James Nalley 4 A Penobscot Sailor’s Bravery He survived an ill-fated Arctic expedition
Brian Swartz
8 Ellworth’s Hollis Grindle
Legendary angler put Beech Hill Pond in the record books
John Murray
12 Bangor’s William Hammatt Davis
Roosevelt’s top mediator
James Nalley
16 Bangor’s Norman Lee Cahners
Inventor, publisher, and philanthropist
James Nalley
22 The Bucksport Salmon Weir
The first attempt to preserve Atlantic Salmon
Charles Francis
28 The Cottage At Big Dry Point
The Krementz Jewelry company’s Maine connection
Sean & Johanna Billings
31 A Fiery Flight
Smoking and open cockpit flying do not mix
Brian Swartz
35 All Aboard For Moosehead Lake
The Bangor & Aroostook Railroad enticed anglers
Brian Swartz
38 Katahdin Iron Works
Iron ore spurred economic development near Brownville
Brian Swartz
Publisher Jim Burch
Editor Dennis Burch
Design & Layout
Liana Merdan
Field Representative
Don Plante
Contributing Writers
Sean & Johanna Billings
Charles Francis
John Murray
James Nalley
Brian Swartz
rants and other locations throughout this part of Maine.
AIt Makes No Never Mind
by James Nalley
t the time of this publication, Maine will be in the low season (February-March), with many businesses closed and towns feeling “sleepy.” According to one former Mainer, “I remember loathing March when I was a teenager, and I have confirmed with friends who still live there that my memories of it being awful are accurate. Descriptions used by my friends include: cold, dead, lasts forever, and give me something green already.” However, symbolic of the “slow ticking of time” during this period, there is maple tapping, which is an interesting art of its own.
First, according to tapmytrees.com, “The sap from maple trees starts to flow between mid-February and March. Sap flows when daytime temperatures rise above freezing (32 degrees Fahrenheit) and nighttime temperatures fall below freezing. The rising temperature creates pressure in the tree generating the sap flow, which lasts 4–6 weeks.”
Second, as stated by The University of Maine (UMaine) Cooperative Extension, “A tree should be at least 10 inches in diameter and 4.5 feet above the ground. Trees 10–20 inches in diameter should have no more than one tap…Trees with large crowns extend-
ing down toward the ground are the best sap producers.” A good gauge is as follows: 10–20 inches = 1 tap; 21–27 inches = 2 taps; and > 27 inches = 3 taps.
Third, there is drilling the hole and tapping the spout (spile). Most spouts require a 7/16 or 5/16 drill bit, corresponding to their respective size. After drilling, tap the spout in lightly so that it is tight and cannot be pulled out by hand. However, UMaine warns, “Don’t drive it in so hard that you split the tree.” Then, hang the bucket on the hook of the spout and cover the bucket with a lid to keep out rain, snow, and foreign materials.
Fourth, there is the tricky part of boiling the sap. According to UMaine, “Sap becomes finished maple syrup when it reaches 66% sugar content and 7.1 degrees F above the temperature of boiling water. Concentrations below this percentage can sour over time. If the syrup is boiled above the 68.9% density of syrup, then sugar crystals can form in the bottom of the containers. After you filter the syrup while it is still hot, let it cool for at least 12 hours. The syrup should be canned hot and then stored in a cool-dry place.”
Finally, if you want to watch some
pros in action and obtain some delicious samples (without the work), there is the 41st Maine Maple Sunday Weekend (March 22–23, 2025). The number of maple producers throughout the state is staggering, with all of them offering tastings and tours (including boilings). The following are in this issue’s region: Bemis Family Farm (Corinna); Bob’s Sugarhouse and Duck Grove Farm (Dover-Foxcroft); Chester Maine Maple (Chester); Cider Hill Maple Farm (Exeter); Corson Farms (Pittsfield); Eureka Farms (Palymyra); Nutkin Knoll Sugarworks (Newburgh); VA JO WA Maple (Island Falls); and Williams Family Farms (Clifton).
On this note, let me close with the following jest: A store manager finds a guy leaning against a wall in pain. He asks his clerk, “What’s with that guy over there?” She says, “Well, he came in here this morning to get something for his cough. I couldn’t find any cough or maple syrup, so I gave him a bottle of laxative.” The manager said, “You can’t treat a cough with a laxative!” The clerk responds, “Of course you can! Look at him! His coughing stopped because he is afraid to cough!”
A Penobscot Sailor’s Bravery
by Brian Swartz
After supposedly vanishing in the Arctic, a Penobscot sailor emerged onto Russian soil and told his family about the nightmare he had survived.
August Petermann, a German mapmaker, theorized that a warm current called the “Kuro Siwo” flowed north through the Bering Strait and offered a relatively ice-free route toward the North Pole. He pitched his theory to the New York Post’s publisher, James Gordon Bennett Jr. The men met at Gotha in Germany in 1877; asked by Petermann to fund an expedition to explore the Kuro Siwo, Bennett concurred. Returning to New York, he wired Navy Lieutenant George W. De Long, an experienced Arctic explorer whom
he had previously met. After asking him to command the so-called U.S. Arctic Expedition, Bennett purchased the decommissioned British warship Pandora, and De Long oversaw its conversion as the USS Jeannette at Mare Island in San Francisco.
Bennett funded the expedition, which sailed with “thirty-three of the best boys on board that ever walked a ship’s deck,” said Herbert W. Leach, one of 16 hired ordinary “seamen.”
Born circa 1858 to Penobscot carpenter Hiram Leach and his wife, Jane, Leach watched the California coast receding from view after the Jeannette sailed on July 8, 1879.
De Long took on supplies and coal
at St. Michael in Alaska in mid-August. Passing through the Bering Strait, “we stood north until we struck the ice,” Leach said. “We ran into it and it closed around us” in early September.
The last land sighted by De Long was Herald Island in the Chukchi Sea. His ship now drifting in the ice north of Siberia, De Long realized the Kuro Siwo did not bring warm water into the Arctic. The expedition had become well-provisioned. “After getting into the ice, we made preparations to spend the winter, expecting to get out the following summer,” Leach said. “We spent the winter very pleasantly — had theatricals, [on] Christmas and New Year. It was very cold, but we all en-
joyed it tip top.”
Supplementing their food supplies with meat from polar bears and seals shot by hunters, the men hoped that spring would open a channel to the Bering Strait. Then on January 19, 1880, ice penetrated the ship’s hull; only desperate efforts plugged the leak. “The winter passed and so did the summer without any signs of being released, so we made up our minds to stay another winter,” Leach said. Winter 1880-1881 “passed quite pleasantly although three months of the time we didn’t see the sun.
