Lost on a Mountain in Maine (9 page)

“My feet began to ache. My legs ached. My back, my knees—I ached all over. My heart set up a terrific pounding in my ears. I was wretched. I thought of the Indians and their God of Evil, Pamola. Surely, Pamola reigned on his lofty throne that night.

“With lights that stabbed the fog and darkness a mere twenty feet, we worked our way along the rim of the tableland to the edge of the Saddle Trail. How the Ranger, Dick Holmes, knew the way in that sea of blackness, I shall never know. We went down over the edge. The trail was made up of small stones, sharp and jagged, and offered insecure footing. We slid and fell too many times to relate.

“It was after midnight when we finally reached another Rangers' cabin on the other side of the mountain. To our disappointment, there was only one occupant of the place, who promptly arose and gave us hot coffee and food. The young fellow sleeping there quickly dressed and he and the Ranger started back up the mountain within fifteen minutes—each carrying packs of supplies for those still searching on top. Before leaving, they instructed me to listen carefully, as long as I could keep awake, and also cautioned me how to handle the boy
should he be out of his mind and put up a struggle when I approached him. I maintained my vigil until drowsiness overtook me.

“I awoke early next morning, and gazed upon a mountain spectacle I had never seen before, for all my activities had been on the other side of the summit and at night. Cliffs of ugly rock rose up straight 350 feet, and here and there large patches of snow clung. I shuddered again and thanked the Lord that the Ranger had known the way and led me along the edge of that chasm and safely down the only trail on this side.

“My right foot pained terribly as I hobbled for five miles through the wilderness, keeping my eyes glued to the telephone wires to make sure I kept to the right trail. Where the trail met the road, I was welcomed by a friend who drove me back to our camp, twenty miles around the mountain.

“It wasn't until two days later, when a Millinocket doctor snapped them back into place, that I knew that the joints in the arch of my foot had come apart during that hazardous search on Mt. Katahdin.”

Early the next morning, Mr. Fendler, who had spent most of the night searching frantically with the small group on top of the mountain, got in touch with every agency possible to get a large group of searchers under way. The Forest Service and all its branches throughout the Katahdin district were notified. The Great Northern Paper Company, which operates large timber crews throughout this section of Maine, sent about twenty “cruisers” from their Greenville station, and men were sent in from Island Falls, as well. These “cruisers” are expert woodsmen who know this section of Maine from long experience. Chief of Police Allen Picard, of neighboring Millinocket, and Mrs. Bernice Buck, of the Board of Selectmen of the same town, spread the news rapidly. Within a few hours, there were hundreds of people on the mountain. Men even left their jobs at the paper mill in Millinocket to join the hunt for the missing boy.

The Maine State Police had two bloodhounds which were immediately rushed to the plateau and which picked up the scent of the lost boy. The bloodhounds led the searchers to Saddle Spring, where the trail was lost. It was the general consensus among the searchers that Donn had left the plateau and had fallen down somewhere between the big boulders which surround the plateau on all sides. The two bloodhounds were not accustomed to the rough terrain and their feet were soon torn and cut to such an extent that they had to be taken back.

Many people thought that the bloodhounds would have found Donn if their feet had not been so cruelly torn by the jagged boulders over which they ran. A phone call was made to New York State asking for more dogs. Two were rushed by plane and arrived at Katahdin on Wednesday morning. As a precaution, leather shoes were strapped on their feet to save them from the torture suffered by the other dogs.

Inasmuch as the National Guard could not be called out without the governor's explicit command, communications were established with Governor Barrow's office. He was in California, at this time, and it was not until about four o'clock Wednesday morning that he was finally reached. The order was rushed through, and sixty-five National Guardsmen joined the search.

With such a large force on the mountain, provision had to be made for feeding the searchers. A National Guard field kitchen was sent up from Bangor, and the Great Northern Paper Company sent one of its field kitchens, called a “wangan,” to Chimney
Pond, located at the base of Baxter Peak on the other side of the mountain.

The hunt was divided into two groups—one in charge of Earl W. York on the Greenville-Millinocket tote road side, and the other one in charge of Roy Dudley, veteran Maine guide, on the Chimney Pond side. The State Forestry plane was pressed into service and, for two days, flew over the mountain and surrounding country. This proved to be merely a gesture, however, because from the height that the plane had to travel, the boy could not have been seen.

During the first five days of the search, from Tuesday to Saturday, no attempt was made by the searchers to look below the timber line. It was felt by all the veteran woodsmen and guides that Donn could not possibly have gotten down off the bare mountain that first treacherous night. In fact, it was generally believed that the boy had perished. The hunters, then, were searching only for his body. The crevices between some of the boulders were thirty to fifty feet deep, and the searchers, traveling about twelve feet apart, looked into every possible hole where the boy could have fallen. It was not until late Saturday that Mr. Fendler, who had a strong feeling that Donn had reached the timber line and was still alive, was able to convince the searchers that possibly he was lost in the wooded section somewhere below the timber line.

