Canoe camping on Long Pond in the St. Regis Canoe Area Canoe camping predates the written history of the Saranac Lake region, having been used by Native American visitors. A person in a canoe can carry heavier and bulkier loads than they could on foot. Although the development of the Guide boat partially superseded the canoe in the 19th and early 20th centuries, the canoe never went entirely out of fashion, and the development of very lightweight materials in recent years has led to a resurgence of interest in the canoe.
New York Evening Post, May 16, 1914
ADIRONDACK TENTING
LOTS OF PLACES WHERE NO PERMISSION IS NEEDED.
It Is Best to Hare a Guide, Who Knows All About Where and When and How, but You Can Get Along Very Well Without Him — Lovely Sites Available
...WITHIN REACH OF SARANAC.
Equally accessible are the Upper and Lower Saranac Lakes, and they have the same advantages of canoe water, base of supplies, and human intercourse, all of which are to be valued by those who go tenting without a guide. As you examine the map you will note station, west of Saranac Inn station on the New York Central. Floodwood Pond is one of the series of ponds connected by portage that lie west of and communicate with the Upper Saranac Lake, Floodwood is a much favored point for tenting.
At the southwestern corner of the Upper Saranac Lake, between Rustic Lodge and Bartlett's Carry, is more fine tenting ground, of clean, wooded gradually rising shore, well supplied with fresh water, on a regular mall and supply route, where tenting has affinity with fisher-temperament. At hand there Is a portage to the Raquette River, via the. Great Divide between the waters of the Raquette and Saranac Rivera where canoeing becomes a pleasant art.
Or, paddling down the outlet of the Upper Saranac Lake to Bartlett's and thence to the Middle Saranac Lake, Saranac River, and the Lower Saranac Lake, the party is in the midst of State tenting grounds; silver lakes studded with emerald Islands and the pine forested shores flanked by black mountains.
The tenting party may outfit at Saranac Lake village and thence make its way to any spot along the Saranacs and to the Raquette River, to sojourn by the side of either lake or river, enjoying its own inventions of tent outfitting and cooking; wandering in woodlands; revelling in the freedom of the open sky; going out morning and evening for a happy hour or two of fishing, and when the dark follows the daylight, coming to a bed of balsam boughs tired, but in no way ruffled.
--K. W. G.
Adirondack Record-Elizabethtown Post, November 26, 1942
The Adirondacker
Bog River—No. 2
By BILLY BURGER
NOTE—"Ye" Editor let Bog River No. 1 get by, so here is No. 2. I offer this without apology, although it probably needs plenty. The year was 1922 and we had been married less than thirteen months.
In case any Record readers have a yen to follow our trail across the Whitney Estate, it has been closed to canoe trippers for many years.
Too bad, for this was the "sportiest" reach of canoe country I've ever been through, including Temagimi, Algonquin Park and Manuan in Canada.
It is just four years since Buster and I made the Bog River trip. (See Bog River No. 1.) It was a hard and wild enough trip to deter me from ever attempting it again—and with a woman! But our memories so easily tend to forget the difficult experiences, or if they're remembered a subtle charm seems to hover over them. So wife and I in planning a three weeks stay back in the Adirondacks, included the Bog River trip in our itinerary. It was all my fault. She's a mighty good sport, but she didn't know what she was going up against. Nor did I, for it was much worse than the first time. But now we're back on "our" island in the Middle Saranac and can revel in and boast about our hardihood and endurance.
One way to start is to ship your duffle to Saranac Lake village, where, by the way, auto congestion is so great as to make jay walking extremely hazardous for the pedestrian. A lively, little woods metropolis if Saranac Lake and a very sophisticated one.
Assembling our stuff on the Thomas Boat Landing near "Riverside Inn," we pushed off into Lake Flower. The 20 miles to Bartlett Carry at the head of Middle Saranac was uneventful, except that we paddled but five of them. At the lower state dam, we were locked through with Captain Thomas and his good ship. Because of the Chautauqua in the village, the captain was quite without passengers, therefore very lonesome, so he invited us to be his guests. Canoe and duffle were quickly aboard and we were on our way. From Bartlett's we paddled the two miles back to our island and made camp for the night.
Next day, we made Stony Creek or Spectacle Ponds, pausing at the post-office at Coreys long enough to renew acquaintance with our genial friend, Mrs. Petty, the postmistress. So on down the Raquette River to Tupper Lake village, where just back from the river, overlooking the marshes, we made a friend. At least he was very friendly to us. It was late. We beat it up to the village— good mile and a half—for supper. Weather was turning wet and cold, so Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer, who winter in Florida, between seasons in North Carolina and summer on the marshes bordering the Raquette River, invited us to make use of an annex to their shack by the river. We were happy to accept their hospitality and grew happier all night as we listened to the wind whining through the crevices in the combination store house, barn and bedroom.
The next night we made the head of Big Tupper and camped within sight and sound of Bog River Falls. This is an exquisite camping place with every possible natural charm. Ample clearing for tents, a little pavilion for shelter provided by the generosity of a Mr. Barbour, splendid outlook, a spring and what quantities of berries, both black and blue. Mrs. Billy picked enough for supper and breakfast in a half hour.