The sun “looked good when it [finally] did come up — I think it was worth waiting for,” Leach later told his mother. Meanwhile, De Long calculated the ship had drifted 250 miles from where ice had first trapped it. Then the crew spotted two uncharted islands on May 16, 1881.
The disaster soon struck. “We laid in the ice till June, when the ship (our
home) was taken from us, and our hardships begun,” Leach said. A hole opened around the Jeannette on June 11, but the ice closed again and so damaged the hull that the crew abandoned the ship, which sank on June 13.
De Long led his men south toward Siberia across the ice, bringing with them the ship’s boats to cross open water. Resting about a week at another previously undiscovered island, the men took to the ice again; its softness forced them into the boats in early August. “About eight days before we reached the coast[,] we encountered a heavy gale which nearly put an end to our suffering,” recalled Leach, then aboard De Long’s boat. The lieutenant put Leach at its helm, at which “I sat … about fourteen hours before the wind abated enough for me to be relieved.”
The bitter cold hindered “the men’s bailing for dear life” as water continuously filled the boat. “My feet were frozen stiff, and my legs were chilled
up to my body,” Leach recalled. The boats soon reached charted islands; “when we got ashore, I was in a tight fix,” he said. Ship’s fireman James H. Bartlett “took a knife and cut about half of one of my great toes off, leaving about half an inch of the bone sticking out of the end.”
The amputation occurred before September 12, when the three boats left Semenovsky Island and headed for the mainland about 100 miles away. Leach boarded the whaleboat commanded by Navy engineer George W. Melville. That afternoon a deepening storm separated the boats, and the cutter commanded by Charles W. Chipp vanished altogether.
In the large cutter, De Long and his crew reached the northern edge of the Northern Delta and started across country toward Bulun, the town where the lieutenant had ordered Chipp and Melville to rendezvous if the boats got separated. De Long and his surviving com(cont. on page 6)
Lori Whitten President
(cont. from page 5)
rades struggled onward until camping the final time on October 20. Two men sent earlier to find help did survive, but De Long and the others died.
Melville, Leach, and their comrades reached the Lena River and a native settlement in late September. By late February 1882 Leach was safely in “Irkoutsk” (Yakutsk). A doctor had amputated his mutilated toe. Word had already reached the States about the Arctic Expedition’s fate; after sunset on February 23 “I was at a party enjoying myself as well as possible for me to do here, when one of the boys came running in and gave me nine letters from home,” he said. “Oh, mother, you should have seen me dance around the room …”
Only thirteen of the expedition’s 33 members survived. Leach was among those reaching New York City in May 1882. “Gracious, how I want to see
the folks at home,” he told his mother. “Give my love to everybody, in town and out, [and] keep the lion’s share for yourself.”
Ellsworth’s Hollis Grindle
Legendary angler put Beech Hill Pond
by John Murray
During the 1950s, the popularity of fishing was soaring in Maine. The Korean War had ended, and the war-weary population flocked to fish in Maine with their newly acquired vehicles. Cars were rapidly becoming an increasingly popular mode of transportation, but the road systems needed to be upgraded. Maine welcomed the fishing visitors and enhanced the driving experience by constructing and maintaining modern roads. As fate intervened, one of Maine’s highway road maintainers who worked the road system was a fisherman as well. This local fisherman would acquire legendary angler fishing fame, and place Beech Hill Pond in the state record books.
This highway road maintainer was Hollis Grindle, and during the third day of August in 1958, Grindle would catch the largest lake trout that had ever been caught in Maine. Grindle’s state record lake trout would shatter the ranking of the previous largest lake trout, and Hollis Grindle would become an icon in the fishing community.
A native resident of Maine, Hollis lived in Ellsworth. His occupation as a highway maintainer placed Grindle outside, and often a stone’s throw of multiple waters where fish thrived. For Grindle, fishing wasn’t just an occasional venture. He fished as often as possible and enjoyed it immensely. Fishing was a passion that ran deep,
and Grindle was passionate about lake trout, an ancient species of deep cold-water fish that is native to Maine.
The French Canadians called this native lake trout a togue. In Maine, this name is still affectionately used today for the cold-water fish. Even Grindle himself referred to the lake trout as a togue. In retrospect, the name “togue” better suits this revered gamefish that inhabits the deepest lakes in the state, because despite its appearance of looking like a trout species, the lake trout isn’t really a trout. This ancient fish is not an actual member of the trout family, and togue are in the same family group as the arctic char. Residing in cold water aids in the
longevity of the togue. Fisheries biologists are certain that the togue can live a life span that exceeds thirty years. When the ability to live for many years is combined with a voracious appetite, the result is a fish that can achieve truly huge body sizes. Understandably, big gamefish develop a loyal fan club of diehard anglers, and many anglers fish the deep lakes of Maine with the hope of hooking into a large togue.
In the years leading up to the eventful day when he would capture the state record fish, Grindle already had amassed many days on his favorite fishing water, Beech Hill Pond in Otis. As soon as the departing winter ice left the pond, Grindle was in a boat, and regularly searching the water for togue. Hollis Grindle shared his passion for fishing with his good friend Bernard Lynch, and they were both efficient and experienced fishermen who knew the secrets to catch togue. In 1958, Grindle and Lynch already were having a
superb fishing season on Beech Hill Pond. So far that season, they had already brought thirty exceptionally large togue to the net. Their key to fishing success was constantly adjusting tactics to follow the moving fish as the weather changed with the seasons. In early spring, the togue would be feeding near the cold surface of the water, but as the summer heat warmed the water, the togue would spend all their time in the deepest depths. With the cooling of the water during the fall season, the pattern would reverse, and the togue would once again feed just below the surface.
To reach the togue in the deep water during the summer, the anglers would use a lead core fishing line that was heavy and sank rapidly into the depths. 30 feet of strong monofilament was attached to the end of this lead core line, and the baited hook was connected to the business end of the rig. The bait of choice was a shiner minnow or smelt,
and both food items were relished by the togue. Trolling was the preferred tactic of Grindle and Lynch and was the most efficient way to cover large areas of water. When trolling, the angler’s outboard motor was run at a low idle to move the boat slowly along the surface, and the baited hook was pulled along underneath behind the boat.
On Sunday August 3, Grindle and Lynch arrived at Beech Hill Pond early in the morning and discussed their fishing plan as they prepared to launch the boat. Pond is often a misleading term about the size of a body of water in Maine. Beech Hill Pond is quite large at half a mile wide, 4.5 miles in length, and 104 feet deep. Their plan for the day was to fish deep and run baited smelt along the bottom trench of the deep pond. By 6am, fishing lines were immersed in the water, and they were starting to probe the deep water at different depths in the search for togue. Summer fishing is considerably more (cont. on page 10)
(cont. from page 9)
challenging, as the elusive togue may be anywhere in the deep water of the lake. It wouldn’t be until 3 hours later when Lynch’s rod was suddenly bent with the weight of a fish, and a very respectful 9 ½ pound togue was brought to the net. This fish was caught at a depth of sixty feet.
