Forest and Stream, October 6, 1900
A piece by "J.B. Burnham" (likely John Bird Burnham) about the Native American, Ignace Plumadore, for whom Plumadore Pond was named.
Gens des Bois.
VIII. —Plumadore.
PLUMADORE POND is a beautiful lake near the northern limits of the Adirondack forest. It was once in the heart of a famous hunting country, and though today approached by the ruthless clearings of the Chateaugay Iron. & Ore Company, who are converting the timber from a principality thirty-seven miles long and five or six miles wide into charcoal and pulp, and though it is only a question of a few years when the Canuck netters and coasters will have potted the last of its trout and deer, the pond has a claim for recognition for all time as the sole monument of the noble old Indian who gave it his name.
This man, who was born about the close of the Revolutionary War, lived to he a hundred years of age, and in the pioneer days of the Adirondacks was one of its best known characters. At the present time his old associates are all dead. and there are few living who remember Plumadore, even in his final retirement on his little hop farm on Deer River.
The Adirondack historian of today has gotten the commercial aspect of things implanted far too firmly in his ego. To him there was nothing in the woods before Paul Smith gave up peddling stoves for hotel keeping. Titus in his book. "Adirondack Pioneers." gives space to a select galaxy of bartenders and does not fail to mention Mary Ryan, the chambermaid, but nowhere is there anything of the Plumadores, Sabilles or "Sangermas." To Dr. Knapp of Essex, formerly of Malone, N. Y., I am indebted for the particulars of the following slight sketch of Plumadore.
From Priest to Hunter.
Plumadore was born in troublous times and first appears as a waif picked up by the good fathers in a Jesuit mission in Montreal. His parents had been killed in the raid of some hostile band, and the boy never knew any family or tribal ties. At the mission he made good progress in his studies, and was early set aside for the priesthood. By nature he was kindly and high minded, and he would undoubtedly have made an ideal missionary.
At eighteen, however, his health began to fail and he developed a cough and other symptoms of consumption. The fathers realized the danger and determined upon a heroic remedy. They gave Plumadore a rifle and sent him off for a six weeks' hunt in the woods. No doubt they had misgivings as to the result, but it was a choice between two evils, and that they took the risk of losing the services of their Indian rather than his life is infinitely to their credit.
Apparently Plumadore began his journey from Caughnawaga on the south side of the St. Lawrence, and to this fact rather than to any ancestral influences is due the selection of his hunting country in the Adirondack wilderness. Plumadore probably followed the Chateaugay River to its chief source of the Chateaugay Lakes and then traveled westward around the base of the Lyon mountain group to the headwaters of the Salmon River.*
Once around these mountains an easy level avenue lay open to the southward to Saranac Lake, and beyond the country was dotted with lakes and little ponds, and was at that time one of the best fur and game sections in North America.
Plumadore soon learned its secrets, and doing so regained his health, the pioneer and happy exemplar for thousands of poor sufferers who followed later to the Adirondack plateau.
Plumadore never forgot the mission at Montreal or his early training, but the fascination of the woods was upon him and he could not return. He made his home in the Adirondacks and for many years hunted and trapped between the State Dam on the Salmon River, thirteen Miles above Malone, and Saranac Lake. Much of the time he was alone, but he had one favored companion, Captain Peter, a Canadian half-breed from the boundary town of French Mills, now known as Fort Covington.
Discovery of Plumadore Pond.
It was on one of his trapping trips with Captain Peter that Plumadore Pond was discovered. Though quite a large sheet of water in the neighborhood which Plumadore and others had often hunted, its existence was not suspected for the reason that it lay on high ground off the natural route of travel.
The trappers used trout as bait, and were accustomed to procure them from Wolf Pond, several miles away. In a country so plentifully besprinkled with lakes it seemed there should be some source of bait nearer at hand, and Captain Peter often complained of this carry from Wolf Pond.
One day in mid-winter as the two men in company were traveling this line the half-breed broached the subject again. Plumadore replied that he believed he could discover a lake nearer at hand, and with a spirit of prescience located it over the nearest ridge, considerably to the amazement of Captain Peter, who felt perfectly sure no lake could exist in the direction mentioned.
Plumadore ascended the ridge, and to secure a better view threw off his snowshoes and climbed a pine tree whose tons [top?] reached above the surrounding forest. His first glance showed him the pond almost at his feet, a circular snow covered expanse of level ice. Captain Peter had gone about his business, and accordingly when Plumadore descended he visited the pond alone to test its possibilities as a trout water.
With his hunting axe he chopped a hole in the ice, and then dropped in his hook tipped with a hit of bright flannel at the end of three feet of line. A second later a trout weighing fully a pound was flopping on the ice, and Plumadore could see that the water was swarming with hungry fish. In a very short time he had secured all the trout he could carry, and when he returned to camp his object lesson was an eye-opener to Captain Peter.
Subsequently the men visited the pond together, and liking the location they established a permanent camp. It was while living in this camp that Plumadore nearly lost his life as the result of an accident.
Alone and Helpless.
