Woody Keene
Got rain gear? Plenty of water? Got a flash light? These were the questions Woody asked us as we set off on a warm sunny day to climb Big Spencer. “Ya don’t want to be without a light,” he says, “dark comes on quick!”
When you have lived in the Maine woods as long as Woody has, you learn to take precautions. I asked him what he carried with him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small well worn leather pouch. Unzipping it, he pulled out one safety pin, one paper clip and a piece of string. “You’d be surprised how often you need string in the woods,” he said. In his pocket is a head lamp. On his belt is a knife.
Woody is the caretaker of Lobster Lake Camps. Lying north and east of Moosehead Lake in the woods of northern Maine, Lobster is a wilderness lake. This “camp” one of only four on this lake, was established over 100 years ago. In those days, my mother in law's family came up from Boston by train to Greenville, Maine where they would spend the night. The next day, a boat ferried them up Moosehead Lake, to a small train which took them to the West Branch of the Penobscot River. There they would be met by Maine guides in canoes who would transport them and all their luggage, which included live chickens, down the river and across the lake to Lobster Lake Camps.
Today we get there by driving five hours to Greenville followed by two more hours on dusty, rocky logging roads to a spot where we leave our car and walk in a mile to the camp. Looking to our right as we walk in, we see the lake shimmering through the trees. Looking down we see large round moose droppings. Mosquitos circle our heads. When we get there, we look for Woody. He fires up his tractor with trailor behind and drives slowly out the muddy road to pick up the supplies we have brought for our week in the woods.
At aged 68, Woody is a true woodsman. We invite him to share dinner with us in our simple cabin. For someone who spends a lot of time alone, Woody loves to talk. He arrives for dinner with his hair wetted and combed and a clean shirt.
He grew up on a farm in Jefferson, Maine. He and his brother still live there, but they don’t farm it. Too much work, he says. He works construction when he is home. Everyone had land in those days. “We were poor but we never went hungry. There was always something to eat. My mother made butter, canned vegetables from her garden, got eggs from our chickens. It was hard work. She never complained. We never went to the store. My father cut slices of smoked meat in the barn. We hunted for grouse and we went fishin’.”
The mosquitos were bad this year. When we mentioned this to Woody, he didn’t say a thing. Just nodded. I finally realized that they were just part of the landscape. Some years more than others. But this is not a vacation for Woody, this is his life. So he doesn’t complain or maybe he doesn’t even notice them.
As we set off for to climb Big Spencer, Woody assured us that he’d come lookin for us if we weren't back by 6:30. When we get back, Woody is nowhere to be seen. We leave a note on the padlocked door of his one room cabin and go back to ours to start supper. Half an hour later we hear his boat coming across the lake. We hear his knock at our door. He is all decked out in a stylish felt hat and clean shirt. He has been out visitin'. Labor Day weekend and the three other camps are inhabited. We invite him for supper on this, our last night at Lobster Lake. Stories flow as we drink bourbon.
The next morning Woody pulls his tractor up to our cabin bright and early, ready to carry our stuff out the muddy road. We walk the woods trail and meet him at our car. When all is loaded and the canoe roped down on top, Woody says, “it’s been real nice having you here, I’ve enjoyed our conversations.” We say the same. As we leave Woody, all on his own now, he adds, “the mosquitos and I will work something out.”