After concluding that sixty feet was the most promising depth for success, they decided to consistently troll their bait at that depth. The plan called for steering the boat through a promising section along cliff banks that was known as “the ledges.” At the end of the run where the anglers would turn the boat for another pass through the area, Grindle’s fishing line suddenly went tight, and then ceased all movement. Thinking he may have initially snagged onto the bottom of the pond, he was shocked a few moments later when the fishing line began to rapidly strip off his fishing reel.
What ensued next was the fishing battle of a lifetime. The big togue bulldogged downward and shook its head, then changed tactics and decided to swim in an upward and forward angle. Unable to stop the forward progression of the togue, the men turned off the outboard motor, and the big togue towed the heavy boat for a considerable time. Grindle was able to keep his wits amid the excitement, and after a 30-minute battle with the water beast, the togue finally began to tire. At last, the big togue came to the surface by the boat, where Lynch was able to scoop him up inside a long-handled aluminum net. Upon lifting the heavy togue into the boat, its weight bent the handle of the net.
The big togue was brought into town, where it was officially weighed and measured. Shockingly, the togue weighed 31 pounds, 8 ounces, and had a girth of 24 inches – with an incredible length of 41 inches. With that
weight, the togue was officially confirmed by Maine fishery biologists as the new state record. As a testament to the exceptionally large size of the fish, that state record remained intact for more than six decades. Sixty-two years later, that state record was finally broken during July 2020 with a larger 39-pound, 2-ounce togue that was caught in Lower Richardson Lake in Rangeley.
Hollis Grindle always thought there was bigger togue in Beech Hill Pond and continued to fish with the hope of catching a larger togue. Alas, the fish of a lifetime usually occurs just once in the life of a lucky angler, and Grindle was never able to top his own record. Today, Beech Hill Pond is still a favorite fishing destination for many anglers who hope to be as fortunate as Hollis Grindle.
Bangor’s William Hammatt Davis
Roosevelt’s top mediator
by James Nalley
When Franklin D. Roosevelt formed the National Recovery Administration (NRA) in the New Deal, a Bangor-born man was tapped as Deputy Administrator. When the NRA was disbanded in 1937, he returned to New York to head the state’s Labor Mediation Board. He earned such a good reputation as a mediator between management and labor that Roosevelt brought him back to Washington D.C. to chair the War Labor Board (WLB) in 1942. His chairmanship was important, since he had to walk a thin line between management and organized labor, and strongly discourage strikes during the war. For his efforts, Time magazine declared him “one of the brightest hopes
that the U.S. had in the murky field of industrial disputes.”
William Hammatt Davis was born in Bangor on August 29, 1879. He attended public schools in the area and graduated from Bangor High School. He went on to get his law degree from George Washington University in 1901. Being in Washington D.C., Davis received his first job at the U.S. Patent Office. However, he soon left for Manhattan, where he found his niche as a successful patent lawyer, a position he would hold for the next 25 years, aside from some brief work with the War Department during World War I. This would all change as he became more renowned as a negotiator and as
the Great Depression settled in on the United States.
Early in the New Deal, which was a series of programs, public work projects, and financial reforms enacted by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1933, Davis was appointed as Deputy Administrator of the NRA. The goal of the NRA was to eliminate “cutthroat competition” by bringing industry, labor, and the government to create codes of “fair practices” and set prices. When the NRA was declared unconstitutional and disbanded in 1937, Davis returned to New York, where he became the head of the state’s Labor Mediation Board. As stated earlier, he was such a good mediator that Roosevelt sent him
back to Washington in 1941 to chair the National Defense Mediation Board (NDMB), and eventually the War Labor Board (WLB) in 1942, which he ran until the end of World War II. According to Time magazine (January 19,
1942), “With no loud cheers from either labor or management, the President this week named William Hammatt Davis as chairman of his War Labor Board.” The administration “took the silence as a tribute to the impartiality of Mr. Da(cont. on page14)
Davis in 1945 (seated at right)
(cont. from page 13)
vis as chairman of the now-defunct National Defense Mediation Board.”
His chairmanship was a difficult position. Although he was generally trusted by both sides, his main goal was to hold the line on wages and discourage strikes for the duration of the war. Interestingly, he became a frequent figure in news articles, due to his appearance and demeanor. For example, at various times, Time magazine referred to him as “rumple-haired,” “dry-humored,” “shaggy,” “chunky,” and “grizzled.” However, other articles referred to him as “humane,” “patient,” and “fair-minded.” Specifically, a 1941 Time magazine article praised his “phenomenal record of peaceably unraveling the most tangled wrangle.”
Then, with the end of the war in sight, Roosevelt naturally named him the Director of Economic Stabilization. Regarding the appointment, Time magazine (March 19, 1945) stated:
“William Hammatt Davis wondered if he had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. After three harried years as War Labor Board chairman, he was ap-
pointed last week to succeed Fred Vinson as U.S. Economic Stabilizer. It had been Will Davis’ job to hold the line on wages; it would be his job now to hold
The War Labor Board in 1942 (Davis is front row center)
the line on wages and prices too — to guard the whole U.S. against the insistent pressure of inflation. Grinning, the 65-year-old Manhattan patent lawyer wryly described the assignment as ‘a nice little job.’”
In a sense, Roosevelt set up Davis as the “czar” of post-war recovery through this appointment. However, like politics today, President Harry Truman fired him within months of taking office and eliminated this potentially powerful role. In the following years, Davis became an open critic of Truman’s labor policies, but the two must have made amends, because Truman appointed Davis to head the Atomic Energy Commission’s (AEC) Labor Relations Panel in 1949. At this point, Truman had transferred control of atomic energy from military to civilian hands. This shift gave the members of the AEC complete control of the plants, laboratories, equipment, and personnel to produce the atomic bomb.
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Aside from his important role in the government, Davis still found time to serve on the Labor Committee of the 20th Century Fund (now known as The Century Foundation), which was a progressive “think tank” based in New York City. Specifically, it was founded on the belief that the prosperity and security of the United States depends on a mix of effective government, open democracy, and free markets. Through his organization, Davis worked closely with Sen. Robert F. Wagner (D-New York) to craft the National Labor Relations Act, which guaranteed the right of private sector employees to organize into trade unions, engage in collective bargaining, and take collective action such as strikes. Interestingly, central to the act was a ban on company unions.
