The region of which I am about to speak lies in the southern part of the state of New York, and comprises parts of three counties,—Ulster, Sullivan and Delaware. It is drained by tributaries¹ of both the Hudson and Delaware, and, next to the Adirondack section, contains more wild land than any other tract² in the State. The mountains which traverse it, and impart to it its severe northern climate, belong properly to the Catskill range. On some maps of the State they are called the Pine Mountains, though with obvious local impropriety, as pine, so far as I have observed, is nowhere found upon them. "Birch Mountains" would be a more characteristic name, as on their summits birch is the prevailing⁴ tree. They are the natural home of the black and yellow birch, which grow here to unusual size. On their sides beech⁵ and maple⁶ abound⁷; while, mantling⁸ their lower slopes and darkening the valleys, hemlock⁹ formerly¹⁰ enticed¹¹ the lumberman and tanner. Except in remote or inaccessible¹² localities, the latter tree is now almost never found. In Shandaken and along the Esopus it is about the only product the country yielded, or is likely to yield. Tanneries by the score have arisen and flourished upon the bark, and some of them still remain. Passing through that region the present season, I saw that the few patches of hemlock that still lingered high up on the sides of the mountains were being felled and peeled, the fresh white boles or the trees, just stripped of their bark, being visible a long distance.  
Among these mountains there are no sharp peaks, or abrupt¹³ declivities, as in a volcanic¹⁴ region, but long, uniform ranges, heavily timbered to their summits, and delighting the eye with vast, undulating horizon lines. Looking south from the heights about the head of the Delaware, one sees, twenty miles away, a continual succession of blue ranges, one behind the other. If a few large trees are missing on the sky line, one can see the break a long distance off.
 
Approaching this region from the Hudson River side, you cross a rough, rolling stretch of country, skirting the base of the Catskills, which from a point near Saugerties sweep inland; after a drive of a few hours you are within the shadow of a high, bold mountain, which forms a sort of butt-end to this part of the range, and which is simple called High Point. To the east and southeast it slopes down rapidly to the plain, and looks defiance¹⁵ toward the Hudson, twenty miles distant; in the rear of it, and radiating from it west and northwest, are numerous smaller ranges, backing up, as it were, this haughty¹⁷ chief.
 
From this point through to Pennsylvania, a distance of nearly one hundred miles, stretches the tract of which I speak. It is a belt of country from twenty to thirty miles wide, bleak¹⁸ and wild, and but sparsely¹⁹ settled. The traveler on the New York and Erie Railroad gets a glimpse of it.
 
Many cold, rapid trout²⁰ streams, which flow to all points of the compass, have their source in the small lakes and copious²¹ mountain springs of this region. The names of some of them are Mill Brook²², Dry Brook, Willewemack, Beaver²³ Kill, Elk²⁴ Bush Kill, Panther Kill, Neversink, Big Ingin, and Callikoon. Beaver Kill is the main outlet²⁵ on the west. It joins the Deleware in the wilds of Hancock. The Neversink lays open the region to the south, and also joins the Delaware. To the east, various Kills unite with the Big Ingin to form the Esopus, which flows into the Hudson. Dry Brook and Mill Brook, both famous trout streams, from twelve to fifteen miles long, find their way into the Delaware.
 
The east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware itself takes its rise near here in a deep pass between the mountains. I have many times drunk at a copious spring by the roadside, where the infant river first sees the light. A few yards beyond, the water flows the other way, directing its course through the Bear Kill and Schoharie Kill into the Mohawk.
 
Such game and wild animals as still linger in the State are found in this region. Bears occasionally make havoc²⁷ among the sheep. The clearings at the head of a valley are oftenest the scene of their depredations²⁸.
 
Wild pigeons, in immense numbers used to breed regularly in the valley of the Big Ingin and about the head of the Neversink. The treetops for miles were full of their nests, while the going and coming of the old birds kept up a constant din²⁹. But the gunners soon got wind of it, and from far and near were wont³⁰ to pour in during the spring, and to slaughter³¹ both old and young. This practice soon had the effect of driving the pigeons all away, and now only a few pairs breed in these woods.
 
