lake, and subsequently the swift current of the Opalescent, we reached the highest dam of the Hudson, 6 miles from the Iron Works and built by the Company. At the dam report said the trout were numerous — but we were too late to procure them. An easy footpath conducts you to Calamity Pond and an easier one to the village — where we arrived before sunset.

July 7, 1853 — Preston Ponds are about 5 miles from the village. To approach them we had to row over a part of picturesque Lake Henderson, whose shores were thickly strewed with the bare stalks of the never-dying cedar and whose depths abound with noble salmon trout. Thence we continued by a long carrying place where I shot a brace of partridges, to the Preston Ponds. This is good fishing ground for delicate speckled trout, of which we took care to secure a mess to accompany our dinner of roast partridge.

The flies so harassed us that we were glad to fire some underbrush as a smudge for self-defense. Cold River is shallow and swift so that it affords no navigation; otherwise it would be the most direct, and the nearest route to Long Lake.

Neither at our ambuscade nor upon our return did we see a deer; but Ben and the guide caught quite a string of speckled trout that were playfully leaping about the surface of the water between sunset and dark.

When we came to camp again we ascertained a visitor had suddenly been there and departed. Ben, going to the mountain brook besides our bivouack in search of fish that had been cleaned at noon and deposited there to preserve them from the heat of the sun in our absence, could not find them. A sly mink had pilfered our savoury treasures. These creatures will lug off all the fish they can find — and if their burden prove too great for one attempt, they will repeat it, till all is gone.

July 8, 1853 — After baths and breakfast we departed for the dock of the Iron Works on the Hudson, where Tony had left a boat for us. We moved down the river, trolling vainly for pickerel, 11 miles through Lake Sanford, until we came to Tony’s cozy nook of logs.

July 9, 1853 — We all set off for Newcomb Lake 8 miles northwesterly. Poor Chester the teamster was so boozy from liquor obtained at the works, that Tony had to leave him behind with a sharp reprimand for his neglect of duty. I accordingly volunteered to drive to the Lake, while Seth Pearce and Tony crossed Lake Sanford to re-examine a bear trap.

We soon emerged from the verdant arches of the forest, into a cleared farm of elevated land. From the Newcomb farm the view of the Adirondack group of mountains is very superior. A short drive through the woods beyond the farm brought us to the Lake. At the north end we “turned in” to an old shanty, after laying it with new fresh boughs.

Our hound, “Pilot,” which we had brought with us to the rocky point, seemed anxious to be off — and when he was let loose he drove down a deer no less than three times before we could secure a shot. …

Route 17: Schroon Lake to the Southern Adirondacks2

Schroon Lake to Root’s, 9 M. (,Crown Point to Root’s, 18); Fenton’s, 14; Boreas River, 20; Tahawus, 28; Newcomb, 30; Long Lake, 51.

The road follows the valley of Schroon River, with the long slopes of Spirit Mt. and the Blue Ridge on the W. At a point 3-4 M. N. of Schroon Lake, the bright waters of Paradox Lake are seen 2-3 M. W. This sheet of water is over 6 M. long and affords considerable fishing. Brott’s Hotel is near its head, 9 M. from Schroon Lake; 10 M. from Root’s; 13 M. from Ticonderoga; and 16 M. from Crown Point. About 2 M. S. E. is Long Pond, and Pyramid Pond is 1 M. S., while several other sequestered lakelets lie in the vicinity. The intersection of the Crown Point road is soon passed, and then a broad and barren plain is traversed until Root’s Inn is reached, 9 M. from Schroon Lake. This house accommodates 40-50 guests at $10 a week and is a famous resort for sportsmen. The routes westward from Ticonderoga and Crown Point meet at this point. Ticonderoga is 23 M. S. E. of Root’s, and the road passes Paradox Lake and Lone Pond. The distance from Crown Point to Root’s is 18 M., the first half of which leads up the valley of Put’s Creek.

The Great Northern Highway.The tri-weekly mail stage from Schroon Lake continues from Root’s on the Great

Northern Highway, with the lofty Dix Peak in advance. After passing through three deserted villages, it enters a wide and tangled forest and ascends the water-shed heights. Thence it runs down into the Boquet River Valley, with the imposing peaks of the Giant of the Valley on the W. When near New Russia, the Split Rock Falls on the Boquet are seen by the roadside, and a little farther N. another fine cascade opens on the l. 22 M. N. of Root’s (32 M. from Schroon Lake) the beautiful village of Elizabethtown (see page 141) is reached. The stage arrives here at 2 P.M., and waits for dinner, after which it goes N. to Keeseville, passing the Boquet Mts. and traversing (for 3 M.) the romantic gorge known as Poke-a-Moonshine. Schroon Lake to Keeseville, 52 M.; time, 12 hrs.; fare, $4.25. In going S. from Keeseville, Elizabethtown is passed at 11 A.M., and dinner is obtained at 4 P.M. at Root’s.