In his remaining years, Davis served as chairman of the Board of Trustees of the New School for Social Research, which is a graduate-level education institution in New York City that ex-
plores and promotes what they describe as “global peace” and “global justice.” On August 13, 1964, Davis died of bronchial pneumonia. He was 84 years of age.
Although it seemed that Davis was a natural in this environment, we can sense that the level of stress must have been incredibly high, based on the writings of the time. For instance, Time magazine stated:
“But labor, already off on another track, hoped that Davis would adopt a more liberal attitude than Vinson’s in connection with ‘fringe’ awards, i.e., increases for night-shift differentials, reclassifications, etc., which do not affect basic wage rates. This issue, now vital to the unions, was sizzling on Davis’ desk before he had a chance to sit down.” Apparently, he handled it with ease.
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Bangor’s Norman Lee Cahners
Inventor, publisher, and philanthropist
by James Nalley
In World War II, while directing the U.S. Naval Ordnance Materials Handling Laboratory at the Hingham Naval Ammunition Depot in Hingham, Massachusetts, a Bangor-born man started a simple newsletter. Called The Palletizer, it was named after the pallet, which was a relatively new technology used to move goods on and off ships. His version of the “four-way pallet” became the military and later industry standard. As for his newsletter, the Navy allowed him to take the magazine private after the war, after which he renamed it Modern Materials Handling and began acquiring other magazines. Eventually, his publishing company
grew to 90 magazines, with his bestknown titles being Variety and Publishers Weekly. Norman Lee Cahners was born in Bangor on June 5, 1914. The son of the owner of the Bangor Gas Company and Eastern Furniture Company, Cahners was privileged to attend the Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts. Then, he went to Harvard University, where he excelled as a varsity football and track & field athlete. As for the latter, he established the record of 9.3 seconds in the 100-yard dash. In 1936, he and team captain Milton Green qualified for the U.S. Olympic trials. However, they boycotted the event be-
Cahners (left) in July of 1945
cause the games were to be held in Nazi Germany. According to the Harvard Crimson (May 1936), this action gave him some notoriety, since he was “one of two Harvard graduates selected to speak at the Harvard Tercentenary Ceremonies, before an audience of 10,000 alumni, and over a worldwide radio hook-up. Cahners was also elected President of the Harvard Class of 1936 and was later inducted into the Harvard University Varsity Hall of Fame.”
During World War II, Cahners joined the U.S. Navy, where he served as a supply officer for the Navy Reserve. As stated earlier, he directed the U.S. Naval Ordnance Materials Handling Laboratory at the Hingham Naval Ammunition Depot in Hingham, Massachusetts. In this role, he developed new techniques and equipment for faster handling of war-related supplies and ordnance (also known as “materials handling”). Specifically, he patent-
ed several innovations, one of which was the “four-way pallet.” Most likely with post-war business opportunities in mind, he started a newsletter called The Palletizer, which gave contractors advice on how to ship goods for the Navy by using his new pallet and forklift system.
Surprisingly, the U.S. Navy allowed Cahners and his adjunct, Saul Goldweitz (who eventually became his lifelong business partner), to take both the laboratory and the magazine private after the war. Then, it became Modern Materials Handling. Still in existence today, this monthly business-to-business (B2B) magazine covers various topics, including: materials handling automation and mechanization, storage and staging, inventory data management, transport packaging, etc. It is currently published by Peerless Media, a B2B media company based in Framingham, Massachusetts.
By 1956, Cahners began acquiring other magazines, starting with Metalworking, while launching other related publications. This was where he became one of the pioneers of “niche-publishing,” i.e., journals/magazines aimed at specific business audiences and loading them with information and advertising. This is where he excelled as a businessman. According to The Boston Globe (March 16, 1986), “By 1968, Cahners Publishing had become the second largest publisher of business magazines in the country, with an estimated gross of $47.8 million and approximately 1.5 million readers.” Among the 90 magazine titles, the best-known were Variety and Publishers Weekly. The former is a weekly entertainment publication that covers movies, television, theater, music, and technology, while the latter is a weekly trade news magazine targeted at publishers, librarians, booksellers, and literary agents. In 1970, Cahners (cont. on page 18)
(cont. from page 17)
was named “Man of the Year” by Advertising Club of New York.
Not one to rest on his laurels, Cahners took his amassed fortune and became a major philanthropist, especially in New England. Among his extensive list of recipients, there is the Cabot-Cahners room in Boston’s Symphony Hall, the Cahners Theater in the Boston Museum of Science, and Cahners Hall at Northeastern University. Regarding Harvard University, there is the Cahners-Rabb Professorship, an endowed chair at the Harvard Business School. There is also an endowed chair in Cahner’s name for a cellist’s position in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. As for Maine, Cahners was a trustee of Colby College, while his wife, Helene, chaired the Board of Trustees at Westbrook College in Portland.
On March 14, 1986, Cahners died of pneumonia at his home in West Rox-
bury, Massachusetts. He had also been battling cancer for quite some time. He was 71 years of age. He was buried at the Adath Jeshurun Cemetery in West Roxbury.
Although it is obvious that Cahners had left a major impression on the publishing field and on the arts and education scene from Boston to Maine, perhaps one award sums up his life the best: The Norman L. Cahners Lifetime Achievement Award. It specifically states that it is awarded in recognition of “outstanding, creative use of the business press in the marketing of products and services.” This is what he did from the day he created a simple newsletter for the U.S. Navy and turned it into an empire.
The Bucksport Salmon Weir
The first attempt to preserve Atlantic Salmon
by Charles Francis
In the latter part of the nineteenth century a traveler coming up the Penobscot River on the steamer from Portland or Boston in the spring would have been greeted with the sight of a number of strange-looking small boats in the Bucksport Narrows. These canvas-covered boats would be seen riding almost to the gunnels in the water. They might be moored close to the shore of Verona Island or in the tow of one or two dories heading for Bucksport Landing. These covered boats contained live salmon which had been dipped from the giant weir in the narrow strait between Verona Island and Bucksport. The salmon were bound for a pond about a mile
from the center of Bucksport where they would be kept until they spawned. What the traveler was observing was the first really organized effort on the east coast to preserve the Atlantic Salmon. Since just after the Civil War, a large weir had appeared at the low tide line off Verona Island every spring to collect salmon. In the early years the captured salmon had been carted to Orland, but the spawning project had little success there, losing about two-thirds of its eggs annually. As an alternative, researchers had begun using other sites in Maine such as Bucksport’s Silver Lake. They had even gone as far afield as Sebec where they had a good deal
of success. The Bucksport spawning project was, far and away, the most successful, however.