Deer are still met with, though they are becoming scarcer every year. Last winter near seventy head were killed on the Beaver Kill alone. I heard of one wretch³², who, finding the deer snowbound, walked up to them on his snowshoes, and one morning before breakfast slaughtered³³ six, leaving their carcasses where they fell. There are traditions of persons having been smitten³⁴ blind or senseless when about to commit some heinous³⁵ offense³⁶, but the fact that this villain³⁷ escaped without some such visitation throws discredit³⁸ on all such stories.
 
The great attraction, however, of this region, is the brook trout, with which the streams and lakes abound. The water is of excessive coldness, the thermometer indicating 44° and 45°in the springs, and 47° or 48° in the smaller streams. The trout are generally small, but in the more remote branches their number is very great. In such localities the fish are quite black, but in the lakes they are of a lustre³⁹ and brilliancy impossible to describe.
 
These waters have been much visited of late years by fishing parties, and the name of the Beaver Kill is now a potent⁴⁰ name among New York sportsmen.
 
One lake, in the wilds of Callikoon, abounds⁴¹ in a peculiar⁴² species of white sucker, which is of excellent quality. It is taken only in spring, during the spawning⁴³ season, at the time "when the leaves are as big as a chipmunk's ears." The fish run up the small streams and inlets, beginning at nightfall, and continuing till the channel is literally⁴⁴ packed with them, and every inch of space is occupied. The fishermen pounce⁴⁵ upon them at such times, and scoop⁴⁶ them up by the bushel, usually wading⁴⁷ right into the living mass and landing the fish with their hands. A small party will often secure in this manner a wagon-load of fish. Certain conditions of the weather, as a warm south or southwest wind, are considered most favorable for the fish to run.
 
Though familiar all my life with the outskirts⁴⁸ of this region, I have only twice dipped into its wilder portions. Once in 1860 a friend and myself traced the Beaver Kill to its source, and encamped by Balsam Lake. A cold and protracted⁴⁹ rainstorm coming on, we were obliged to leave the woods before we were ready. Neither of us will soon forget that tramp by an unknown route over the mountains, encumbered⁵⁰ as we were with a hundred and one superfluities which we had foolishly brought along to solace⁵¹ ourselves with in the woods; nor that halt on the summit, where we cooked and ate our fish in the drizzling⁵² rain; nor, again, that rude log house, with its sweet hospitality, which we reached just at nightfall on Mill Brook.
 
In 1868 a party of three of us set out for a brief trouting excursion to a body of water called Thomas's Lake, situated⁵³ in the same chain of mountains. On this excursion, more particularly than on any other I have ever undertaken, I was taught how poor an Indian I should make, and what a ridiculous figure a party of men may cut in the woods when the way is uncertain and the mountains high.
 