Captain Peter had gone off for supplies, and possibly a little of the natural history experience that may be gained in a town the size of Plattsburgh, and Plumadore was left alone to tend the trapping line. The first day while on his customary round he struck his foot against a sharp pine branch concealed in the snow with such violence that the snag ran deeply into the flesh and broke off. It was a bitterly cold day and Plumadore's feet were numbed, and he did not at first realize the seriousness of his injury. Long before he reached camp, however, he could scarcely walk, and when he finally pulled open the door of the bark roofed shanty and stepped in his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to the floor.
He made a fire with what little wood happened to be in the camp, and proceeded to dress his foot. With returning warmth and animation the foot began to swell, and at the same time the pain became intense. Provisions were almost gone, and beyond a few sticks of fuel there was no firewood cut. To make matters worse a terrible wind and snow storm set in, which could not fail to delay his companion's return.
The morning of the day following his accident found Plumadore unable to stand. He was confronted by the possibility of death from cold and starvation. He had counted on hunting to replenish his larder, and had barely enough food to last through the day. His fuel was gone and the wind shook the frail cabin and drove the snow through and across in miniature whirlwinds. Plumadore broke up his bed and the few wooden articles in the cabin to feed the fire. It was certain that if he could not keep up the fire he would freeze to death, for like most Indians he was thinly clad and provided with scanty bedding, and the cold was greater than he had ever known. Fortunately, before the last of the supply thus secured was consumed, the storm abated, and the injured man was enabled to drag himself outside to procure wood. With the abatement of the storm the cabin became much more comfortable, but one danger only gave place to another, for now there was no food.
What Plumadore endured in the days before Captain Peter's return will never be known in the entirety. He melted snow and made a broth with pieces of fox skin, and his supply of furs enabled him to stave off for a time the worst results of the terrible hunger; and each day he traveled around in broadening circles on hands and knees in the deep snow for his wood supply.
When Captain Peter found him he was almost gone; Care and good food, however, and the tonic of the woods soon restored him. The primitive conditions of the trapper's life have a marvelous curative effect for all ills but old age. Trappers should never grow old.
Wolves vs. Frying Pan.
Plumadore once held at bay a pack of wolves with a frying pan. The frying pan figured as a musical instrument and not a weapon. He had left the implement in question at a temporary shanty at Wolf Pond. and having use for it started over one day to get it, and as this was his sole errand and he was in a hurry he carried no rifle. On the way to the pond he heard wolves howling, and before he reached the shanty they had grown uncommonly bold and he saw several at a distance. Securing the frying pan Plumadore set out at once on his return to the main camp. The wolves had increased in numbers and seemed with that wonderful intuition possessed by some animals to have acquainted themselves with the fact that Plumadore was unarmed.
They pressed in on all sides and he could hear them moving in the bushes. Presently some of them appeared in front sitting down directly in his path. Plumadore had picked up a heavy pine knot with a spur projecting at right angles with the end, and dashing forward he threw this at the wolves, scolding them at the same time. The wolves retreated slowly, snarling. The Indian recovered his missile, retaining it to use as a club, and as the wolves appeared more threatening than ever he made up his mind that they would soon be upon him. Just then one of the wolves sprang by so close that Plumadore made an involuntary motion with his club. The knot struck against the frying pan, which he still carried in his left hand, with a resounding bang, which was not without its effect on the wolves. Noting that they seemed disconcerted he began beating on the pan, with the result that the wolves fell back, and he was enabled to resume his way to camp.
He continued his solo to the accompaniment of howling wolves till the camp was reached. Dashing inside he secured his rifle and shot down the leader, but before he could reload the other wolves had disappeared. The clatter of the frying pan had warned them that they had an animal out of the common to deal with, while the crack of the rifle had proved it to be their terrible and merciless foe, man.
Last Days.
Plumadore passed his declining years living on a farm where the road from Malone to Meacham Lake crosses Deer River. He deeded this farm to a young man whom he esteemed, in consideration of caring for him in his old age. He was a small man, but carried himself well, and at 64 was still erect and in full possession of his faculties. His eye was bright and his teeth in either jaw in good condition. He was a firm believer in Christianity and possessed a kind heart and a generous nature.
When one of a party of visiting sportsmen shot a crane he reproved him, telling him it was cruel to kill one of God's creatures which was harmless and at the same time useless for food. Though he had taken a friendly interest in this man at first, he thereafter refused to have anything to do with him.
Dr. Knapp, who knew the old man at this time, thus describes his habits:
"Every evening soon after sundown he would retire to his boat, paddle to some favorite locality (I never saw him use an oar) and then anchoring would spend a large portion of the night apparently engaged in fishing, but mostly in reflection, and in recalling and living over the many incidents of the past; for it made no difference whether the fishing was good or bad, every evening it was the same, and he seldom came in before two or three o'clock in the morning, and from that time till half past five or six o'clock seemed to be all the sleep he required. His only exception to this rule was on Sunday. Nothing could induce him to go out upon the Sabbath. This day was spent silently and reverently in his little room in pious meditation, broken only by an occasional hymn tune upon his flute."
* There are two Salmon Rivers in the Adirondacks, one flowing into the St. Lawrence and the other into Lake Champlain. The reference is to the former.
J. B. BURNHAM.
[likely John Bird Burnham]