----------------Root’s Inn is situated on the ancient State military road from Crown Point to

Carthage, crossing the Wilderness in 133 M. This highway has fallen into disuse, but is still (barely) passable, with the exception of a section of 16 M. between Stillwater and Beach’s Lake. Parties sometimes hire conveyances from Root’s to Long Lake, 42 M. W., accomplishing the trip in one long day. Fine sporting is found to the S. and S. W. of the inn, while the obscure trail which leads by Chapel Pond to the Keene Valley (18-20 M.) passes through noble scenery. It is 11 M. from this point to the Hunter’s Pass. Passing W. for 5 M., Fenton’s Inn is reached, near the fishing grounds on the rugged slopes of the Blue Ridge. A forest road here diverges to the N., leading to Clear Pond (Lake-Side Inn) in 4 M., and to the inn on Mud Pond in 5 M. These sequestered waters are environed with mts., and a bridle-path conducts thence to the top of Mt. Marcy, 16 M. from Fenton’s. A

2 From “The Middle States: A Handbook for Travellers,” edited by Moses Foster Sweetser (1874 or 1876), pages 136-138

difficult trail leads from the inn at Mud Pond to the summit of Dix Peak, 4 M. N. E., from which the view includes the lakes of Schroon and Champlain, the chain of the Green Mts., and the chief Adirondack Mts. The wonderful gorge known as the Hunter’s Pass lies at the base of this peak. It is 6 M. from Fenton’s to Bullard’s, and the road passes between Hayes Mt. on the S. and the graceful Boreas Spires on the N. (forests obstruct much of the view). Bullard’s is near the Wolf and Sand Ponds, while Boreas Pond is 3-4 M. N., whence a trail leads to the Ausable Ponds and the Keene Valley. The road now crosses the Boreas Valley, and in 8 M. from Bullard’s (19 M. from Root’s) reaches Tahawus (Lower Works). Tahawus to Long Lake, see page 135.

Adirondack (Upper Iron Works) is 11 M. N. of Tahawus by a picturesque road which has Lake Sanford on the E. for 5 M. Moore’s Inn is at this place, and the vicinity is filled with objects of interest. The immense deposits of iron and the iron dam across the river were discovered and reported by an Indian hunter in 1826. Mining was soon commenced, but the expense of freighting the ore to Lake Champlain was too heavy, and after some years the village, with its Church of Tubal Cain, was abandoned, and has since remained desolate. The unfortunate names of two of the chief Adirondack peaks, McMartin and McIntyre, were given in honor of two of the speculators in these mines. Lake Sanford, 5 M. long, and girded with mts., is 1 M. S. of Adirondack, and Lake Henderson, E. of Mt. Henderson, is ½ M. N. and 3 M. long. Grand mt. views are found here, and from the trout =-abounding Preston Ponds (2 M. from Lake Henderson by path). 6 M. N. W. of these ponds is Mt. Seward, the Onnowanlah of the Indians, a remote peak 4,348 ft. high, which is separated from Ragged Mt. (4,126 ft. high) by the Pass of Ouluska (“place of shadows”) where panthers abound. Far around the S. base of Seward is the silent district called by the Indians Coughsarageh, “the dismal wilderness,” while Ampersand Pond and Mt. lie on the N., and the confluence of the Cold and Raquette Rivers is 12 M. S. W. The * Adirondack Pass is 5 M. N. E. of Adirondack by a well-defined trail. It is a great gorge between Mts. Wallface and McIntyre, and presents a scene of wild grandeur. The bottom of the pass is 2,901 ft. above the sea, and Wallface fronts on the W. side with a continuous precipice 1 M. long and 1,319 ft. high. 5 M. beyond the pass is the hamlet of N. Elba (see page 145). There are many other scenes of sublimity and beauty in this vicinity, but they are difficult of access, and the accommodations of the mt. inns are very limited.