We left our team at a farmhouse⁵⁴ near the head of the Mill Brook, one June afternoon, and with knapsacks on our shoulders struck into the woods at the base of the mountain, hoping to cross the range that intervened between us and the lake by sunset. We engaged a good-natured but rather indolent young man, who happened to be stopping at the house, and who had carried a knapsack in the union armies, to pilot us a couple of miles into the woods so as to guard against any mistakes at the outset. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to find the lake. The lay of the land was so simple, according to accounts, that I felt sure I could go it in the dark. "Go up this little brook to its source on the side of the mountain," they said. "The valley that contains the lake heads directly on the other side." What could be easier! But on a little further inquiry⁵⁵, they said we should "bear well to the left" when we reached the top of the mountain. This opened the doors again; "bearing well to the left" was an uncertain performance in strange woods. We might bear so well to the left that it would bring us ill. But why bear to the left at all, if the lake was directly opposite? Well, not quite opposite; a little to the left. There were two or three other valleys that headed in near there. We could easily find the right one. But to make assurance doubly sure, we engaged a guide, as stated, to give us a good start, and go with us beyond the bearing-to-the-left point. He had been to the lake the winter before and knew the way. Our course, the first half hour, was along an obscure wood-road which had been used for drawing ash logs off mountain in winter. There was some hemlock, but more maple and birch. The woods were dense⁵⁶ and free from underbrush, the ascent⁵⁷ gradual. Most of the way we kept the voice of the creek⁵⁸ in our ear on the right. I approached it once, and found it swarming⁵⁹ with trout. The water was as cold as one ever need wish. After a while the ascent grew steeper, the creek became a mere⁶⁰ rill that issued from beneath loose, moss-covered rocks and stones, and with much labor⁶¹ and puffing⁶² we drew ourselves up the rugged⁶³ declivity⁶⁴. Every mountain has its steepest point, which is usually near the summit, in keeping, I suppose, with the providence⁶⁵ that makes the darkest hour just before day. It is steep, steeper, steepest, till you emerge on the smooth level or gently rounded space at the top, which the old ice-gods polished off so long ago.
 
We found this mountain had a hollow in its back where the ground was soft and swampy⁶⁶. Some gigantic ferns, which we passed through, came nearly to our shoulders. We passed also several patches of swamp honeysuckles, red with blossoms.
 
Our guide at length paused on a big rock where the land begin to dip down the other way, and concluded that he had gone far enough, and that we would now have no difficulty in finding the lake. "It must lie right down there," he said pointing with his hand. But it was plain that he was not quite sure in his own mind. He had several times wavered in his course, and had shown considerable embarrassment⁶⁷ when bearing to the left across the summit. Still we thought little of it. We were full of confidence, and bidding him adieu, plunged⁶⁸ down the mountain-side, following a spring run that we had no doubt left to the lake.
 
In these woods, which had a southeastern exposure, I first began to notice the wood thrush. In coming up the other side, I had not seen a feather of any kind, or heard a note. Now the golden trillide-de of the wood thrush sounded through the silent woods. While looking for a fish-pole about halfway⁷⁰ down the mountain, I saw a thrush's nest in a little sapling about ten feet from the ground.
 
After continuing our descent till our only guide, the spring run, became quite a trout brook, and its tiny murmur⁷¹ a loud brawl⁷², we began to peer anxiously through the trees for a glimpse of the lake, or for some conformation of the land that would indicate its proximity⁷³. An object which we vaguely⁷⁴ discerned in looking under the near trees and over the more distant ones proved, on further inspection⁷⁵, to be a patch of plowed⁷⁶ ground. Presently we made out a burnt fallow near it. This was a wet blanket to our enthusiasm. No lake, no sport, no trout for supper that night. The rather indolent young man had either played us a trick, or, as seemed more likely, had missed the way. We were particularly anxious to be at the lake between sundown and dark, as at that time the trout jump most freely.
 
