24 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[July 15, 1893. 



CAMPS ON THE MANITOWISH.-II. 



[Concluded from page i.] 



Next morning the guides had the fire going and the 

 coffee boiling early, and we were soon packing up to hunt 

 a new camping place. Our carefully made balsam beds 

 were left for the porcupines, if they wanted them. The 

 handy table, with its big piece of green hemlock bark 

 stretched over its rude framework (the quickest way to 

 make a smooth camp table), with log so conveniently 

 beside it, finer to sit on than any Turkish couch you ever 

 saw, the pretty view of the placid lake (fraud of a lake), 

 were soon left behind. 



With a portage over the dam, a struggle among the 

 rocks and through the grass and mud of the creek, we 

 were back once more in the river and trying to get further 

 away from civilization. Ira, Sam, Doc and Charlie were 

 ahead. When the rest of us rounded a bend a mile down 

 we found them perched on a big mass of granite boulders 

 at the water's edge. Their faces were each six inches 

 shorter than when they left us an hour before. The reels 

 were singing, and as we drew near we could hear the flap 

 of a big tail as the big bass and j)ike they had already 

 caught floundered about in the bottoms of their boats. 

 Tom and I pushed the nose of our boat between two 

 boulders and proceeded to take a hand, or a couple of 

 them, in the furious fun. And here I pause or hurry to 

 relate a curious though not altogether novel experience, 

 Tom and I were using the same kind of rods, the same size 

 and color of line, hooks just alike, frogs which looked like 

 twins. Sometimes he would cast in above me and some- 

 times I would cast in above him. In a very little while I 

 had an even dozen of good big lusty wall-eyed pike 

 stowed away under the thwarts, and Tom did not have a 

 fin, tail or scale, and Tom knows how to fish. Later in 

 the day, at another place, we had the same experience, 

 only that we changed records, the fish aU going Tom's 

 way. For some reason or other Tom seemed more cheer- 

 ful and seemed to take a brighter and more hopeful view 

 of life in the latter part of the day than he did before 

 dinner. 



Dropping down stream another mile we found Mr. M. 

 and Frank with a camping place selected where the bank 

 was low but dry. Frank had made an excellent dock by 

 staking a 6in. sapling just at the water's edge and shovel- 

 ing some dirt in behind it; simple enough but a great con- 

 venience in getting in and out of the boats. 



The first thing done was to stretch a rope between two 

 trees with the catch of the morning strung on it; the 

 Kodak was unlimbered and several shots taken at the 

 string of beauties. I mean the fish, of course, when I say 

 beauties, and do not refer to the boys who lined up be- 

 hind the string to "have their pictures took." It was an 

 hour's catch only, but the half hundred pike and small- 

 mouths weighed over a hundred pounds. It began to 

 look a little as if we were in a fish country. When din- 

 ner was at its height, and Doc asked his favorite question, 

 "Where are we atV" I think the crowd agreed that we 

 were somewhere in the neighborhood of where we wanted 

 to be. 



The tents were pitched after dinner. We had two, a 

 small A tent and a big shanty tent. We strung both of 

 them on the same stout rope stretched between two trees. 

 This is certainly the quickest and least troublesome way 

 to make a camp which is liable to be shifted every few 

 days. Fortunately there was no balsam near by for our 

 beds. While we stayed in that camp we had no "balsam 

 feather" stems to dig us in the back or get between us and 

 the "soft-as-downy-pillows-are" moss-covered bi-east of 

 old mother earth. Nothing better than this elastic, mossy 

 deposit and growth of centuries to walk on as a carpet or 

 sleep on as a mattress. 



In the afternoon we fished down the river with good 

 success. Only one thing marred our contentment— we 

 had seen very little as yet of Esox ndbilior, the wolf of 

 the waters, though we were certainly in his country. 



That night it rained — nothing x-emarkable about that; 

 but there was something remarkable about the way it 

 pom-ed down into the big tent. Tom and I had taken 

 pains with the A tent, stretching it carefully and ditch- 

 ing it well, and it shed water beautifully, though the 

 material is the lightest of duck. The way a tent is put 

 up has more to do with its being waterproof than has the 

 material it is made of. In our eagerness to get to fish- 

 ing the other tent was put up loosely, and now each fel- 

 low found out with what remarkable precision a stream 

 of water from a leaky tent can always strike a man 

 squarely between the back of his neck and his shirt col- 

 lar. If the Forest and Stream had offered its prize in 

 photography for the most pathetic picture, and we could 

 had gotten a successful shot at the group of discouraged 

 figui-es perched on heaps of wet bedding, we would have 

 taken the prize sure. 



