TROLLING FOR BASS 83 



The French River broadened out to a mile in places, 

 and disclosed magnificent bays bordered with pines 

 and tamaracks. Its course was a complete puzzle. 

 There were a number of these expansions in every 

 reach, in places biting into the forest for half a mile, 

 then sweeping round overlapping islands. It was a 

 maze to all but the experienced boatman. I found 

 myself speculating on the true course amongst the 

 openings, but unsuccessfully. Sometimes it lay to 

 the right, at others to the left, a sharp turn here, 

 a forward and back there. But Ellick never erred ; 

 true as magnet to the pole, his native instinct guided 

 him. Often I thought he was caught napping, as 

 we found ourselves in a cul de sac, but the Indian 

 had made a detour, and a big mellifluous voice, 

 eloquent in the Ojibwa tongue, would whisper, 

 "Lunge," " bazz," softening the sibilant into the music 

 of the mother tongue. " Big rock-bazz," and sure 

 enough as the spoon drew near to the granite clififi 

 the reel would scream, and high out of the water 

 the bass would spring, made captive by the bait. 



Higher up the river, the forest became less dense, 

 and there were occasional clearings, probably the 

 effect of winter floods, where the river overflowed 

 and drowned the trees along its banks. In the 

 background they showed again, massed in unbroken 

 phalanxes. Crowned with dwarf pines and poplars, 

 island rocks stood forth in midstream, their white 

 quartz seams clearly showing, and their fissures 



