FISHING IN NEW BRUNSWICK. 



CHAS. D. LEONARD. 



A decade ago there were dozens of rivers 

 in New Brunswick and the other Canadian 

 provinces, where the angler in moderate cir- 

 cumstances could cast a fly and lure the 

 salmon and the trout from foam-flecked 

 pool or swirling rapid. Today all this is 

 changed, and the number of rivers open to 

 anyone less than a millionaire is small and 

 yearly diminishing. 



The true angler can never be known by 

 the size of his wallet; and there are thou- 

 sands of the truest of anglers who, while 

 reading of the delights of the Cascapedia 

 or of the Restigouche, realize that those 

 pleasures are not for them; but for the 

 general public there is left at least one river 

 rivaling in the beauty of its scenery the 

 proudest stream of which our Lady of the 

 Snows can boast. It flows from a region 

 of lakes in which the largest of trout 

 abound, and is accessible for a compara- 

 tively moderate outlay. 



The canoe has been called the poor man's 

 yacht, and in one of these our trip 

 must be taken. Lying on our back 

 in the canoe, with a stalwart Indian in the 

 stern steadily poling — 



"Wait a minute," I fancy I hear my read- 

 ers exclaim ; "you said this was to be a 

 cheap trip." 



So it shall be. You have been reading 

 about the Restigouche, where the wage of 

 an Indian guide alone is $5 to $6 a day. It 

 is not so, however, in our case ; our Indian 

 friends are only too glad to work to their 

 uttermost for $2 a day, and furnish the 

 canoe in the bargain. To be sure, we 

 must supply them with food ; but provisions 

 are cheap, and with an added ration of cut 

 plug for their pipes our guides will be 

 happy. 



When I first spoke of the Tobique to an 

 acquaintance of mine, an old log driver, his 

 remarks concerning the river were not com- 

 mendatory. 



"Don't go near the Tobique," he said ; 

 "it's nothing but a nasty, crooked, little 

 stream." That description captivated me at 

 once. He looked at the river from the 

 standpoint of the river driver. I saw it 

 with an angler's eye, and knew that the 

 "nasty, crooked, little stream" might 

 prove one of the most charming aquatic 

 byways a birch had ever traveled. 



The Tobique river flows into the St. 

 John at Andover ; and at its mouth is an 

 Indian village, where guides may be ob- 

 tained. 



We left Boston, on the night express, 

 one moonlight night a few years ago and 



the next afternoon arrived at Andover, 

 where we spent the night. Our Indian 

 guides had left Andover, with the canoes 

 and luggage, 3 days before, and were to 

 await us at Riley Brook, as we intended to 

 save time by driving up the river valley 

 and meeting them there. After a comfort- 

 able night's rest at Andover, we started 

 for our 56 mile drive. It was a most en- 

 joyable ride. At times the road skirts the 

 river bank ; at other times, forsaking the 

 charming stream, it winds over the hills, 

 from whose summits wide vistas of forest 

 and mountain spread out before us. At 

 Three Brooks we stopped for lunch. We 

 joined our rods, and making a few casts 

 below a mill dam near at hand, caught the 

 first trout of the trip. It was a pleasant 

 wayside spot, but as Riley Brook, w r hich we 

 must reach before nightfall, was far away, 

 we could not tarry. 



A long ride, even through the best of 

 scenery, becomes tiresome at last, and no 

 one was sorry when, just before sunset, we 

 reached the little settlement of Riley 

 Brook. In the distance by the river bank 

 our white tents stood waiting for us, where 

 we were cordially welcomed by our guides. 

 There were 5 of them, Joe Alexander, John 

 Solis, John Moulton, Nicholas Lawler and 

 Charlie Nichols. 



The first night under canvas is often a 

 sleepless one ; but we were tired from our 

 long ride and slept soundly. We were 

 awakened at the break of day, breakfast 

 was dispatched, the duffle placed in the ca- 

 noes, and in a few minutes we were afloat 

 on the Tobique. Before noon we reached 

 the forks of the Tobique, the site of the 

 principal salmon pool of the river, where 

 we found Senator Proctor and a party of 

 his Vermont friends. They had had splen- 

 did success, having secured a large num- 

 ber of salmon. 



At the forks we took the left hand 

 branch, or Little Tobique, which we as- 

 cended to reach Nictor lake. Soon after 

 leaving the salmon pool we saw evidence 

 that we were approaching a big game coun- 

 try. Moose sign abounded on every hand, 

 while sometimes, as we poled around a 

 point in the river, we saw a moose drink- 

 ing at the w r aterside or wading in the 

 stream. We soon learned to keep our 

 cameras always in readiness for these 

 glimpses of wild life. More than one 

 moose is roaming the Tobique wilderness 

 today little dreaming that the sensitive film 

 has trapped his likeness as he stood gazing, 

 half in alarm and half in curiosity, at the 



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