Lost on a Mountain in Maine (8 page)

That's the way things went for a long time. Then, after I'd pulled myself through some bushes, I saw white water ahead—I mean, open water. I just stood and looked at it. I couldn't believe it, because I knew if I found a pond or lake, I'd be all right. So I just stared, and pretty soon I made out a shore line, not very far away. Close to the bank, floated a big log. I had to look at one thing at a time, because it was hard for me to see at all. Things were hazy and wouldn't stay still, but that log gave me new courage and steadied me a lot. It looked like part of a wharf.

I had to go around a dense clump of bushes to get to it—and there, across the water,
²⁹
was a log cabin.

When I looked across and saw that cabin I couldn't believe it. I stood right where I was for a long time. I was afraid it was like all the other cabins I had come to. Still, it looked new and there was an open space in front of it. While I was standing there, things kept going through my mind. What if it were deserted like the rest? Well, I'd just go on. Then I wondered how I'd ever get to it. It seems funny to me now, but I felt sure I could swim across. I'd tie my blue shirt and reefer and gunnysack on my head, somehow, and dogpaddle over. That didn't seem a hard thing to do at all—but where would I get a piece of string?

I crawled under the bushes and came out on the bank. I could see the cabin better now, and there was a big elm tree right near the edge of the clearing and boy, oh, boy, two canoes were turned over on the ground. Canoes! There must be people there—fishermen, likely—and they'd help a fellow any way they could. They'd give me something to eat, maybe some bacon and beans, or a doughnut, and then I could find the way back to camp and maybe get there before dark.

While I was thinking things like that—and I guess I was blubbering some, too, because of my feet—I saw a man come out into the clearing!

I crawled out on the big log so the man could see me, and began to yell. I guess that yelling was pretty funny, for Mr. McMoarn told me later it sounded to him like a screech owl.

I yelled and yelled and waved my arms. I saw the man look over towards me, then run into the house. “Christmas!” I said to myself. “What's the matter with him?”

While I was wondering, I saw him come out of the house again on the dead run, with other people after him. I saw them slide one of the canoes into the water. A man yelled to me to stay where I was, that they were coming after me. Then I knew I was saved, and I got kind of weak all inside. I
had to get off that log. I had to get off quickly, because I felt like falling over in another one of those sick spells I had back in the woods. Maybe I
did
faint, too. I don't know, but the next thing I remember a big man was picking me up. He didn't say much—just shook his head and picked me up.

He was going to leave my gunnysack, but I grabbed it just in time. I wasn't going to lose that. It had saved my life. I guess Mr. McMoarn asked me some questions, but that's all hazy in my mind. The next thing I really remember was Mrs. McMoarn. She was grand. She took me in her arms, and she was crying and saying things, and she laid me down on a bed and began telling people what to do. I heard the telephone ringing like mad, and then Mrs. McMoarn came over to me with a bowl of soup. I don't know what kind of soup it was, but it was good.
³⁰

I wanted to drink it right away, but they wouldn't let me. Boy, try eating warm soup out of a spoon when you haven't eaten much for nine days! Mrs. McMoarn was slow giving it to me, too, and I just couldn't wait for the next spoonful. I tried to get hold of the spoon myself, but she said that would never do and that she was feeding me exactly the way the doctor ordered over the phone.

I guess I fell asleep, while I was eating that soup, for the next I knew, noises of people waked me up. Boy, the room next to me seemed filled with people, all whispering together and moving around. Someone was talking very loud on the phone. Pretty soon, Mrs. McMoarn came in and smiled at me. She said they were trying to get my mommy on the phone. Then Mr. McMoarn came in and said everything was ready, and he took me up in his arms and carried me out into another room where the phone was. I heard a voice, but, honest, I didn't recognize Mommy at first. Her voice didn't sound natural at all. Maybe it was the crazy wires nailed to trees.

But when I really listened, I knew it was Mommy.

She was crying and talking, too, and asking me if I were really safe, and I told her, “Sure, I am all right. I just had a bowl of soup.” Then I asked her about Dad, and she said he was right there. Boy, it was good to talk to Dad. I don't know what I said, but I was glad just to know that he was there listening to me and that he wouldn't have to worry anymore.

I guess Mr. McMoarn thought I had talked enough, for he took me away from the phone—but I hung onto it as long as I could.

When I was back in bed, and they had all gone out for a little while to let me rest, I remembered God. I hadn't thanked Him for all He had done for me. So I just closed my eyes and said my prayers and thanked God for kind people and for His help back there in the wilderness and for a good Mommy and a good Dad.

T
HE STORY of Donn Fendler's experience would not be complete without some description of what took place in the outside world during the nine days he was lost. That
story begins with the significant moment when Donn decided to leave Henry Condon on Baxter Peak and go back down the Hunt Trail, alone, to rejoin his father.