Pushing on, we soon emerged into a stumpy field, at the head of a steep valley, which swept around toward the west. About two hundred rods below us was a rude log house, with smoke issuing from the chimney. A boy came out and moved toward the spring with a pail in his hand. We shouted to him, when he turned and ran back into the house without pausing to reply. In a moment the whole family hastily rushed into the yard, and turned their faces toward us. If we had come down their chimney, they could not have seemed more astonished. Not making out what they said, I went down to the house, and learned to my chagrin⁷⁷ that we were still on the Mill Brook side, having crossed only a spur of the mountain. We had not borne sufficiently⁷⁸ to the left, so that the main range, which, at the point of crossing, suddenly breaks off to the southeast, still intervened between us and the lake. We were about five miles, as the water runs, from the point of starting, and over two from the lake. We must go directly back to the top of the range where the guide had left us, and then, by keeping well to the left, we would soon come to a line of marked trees, which would lead us to the lake. So, turning upon our trail, we doggedly⁷⁹ began the work of undoing⁸⁰ what we had just done,—in all cases a disagreeable task, in this case a very laborious⁸¹ one also. It was after sunset when we turned back, and before we had got halfway up the mountain, it began to be quite dark. We were often obliged to rest our packs against the trees and take breath, which made our progress slow. Finally a halt was called, beside an immense flat rock which had paused on its slide down the mountain, and we prepared to encamp for the night. A fire was built the rock cleared off, a small ration⁸² of bread served out, our accoutrements hung up out of the way of the hedgehogs that were supposed to infest⁸³ the locality, and then we disposed ourselves for sleep. If the owls⁸⁵ or porcupines⁸⁶ (and I think I heard one of the latter in the middle of the night) reconnoitred our camp, they saw a buffalo⁸⁷ robe spread upon a rock, with three old felt hats arranged on one side, and three pairs of sorry-looking cowhide boots protruding⁸⁸ from the other.
 
When we lay down, there was apparently⁸⁹ not a mosquito in the woods; but the "no-see-ems," as Thoreau's Indian aptly named the midges, soon found us out, and after the fire had gone down, annoyed us very much. My hands and wrists suddenly began to smart and itch⁹⁰ in a most uncomfortable manner. My first thought was that they had been poisoned in some way. Then the smarting extended to my neck and face, even to my scalp, when I began to suspect what was the matter. So, wrapping myself up more thoroughly⁹¹, and stowing my hands away as best I could, I tried to sleep, being some time behind my companions, who appeared not to mind the "no-see-ems." I was further annoyed by some little irregularity on my side of the couch. The chambermaid had not beaten it up well. One huge lump refused to be mollified, and each attempt to adapt it up some natural hollow in my own body brought only a moment's relief. But at last I got the better of this also and slept. Late in the night I woke up, just in time to hear a golden-crowned thrush sing in a tree near by. It sang as loud and cheerily as at midday, and I thought myself, after all, quite in luck. Birds occasionally sing at night, just as the cock crows. I have heard the hairbird, and the note of the kingbird; and the ruffed grouse⁹² frequently drums at night.
 
At the first faint signs of day a wood thrush sang, a few rods below us. Then after a little delay, as the gray light began to grow around, thrushes broke out in full song in all parts of the woods. I thought I had never before heard them sing so sweetly. Such a leisurely⁹³, golden chant!—it consoled us for all we had undergone. It was the first thing in order,—the worms were safe till after this morning chorus. I judged that the birds roosted but a few feet from the ground. In fact, a bird in all cases roosts where it builds, and the wood thrush occupies, as it were, the first story of the woods.
 
There is something singular about the distribution of the wood thrushes. At an earlier stage of my observations I should have been much surprised at finding them in these woods. Indeed, I had stated in print on two occasions that the wood thrush was not found in the higher lands of the Catskills, but that the hermit⁹⁴ thrush and the veery, or Wilson's thrush, were common. It turns out that the statement is only half true. The wood thrush is found also, but is much more rare and secluded⁹⁵ in its habits than either of the others, being seen only during the breeding season on remote mountains, and then only on their eastern and southern slopes. I have never yet in this region found the bird spending the season in the near and familiar woods, which is directly contrary to observations I have made in other parts of the state. So different are the habits of birds in different localities.
 
As soon as it was fairly light we were up and ready to resume our march. A small bit of bread and butter and a swallow or two of whiskey was all we had for breakfast that morning. Our supply of each was very limited, and we were anxious to save a little of both, to relieve the diet of trout to which we looked forward.
 
At an early hour we reached the rock where we had parted with the guide, and looked around us into the dense, trackless woods with many misgivings⁹⁶. To strike out now on our own hook, where the way was so blind and after the experience we had just had, was a step not to be carelessly taken. The tops of these mountains are so broad, and a short distance in the woods seems so far, that one is by no means master of the situation after reaching the summit. And then there are so many spurs and offshoots and changes of direction, added to the impossibility of making any generalization⁹⁷ by the aid of the eye, that before one is aware of it he is very wide of his mark.
 
