Trail and Camp-Fire 



branched forth from civilization into the wil- 

 derness. 



It required three days' hard rowing to reach 

 the Upper Birchy Pond. Our flotilla consist- 

 ed of two eighteen-foot dories, railroaded for 

 us from Bay of Islands, and a light Peter- 

 borough canoe, kindly loaned by young Mr. 

 Reed. My father chose this latter for his flag- 

 ship, and I paddled him, while into the two 

 transports were loaded our complete outfit, 

 together with our old Rocky Mountain guide, 

 Mr. Keller, two hunters, three packers, the 

 cook, and a Newfoundland puppy of masto- 

 dontic proportions. 



I have never seen more ideal watercourses 

 for trout or salmon, and despite the lateness 

 of the season we had no difficulty in supply- 

 ing the pan with an abundance of both. Only 

 the smaller salmon took the fly ; but we knew 

 the big fellows lurked beneath our keels, for 

 frequently, from some swirling pool at the 

 foot of a rapid, one would shoot a clear two 

 feet into the air, and fall gleaming back again 

 with resounding slap. Then we would hun- 

 grily watch the circle ripples run apart and 

 lap on either bank, and a yearning would fill 



our hearts. 



280 



