TWO TENDERFEET IN THE GRAND DISCHARGE. 



109 



that the spasmodic stabs I was making in 

 the atmosphere, in my efforts to cast the 

 fly, were unlikely to raise a fish. Turning 

 to Morel, who was lying prone on a pine 

 log that had been thrown up by the high 

 water, I said, 



"Joe, come here and show me how to 



handle this d d pole." 



With a patience that discounted Job's, 

 Joe stood by my side and demonstrated as 

 best he could that deft movement of the 

 wrist and forearm that kept the line alive 

 as it whizzed back and forth through the 

 air and dropped the fly in the turbulence 

 beyond, cleverly drawing it through the 

 creamy scum that the counter cur- 

 rents form in spots here and there, under 

 which the ouananiche lie in ambush for 

 the insect life that comes down through 

 the rapids and gathers in eddies on the 

 surface. I soon caught on, and before 

 long was making respectable casts, saw- 

 ing the line, shuttlelike, back and forth 

 with my left hand as I drew the fly through 

 the water. Meanwhile I had got soaking 

 wet from the waist down, from the in- 

 cessant dashing and surging of the swell 

 thrown out by the furious rapids a few 

 yards beyond. 



I had 3 or 4 rises, but either was not 

 quick enough with the rod or was too 

 quick with the reel, and the gamy fighter 

 would get away every time. Several times 

 Joe took the rod to relieve my tired arm 

 and every time he did so he would get a 

 strike, after which he would magnanimous- 

 ly put the rod in my hands for me to 

 land what was invariably a well hooked 

 fish. That was all right, but I was get- 

 ting tired of that sort of attention, even 

 though an amateur of amateurs. With a 

 determination to do or die I once more 

 took the rod, and did not yield it again 

 that afternoon. 



It was nearly 5 o'clock when I made my 

 first strike that held fast, and I was 

 more than proud. Morel scooped a 

 handsome 3 pound fish into the landing 

 net at the end of a 20 minute fight. 

 I caught 3 more before we quit, and we 

 returned to the Island House with 9 beau- 

 ties, 4 of which were to my credit. I lost 

 fully a dozen during the afternoon, which 

 in all probability a more experienced an- 

 gler would have landed. Mrs. Wife was 

 surprised to see the result of the after- 

 noon's sport, which averaged 2 pounds 

 each, and still more surprised to learn 

 that I had hooked my share; all of which, 

 together with the undue attention which 

 the blackflies had devoted to her during 

 her half day's sojourn alone, settled the 

 question of her accompanying me in the 

 morning. 



Shortly after 7 o'clock the next morning 



we embarked for a 10 mile sail in the 

 canoe, old Joe in the stern, young Joe in 

 the bow, my wife and me back to back. 

 The wind was blowing stiffly and we scud- 

 ded down the first 3 or 4 miles of the Dis 

 charge, in the center of a swift though 

 smooth current. It is difficult to describe 

 the sensation of shooting over the water in 

 a bark so fragile that it seems to draw 

 scarcely an inch of water. The rapidity of 

 the descent and the smooth, oily surface of 

 the unbroken current created the impres- 

 sion that invisible hands were reaching up 

 from below to drag the canoe under. 



There were 2 short, sharp rapids to be 

 run before the portage around the grande 

 chute is reached. These the guides will 

 run willingly with one passenger, but not 

 with 2. Each of these rapids involves a 5 

 minute walk through the woods on the 

 mainland. These were taken by my wife 

 and me in turn, while the canoe shot around 

 and clown with the other. Following the 

 channel of the discharge a few miles far- 

 ther down, across the stream from and be- 

 low the long portage of the previous day, 

 we arrived at the head of the grande chute, 

 at the foot of which we fished the day be- 

 fore and whither we were again bound, 

 although I had no idea at the time just 

 how we were to get there in a canoe. 

 This portage is a comfortable footpath, 

 cut through the woods and about a mile 

 long. There, for the first time, we saw 

 the birch bark canoe hoisted on the should- 

 ers of the guide, young Joe. He trotted 

 off with it, while we came after with old 

 Joe, who carried the rods and the lunch- 

 eon. We could hear the roar of the rap- 

 ids as we walked, but could not see them 

 for the dense underbrush. Soon we were 

 at the end of the portage and the canoe 

 was put down on the margin of a beauti- 

 ful cove with as picturesque a beach of 

 fine sand as may be found along the At- 

 lantic coast. 



Then we reembarked, amid the roar of 

 the rapids, which was still in our ears, 

 though we could not see the waters. A 

 few swift strokes of the paddle and we 

 rounded a point, which took us in full 

 view of the rapids themselves and the im- 

 mense boulders from which we had fished, 

 the day before on the opposite side of an 

 expansive bay about 34 of a mile wide, 

 which had been worn away by the unceas- 

 ing action of the waters in their mad plung- 

 ing through the rapids of the grande chute. 

 A strong desire to turn back filled me for 

 an instant, but there was no time for ar- 

 gument, as we were already well on our 

 way across the bay, and thereby to a cer- 

 tain extent dispersed the fearful force of 

 the rapids which had created it. Ten min- 

 utes more and we were in the midst of 