The first Atlantic salmon spawning project had been instituted by the state of New Hampshire. In the late 1860s New Hampshire had sent a team to New Brunswick to collect salmon eggs. For various reasons, New Hampshire had given up on the project. The only other way at the time to acquire salmon eggs was to purchase them from the Canadian government, which charged forty dollars in gold per thousand. As this was far too expensive, the project at Bucksport had been instituted. In the nineteenth and well into the
twentieth century, the Penobscot River was the most productive salmon river on the east coast of North America. For this reason, the United States Commissioner of Fisheries as well as those of several states, including Massachusetts and Rhode Island, had decided to fund the Bucksport project. What had resulted was the weir at the Bucksport Narrows, which, starting in the 1870s was the major source of salmon eggs on the east coast of the United States.
The Bucksport weir was constructed of a fifty-pound net in four sections. The net was strung on posts sunk into the mud flats of the Narrows at low tide. The first section, called the ‘leader,’ started at the high-water mark approximately where the public boat landing on Verona Island is today. This, in turn, connected to the largest enclosed portion of the weir which was basically a giant circular fish trap. Fish coming up the Penobscot would en-
counter the ‘leader’ and follow it into the first enclosure. From this first enclosure, they would be funneled into a second smaller enclosure and, from it, into a third still smaller trap. At ebb tide, the salmon were dipped from this third enclosure into the canvas-covered boats and taken to the Bucksport side of the Narrows. These boats had holes in them so that they were almost awash in water. This was to keep the salmon in their native element.
The salmon were then transferred from the boats to waiting horse-drawn wagons carrying water-filled crates. Each crate would take from five to seven salmon and a wagon load consisted of about thirty salmon. From the Bucksport wharf, the wagons would head out of town for a small cove on Silver Lake. This process would go on for some two months until approximately four thousand salmon had been transported to their new fresh-water home.
The salmon were confined in a small cove of approximately ten acres by a net that was weighted at the bottom. At one end of the cove, a small stream led to the Penobscot. This escape route was also blocked. The bottom of the cove was mud. Salmon do not like to deposit their eggs in mud but rather in gravel where there is relatively fast-running water, and the mouth of the stream was perfect for this annual ritual.
During late October and early November, the salmon began to congregate where the stream left the cove in order to lay and fertilize eggs. At this point, fishery workers would simply dip the females out of the water as they passed down a sluice that had been constructed for just that purpose, and take them to the adjacent spawning shed to be stripped of their eggs.
A working party consisted of three or four men. Two or three of the workers would bring female and male salmon to (cont. on page 24)
(cont. from page 23)
the spawning shed separately where another worker or workers would conduct the fertilization process. It is quite easy to distinguish between the male and female salmon at spawning time as the male has developed his already bright colors to a heightened degree. He also has a much longer lower jaw than the female.
A female salmon would be dipped out of the sluice and taken to the egg stripper who would press the eggs out into a dry pan. (Without water to wash off the natural protective fluid surrounding the eggs, they stay fertile for an extended period of time.) The female would then be tagged on the rear fin and released into the Penobscot.
The next step was to fertilize the eggs. This involved taking a male salmon and pressing his milt into the still waterless pan. (In the early 1870s, researchers discovered that fertilization done in a pan filled with water resulted
in fewer fertilized eggs.) If the fertilization process sounds relatively easy, it is misleading. Salmon, especially the males, are quite strong. They struggle and twist and
squirm when confined. To hold one and get it to deposit eggs or milt is a battle. By the end of the day, the egg stripper and fertilizer would be covered in cold wet slime. Considering most of
the fertilizing was done in late fall, it must have been a thoroughly unpleasant experience.
Once the eggs were fertilized, they were placed in troughs in the hatching house. The troughs were fed with cold, clear running water. The eggs were on trays some two feet by one foot. Each tray would hold about four thousand eggs. By May, the last of the eggs kept in Bucksport would have hatched. The resulting fish were then released to fend for themselves.
Most of the eggs from the salmon caught in the Bucksport weir, however, were sent to other locations. In the early 1870s, fertilized salmon eggs were sent as far south as Pennsylvania and as far west as Wisconsin.
By the middle of the twentieth century, the Penobscot River had become too polluted to sustain much of any marine life. Atlantic salmon virtually disappeared from the most productive salmon river on the east coast. The Buck-
sport salmon weir had disappeared long before that, however. By the time these events occurred, Craig Brook National Fish Hatchery in Orland was successfully raising Atlantic salmon. With the passage of such bills as the Clean Water Act, the Penobscot River began to support salmon again. There
BROOKS TIRE & AUTO
are no more salmon weirs to be found along it, however. Today, each angler is limited as to the number of salmon he can take. However, without doubt, some of the salmon that now go up the Penobscot to spawn each spring carry the genes of fish trapped at the Bucksport salmon weir.
The Cottage At Big Dry Point
by Sean & Johanna Billings
Take
company’s Maine connection
George Krementz was a German immigrant who founded Krementz and Co. in 1866 in New Jersey. The firm, which started out making men’s jewelry, is best known for perfecting the process of gold plating. In the 1920s, the company expanded its line to include women’s jewelry.
The family had a camp on Big Dry Point, located across the lake from Rockwood and situated on a peninsula to the southeast of Mt. Kineo. Ronco Cove and Spencer Bay are on one side and Cowan Cove is on the other. The site is located in Township 1 Range 14. WELS* and is accessible only by boat or on foot. (* WELS — Stands for “west of easterly line of state.” This
refers to all the townships to the west of the vertical line that is the border between Maine and Canada on the eastern side of the state.)
For at least 50 years, the Krementz family owned the only camp on Big Dry Point. On July 31, 1933, brothers Robert M. (Nov. 16, 1912-Nov. 15, 1997) and Walter M. Krementz Jr. (Feb. 7, 1911-Oct. 22, 1992) purchased a 1.5acre lot from the Coburn Heirs Inc. It’s possible the Krementz family leased the property before purchasing it.
The brothers were the grandchildren of jewelry company founder George Krementz, who was born in Germany in 1838, and his wife, Louise, who was born in 1845. Their son — the broth-
ers’ father — Walter M. Krementz Sr. was born March 21, 1881, in New Jersey and died in 1959. His wife, Edith, was born Jan. 29, 1883, but her date of death is unknown.
George Krementz travelled the world to hunt for rare gems for his jewelry. The business was eventually operated by his sons, Walter and Richard, and, later, by Walter Sr.’s sons, Walter Jr. and Robert, who are also the ones to purchase the camp. Walter and Robert owned all the stock in the company by 1949. Their cousin, Richard Jr., would end up running the company until the 1990s, when they sold off all their lines except for gemstone jewelry. The company closed its doors in 2009.
