Oddities from old North Woods fishing camps

By V. Paul Reynolds

Recently I kicked back for a few days at a remote fly-in access only cabin owned by a friend, Tommy Russell. We took a break from trout fishing and fighting cold winds to do some exploring. 

Russell, a veteran outdoorsman and bush flyer, is as fascinated by Maine outdoor history as I am. Back in the 1940s and early ’50s, before the vast network of logging roads that are now omnipresent in the North Woods, the most adventurous trout chasers hiked for miles to get to the best fishing troves.

Because of the difficult trek, it was common in those days for folks to put up a makeshift lean-to and stay for two weeks. Year after year, they would return to the same spots, and as time went by, they’d improve the primitive pieces of their angler’s paradise.

Floyd Bolstridge, a former Millinocket school principal, used to recount tales of these sorts of backwoods adventures from his childhood. Raised in Buffalo, Maine, not far from Portage, Floyd and his dad hiked for miles with packs and rods to get into the DeBoullie area. They enjoyed fabulous fishing, and he has the old photos to prove it.

From everything that I have seen, these primitive campsites all have a common denominator: trash. That’s right, the modern adage for the hiker, “carry in and carry out,” apparently was not  on many lips back then. At these old sites scattered willy-nilly between the pine needles and scrub brush are old rusty bean cans and rum bottles, Narragansett beer cans, bed springs, old chains, axe heads, you name it. 

It’s a hoot to pick through the remnants of those left behind and imagine what it was like back then. Not far from the bean cans and moss covered lean-to timbers was an Old Town canoe. It had seen its better days, probably more than 50 or 60 years ago. The alders and detritus had claimed most of it, but the text “Old Town Canoe” was still visible on the faded green bow. 

One of the sites we visited was where Russell had camped as a kid and fished with his late father, Doug, more than half a century ago. His face told me that this was a special place with indelible memories that have long lingered. 

At another broken down old camp location was a sight that captivated and held me in its grip. A single, solitary leather boot encased in bright green moss stood at attention almost like it was waiting for its owner to come back and retrieve it. It was like a sentinel guarding the precious memory of this decaying camp site.

Why just one boot? Did it have a story to tell? Where was the other boot? It was nowhere to be seen.

How many years had this boot rested upright on this rock? Why hadn’t the mice chewed on its leather, and how did it remain upright through the years of deep snow and blizzards?

Back in the late 1800s Theodore Roosevelt reportedly lost one of his boots in the Oxbow area while crossing a swollen river during a deer hunt. Could this moss-covered curiosity have been Teddy’s? Some answers we’ll never have, but the fragments of these ventures will remain and intrigue us forever, the stories changing with each passing.