ADVENTURES AND MISADVEN 

 TURES OF A SALMON-ANGLER 



Streamside Vexations and Camp-fire Vagaries 

 BY CHARLES A. BRAMBLE 



FTER all, there is but one 

 kind of fishing that is worth 

 the doing. Of course, there is 

 lots of fun to be had on a 

 trout-stream, and we all know 

 that the bass, especially he of 

 the small mouth, is the idol 

 of many a man, but if you 

 have once enjoyed salmon- 

 fishing as it should be, all the 

 rest will seem tame and 

 insipid, and after having 

 fished for Salmo salar on either side of the 

 Atlantic, it seems to me that, without doubt, 

 in Canadian fishing we have the very best 

 that this world can offer. 



It's a pity that New Brunswick has -let her 

 rivers down. Twenty years ago one could 

 have caught salmon in her streams until the 

 back ached and the arms became numb, for 

 in those days the Nepisiguit and the Miri- 

 michi were well stocked. There are fish in 

 the former stream to-day, but the latter is 

 hardly worthy of mention, owing to the out- 

 rageous violation of all fisheries laws by 

 natives. • 



What glorious days were those we passed 

 on the Nepisiguit, and although luck was 

 checkered, somehow it's always the bright 

 days that stand forth on the pages of mem- 

 ory, while we forget the dull ones. For 

 instance: what if we camped a full fourteen 

 days by the Rough Waters, which is the 

 first beat above the tide, and never raised a 

 fin, and only the most praiseworthy perse- 

 verance brought the reward on the fifteenth, 

 when a salmon and two grilse were brought 

 to gaff — after which the fickle dame smiled 

 and the rod was often arched. Now looking 

 back upon that summer, those fourteen days 

 of dreary waiting are bridged over and in 

 fancy I am again running tearing rapids, 



with John in the bow and Luke in the stern 

 and a whacking big salmon giving the fisher- 

 man all the excitement he cared for. Run- 

 ning a rapid and playing a fish at the same 

 time is heroic sport. 



Then there is that adventure in the Red 

 Pine pool. Some more fortunate individual 

 had the recognized fishing station on the 

 west side of the Flat Rock pool, and fishing 

 it on the east side was quite a different mat- 

 ter. In the first place, the angler had to 

 scramble down some steep cliffs, at the risk 

 of breaking his neck; then, to discard the 

 regular cast in favor of that known as the 

 " switch," which isn't half such good fun, 

 and lastly, when a fish was hooked, there was 

 about one chance in ten of saving it. 



My experience had been a series of mis- 

 fortunes. I had been broken so many times 

 that, becoming desperate, I resolved to fol- 

 low the next salmon down to the sea, if 

 necessary, rather than put too heavy a strain 

 on my tackle in attempting to snub him. 

 After much cogitation and a careful study 

 of the ground, my two Indians stationed 

 themselves on the top of the bank, so I could 

 pass the rod to them, and then scramble up 

 myself and follow the fish. This meant 

 quick work, as it does not take a salmon 

 long to run out a hundred yards of line, 

 especially when he is going with the current. 

 The morning after our plans had been per- 

 fected I was down to the pool early ; in fact, 

 the mist was not yet off the water; and, as 

 all old fishermen know, fish do not generally 

 rise to the fly until it has dissipated. Even 

 summer mornings are often raw and cold in 

 northern New Brunswick, and crouching 

 under the lee of a boulder, trying to get 

 some warmth out of my pipe, I was startled 

 by a stone, flung so as to just miss my foot. 

 Looking to the edge of the cliff, I saw Luke 