Another interesting side note is that Walter Jr’s daughter, Jill Krementz, is a famous photographer and the wife of writer Kurt Vonnegut. So, it seems, rumors that Vonnegut had visited Moosehead Lake are likely to be true.
The family camp, situated north of
the Cowan Cove site, is the only development at Big Dry Point. The original building, which served as the Krementz camp, is believed to date to sometime between 1905 and 1916, and remnants of that building can be found on the site. Currently, the site is home to a cottage built in the 1980s and an old guide’s cabin that dates to before 1928.
By the time they purchased the Big Dry Point camp, the Krementzes had been coming to Moosehead Lake for many years. The May 14, 1925, issue of the Piscataquis Observer mentions that Walter M. Krementz Sr. was one of the registered guests when the Squaw Mt. Inn opened for the season.
An Aug. 28, 1925, article in the Portland Evening Express describes how Walter Krementz Sr. drowned a 110-pound black bear in Moosehead Lake and then used the hide for a rug on his yacht, a 52-foot bridge deck cruiser called the Letitia. The article, Summer Visitors Enjoying Life on Moosehead
Lake, which appeared in the Brooklyn Eagle on July 11, 1926, says Walter M. Krementz of East Orange, N.J., his son, Walter M. Krementz, and daughter, Letitia, were staying at the Wave Crest Cottage at Mt. Kineo, and that Mrs. Krementz would join them later. An Aug. 24, 1930, Philadelphia Inquirer article titled “Moosehead Lake to Hold Masquerade This Week” reports that Mr. and Mrs. Walter M. Krementz, of Camp Nepahwin (at Kineo), were holding a regatta tea at their cottage. Walter Jr. and Robert owned the property until Aug. 4, 1983, when they sold it to Lee W. and Martha L. Richards of East Winthrop. On March 15, 1988, the Richards’ gave New England Telephone and Telegraph Company an easement to put a submarine cable in a trench on the property from the lake’s low water mark to a point 25 feet above the high-water mark, The Richards’ are the ones who removed the Krementz camp building and constructed the new (cont. on page 30)
(cont. from page 29)
there.
Martha Richards owned the property until Dec. 3, 1990, when she sold it to Robert and Mary C. O’Mara of New Jersey. They owned the property until Dec. 2, 2002, when Karl and Nancy Watler purchased it. Karl Watler still owns the property.
Before the Krementzes owned the camp, it belonged to the Paterson family. The first mention of a camp near Big Dry Point appears in the Aug. 19, 1916, edition of the Bangor Commercial newspaper. It states, “John M.E. Bowman, proprietor of the Biltmore, has been a guest of Mrs. M.D. Paterson, Mrs. Cornelius Doremus and Miss Clarice Paterson at the Doremus cottage on the Kineo shore. All have spent much time at the Paterson camp on Dry Point.” It is possible the Patersons also rented the Big Dry Point property. At that time, the land was owned by Coburn Heirs Inc., which had been incor-
porated in 1911 by the descendants of Samuel and Abner Coburn to manage the real estate holdings of the family.
We know the building that became the Krementz camp was not built by 1905 because of a report titled Water Power on Kennebec River, published in the Waterville Morning Sentinel on Aug. 15, 1905. The report, which discusses whether to raise or lower the water level in Moosehead Lake, evaluates all the structures around the lake. It mentions there were no buildings in the Cowan Cove area.
The Patersons, who sold the property to the Krementzes, are first mentioned in the Bangor Commercial’s Aug. 9, 1902, edition. The article, titled Nearly Filled Up At Kineo, states Mrs. Myra D. Paterson of New York was at Kineo playing mixed doubles ping pong, which was the rage that year. An Aug. 21, 1909, article on the Kineo Hotel states Mrs. Paterson was in sec-
ond place for the year in the women’s shooting competition.
A 1922 USGS map contains information from a survey that was completed in 1920 showing a building located just north of the point on the Cowan Cove side of the peninsula. A door sill from the guide cabin on the property is signed “G. Ernest Davis” on the bottom. Davis was a well-known guide for the guests at the Kineo Hotel. He died in Greenville Jan. 11, 1928. That means the guide’s camp building on the site dates to before 1928 unless it was moved there later.
On Dec. 23, 1947, Coburn Heirs Inc. sold some of its holdings to Hollingsworth & Whitney Co, including all of Township 1 Range 14 except for the 1.5 acres sold previously to the Krementzes.
A Fiery Flight
Smoking and open cockpit flying do not mix
by Brian Swartz
George Maxim learned to leave his pipe unlit whenever he took to the air.
On Saturday, Nov. 4, 1922, Maxim intended to fly a biplane from Enfield to Dexter. Anticipating a 50-mile hop that would last less than an hour, the veteran Army flier, (Lieutenant Maxim he was still called), donned a jack with a sheepskin collar. After preparing his plane himself for the flight, he climbed into the cockpit and accepted a mechanic’s assistance in starting the engine.
During aviation’s infancy, pilots flew with rudimentary navigational instruments, often jaunting by line of sight across the countryside. With their
WWI surplus biplanes lacking pressurized cabins, adequate heaters, and even radios, the famous barnstormers took their air shows into every dirt strip where they might attract an audience. A mystique granted cowboys a half century earlier clung to these aviation pioneers, who wore leather jackets, goggles, jodhpurs, and heavy jack boots as they performed barrel rolls, lmmelmanns, and other acrobatics high above admiring crowds.
Maxim intended no stunts this Saturday in November. Launching well before sunset, he expected to arrive in Dexter in due order.
Skilled in effecting the dashing pose assumed by aviators of the day,
Maxim cut a fine figure as he sat in his cramped, open cockpit. The plane’s engine ran through its warm-up revolutions. He strained his ears to detect any roughness, decided all was well, released the brakes, grinned, waved at onlookers, and rolled the plane across the grassy apron.
Maxim turned the plane onto the runway and checked the windsock. He lit his pipe, tossed the match clear of the plane and puffed merrily away as he positioned the aircraft for takeoff. Set the flaps, rev the engine, release the brakes, all part of the routine. As expected, the biplane rolled and bumped along the runway. Its tail bouncing, the plane briefly rose, then (cont. on page 32)
fell earthward. Maxim glanced at the flaps and gradually increased power to the engine. Seconds later, the biplane lifted skyward.
Maxim puffed on his pipe as his plane rose above the tree line. He could see Enfield spreading beneath his wings, and also the Penobscot River that separates the town from neighboring Howland. Maxim planned to fly west toward the setting sun.
