THE FIRST FLY ON A NEW STREAM. 



E. HICKSON. 



The firm I worked for had a water mill 

 on the Caraguet river, which empties into 

 the Bay Chaleur, in Northern New Bruns- 

 wick. Our manager at Caraguet had told 

 us at different times that French people 

 who lived on or near another stream called 

 the Pokemouche, had brought in large trout, 

 some weighing over 5 pounds. For a long 

 time I had been promising myself the pleas- 

 ure of casting a fly in the Pokemouche. I 

 knew it was a larger stream than the Cara- 

 guet and we got fine trout on that. I was 

 certain the Pokemouche had never been 

 fished with a fly, so one day in September 

 a friend and I found ourselves at the Cara- 

 guet mill on the way to the Pokemouche, 

 and a great time we had getting there. 



We had brought with us a small tent, 

 blankets, and a bark canoe, which with pro- 

 visions for a week we intended taking 

 through the woods to the stream we were 

 in search of. 



The French people said there was a good 

 road about 4 miles and after that we must 

 follow an old lumber road which might and 

 might not bring us to the Pokemouche. 



The night we arrived at Caraguet mill 

 we loaded our tent, canoe and other things 

 on a cart, and early next morning started 

 on the trail. We had 2 good men with 

 us, Richard Brauch and James Power. 



The first 4 miles proved easy and the 

 horses made good headway. Then we struck 

 into the forest by a partly cut out trail. 

 The horses struggled along about 2 miles, 

 after which we concluded to send them 

 back, as we had to cut many trees to make 

 room for the wagon and the men said it 

 would be. easier to carry the canoe and lug- 

 gage the remaining 3 miles. 



It was by this time about 11 o'clock, so 

 w T e boiled the kettle and after a snack the 

 men shouldered the canoe, my friend and 

 I cut a pole, piled as much as we could 

 carry into the tent and swung it on our 

 shoulders. 



We were young and strong but we had a 

 heavy load and had to rest every 15 or 20 

 minutes. Grouse were plentiful and I had 

 with me a 22 rifle with which I knocked 

 down 12 of them as we struggled along. 



At 4 o'clock in the afternoon we found 

 ourselves in a cedar swamp and it took the 

 best part of an hour to disentangle the party 

 and reach high ground. Perspiring and 

 tired we reached a hardwood ridge and 

 after a short rest began what we rightly 

 concluded was the downward trend of 

 ground to the river. We were soon fol- 

 lowing a brook which must lead us to the 

 Pokemouche and at dusk we struggled out 



on an old log brow and cheered as we saw 

 a beautiful stream below us. 



Alders grew down to the narrow beach 

 of the stream at this point and I saw a 

 deep pool below us where a big elm tree 

 had fallen nearly to the water's edge and 

 lodged. As the men hurried to put up 

 the tent and make a fire I longed for one 

 cast. I had a stiff rod which screwed to- 

 gether in the middle. I quickly set this up, 

 attached my reel, and not waiting to put on 

 a casting line, merely snipped on a red 

 bodied fly, with white wings, which is my 

 favorite evening fly, by one strand of gut. 



Standing on the trunk of the elm I man- 

 aged to drop the fly directly under it. I do 

 not think the fly was in the water one sec- 

 ond, until there was a mighty splash which 

 even the men at the tent heard, and which 

 brought my friend running toward me. 



The reel made music to cheer the heart of 

 a weary angler, and away up stream went 

 the big fish. I had not bargained for this. 

 The alders prevented me from following, 

 as I could not raise my rod above them, 

 and it was impossible to get down to the 

 narrow beach. In fact, in many places there 

 was no beach, as the alders grew right out 

 into the stream. 



Before I knew what had happened the 

 fish had fully 60 feet of line out. Then he 

 turned and came toward me. Fortunately 

 he was well hooked, and kept toward the 

 opposite bank of the stream, but just as he 

 reached the tree he evidently made for 

 'his old hole under the trunk of the elm 

 and dashed past me. I managed, I know 

 not how, with my friend's help, to get the 

 rod passed under the elm by which time 

 the big trout was away down stream, and 

 risking the chance of a ducking I climbed 

 further out on the tree, straightened up my 

 rod, and gave him the butt. I was all right 

 now if I could only keep him away from the 

 alders on both sides of the stream, for I 

 could see where the pool shoaled away over 

 a gravelly bed about 100 feet below ; so after 

 a struggle I felt rather than saw, as it was 

 almost dark, that I had my fish snubbed. 

 Up he came, fighting every inch of the way, 

 and doing his best to reach the shade of the 

 alders. I feared he might take a notion to 

 go up stream, under the tree again, so I 

 eased him up in the deep water below, and 

 played him there until I had him tired 

 out. 



The next thing was to get the fish ashore. 

 The bank of the stream was fully 25 feet 

 high, covered thickly with alders and there 

 was no path visible. However, Dick took 

 his axe and cut a way for himself down 



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