I had just returned to Arizona from a round trip hitch hiking and bus trip to the Panama Canal, when my good friend and fellow wilderness bum Tim Smith ,of the Jack Mountain bushcraft and guide service in Maine (www.jackmtn.com) contacted me about coming up there to help him with a semester course.
Back in the 1980’s when I was trying to decide where I wanted to attend guide school it came down to a coin toss between Maine and Montana – Montana won. I ended up working as a Big Game Hunting guide in Montana, Arizona and New Mexico for about 10 years on and off. But in the back of my mind I always wanted to go to Maine and experience its wilderness and local “wild life”.
I sold my last 2 guns at a pawn shop for some quick cash, collected what gear I had on hand then bummed a ride to the Tucson airport from my good friend Matt.
The money I had was enough to get a one way ticket to Manchester New Hampshire via Chicago. I have yet another good buddy – Sean “Pog” Kendrigan, living in NH with his family.
Sean is a cool dude to hang out with and talk too, He possesses a quick wit, a superior intellect and perhaps the greatest sense of humor I have ever encountered. He loves Big Game Hunting, Guns, rock climbing, mountaineering and all things associated with wilderness. I know he has worked as a ski instructor, wilderness guide and river raft guide. Sean and I spent a lot of time working together in the Utah wilderness programs; we got along well and tried to make the best of a difficult job. In short – it is guys like Sean that make guys like me stay as shitty jobs like that.
Sean met me at the “Manch-vegas” airport; we hopped into his truck and headed to his place in the woods. It was about a 1 hour trip so we were shooting the shit about the annoying characters and “Little assholes” we worked with at the wilderness programs in Utah.
It was good to reminisce about that job, Id sure hate to do it again though; it is not so much the “Little assholes” you work with but rather the self important staff. The instructors and staff of those programs seem to always be comprised of Trust fund babies out slumming for the summer.
It is not only my opinion, but also the opinion of many others that most of those “trustafarians” feel guilty for being rich so they come west and work with juvenile delinquents for the summer, so 40 years from now at a cocktail party, they can say how hard it was when they had to live in the woods, or their cars to help out the under privileged kids. I digress…..
Anyway, in due time we arrived at Sean’s temporary digs, he went to bed but I sat up drinking the last of my whiskey and watching TV. Once the whiskey was gone, I grabbed my poncho liner and hammock and headed out back to go to sleep. I found a nice spot to sling the Hennessey in a small birch grove.
I crash out, woke up several hours later with a slight head ache and a powerful hunger.
Taking a look around Sean’s place I noticed there was nothing to eat there so I headed up the road to look for a café to get a bite of breakfast.
After eating, I took a look around the area and saw some pretty scenery. I had never been in the North east USA before so it was a refreshing change from the desert South West.
The next night Sean, his friend Dave and I headed for Vermont to a strip club for some stimulating adult type of entertainment. The following morning I was feeling a little rough after a night of strippers and Vodka so I slept in my hammock most of the day and prepared my gear to head for Maine.
After a day or so of hanging out with Sean and his cohorts I asked Sean to drop me off at the bus station in Concord, NH where I caught a bus to Boston then north to Presque Isle, Maine.
I arrived in “PI” around 10 PM, there is no bus station in the town, the bus simply stops at a convenience store. I asked the clerk to call me a taxi, he showed up in a few minutes and we were off! I paid the driver the last of my cash to drive me to Masardis, Maine. The driver told me it was “Moose 30” and was a little nervous about driving in that area at night due to the number of moose possibly on the road. I promised him a decent tip if he could get me there so he consented, after about a ½ hour ride he dropped me off in the middle of no where between Marardis and Ashland Maine. – just the way I like it!
It was a beautiful Moon lit clear night. After the Taxi driver departed I took a leak, and stood by the road for a few minutes breathing to cool night air. And, I was also enjoying the silence. In due time, I shouldered my pack and headed into the woods to sling my hammock. The temperature dropped to the mid 40s , which made for nice sleeping. On my first morning in Maine, I awoke to the sounds of gun fire and a chain saw, Ah wilderness! To me, those sounds sure beat the hell out of hearing kids screaming, loud music, or your neighbors fighting.
After rousting myself, I took out my small butane stove and fired up a cup of “Guides coffee”. Feeling much refreshed, I packed my gear at a leisurely pace and made plans for the day. I needed to locate the Jack Mountain Bushcraft and guide school. I had a vague idea where it was but had no idea of how far of a hike it would be.
Sean had given me some extra gear in the form of quality outdoor clothing, some dry bags and river gear, so I was pretty heavily loaded down. In fact, I had 2 heavy packs to carry. I decided to head back to the road and see if I could hitch a ride to Masardis Maine to see if anyone knew where Tim could be located.
After several hours of standing on the highway with no luck catching a ride, I made the decision to cache some of my gear and take off walking. I had been walking for about 20 minutes or so when I spotted a potato field – never one to pass up “free” food I made the decision to pilfer a few ‘taters to stick in my pack.