The man near the Knife Edge, to whom Donn refers, was the Rev. Charles Austin. He joined Henry Condon on Baxter Peak, within ten minutes of the time Donn had left that spot to go back down the mountain. Because of the dangerous cloud condition, the two immediately started down the trail. As Donn had had a ten-minute head start, they were not surprised that they did not catch sight of him and, it was not until they had joined Mr. Fendler, about a mile down the mountain at the edge of the plateau, near Thoreau Spring, that they realized Donn was lost.

Mr. Fendler and Donn's younger brother, Tom, had just left the spring and were starting ahead on the last mile to Baxter Peak. They were waiting there for the return of Donn and Henry Condon and, in the thin mist that surrounded this whole part of the mountain, they mistook Mr. Austin and Henry Condon for Henry Condon and Donn. In fact, Tom remarked to his father, “Doesn't Henry look big in the fog.”

Of course, as soon as they were within clear vision, Mr. Fendler shouted, “Where is Donn?” After a moment's consultation, all agreed that Donn had missed the trail. The party immediately started back on the plateau towards Baxter Peak—Mr. Fendler and Tom keeping close together and Mr. Austin and Henry Condon separating, so as to cover every bit of terrain possible.

As they hurried back, they called continually for Donn, not believing that he could possibly have wandered off the plateau in so short a time. After about an hour's frantic search, during which time the sun had gone down and semi-darkness descended, it became evident that Donn had strayed quite a distance from the plateau itself and that more searchers were needed. A quick consultation was held, and Mr. Austin insisted that
he
stay on the plateau, while the rest of the party go down the mountain to the camp, at the base, for assistance.

Henry, who was thoroughly familiar with the mountain, immediately ran on in advance of Mr. Fendler and Tom, and was soon out of sight. Tom and Mr. Fendler were well worn out and, being unfamiliar not only with Mt. Katahdin but also with mountain climbing in general, had to go down at a much slower rate.

Henry reached the camp at the bottom of the trail and explained to the Forest Rangers what had taken place on the mountain. A small party was organized, and the following account, published in the Revere, Mass.,
Journal
, July 27, 1939, gives a vivid idea of what took place during the next few hours.

“Monday morning, July 17, the party I was with started to climb to Mt. Katahdin's lofty summit. I had climbed many of the peaks of New Hampshire, including Mt. Washington, both day and night, so I regarded this ascent as just another climb. Before I had reached the summit, I was fully convinced that Mt. Katahdin's ruggedness had been grossly understated and that I was climbing the toughest mountain east of the Rockies. I arrived back at the base camp in mid-afternoon and promptly fell asleep.

“About 7:30 that evening I strolled over to the Rangers' tent to inquire about the other trails that ascend the mountain, their location, length, and so forth. We had talked scarcely ten minutes when a young boy, in the most exhausted condition I have ever seen, came running down the trail.

“It was some minutes before he could speak to tell us that a twelve-year-old boy was lost on the tableland, a 40-acre plateau, high on the mountain-side!

“Within fifteen minutes, the Ranger and I, along with four others, were winding our way up the six-mile-long trail. A short way up, we met the lost boy's father, who supplied us with more detailed information. He said that he, with his two sons and another small boy, had started to climb to the summit of the mile-high peak. The youngsters raced ahead, and Donn, the missing youth, had turned to go back to his father but had lost the trail.

“With cheery assurances that we would return with the boy in a few hours, the searching party continued on up. Darkness fell upon us shortly before we reached the tree-line where we found two fellows camping for the night. Here we paused for a brief rest.

“Far below in the blackness a light burned, the only sign of human habitation in the vast wilderness, and also the signal that the boy had not been found. Two lights would have called us back. One light spurred us on. Above us, shrouded in heavy wet clouds, lay the tableland and still above that, rose the peak.

“We started again. From here on, the climbing became increasingly difficult. Irons driven into stone provided us with hand and footholds to assist us over otherwise unscalable boulders. The clouds enveloped us in a penetrating dampness, the wind increased, a light rain fell, and the rocks became slippery, thus slowing our pace. The sides became steeper and seemed to fall away on each side into mist-filled bottomless pits. I shuddered to think of the little lad's possible fate.

“We reached the Gateway, the beginning of the tableland, before 10 o'clock. To reach this point in daylight, the average climbing time is two and one half hours. We had made it, in pitch darkness, in less than two hours!

“Here we split into parties of two and spread out, fan-like, over the broad tableland. We flashed our lights in the scrub, under huge boulders, over rocky crags, and between great splits in the rock, calling out for the little fellow constantly, and straining against the wind to hear the feeble cry that never came.

“In all my life, I have never been in a more desolate place. The wind was blowing 40 miles an hour or more. The temperature hovered around 40 degrees, although I could swear it was less. My hands had grown numb from the cold and I swapped my flashlight from one hand to the other. Rain and sweat ran down my face. My shoes, stockings, and pants were covered with mud from searching through rain-drenched grass and brush.