Suddenly a spark rose from the lit pipe. A draft — called a slipstream in aviator’s parlance — caught the minuscule flame and blew it against Maxim’s right shoulder.
The slipstream fanned the hot spark against the dry sheepskin, igniting it. A startled Maxim yelled, but no one heard his shouts at an altitude somewhere near 1,000 feet. His right hand clasping the stick, Maxim beat at the flaring flame with a gloved left fist.
No good! No good’ The sheepskin burned like chaff under a blistering (cont. from page 31)
summer sun. Smoke swirled and flame danced as the frightened Maxim, aware that fire was an aviator’s worst enemy in those years before universal parachute usage, yanked the plane’s nose toward the earth.
Only the ground, somewhere, anywhere on the ground, presented a promise of safety to Maxim. Slapping at the flames, hunched down in the cockpit so the slipstream could not sweep oxygen into the fire, Maxim spotted the Enfield strip.
He turned his plane’s propeller toward the hard-packed runway. Even as he burned, Maxim expertly worked the controls, aligning the aircraft with the strip and finally bumping the plane’s tires onto the landing field.
The fire, without the wind to fan it, weakened and died. Maxim efficiently worked his brakes and flaps to slow the aircraft even as he repeatedly slapped his left hand against his smoldering shoulder.
The biplane finally rolled to a stop. A chagrined Maxim leaped from the cockpit, tore off his flying jacket, and examined the damage. Look at it! The flames had burned off the right collar and scorched the leather! A perfectly good jacket wasted! Just look at it!
Then Maxim quickly sobered. What if the fire had spread to the biplane’s cloth-encased fuselage? What if the flames had burned the entire collar, surrounding his face with skin-melting heat? What if he had been airborne another few minutes, flying above the thickly wooded forest stretching from Howland toward Orneville and Milo?
Blessing whatever luck or angel had spared him, Maxim grounded his biplane, borrowed another, and took off minutes later for Dexter. A wiser man for his experience, he left his pipe unlit during the 46-minute flight to the Dexter airport.
All Aboard For Moosehead Lake
The Bangor & Aroostook Railroad enticed anglers
by Brian Swartz
The last coal-fired locomotive blew its whistle along the Bangor & Aroostook Railroad track from Derby to Greenville Junction a lifetime ago. The track paralleled the Piscataquis River to Blanchard before veering north to Shirley and Greenville and connections with the steamers serving the hotels and resorts farther north on Moosehead Lake.
Nattily clad sportsmen and women rode in relative comfort (coal smoke whirling through the car windows being problematic), and in that 1930s pre-internet era, the B&A told anglers where they could stay, the nearest fishing holes and what could be caught in
them, and how far those fishing spots lay from the nearest station.
All that passengers had to do was read the latest copy of In The Maine Woods, a B&A publication.
Dover-Foxcroft offered 13 “Waters Reached,” ranging from Sebec Lake (bass, perch, pickerel, trout, and salmon) and Peenuguma Pond (small-mouth bass) to Buttermilk Pond (togue, trout, and salmon) and the Greenwood Ponds (togue and trout). Anglers could hire a “team or auto” to reach Sebec Lake, a team or canoe or a combination thereof to reach the other 12 local fishing holes.
“Local” lay in the eye of the beholder. Sebec Lake was five miles north
from the Dover-Foxcroft station, the Greenwood Ponds a 15-mile wagon ride away over bumpy roads.
Anglers detraining at Dover-Foxcroft could stay at the Blethen House, Packard’s Camps (10 miles away on Sebec Lake by automobile, team, and a steamboat), 3 Coy’s Camps (four miles by auto or a team and a boat), or the Jack O’Lantern, right next to the station.
Prefer to operate out of Guilford instead? There were the Braeburn right in town, the Hotel Early 12 miles away by car, or Packard’s Camps. All accessible by automobile, seven ponds and lakes were no more than 14 miles away. (cont. on page 36)
(cont. from page 35)
Six fishing holes awaited anglers detraining at Abbott Village, which offered no accommodations. Monson Junction, where the B&A connected with the narrow-gauge Monson Railroad, accessed Lake Juanita (togue and trout) and Sylvan Lake (ditto on the fish).
Just a bit farther at Monson, anglers could stay at the Thomas House (an eighth mile from the station) and head out to any of 13 “Waters Reached,” including Lake Hebron (trout), Monson Pond (trout and salmon), a place called Hedgehog and Brown (a trout spot, 15 miles away by auto and foot), and Onawa Lake (salmon), 10 miles away by car.
There was nowhere to stay at Blanchard, but anglers could try their luck in any of 15 fishing holes, all but one listed as “trout” under “Kind of Fish.” The Piscataquis River was only
a half mile walk away, Bald Mountain Stream a six-mile walk, Crocker Pond a 10-mile walk, and Ordway Pond a fivemile walk.
The B&A bumped up its fishing-hole numbers by including some popular spots in the listings for adjacent whistle-stops. Ordway Pond appeared among the 12 “Waters Reached” listed for Shirley (no accommodations). But Mainstream (trout) was practically beside the station, Gold Brook (trout) a mile away, and Indian Pond (togue and trout) a seven-mile jaunt by team and on foot.
Today the six-mile section of former B&A right of way from Shirley to Greenville Junction is popular with ATVers, snowmobilers, and mountain bikers. Anglers headed north to the Junction ‘way back then could look out the passenger-car windows and see prospective fishing holes, and water
still abounds along the southern three miles or so of this section.
The Bangor & Aroostook identified 26 “Hotels and Camps” where anglers could stay in Greenville and distant points. The Piscataquis Exchange was a quarter mile jaunt by team from the B&A wharf in the Junction, the Lily Bay House 12 miles up the east side of Moosehead Lake.
Steamboats provided the only access to Camp Greenleaf on Sugar Island, Maynard’s Camps in Rockwood, The Mount Kineo (20 miles up Moosehead Lake), the Thorofare Camps, and the West Outlet Camps.
Anglers exiting the B&A at Greenville Junction had to board a Canadian Pacific Railway train to reach Attean Camps (42 miles away), the Outlet House & Camps (11 miles away), the Heald Pond Camps (50 miles), and the Crocker Lake Camps (54 miles).
Today anglers drive 18 miles on the Lily Bay Road from Greenville to Kokadjo (“Population Not Many”) and lovely First Roach Pond. Back in the day, Chadwick’s and Little Lyford Pond Camps in “Kokad-jo” were 30 and 33 miles away, respectively, from the Junction.
Reaching the latter destination required riding in an automobile and, of all things, a “buckboard.”