The next day was the Sabbath. Fishing was not in 

 order, but some of the boys felt in an exploring mood; 

 we still hankered for lake fishing. One of the maps 

 showed a sheet of water near us and Sam and Kansas 

 proposed to find it in the afternoon. They were success- 

 ful and discovered one of the prettiest Mttle lakes one 

 could see. As a reward for their great personal bravery 

 in entering the unknown wilds without a commissary 

 department, and in return for the illustrious service 

 which they had rendered to the Consolidated Association 

 of Amalgamated Fishing Cranks, we named the lake 

 after them, calling it King-Sims Lake. We respectfully 

 request that all future visitors to that region give the lake 

 that name in tender memory of our hardy explorers. 



Next morning, when the sun was giving the tree tops 

 his first kiss, we started for King-Sims Lake with high 

 hopes. The boys in the first boat called out to me that 

 there was a duck close in by the shore, and to shoot it, 

 for I had brought my shotgun along from camp. I saw 

 the duck, it looked like a young teal and seemed not to 

 know enough to fly. It was but a few yards away, I 

 lifted my gun to shoot it as it sat there, but it seemed like 

 murder to throw a big charge of shot at the innocent little 

 thing. If I had thought it a full-gi-own bird the trigger 

 would have been pressed quickly enough. Sam, in the 

 next boat, saw the situation and whipping out his revolver 

 shot the bird squarely through the neck. A few yards 

 further on a sandsnipe was running along the shore, and 

 he bored a hole through it with another bullet. No one 

 after that seemed disposed to seriously question anything 



which Sam had to say. A man who could shoot Hke that 

 was entitled to a certain amoimt of respect. And we 

 afterward found that those shots were not exceptional for 

 him. We left the river a rod above the rocks where we 

 fished on Saturday morning. We had to push and pull 

 our boats up a little winding, 5ft. wide creek for a hun- 

 dred yards, and there was the lake. We shuddered to 

 think of the perils Sam and Kansas had braved in making 

 this voyage alone the day before. The lake was as clear 

 as crystal and unmarred by a ripple. It covers, perhaps, 

 400 acres with many coves and points. Mr. M. , with 

 Frank to paddle, was creeping along the farther shore. 

 The other boats were just in advance of us. But Tom and 

 I had barely dropped our spoons in the water when I had 

 a strike. It was a prime fighter — a two-poimder big- 

 mouth, fighting every inch of the way to the boat, and 

 leaping again and again clear of the water. The big- 

 mouth doesn't fight? You have never fished in the right 

 place for him if you say so, A few yards further on I 

 hooked amuscallunge. Now, amuscallunge strikes like a 

 wild broncho on a lariat. He is all there, sm-ges against the 

 hooks with his full weight and is likely to be well hooked. 

 Sometimes he will permit himself to be reeled up to the 

 boat without a struggle, but look out when you go to gaff 

 him. He will be off like a flash. He has tremendous 

 strength. If under half a dozen pounds he is apt not to 

 make a long fight. But a fish weighing from 12 to 301bs. 

 will keep a man's muscle and skill in play until both are 

 weary. Our method on getting them near the boat was 

 to shoot them. This is the best way to get them ready to 

 be taken in out of the wet. There is something terrific in 

 the struggles of a muscallunge just as he is lifted from 

 the water, unless he has first been stunned. 



That day on King- Sims Lake was a magnificent one. 

 We took 102 splendid fish. They would average at least 

 2Ubs. There were 14 muscaUunge, 41 bass and 47 pike. 

 Mr. M. was high line for the day, having 21 noble fish 

 packed in the bow of the birch canoe, among them five 

 muscallunge ranging from 6 to lOlbs. Ashe tenderly 

 lifted the ferns from them to give us younger fellows a 

 glimpse of what the senior member of the party could do 

 his smile beamed out along the lake shore like an electric 

 search light. 



