CANOEING ON THE MICHIGAMME. 



C, E. 13KRRY. 



A few years ago there was no finer canoe- 

 ing trip in the country than a run down the 

 Michigamme river, one of the most beauti- 

 ful streams of the upper peninsula of 

 Michigan. That part of the country was 

 then too remote from civilization to make 

 the Michigamme a profitable stamping 

 ground for the professional hunter, but 

 with the building up of towns on the Men- 

 nominee iron range the stream became a 

 favorite with that class of men who are 

 without the instincts of true sportsmen, but 

 kill for market. Shortly after the advent 

 of the professional hunters came the hardy 

 lumbermen. The hungry saws at the mouth 

 of the Menominee river had to be fed, and 

 under the telling blows of the lumber- jack's 

 axe acre after acre of the grand old pines 

 that lined both banks was brought to earth 

 to appease their insatiable appetites. The 

 first time I made the run this devastating 

 process had not begun, and the country was 

 as nature had designed it. The Menominee 

 river and its tributary streams were a 

 sportsman's paradise. 



Putting our boat in at Republic, we start- 

 ed on a 75-mile run down stream, to where 

 the Michigamme forms a junction with the 

 Menominee, and in a few hours we were 

 beyond all signs of civilization. The water 

 was just deep enough in most places to run 

 our boat over without dragging on the bot- 

 tom. The current carried us along at the 

 rate of 4 miles an hour, without any assist- 

 ance on our part other than to keep the 

 canoe clear of sunken deadheads and rocks. 



We would pass beautiful grassy slopes 

 that skirted the shores, our boat scarcely 

 moving, so sluggish was the water. Then 

 in a moment we would be caught in the 

 rapids and whirled between high walls of 

 granite that shot up almost perpendicularly 

 100 feet. These great palisades were 

 richly crowned with mighty pines. Then 

 would be seen places where nature had 

 been twisted out of shape by a hidden vol- 

 canic force, which, with a last mighty effort 

 had turned hills on edge, leaving their 

 high, inaccessible, rocky sides as lasting 

 monuments to its awful power. Here and 

 there massive knobs of basaltic rock 

 showed, by a reddish stain, a hidden deposit 

 of iron ore. 



Every mile or 2 our boat would go spin- 

 ning round and round in big eddies. The 

 anchor would be lowered, our fishing lines 

 cast, and such a reward ! The fly would 

 scarcely touch the water when there would 

 be a splash, and the reel would begin to 

 click, click, faster than one can think. Then 



would commence a battle royal ; an inch 

 gained, then lost again. The fight would 

 go on until the silk line and the mechanism 

 of the reel would win, and the gamiest of 

 all fresh water fishes, a brook trout, would 

 be floundering in the bottom of the boat. 

 And what trout they were ! Some of them 

 weighed not less than 2>V 2 pounds, with 

 flesh as firm as an athlete's muscles. 



At every turn in the river we saw 

 deer ; some of them gamboling in the 

 water, others feeding leisurely on the ten- 

 der grass that grew in the bottom of the 

 stream. Sometimes they were in 2's or 4's, 

 and again there were 12 or more in a 

 banch. They sometimes stood staring at 

 us until the boat almost touched them. 

 Then with a bound or 2 they would gain 

 the edge of the woods and watch us until 

 we were lost to sight around the next bend. 

 In one afternoon's run we counted no less 

 than 52 deer. Had I the wizard pen of a 

 Longfellow I could not find words to do 

 justice to the charming pictures they made. 



But how different was the trip I made 

 a few years later. The trout had all but 

 disappeared from the brown waters of the 

 river. The few remaining deer did not 

 stand staring at us with a look of wonder 

 in their great brown eyes, but went bound- 

 ing out of sight at the first glimpse of 

 our approaching boat. There were plenty 

 of signs that there were still a sufficient 

 number of these beautiful animals to attract 

 the professional hunter, for between the 

 Fence and Deer rivers, a distance of 5 

 miles, we saw the decaying carcasses of 9 

 deer, stripped of their pelts, lying on the 

 shores of the Michigamme. Some of them 

 were monster old bucks, others little suck- 

 ling fawns ; but all had been killed by one 

 man, who bartered away his little soul for 

 the pittance of silver he received for the 

 hides of these gentle creatures. 



Michigan was tardy in recognizing the 

 fact that the deer in the uoper peninsula 

 need protection, but is trying hard to make 

 up for the neglect, and now has good game 

 laws. Despite these, however, and the 

 vigilance of the game wardens, the pro- 

 fessional hunter still thrives. 'Tis true with 

 not such great success as in former years, 

 but he is still much in evidence. One of 

 these hunters is reported to have killed no 

 less than 72 deer during the summer of 

 1898. 



But the absence of the game is the least 

 noticeable change in the aspect of that 

 country. The immense forests of pine that 

 once adorned the banks of the river and 



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