After a long a hot hike along a highway full of logging trucks, I was offered a ride by a very nice lady. Ironically though, it was only about ½ a mile from Masardis. I cordially accepted her offer. We drove to the Masardis trading post where we inquired as to Tim Smith’s whereabouts. As good luck would have it, these folks knew Tim well and gave me directions to his property.
The lady who offered me the ride took me back to where I cached my gear then took me to Tim’s place in the woods. Fearing she would get her mini van stuck on the rough road I had her drop on the road near the JMBS field school. I thanked her and she waved her goodbyes in a cloud of dust and a hail of gravel. She was the very personification of what some folks call “Trail Magic”.
So there I was in T10-R5 as this area is called in the Maine Gazetteer. I pulled out my water bottle and took a long pull, next I decided to air out my feet and take a little break before heading down the road the rest of the way to Tim’s field school.
Looking across the road I noticed an apple tree full of good looking fruit, I dragged one of my packs to the tree and picked a couple of apples to munch to on. Then I sat down on my pack and kicked off my shoes.
In between sips on my water bottle and munching the apples, I swatted mosquitoes and flies and took in the immediate scenery. After a short time I notices a small red car approaching, it happened to be no other then Tim Smith AKA “the uncoiled rope”. An uncoiled rope in a canoe, boat, camp, or around pack animals is a dangerous thing to ignore.
I don’t think of Tim as a dangerous person but rather, I think it is very dangerous to ignore his knowledge, skill or advice in the wilderness. That is why I like to call Tim “the uncoiled rope” .It may seem convoluted but makes sense to me and I don't care what other folks think.
Tim is a natural teacher, a gifted conversationalist, and another one of those extremely intelligent, articulate, skilled and crafty Individuals I have encountered in my travels around the world. More over, he is a good cook in the wilderness, Loves to sing around the campfire and seems to like whisky as much as I do. What I admire most about my friend Tim though, is his dedication to his family and his love of wilderness education.
After some back slapping, hand shaking and insulting each others mothers we piled my gear into his car and headed into Ashland to buy some supplies.
In town we bought some veggies, chicken and a ½ gallon of cheap whisky. I told Tim I hoped that we would be able to squeak by with only ½ a gallon. Tim said not to worry because he had a guide’s canteen full of a brand of whisky called “Devils elbow”.
Some say it is the Aroostook river water, some say it is the soul of a dead Indian used in the distilling process. No one can say for sure but, it is a fact that “Devils Elbow” has more of a kick then regular whisky. I was soon to find out.
Tim and I headed back to the field school and got a fire going to make guides coffee, then threw the chicken and veggies and my pilfered ‘taters into one of his Dutch ovens and set it on the coals. I can’t tell you why, but to me most of my wilderness bum friends, food always seems to taste better when cooked in a Dutch oven.
While the food was cooking and armed with a large travel mug of coffee and whisky, Tim and I ambled down to the Aroostook River. It was starting to get a little chilly even though it was August. This being my first time in the North East USA I was surprised at how cool it got that evening.
After washing up in the river we headed back to camp to check on the food and to refresh ourselves with a little more whisky. I really liked the field school, there is a comfortable cabin and Tim has a large and diverse library of interesting books to enjoy.
Tim and I sat around shooting the shit, drinking whisky, talking about the upcoming course. We also took turns reading aloud passages from a book of poems by Robert service. When the chicken was cooked we dined in regal splendor inside the cabin listening to Stan Rodgers sing “Barrett’s privateers”, and Dick Curless belt out “Tater raisin man”.
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur due to the cheap whiskey but especially the “Devils Elbow” whisky. I can’t really remember doing it but sometime during the night I apparently set up my hammock because the next morning I woke up in it. I swear I heard the voice of a woman saying “Whisky jack wake up”, I heard her voice twice. I looked around and didn’t see anyone so I got up to take a leak and was rewarded with the sight of a cow Moose and her calf cutting through Tim's property. After I watched the Moose and her calf for a while I crawled back into my soogans for some more sleep.
Later in the day I told Tim about the voice, so he decided then and there, that my new Moniker for the North East USA would be “Whisky Jack”. The name “Whisky jack” is used by many of the old time Maine woodsmen as a nick name for the Canada Jay birds you see flying all over the place. These old timers believe that the Birds are reincarnated woodsmen. I thought then as I do now that it is a fitting name for me.
A little while later I heard a car pull up to the field school and it was no other than Nicole AKA “la femme du Norde” and her father Roy.
Nicole was there to attend the semester course and so we chatted for a bit then I excused myself and went back to my hammock in the woods for a little more sleep.
Thus began my sojourn in the Maine woods with Tim Smith and the Jack Mountain Bushcraft and guide service. It was and still remains one of my most memorable wilderness experiences in recent times. Since then I have been to the JMBS many times and shard camp fires with some good folks. I sincerely hope to return to Maine as soon as possible and to explore its wilderness with my friend Tim, and our wilderness bum friends.