That afternoon it clouded up and rained, and the fish 

 lost their interest in the glittering frauds we were drag- 

 ging behind our boats. We saw a queer sight. A pour- 

 ing rain played upon one half the lake, while the other 

 half, where we were fishing, was untouched by the 

 shower, which for a quarter of an hour struck millions of 

 hquid notes into a harmony of sweet sound. 



When we pulled up at camp and spread out the day's 

 catch it was very evident that Ed. would have to start 

 early the next morning for the railroad. We had sent 

 him on one trip already with fish for the poor folks at 

 home whom we wanted to make sorry that tliey did not 

 come along. By bringing ice down in each boat as it re- 

 turned we succeeded in sending out all our fish in good 

 condition. There was not a man in the crowd with so 

 little conscience that he could have enjoyed the sport of 

 catching these beautiful game fish, if we could not have 

 made proper use of them. The hog who goes out to catch 

 fish only to throw them out on the shore to die, ought to 

 be shot and buried under the rotten heap which he leaves 

 to defile the untainted breezes of the wilderness. 



The boys certainly got one on Doc that day at King- 

 Sims Lake. They were still-fishing near some floating 

 logs. 



"Look at that frog," said Sam. 

 "Where?" said Doc. 



"Over on that log," said Sam, "he has been there for 

 half an hour. Let's catch him for bait." 



Whereupon it was discovered that it was Doc's frog 

 which had grown tired waiting for a bite, and had 

 crawled out on the log to sun himself. Doc had won- 

 dered "why the pesky fish had stopped biting." The 

 boys spent the rest of the day explaining the matter to 

 him. 



The next day was not spent in very vigorous fishing. 

 There was at least one exciting event, however. Doc and 

 Charlie were within a stone's throw of camp, when the 

 latter had a heavy strike in very shallow water. It was a 

 big lunge, not far from a 20-pounder, for the boys had a 

 number of good views of him. Like most of the river 

 muscallunge he had been lying in the shallows just above 

 a deep pool. He stai-ted with a full head of steam on for 

 the deep hole. He ran tinder a log that was just below 

 the surface of the water, dragging out, perhaps, a hun- 

 dred feet of line, and there he hung. Neither rod nor line 

 would stand tlie strain of reefing him in, with the line 

 under the log. The big fish swashed about like a boy in a 

 "swimmin' hole" while Chai-lie yelled for the boys at the 

 camp to come with another boat and a gim. But the 

 shooting-iron an-ived too late. The big fish shook the 

 barbed wire out of his jaws at last and was off. 



Next morning Charlie, Ira and Mr. M. , a royal trio to 

 camp with, started with two of the guides for the railroad 

 and civilization. 



The rest of us delayed twenty-four hours, and then 

 struck tents, and said good-bye to the lower camp. 

 Friday night was spent on a high point about half a 

 dozen miles below Bear Creek. Tom and I took a fancy 

 to the place and stayed there till Monday. 



As usual, we lost our biggest fish. It was in the river, 

 and our boat was drifting at the edge of some weeds. 

 Tom's line was snarled, and he was trying to untangle it, 

 Three feet of it, perhaps, was hanging in the water, when 

 suddenly it began to run out. We could look down into 

 the clear water of the river and see a muscallunge with 

 frog, spoon and all in his mouth. A slight tug and the 

 hooks were firmly set in his jaws, but that alarmed him. 

 The line was kinked and would not run through the guide 

 rings. With one flirt of his tail and one toss of his head, 

 the huge fish broke the strong line as though it had been 

 a bit of cotton thread, and went away to pick the hooks 

 out of his mouth and meditate on tlie evUs of an unbridled 

 appetite. We could have touched him with an oar when 

 we first saw him. He would have weighed at least 201bs. 

 There were two mourners in our boat for an hour or two, 

 with Tom acting as chief. Then we found consolation. 

 Just above the mouth of Bear Creek, perhaps 20yds,, for 

 half an horn* we had great luck with the small-mouths. 

 Our rods were bending most of the time with these splen- 

 did fighters tugging to break them. The heaviest of the 

 lot weighed 4Kbs. and fell to Tom's rod, while none were 

 under 3lbs. The big one made a terrific fight. Rod, reel, 

 line and fisherman were all tested in that battle. But the 

 leaps into the air, the struggle for the weeds, the dives for 



the bottom a,nd all the tricks of a wily and powerful fish 

 were in vain. He was finally mastered and lay panting 

 in the bottom of the boat, a handsome prize. 