Sunday, the army of searchers, numbering between four and five hundred individuals, began to give up the search, and only faint hope was held out for the boy's rescue. Mr. Fendler never gave up hope, however, even though no encouraging clues had been found since the bloodhounds lost Donn's trail on the plateau.

Monday and Tuesday found only a small group, chiefly volunteers, continuing the hunt. As it turned out, of course, Donn, after the first night, was never within ten miles of those who were looking for him. Losing his sense of direction in the mist, he had gone down off the mountain on the north side, into a region seldom explored. The only trail which runs through it is very obscure, overgrown and poorly marked. Known as the North Peak's Trail, it runs almost directly north until it reaches one of the little streams that help to form the headwaters of the Wassataquoik (pronounced
Wa-see-tah-cook)
River.

The rivulet Donn followed eventually led him to the main stream, and he paralleled that until he crossed over to the East Branch of the Penobscot River, on the opposite shore of which is the McMoarn Camp.

Even when Donn reached the camp, known in the Maine Woods as “Lunksoos,” he was far from any
real
civilization. The easiest approach to “Lunksoos” is by way of the East Branch of the Penobscot River itself, the nearest civilization being fourteen miles down the river, at Grindstone. The village of Stacyville is eight miles away, but can be reached only over a tote road which is in bad condition and must be traversed on foot.

As soon as Donn was safe in the McMoarn cabin, Mr. McMoarn notified the telephone operator that the boy had been found and the good news was rapidly spread. Three hours later, or about four o'clock in the afternoon, Dr. Ernest T. Young, accompanied by Chief of Police Picard of Millinocket, arrived at “Lunksoos” to look after Donn. A few hours later, the boy's two uncles, Dr. Arthur C. Ryan and Harold Fendler, arrived after a trip on foot from Stacyville along the old tote road.

The next morning, Donn was carried down to the shore of the river, where a canoe awaited him. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fendler had reached Grindstone, fourteen miles away.

In the course of the journey down to Grindstone, the river runs quite rapidly and is very shallow in spots. Huge boulders, some of them completely hidden, are abundant in the stream bed. Here, only expert and experienced hands prevented a river “spill” from being added to Donn's record of adventures. But, while racing through white water, Donn merely looked on, as any interested spectator would. It was just another example, in his eyes, of what may happen in the wilderness—and he seemed ready to meet any mishap with the same courage he had shown during those nine days in the forest.

Anxious to see her son again, as soon as possible, Mrs. Fendler—accompanied by her loyal friend, Mrs. Charles Mangan, who had been constantly at her side throughout the long, soul-trying ordeal—had set out by canoe from Grindstone. The touching reunion between mother and son took place in mid-river, when the canoes met, about a quarter of a mile above Grindstone.

The party then continued down to the little Maine village where an ambulance waited to take Donn and his mother to Bangor. Mr. Fendler was confined at the Eastern Maine General Hospital, with a serious eye injury sustained in the course of the long hunt. And it was there, in a hospital room, that the reunion of the entire family took place.

Meanwhile, throughout the nine days that the boy was lost, millions of people followed the fruitless progress of the search in the press of the country. Although the searchers themselves had given up all thought of finding the boy alive, thousands of mothers throughout America still hoped for his safe return. Their spirit and their hope is perhaps best described in the concluding paragraphs of an editorial appearing in the Boston
Transcript
of July 27, 1939.

“But after the searchers had turned back, and after the press had pronounced his return hopeless, thousands of mothers in America did not give up hope. They scanned the papers daily for word; they watched their own sons a bit more closely. There was a stout trail of hope being blazed for this boy.

“And, if there was such amazing strength of survival in Donn, we wonder if it was not in large measure due to the powerful sending and receiving apparatus of mother-to-son and son-to-mother. For at no time in human life will men find a greater courage in their hearts and in their weary bodies than when in youth, like Donn, they are returning home.”

PHOTO BY BARBARA GIPSON

Since his close encounter with death in the mountains of Maine more than seventy years ago,
DONN FENDLER
has visited countless schools, speaking to eager readers about his journey to civilization. He still receives countless letters from fans inquiring about that time in his life—which he always answers. He carves out months of time to speak to students at many schools about his experiences. Now retired from the U.S. Army, Donn lives half the year in Tennessee, while spending summer and early fall in Maine. You can visit him online at www.donnfendler.com.

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