The trail to the summit of Mt. Marcy (see page 144) is 12 M. long, and very arduous. At 6 M. N. E. from Adirondack, the path reaches Lake Colden, “perfectly embosomed amid the gigantic mts., and looking for all the world like an innocent child sleeping in a robber’s embrace.” From this sheet, 2,851 ft. above the tide, flows the foamy Opalescent River. Far up the Opalescent gorge to the E. is seen Gray Peak, on which 4,293 ft. high is Summit-Water, a bright mt. tarn from which the Hudson flows. 1 M. beyond Colden is Avalanche Lake, around which stand Wallface, McIntyre, McMartin, and Colden Mts. The long slopes of Marcy are soon encountered, and a steady climb over rocky ledges and steep acclivities conducts to the summit. After passing up by this route, the mt. is often descended into the Keene Valley. A long trail leads from Adirondack to Keene, via the Ausable Ponds.

The Middle States: A Handbook for TravellersBOSTON:

JAMES R OSGOOD AND COMPANY Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood & Co.1876

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1874 BY JAMES R OSGOOD AND COMPANY in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington

Pages 136-138

Moses Foster SweetserEditor of Osgood’s American Handbooks 131 Franklin St Boston

Personal Recollections of John Cheney and his Wife of Tahawus, N.Y.

by Frances C. [Mrs. S.E. “Ned”] Stimson, 19113

It was in September of 1868 or 1869 that I first made the acquaintance of the Cheney family. We had arranged to make our headquarters with them for an indefinite time, which eventually settled into three delightful months. Ned had been there before with Archibald Robertson and, as were all of his name and lineage, was a warmly welcomed guest, for John Cheney loved nothing so well as talking over with the younger generation the incidents and exploits of the days when as a young man he guided their forebears. (In this connection please note that it is a better word than ancestors!)

We were a party of five and though the house was small it proved its elasticity soon after by taking in another party of five, mostly artists, one of whom was Homer Martin. For a month we all shared the good fare and ministrations of Mrs. Cheney over the week end, and from Mondays till Saturdays camped on the neighboring lakes: then all left but Homer, Martin, Ned and myself and the former became our good comrade for the ensuing two months, much to our enjoyment.

During this time, we camped often, watched the near-by runways, tramped for grouse or sketching, or stayed around the place, reading or listening to tales of adventure and enjoying the excellent table which Mrs. Cheney always provided.

Giving place aux dames, I will try to draw a picture of that excellent woman. Thin to meagreness, active, alert; straight grey hair cut short and drawn back with a round rubber comb from a plain pockmarked face; garbed n a straight shapeless homespun dress — she did not at first sight present an attractive appearance — but how soon that was forgotten! And how quickly she grew into your heart with her kindness and into your memory with her quaintness, no words could tell. No more hospitable soul ever inhabited a human body, and nothing within her means or power to do for her guests, was stinted.

I wonder if she ever rested, I never saw her — and altho’ she dearly loved to talk and did talk all the time, she never stopped her work for it — but you were expected to follow the thread of her discourse while she journeyed back and forth, from kitchen to woodpile, back to slam wood under the stove lids, into the pantry to deposit a dish, through the dining room (where you sat), down cellar (her voice rumbling underneath) back to bedroom to get her “specs” — off to kitchen &c., &c., never stopping and fortunately never expecting more than a nod or smile in response. What one did glean of her narrative made one wish for the whole, but no one ever could have grasped that, who had human limitations.

And what a cook she was! No one ever equalled her skill with trout or venison, no one ever stuffed and baked a muskelonge as she did and I am sure that neither the gods on Olympus or the gourmets on Fifth Avenue were ever served with a more delectable combination than her broiled partridge with potatoes that crumbled into powder at a touch, peppered and salted and smothered with thick rich cream. Oh, that cream! A generous bowl of it, thick enough to spread, graced the table at every meal, as did a plate of luscious sugar cookies — better than any grandma “used to make.” Though her cows

3 As transcribed from Mrs. Stimson’s typescript, found in the Adirondack Museum Research Library

had never heard of Jersey (no pun intended) or had seen rich pasture land but roamed the woods and as far as one could see, lived principally on moss and leaves, the product they brought home at night rivalled that of any prize-winners.

How well I remember going after those cows one cold November night! The men were off on a hunt and Mary and I started with “Cubby” to trail the wanderers and bring them home. There was snow on the ground so their tracks were plain enough, but the dance their vagrant ways led us before we finally caught up with them over by Perch Pond brings an ache in my bones even to think of. Bringing them home by icy moonlighted ways was more difficult and less romantic than it sounds. I have ever since felt a kinship and sympathy with our early settlers that nothing else could have given me.

