Men's Journal, October 1998

Still Wild After All These Years

Mention the Allagash River to a canoeist and his eyes suddenly become moist and dreamy as he inevitably responds, "Yeah, I'd like to go there someday." The river has somehow attained legendary stature. Perhaps it's the way the blue streak of water slips off the map of America's northern fringes, remote and isolated, hundreds of miles from the nearest metropolis. Or maybe it's the legacy of writer, philosopher, and inveterate traveler Henry David Thoreau, who ventured down the waterway a mere 140 years ago, waxing lyrically about the last great frontier in the East in his book, The Maine Woods. Whatever the reason, the 92-mile Allagash Wilderness Waterway continues to lure 10,000-plus paddlers to its shores every summer, turning farfetched dreams into reality.

"It's a once-in-a-lifetime trip," says Gil Gilpatrick, native Mainer and author of a historical novel called Allagash. "It's one of the few places that has some semblance of wilderness left."

While many canoeists tackle the waterway on their own or with a slick, big-name outfitter, the best way to make the journey is still the same way Thoreau did--with a local Maine guide. Preferably, one who can weave rhapsodic tales about the history of the land and the characters who called it home. Registered Maine Guides, Alexandra and Garrett Conover, fit that billing. I first met the Conovers in their office in the woods of Willimantic, Maine, last fall and quickly realized that they take their profession very seriously. Books on their library shelves include Keeping with an Ax, The Mushroom Trail Guide, and The Woodcook's Cookbook. Much of their earnest adoration of the wilderness comes from their mentor, Mick Fahey, who the Conovers had the good fortune of meeting when they lived in Bar Harbor and attended the College of the Atlantic.

At the turn-of-the century, when Fahey's dad was in charge of a log drive on the Penobscot River, young Fahey would tag along to a remote village called Chesuncook. Here, the river drivers, mostly Penobscot Indians, took him under their wings. They showed him how to hunt, trap, and build birch canoes. When Mick turned 17, in 1923, he became the youngest registered guide in Maine. In the late 70s, when Fahey decided to return to this area, he brought Garrett and Alexandra along as apprentices. They would soon learn how to use a crooked knife to carve their own canoes, paddles, and setting poles, 11-foot long sticks used to travel upstream. In 1980, they decided to carry on Fahey's tradition of guiding people along Maine's waterways and formed North Woods Ways.

The Conovers insisted I come on their last trip of the season, a five-day jaunt in early October. Most paddlers dare not venture to the Allagash in autumn, fearing that the water level is too low and that winter in Maine starts far too early. Certainly, there were some chilly moments and stretches of bony river where we had to disembark and carry the canoe across the cobbly bottom, but these brief encounters simply added to the allure and in no way was a deterrent from the overwhelming serenity found in these deep woods. I would soon learn that autumn is the time of year when the usual mute moose is as talkative as Bullwinkle, the leaves on the hillside are enflamed, and there are absolutely no other humans on the river. We would canoe roughly half the Waterway, skipping many of the larger lakes in the south and paddling most of the sinuous river portion. By the time our 45-mile jaunt was finished, we would see eight moose, two bald eagles, loads of loons, no homo sapiens, and no nasty black flies or mosquitoes.

I was holding one of Alexandra's handcarved paddles as we canoed down a three mile stretch of the river the first day. That evening, after a hefty bowl of venison stew, I crawled into my sleeping bag and listened to the sounds of Maine's North Woods at night. A great horned owl greeted me from his perch directly above my tent. Next, a chorus of madcap coyotes chimed in, their melodic howls echoing through the tall balsams, easily lulling me to sleep. Not more than fifteen minutes later, I bolted upright, as wide-eyed as a coffee fiend who just drank a gallon of Starbucks espresso. Something very large, a thousand, maybe fifteen-hundred pounds, was outside my tent trampling over large branches as if it were kindling. And then it spoke or should I say screamed, "MOOOO-AAAAAAHHH." Last time I was this nervous in the wilderness, a large monkey was using my roof as a trampoline at a ranger station in South Africa's Kruger National Park. "MOOOO-AAAAAAHHH," the animal cried again, its deep voice reverberating through the woods like a Chinese gong. Then another immense animal, a thousand, maybe fifteen-hundred pounds, responded with a grunt. The two were soon having a lively conversation as they splashed in the nearby water, no doubt enacting one of those climactic National Geographic moments. Early October, Garrett explained to me the next morning, is the time of year moose are in heat.

In the days to follow, the Conovers would point out more wildlife hiding in the coniferous forest as we cruise through the boulder-strewn waters. On the hillside, thousands of maples blind us with their peak foliage colors, as if an insane artist painted the rolling mountains, not methodically but maniacally, with large swaths of vibrant yellows, reds, and oranges. We paddle from narrow S-curve to S-curve, trying to find the slick channel of water that guides us between the bed of submerged boulders. We wait patiently behind Alexandra and Garrett's canoes to see what line they choose to zigzag through the river.

Not surprisingly, the Conovers have their own unique stroke, called the north woods stroke, which is a rapid pull and turn of the paddle that leaves them exactly where they want to be. Fred, a blueberry horticulturist from Down East, Maine, and I do not have such luck. We often find ourselves stuck on a rock we did not see, having to jump into the cool water in order to pull the canoe back into the deep channel. At least we can take refuge from the sight of thousands of other rocks with little white marks on their tips, symbols of mishap where other sorry souls got their canoes stuck the exact same way.

In the star-swept nights, Garrett cooks us hearty dinners in the largest skillet I've ever seen. The Conovers menu does not include the usual insipid freeze-dried foods I'm accustomed to eating away from civilization. Entrees include ratatouille cooked from fresh vegetables found in their garden or a tasty chile made from canned meat. They also bake bread, cinnamon rolls, and biscuits daily in a tin reflector oven set close to the fire. After stuffing our stomachs, we huddle around the burning wood and stare at the flames. Then someone starts a conversation, usually Alexandra, who's far more gregarious than her husband. She's a good ole fashioned storyteller who can tell a tale better than most budding novelists. Her subjects are the people she knows best, stoic Mainers who awkwardly try to communicate. There's the one character who enters the Conovers' home wiping the hot summer sweat from his forehead and stating, "God damn, this humility is going to kill me." Or the large man who takes Alexandra behind his pick-up truck and starts to unbuckle his pants, only to show her the three notches in his belt he lost in weight.

On our final day, the Allagash resembles glass with a Windex shine. The Waterway becomes deeper and deeper and eventually we dock our boats on the shore and watch the river plummet over the ledges of the 40-foot high Allagash Falls. We have our last meal on the water as the foam churns over the carved rock. Unfortunately, our put-out is three miles back upstream at a ranger station and former lumber camp called Michaud Farm.

Thus, I finally have the opportunity to follow the Conovers' cue and try the setting pole that's been sitting in the canoe for days--to stand up in the stern and propel the boat against the current by thrusting the pole into the shallow water and pushing. As always, the Dynamic Duo make it look easy but Fred and I have very little success. We reach Michaud Farm several hours later thoroughly exhausted. I dip my mug in the Allagash, earning my last cup of cool fresh water. It wouldn't surprise me if the Conovers also played a vital role in keeping this river clean, perhaps throwing water purifying tablets into the Allagash prior to our arrival.