As for fishing, anglers getting off the B&A at the Junction had a choice of 28 “Waters Reached.” Moosehead Lake (togue, trout, and salmon) was right there, Indian Pond (trout) a four-mile walk away, and Upper Wilson Pond (trout) only five miles east by team.
Anglers casting their lines farther afield could take a steamboat 24 miles to Moose River (togue, trout, and salmon) and the Canadian Pacific 18 miles to Benson Pond (trout), 41 miles to
Wood Pond (trout and salmon), and 42 miles to Attean Lake (trout). Combinations of auto, steamboat, boat, walk, “and carry” reached other fishing holes. Chesuncook Lake (togue, trout, salmon, and whitefish) was 50 miles north and east via a steamboat to Lily Bay, a vehicle ride through the forest to Chesuncook’s outlet, and another steamboat cruise up that lake. Distances to other fishing holes ran 54, 57, and 58 miles; thinking that wealthy out-ofstate rustics knew not a whit about local geography, B&A marketers padded the Greenville list with place names better associated with the Millinocket Region.
To which, by the way, the railroad also transported anglers.
All aboard!
A MUST READ!!!
and preserve the United States. Maine At War Volume 1 draws on diaries, letters, regimental histories, newspaper articles, eyewitness accounts, and the Official Records to bring the war to life in a storytelling manner that captures the time and period.
Written by Maine at War blogger and Discover Maine contributor Brian Swartz, the new book Maine At War, Volume 1: Bladensburg to Sharpsburg tells the story of Maine’s involvement in the first 18 months of the Civil War, as experienced by Maine men and women who answered the call to defend
Katahdin Iron Works
Iron ore spurred economic development near Brownville
by Brian Swartz
Arailroad conductor’s daughter — my grandmother — grew up in Brownville Junction and graduated from high school there circa 1918. Despite the Junction’s proximity, Phyllis MacKinnon never traveled to Katahdin Iron Works until I took her there in the early 1990s.
She was surprised how much history had taken place not far from her childhood home. Located on the Pleasant River 12 miles from Brownville in Piscataquis County, Katahdin Iron Works “was chartered by the legislature,” according to an 1864 newspaper account. The business owed its existence to “the iron ore — of a superior quality — found on Pleasant Mountain,” also called Ore Mountain by some sources. Maine cartographer and geologist Moses Greenleaf discovered the iron ore circa 1820. Born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, he moved with his parents to Maine when he was 13, grew up in New Gloucester, and settled in Williamsburg on the Pleasant River, upstream from the future Brownville Junction.
While exploring the surrounding region, he discovered workable slate deposits in Williamsburg and iron ore on
Pleasant Mountain. Available in “apparently inexhaustible quantities,” the ore was “of the bog variety,” lying on “the surface, about an average of four feet thick,” the 1864 newspaper reported. Analyzing the ore, “competent geologists and chemists” determined it continued “about fifty per cent” iron “in its raw state, and about seventy per cent after roasting, a degree of richness rarely equalled [sic] by any other mines in the country.”
The ore could be “easily blasted and broken into coarse lumps” for transportation to a foundry. Recognizing the ore’s potential, Samuel Smith constructed in 1841 a road from Brownville to where Pleasant River drains Silver Lake. Up went a small town around a tall blast furnace made from rocks, and 18 affiliated kilns for transforming wood to charcoal needed by the foundry.
The facility churned out about 2,000 tons of pig iron a year until Massachusetts businessman Daniel Pingree purchased the place from Smith. Pingree, whose extensive woodland purchases in Maine are controlled to this day by his descendants, “made large additions to the facilities” and raised the annual
production to “2,900 or 3,000 tons per annum.”
Pingree called his business Katahdin Iron Works, quickly dubbed “KI” by locals. “The motive power at the Works is water, and the supply is never failing,” the newspaper commented. Adjacent forests provided “an unfailing supply of charcoal, and the demand for charcoal iron is constantly on the increase.”
The “roasting” cited by the paper involved heating the iron ore to burn off sulfur dioxide. Public demand for pig iron proved insufficient to make KI profitable, so Pingree added a refinery to make wrought iron. Everything was hauled by wagon to Bangor for shipment to Boston; still losing money, Katahdin Iron Works closed in 1857.
The Civil War spurred a strong demand for iron, so KI reopened after being purchased from “Mr. Pingree’s executors.” Headed by President Edward G. Tileston of Boston and Treasurer Wales R. Stockbridge of Boston, the new company owned “33,000 acres acres of land, most of it heavily wooded,” around KI.
The investors restarted the foundry to produce “iron … of excellent quality
for foundry uses,” especially for manufacturing artillery shells, shrapnel (a type of shell), “rails for horse-railroads, and … excellent stove-plates and other castings.”
On-site facilities at KI included “a sawmill, foundry, dwelling houses, barns, stables, stores, offices, hotel, chapel, &c,” the newspaper claimed. Iron still traveled by wagon to Bangor, reached in the 1850s by the Maine Central Railroad, and transportation costs to Bangor were $5 to $6 per ton.
Even in 1864, the new owners dreamed about connecting to a railroad, especially one reaching “the Brownville slate quarries, which are only twelves miles from the Works.” The Bangor & Piscataquis Railroad was ultimately built from Old Town to Milo, Dover, Foxcroft, Guilford, and Greenville, the last place reached in 1884.
The Maine-owned Piscataquis Iron Works Company ultimately took over KI in 1876, and four years later a 19mile rail line (Bangor & Katahdin Iron Works Railway) was constructed from Milo to the iron works. An approximately five-mile section along the West Branch of the Piscataquis River outside Brownville Junction survives as the Katahdin Iron Works Rail Trail.
With loggers traveling farther afield to harvest wood for the KI kilns and lower sulphur-content iron ore being discovered in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, Katahdin Iron Works became unprofitable and shut down in 1890.
Close-up of the blast furnace at Katahdin Iron Works, ca. 1984. Item # LB.2005.24.17615 from the Everett “Red” Boutilier Collection and www.PenobscotMarineMuseum.org
Having already taken over the railroad to KI, the Bangor & Piscataquis Railroad transitioned into the Bangor & Aroostook Railroad, which rebuilt the B&P RR tracks between Milo and Brownville Junction. The tracks from there to Katahdin Iron Works were taken up in 1933.
Today only a blast furnace and a charcoal kiln indicate where KI once thrived. The state preserves the property as the Katahdin Iron Works State Historic Site.
Discover Maine Magazine is published eight times each year in regional issues that span the entire State of Maine. Each issue is distributed for pick up, free of charge, only in the region for which it is published.
It is possible to enjoy Discover Maine year ‘round by having all eight issues mailed directly to your home or office. Mailings are done four times each year.