However, I am wandering like the cows, and with no such good reason, for I was on rich pasture land for my browsing. My most vivid mental picture of Mrs. Cheney is of her wielding a birch switch over the stalwart unflinching figure of young John and in her nervous excitement vociferating “Johnny you ain’t half licked, you ain’t half licked!” Indeed he wasn’t — as well expect adequate punishment for an unruly elephant from the pounding of a butterfly’s wings! Poor little mother! Johnny was an aggravation and a problem — for he had not yet been pronounced insane — and it was more than even her great mother-love could stand sometimes, to see him, a very giant in strength, stand all day motionless in the middle of a field, while she, little, frail creature, burdened with her big day’s work, stopped to chop wood and dig potatoes and milk the cows, and so, with nerves and body strained to breaking, her patience would give way and she would ply the unavailing switch. Strange that we never feared Johnny, who afterward became violent and shot his father — but it never dawned upon us, fortunately, for many a night we women were alone, with unlocked doors. We thought him only stupid and lazy, and though disgusted, I could but laugh at the only notice he ever took of me — which was to blow a mouthful of apple peelings at the back of my neck while I sat reading, oblivious of his presence!

The other son, David, went off guiding or teaming a great deal and was minus his mother's energy when home, so that a large part of man's work fell on her and on Mary (an adopted daughter), but I never heard a word of complaint or self pity from the heroic soul, whose sixty years of hard work and fulfilled duty had never been relieved but by one outing and that only to the village of Crown Point!

How can I tell of John Cheney. Such an unique and delightful personality needs an inspired pen. He must have been over seventy at that time — a little wiry man, somewhat shrunken but rugged, with deeply lined face, bushy brows and a droop in the corners of his mouth that prepared one for the almost whining, high-pitched voice with which he greeted you. I cannot remember that I ever saw him smile or heard him laugh beyond a sort of chuckle, but one never felt that his whine was more than throat deep and that he had a quiet sense of humor no one could doubt who ever heard his resumé of the day's drive as we sat at the close of it in the glow of a big campfire. He too was a great talker, tho’ not as rapid an one as his wife, and as neither by any chance ever stopped to give the other right of way, it was sometimes difficult — except for the roving habit of the Missus and the sedentary one of John — to get the gist of their discourse when in the house, but out in camp, when all gave way to hear what the old guide had to say, he was in his element and his tales of past encounters with wild beasts and thrilling experiences of many kinds were wonderful to listen to. He told the most blood stirring stories in the

same high-pitched sing-song whine as he told the tale of his rheumatism — but it added an unique touch that was inimitable. By the way, he had that form of rheumatism which disappears under the prospect of a good time, and to him a good time meant a tramp through the woods, setting out his dog, a rapid making for a runway to watch — happily to kill, but anyway to recount and hear recounted, while the tea boiled (!) and the toast and venison were browned by younger hands, how the deer came in “kersouse, kersouse” by the “cranberry mash,” made for the “driftwood” and so entangling the dog, leaped for the bank, etc., etc. We had the good luck to dispel his rheumatism several times. We took him as nominal guide for the joy of his company, while younger men carried the “duffle” and did the work.

Perhaps his vigor and unerring knowledge of the woods had no greater showing than on the occasion of a visit Theodore Wynkoop made us. Just before starting for India as a missionary, Theodore made a hurried trip into the woods to bid us good-bye and when he arrived at the Cheneys to his great disappointment, as he had only a few hours to spare, found that we were camping on Lake Newcomb. Old John, who had remained at home, took pity on him and late as it was, brought him to our camp by the short (?) cut, over the hills in the darkness and roughness — a matter of a dozen miles — and, apparently unwearied, was ready to regale the new listener with his stories half the night or more. It was that same night (I think) that I was unfortunate enough to be a spoil-sport. In the midst of one of his panther stories, John stopped short and pointed an excited finger at a very live scion of the race who stood glaring at us across our blazing fire. Ned sprang for his gun but John caught him, with an expletive afterward interpreted to mean that if he failed to kill, the beast would spring into the shanty and what would became of me! “No time for a panther scrap with a woman in tow” — which was both sense and chivalry — but I presume I never occupied a lower place in the masculine mind than I did that moment, and as for John,

I wonder did he ever forgive me for losing him one more chance of a panther scrape!