But however delectable the spot, we had sterner work to do than tarry there, so early next morning we portaged canoe and duffle the few yards to the river, which above the falls looks like an elongated mill pond. It is a little boggy and with whoever named it the first impression must have prevailed. We venture to suggest, however, that he gave himself away in naming the river, for had he gone far enough up, just a mile or so, he would have called it rock river and had he persisted and gone through just the five miles to Round Lake, he would have named it Rockiest, for that it surely is.
The first portage came where the river branches. You turn to the left and up hill. The first two portages are short and easy. It's the third, up the gorge, that's the beauty. When Buster and I made it four years ago, the weather was mild and stormy. When wife and I made it a week ago last Monday the sky was clear and the air balmy. But what a carry. If it's an inch it's two miles and completely grown up in places. You have to feel for the trail with your feet so thick is the underbrush. No effort is made by the Whitney Estate upon whose property it lies, to keep the carry open. They are not over eager to have folks enter their property that way. Too many deer about. We travel comfortably which means three trips for me and two for Mrs. Billy, six miles for her over two mile carry and ten for me, and the canoe had to be literally pushed in places through the young spruce which will soon obliterate the trail.
We camped for the night near the "watch out" cabin, where Buster and I took refuge four years ago. But the underbrush about that is becoming overbrush, and although men are posted in it by the Whitneys in spring and fall, to look out for poachers, It's fast being chewed up by hedgehogs and other industrious and hungry rodents. All night we could hear things moving about, probably young deer. It's a weird place.
Next day was windy and threatening. But we wound our way through Round Lake and the stream flowing from Little Tupper, and then we had our first reward. We saw five deer along the marsh in less than fifteen minutes. One was feeding way off shore and we chased it in. Our motive was not cruel caprice—we wanted to get a close view and we got it.
About noon we hove into sight of "10 Mile Mark," the picturesque house just ten miles from Long Lake village and now kept by the efficient and agreeable Mrs. Johnson, widow of the recently deceased superintendent of the 97,000 acre Whitney Estate. It was storming, so she took us in over night and made us very comfortable indeed. We both doubt if she will be permitted to remain a widow very long.
Securing permission of the present superintendent of Whitney's, Mr. Johnson, jr., we continued across the estate, through Little Tupper, up a creek, into Rock Pond. Seeing more deer as we journeyed. Then up the stream which leads to carry to Bottle Pond. But what a mess that stream now is! Not at all cut out. Every little way we must both get out and haul canoe up over logs and brush. But here again there was great compensation. For as we were working through the maze, a splendid buck broke cover and dashed across within fifty feet of us. He was a 12 or 14 point deer at least and in fine condition. What a shot for hunter.
We finally got discouraged, got out and trudged through the woods bordering stream, following old trails and blazing our way as we went. We passed a big beaver dam on the way in. (By the way they are active everywhere in the Adirondacks—must be multiplying very rapidly—although there are dark hints that certain trappers are now keeping the population down). Just as we were at the point of giving up we stumbled upon the place where trail and creek meet, although it is partially submerged by the work of the beaver.
The canoe was found and worked up stream over logs and beaver dam until the trail was reached. The carry to Bottle Pond must be 2 1/2 miles, although it's called two by the guides. It was so late, all we could do was to get our stuff over to a clearing where there had been a lumber camp. Camped there for the night. Next day we resumed the trip to Bottle Pond starting in at 6:40 and completing the chore by about 10, which wasn't so bad, considering that one of us had to walk nearly 10 miles and six of them laden with heavy loads. Three more carries were made that day, Bottle to Sutton, Sutton to Cary. where we had lunch and saw three deer, and Cary to Little Forked. This last carry being the worst of the lot, even though it comes out almost in back of the main Whitney camp on Little Forked.
Just outside the "fish net" gate at foot of Little Forked, we let out our spoon and caught a nice 16 inch bass, marked "W," but he acted stall fed. A much smaller one which we caught later, fought a great deal harder. Both tasted equally well at our candlelight supper on the island near the foot of Forked Lake.
Our heavy work was over, were drawn over the four mile carry to the river near head of Long Lake and were blown by a stiff and stormy wind the five miles to the village, where we put up and rested with the help of two square meals and room with bath in ye "Hotel Adirondack." We were now but two camps from our base on "our" island in the Middle Saranac. A stop-over Sunday, where we unwittingly trespassed on Mr. Harper's place near foot of Long Lake, although some folks declare the lean-tos are state land. The trip down the river to Axton with carry by wagon around Raquette Falls, was quite without incident. At Axton we landed and took possession of the recently opened State Conservation lean-to. By the way, the state policy of placing one of these an easy day's trip apart clear across the main Adirondack canoe route should be most heartily commended. They're splendidly constructed and are provided with excellent fireplaces.
A three mile carry by wagon to Upper Saranac and so home, where we are now, or will be until the La Rogue's arrive and put us off. But that's another story.
If you, gentle reader, want to see no one at all but your party, taste the real back woods, get some close-ups of deer, we counted 13 in three days and do a lot of hard work, take the Bog River, Little Tupper,and Little Forked trip. But you'll have to hurry, for unless Mr. Whitney gives orders to keep his carries brushed out, they'll soon be impassable.
