There are those who say that there's no real wilderness left in Maine. But to the average city dweller, these woods do indeed seem like a wild kingdom. Thousands of acres of uninhabited forest surround the camp, thick with cedar, spruce, balsam, sugar maple, beech, and yellow birch. The streams are choking with trout. A field guide's worth of woodland creatures inhabits the region. We hadn't been at West Branch for an hour when we saw our first moose, wading nonchalantly in the pond—we were eating lunch in the pine-paneled lodge dining room at the time—and in the next couple of days, without trying very hard, we saw chipmunks, deer, ducks, and indigo buntings—not to mention at least a dozen more moose. The only jarring note is the pattern of clear-cuts in the distance, zigzag tracks gouged out of the densely wooded mountain. West Branch, like most fishing camps in this part of the state, sits on paper-company land.