Beside his rheumatism, John had two other afflictions: terrible cramps in his legs and nightmare. As both presented the same outward symptoms it was not easy always to diagnose correctly and the vigorous treatment which he used for one did not always prove a painless remedy for the other. I remember sitting with Homer Martin reading in the dining room one evening, when one of the two sent him howling from his bed, in abbreviated attire, into our presence — but which one it was I did not stop to inquire. I often thought, in camp, that I had learned how our foremothers felt when the Indians were upon them — for to be waked from a sound sleep by John’s unearthly howls was a frightful experience — though once thoroughly initiated, I could rush and pull him to his feet and like the others, leave the “Which?” till afterwards.

Of all his stories, one remains in my mind, probably because it is the only one I ever heard him tell that had a Munchausen flavor. He was hunting moose on Andrews Mt. and by the sound knew his dog h ad brought something to bay. John crept to where he could see, sheltered behind a fallen maple that still adhered to its trunk and discovered a bull and cow moose. At the same moment they discovered him and charged, but he sprang behind the tree trunk and fired just as they leaped the barrier exactly abreast. The bull fell but the cow went on down the mountain. When dressing out, he found that his bullet had gone clean through the bull’s side and must have gone into the cow and on

tracking her a little way found blood marks in the snow. It was too near night to follow up the chase so taking the moose hide and some of the meat he left the rest for “the boys” to come after later on. Some weeks after that, he killed a cow moose on Andrews Mt. and when he came to dress her, found as he had supposed, his old bullet lodged in her, near her heart but healed over.

For many years he never carried a gun, having both ruined and become disgusted with his rifle during a fierce hand to hand combat with a wolf; ever after he carried only a pistol - of a very clumsy outward appearance, but a trusty and sufficient weapon in his expert hands. The pistol he gave to Ned a year or two before he died and Ned placed it in the Museum in Albany with some record of its owner’s prowess, and I presume it is still there.

A picture of the Cheney household would not be complete without a mention of “Cubby” a small mongrel dog, mostly terrier, who was the pride of John’s heart, for he could run deer or bring home the cows with equal cheerfulness and accuracy and frequently put to shame, by his stolid attention to business, the better bred of his race. On the one and only occasion of Mr. Martin’s participating in a hunt, Cubby drove a doe into Islip still water where he was watching, but to use Mr. Martin’s own words “the frightful creature roared and pawed the ground” so that he missed his aim and the doe escaped, to Cubby’s manifest chagrin and his master’s scarcely veiled indignation.

In those days the roads were extremely bad — well-nigh impassable, very little more than trails; full of stones and stumps or else worn out corduroy and it was necessary for all baggage to be securely tied on and for yourself to hold fast with both hands, but though bruised and sore at the end of the journey, it gave the charm of remoteness that is forever lost. So “remote” were we that no one passed the house for days at a time, except the Bennett children on their way to school, which was five miles from their house on the top of the hill above the Cheneys. When the sound of wheels was heard — which it could be from a mile away — every other occupation was deserted and we watched in great excitement and endless surmisings as to who it might be, hoping for home letters and recent news.

Also at that time there was a very small clearing around the Cheney place, and from the house to the Lower Works was thick woods — a charming walk, especially as I remember it one notable day when a heavy snow, undisturbed by any wind, had fallen and lay level on every branch and twig. A very bower of beauty. A trip to Newcomb Lake meant a rough drive to a point near the settlement then called Pendleton, and a three mile tramp through the woods to the foot of the duck hole, and to Lake Sanford boats and carry partly over a windfall, the crossing of which left an indelible and amusing picture on my mind. Homer Martin, whose kit of sketching tools seemed to him a sufficient burden, offered, as an easy job, to lead the two leashed together hounds. As his muscles were by no means as nimble as his wits, or his eye for stepping as accurate as for beauty, the result when he attempted the windfall was ludicrous in the extreme. One dog going up one fallen trunk, the other, another, diverging as they progressed, brought Mr. Martin violently to an undesired seat and the dogs to a consequent hanging more times than one, only to be extricated by the united efforts of the rest of the party. It was highly entertaining at first but after many repetitions it became monotonous and called for a shifting of burdens which left Mr. Martin a happy man with a jangling array of frying pans and pails.

Two years after that stay with the Cheneys, we made our headquarters there again, but as our party was larger and our stay shorter and camping more frequent, it is not as much associated with the family as my first visit. Nov.24/11.

P.S. Dan reminds me that John's pistol Ned took and had raffled for $100.00 to supply John with some needed funds. As in the draw it fell to him, he placed it in the Museum as above.

Dudley S. Gregory family

Joseph DixonDudley S. Gregory

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