I remembered now that a young farmer of my acquaintance had told me how he had made a long day's march through the heart of this region, without path or guide of any kind, and had hit his mark squarely. He had been barkpeeling in Callikoon,—a famous country for barkpeeling,—and, having got enough of it, he desired to reach his home on Dry Brook without making the usual circuitous⁹⁸ journey between the two places. To do this necessitated⁹⁹ a march of ten or twelve miles across several ranges of mountains and through an unbroken forest,—a hazardous¹⁰⁰ undertaking¹⁰¹ in which no one would join him. Even the old hunters who were familiar with the ground dissuaded¹⁰² him and predicted the failure of his enterprise. But having made up his mind, he possessed¹⁰³ himself thoroughly of the topography of the country from the aforesaid hunters, shouldered his axe¹⁰⁴, and set out, holding a strait course through the woods, and turning aside for neither swamps, streams, nor mountains. When he paused to rest he would mark some object ahead of him with his eye, in order that on getting up again, he might not deviate¹⁰⁵ from his course. His directors had told him of a hunter's cabin about midway on his route, which if he struck he might be sure he was right. About noon this cabin was reached, and at sunset he emerged at the head of Dry Brook.
 
After looking in vain for the line of marked trees, we moved off to the left in a doubtful, hesitating manner, keeping on the highest ground and blazing the trees as we went. We were afraid to go downhill, lest we should descend¹⁰⁶ to soon; our vantage-ground was high ground. A thick fog coming on, we were more bewildered than ever. Still we pressed forward, climbing up ledges¹⁰⁸ and wading through ferns for about two hours, when we paused by a spring that issued from beneath an immense wall of rock that belted the highest part of the mountain. There was quite a broad plateau here, and the birch wood was very dense, and the trees of unusual size.
 
After resting and exchanging opinions, we all concluded that is was best not to continue our search encumbered as we were; but we were not willing to abandon it altogether, and I proposed to my companions to leave them beside the spring with our traps, while I made one thorough and final effort to find the lake. If I succeeded and desired them to come forward, I was to fire my gun three times; if I failed and wished to return, I would fire twice, they of course responding.
 
So, filling my canteen from the spring, I set out again, taking the spring run for my guide. Before I had followed it two hundred yards, it sank into the ground at my feet. I had half a mind to be superstitious¹⁰⁹ and to believe that we were under a spell, since our guides played us such tricks. However, I determined¹¹⁰ to put the matter to a further test, and struck out boldly to the left. This seemed to be the keyword,—to the left, to the left. The fog had now lifted, so that I could form a better idea of the lay of the land. Twice I looked down the steep sides of the mountain, sorely attempted to risk a plunge⁶⁹. Still I hesitated and kept along on the brink¹¹¹. As I stood on a rock deliberating, I heard a crackling of the brush, like the tread of some large game, on the plateau below me. Suspecting the truth of the case, I moved stealthily down, and found a herd¹¹² of young cattle leisurely browsing¹¹³. We had several times crossed their trail, and had seen that morning a level, grassy¹¹⁴ place on the top of the mountain, where they had passed the night. Instead of being frightened, as I had expected, they seemed greatly delighted, and gathered around me as if to inquire the tidings from the outer world,—perhaps the quotations¹¹⁵ of the cattle market. They came up to me, and eagerly licked my hand, clothes, and gun. Salt was what they were after, and they were ready to swallow anything that contained the smallest percentage of it. They were mostly yearlings and as sleek¹¹⁶ as moles¹¹⁷. They had a very gamy look. We were afterwards told that, in the spring, the farmers round about turn into these woods their young cattle, which do not come out again till fall. They are then in good condition,—not fat, like grass-fed cattle, but trim and supple¹¹⁹, like............