The Maine woodlands of the Pine Tree State’s far north are not particularly easy to visit, even today; and they were considerably more difficult to access when Henry David Thoreau made three separate voyages, between 1846 and 1857, into the remote woodlands north of Bangor. And anyone who loves the wild beauty of Maine will be grateful that Thoreau made those three Maine journeys, because he set down his impressions with a characteristic combination of scientific thoroughness and poetic sensibility in a book that was published in 1864 – two years after Thoreau’s untimely death – as The Maine Woods.
Thoreau is known, even among relatively casual students of American literature, as a fearlessly individualistic thinker and writer. His refusal to pay a Massachusetts poll tax, on grounds that the tax money would be spent to finance an immoral war with Mexico, resulted in a brief period of incarceration for Thoreau, and helped prompt the writing of Resistance to Civil Government or Civil Disobedience (1849), with its famous declaration that “Under a government that imprisons any unjustly, the only place for a just man is also a prison.” And his observation that “The mass of men lead lives of quite desperation” led him to forsake human society, live alone for two years in a cabin next to then-remote Walden Pond, and engage in the observations of wild nature and reflections on human society that would one day become Walden; or, Life in the Woods (1854), one of the most important books ever written by an American.
As in Walden, so in The Maine Woods, Thoreau begins with painstaking observation of nature, and of the people around him, and uses those observations as the basis for incisive conclusions regarding human nature and human society.
The first of the three essays is titled “Ktaadn.” Appalachian Trail hikers who have enjoyed beginning or ending their A.T. adventure at what we now call Mount Katahdin – the northern terminus of the Trail – will quickly get used to Thoreau’s anomalous spelling of the mountain’s name. And as Mount Katahdin is the highest point of land in the State of Maine (5269 feet, or 1606 metres), readers who have ascended the mountain will not be surprised to know that Katahdin’s name “is an Indian word signifying ‘highest land’” (p. 3).
Thoreau and his companions had to use logging roads for part of their journey, and Thoreau did not like what he had seen, in empty lumber camps, of the work the lumbermen had done: “The mission of men there seems to be, like so many busy demons, to drive the forest out of all the country, from every solitary beaver swamp, and mountainside, as soon as possible” (p. 3). Thoreau builds upon the observations he had made in earlier works regarding the malign influence of society, writing that “This was what you might call a brand new country; the only roads were of Nature’s making, and the few houses were camps. Here, then, one could no longer accuse institutions and society, but must front the true source of evil” (pp. 8-9).
Here, we see a refinement of the Transcendentalist thinking with which writers like Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson are often associated. It has become almost a truism among literary historians and critics to say that Transcendentalists believed that human beings are basically good, and that the corrupting, conformist influence of social institutions like political parties and churches can lead human beings toward wrongdoing. Yet in these passages from The Maine Woods, Thoreau seems to be suggesting that the thoughtful reader cannot settle for blaming “society” every time human beings do something bad. Society may have a corrupting influence, but the individual human being must choose whether or not to be corrupted.
Thoreau’s observations in “Ktaadn” are often ironic and humorous. Meeting a man who offers to carry messages to a remote stretch of the Aroostook country into which he is travelling, Thoreau reflects that “I suspect that, if you should go to the end of the world, you would find somebody there going further, as if just starting for home at sundown, and having a last word before he drove off” (p. 7). Shortly afterward, Thoreau suggests that “the deeper you penetrate into the woods, the more intelligent and, in one sense, less countrified do you find the inhabitants; for always the pioneer has been a traveller, and, to some extent, a man of the world; and, as the distances with which he is familiar are greater, so is his information more general and far-reaching than the villager’s” (p. 11).
Thoreau was always a careful student of that about which he wrote. He invokes the Abenaki bird spirit Pamola when writing about those who want to “conquer” mountains like Katahdin:
The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe, whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and insolent men, perchance, go there. Simple races, as savages, do not climb mountains – their tops are sacred and mysterious tracts never visited by them. Pomola is always angry with those who climb to the summit of Ktaadn. (p. 30)
Quickly, “Ktaadn” moves toward a characteristically Thoreauvian setting-forth of the Transcendentalist idea that through isolation and contemplation, one can get in touch with the best of oneself. He writes at one point, from amidst the isolation of the Maine woods around Mount Katahdin, that “It is difficult to conceive of a region uninhabited by man. We habitually presume his presence and influence everywhere. And yet we have not seen pure Nature, unless we have seen her thus vast, and drear, and inhuman, though in the midst of cities. Nature was here something savage and awful, though beautiful” (p. 33).
In the second and shortest essay, “Chesuncook,” Thoreau recounts a moose-hunting expedition. After a moose is killed, he is deeply saddened: “The afternoon’s tragedy, and my share in it, had affected the innocence, destroyed the pleasure of my adventure” (p. 55). He sounds downright modern when he states that “this hunting of the moose merely for the satisfaction of killing him – not even for the sake of his hide – without making any extraordinary exertion or running any risk yourself, is too much like going out by night to some woodside pasture and shooting your neighbor’s horses” (p. 55). He follows up these reflections by writing that “Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine-trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it” (p. 56). Thoreau’s humane sensibilities make his work forever contemporary and ever relevant.
“The Allegash and East Branch,” the last and longest of the Maine Woods essays, gives Thoreau the chance once again to invoke the Indigenous folklore of the Maine woods:
While we were crossing this bay, where Mount Kineo rose dark before us, within two or three miles, the Indian repeated the tradition respecting this mountain having anciently been a cow moose – how a mighty Indian hunter, whose name I forget, succeeded in killing this queen of the moose tribe with great difficulty, while her calf was killed somewhere among the islands in Penobscot Bay, and, to his eyes, this mountain had still the form of the moose in a reclining posture, its precipitous side presenting the outline of her head. (p. 79)
The Maine woods are not always idyllic. The logging roads can make for rough going for even the hardiest travellers: Thoreau remarks acerbically that “Making a logging-road in the Maine woods is called ‘swamping it,’ and they who do the work are called ‘swampers.’ I now perceived the fitness of the term. This was the most perfectly swamped of all the roads I ever saw. Nature must have co-operated with art here” (p. 100). Negotiating the rapids, or portaging around them, is always strenuous and often dangerous. And the insects, in those pre-spraying days, could clearly be an affliction: mosquitoes, black flies, moose-flies, and midges all inflict their own peculiar brand of torment.
But then there are those moments of sheer wilderness beauty that still draw tens of millions of tourist visitors to Maine, each and every year. Anyone who has spent time by a Maine pond or lake, and has heard the night-time calls of a loon, will appreciate Thoreau’s description of hearing the loon’s haunting cry: “In the middle of the night, as indeed each time that we lay on the shore of a lake, we heard the voice of the loon, loud and distinct, from far over the lake. It is a very wild sound, quite in keeping with the place and the circumstances of the traveller, and very unlike the voice of a bird. I could lie awake for hours listening to it, it is so thrilling” (p. 102).
In the loon’s call, which Thoreau describes as being “like the hallooing of a man on a very high key, having thrown his voice into his head”, Thoreau finds that he feels “affinity to the loon; as if its language were but a dialect of my own, after all. Formerly, when lying awake at midnight in those woods, I had listened to hear some words or syllables of their language, but it chanced that I listened in vain until I heard the cry of the loon” (p. 103). It is a profoundly Transcendentalist moment, in the best sense of the term.
Thoreau contrasts those moments of transcendence with the money-grubbing mindset that he sees at work in the society around him: “The Anglo-American can indeed cut down and grub up all this waving forest, and make a stump speech, and vote for [James] Buchanan on its ruins, but he cannot converse with the spirit of the tree he fells, he cannot read the poetry and mythology which retire as he advances” (p. 103). Thoreau’s contempt for the mindset that “ignorantly erases mythological tablets in order to print his handbills and town-meeting warrants on them”, that “coins a pine-tree shilling, as if to signify the pine’s value to him” (p. 103), is palpable.
The Maine Woods is a recommended book in many Maine travel guides, and after reading this book, during a summer trip to a cabin on Penobscot Bay, I can understand why. Thoreau captures so well the feeling of adventure, of a joyous kind of solitude among nature’s beauty, that Maine offered then and still offers now:
[T]here is no sauntering off to see the country, and ten or fifteen rods seems a great way from your companions, and you come back with the air of a much travelled man, as from a long journey, with adventures to relate, though you may have heard the crackling of the fire all the while – and at a hundred rods you might be lost past recovery, and have to camp out. It is all mossy and moosey. In some of those dense fir and spruce woods there is hardly room for the smoke to go up. The trees are a standing night, and every fir and spruce which you fell is a plume plucked from night’s raven wing. Then at night the general stillness is more impressive than any sound, but occasionally you hear the note of an owl farther or nearer in the woods, and if near a lake, the semi-human cry of the loons at their unearthly revels. (p. 126)
Thoreau, who is nothing if not thorough, follows his three Maine Woods essays with a series of Appendices listing northern Maine’s trees, flowers, shrubs, birds, and mammals. He provides a list of words from the languages of the Indigenous nations of Maine, and even a complete “Outfit for an Excursion” in case you want to emulate one of Thoreau’s journeys. The Maine Woods is a marvelous book – one of the best travel narratives that I have ever read.