The Manitowish is certainly a beautiful stream. No 

 finer canoe trip coifld be planned than a paddle down this 

 narrow, twisting, clear-as-crj^stal stream. The maples 

 and birches crowd out on the high ridges, which run 

 down to the stream, and along these the deer make their 

 highways to the water. The soft soil on the grass-grown 

 or sandy margins was printed thick with their hoof mai'ks. 

 On a sandy point here and there, where a sharp turn was 

 made by the water, it looked as if the deer might have 

 taken a waltz, so thick were the cuttings of their feet, 

 Every few yards, in the bend of each elbow, the water is 

 from three to ten feet deep. The bushes hang down into 

 the water. Drift catches and piles up against them, and 

 here the big bass lurk. Not big-mouths, but big small- 

 mouths, that will put up such a fight as will astonish a 

 tenderfoot. 



The last Sunday in camp was one of the rare days. Tom 

 and I went to bed on Saturday about 10, well tired out, 

 and slept the clock around. The sun was high in the 

 sky when we turned out, and breakfast was a leisurely 

 affair. We felt the solitude of the place. The unbroken 

 wilderness was about us. The sweet solitude was undis- 

 turbed by man's enterprise. Its silence was unbroken 

 save by the cry and chirp and twitter of the wild things 

 that inhabit the solitary places. There was the high note 

 of the squirrel singing up in the pine tops. At long inter- 

 vals through the day a bird note would be heard. But the 

 sounds were few save the song of the pines, that weird, 

 unwearying song, which is the same under the summer's 

 Sim or the winter's clouds. The breeze, untainted with 

 the vile odors of human commimities, came to us laden 

 with the sweet smell of balsam and pine. To breathe it 

 was to drink great draughts of delight. The day was 

 spent in reading and a little talking. Not much talking, 

 though, for the river sweeping by without a whisper, the 

 soft and mellow sunshine, tlie utter absence of any human 

 sounds save those we made, invited to quiet thought rather 

 than the clack of tongues. The wind died at sunset. The 

 unweary pines were still. A solitary bird uttered a plain- 

 tive note in the woods across the river. A squirrel scolded, 

 perhaps because the day was gone, or going. Silence 

 reigned in the Avilderness, falling like a benediction upon 

 the quiet camp, and looking up through the pines we could 

 see the old familiar stars, which look down with the same 

 eternal calmness upon pines and plains and peaks and 

 seas. 



Some one had been riving out hemlock shingles, per- 

 haps for the old logging camps further down the river. 

 The rejected ones were lying in heaps a little way from 

 the tent. We brought a quantity of these for our camp- 

 fire. They made the flames leap high and dance Uke liv- 

 ing things. Stretched on our backs full length on the 

 ground, we had a splendid light for reading. We were 

 absoi'bed in a couple of books and did not notice the in- 

 creasing illumination until I happened to look ai'ound, 

 The extra pile of shingles was ablaze. The fire had 

 spread into a heap of old treetops lying near by. It was 

 running swiftly out into the woods. We saw at a glance 

 how a forest fire might start and thought we had one on 

 our hands. We instimtly organized a small but vigorous 

 fire department. Tom dashed down the bank for water. 

 I got the axe and rushed in front of the red fiend to clear 

 away the brush and logs. The flames were already leap- 

 ing up several tree trunks. The deep moss on the ground 

 was burning. But by an hour of hard work we got the 

 conflagration under control. The quiet day had ended 

 with commotion. Tired out, we went to bed, but first 

 unanimously adopted a resolution to keep a closer eye on 

 the fire thereafter. 



By the time we got our heavily loaded boat up to Bear 

 Creek on Monday it was getting cloudy, and we pitched 

 our tent on the spot first occupied on the down trip. A 

 cold rain set in, which lasted thirty-sis hours. Provisions 

 were running low, and worst of all, we suddenly discov- 

 ered that a piece of bacon, all the meat we had left, save 

 fish, had been left lying on a stump at the last camp. A 

 paU of gloom settled upon the duet. How could we 

 cook fish without grease of any kind? But I succeeded 

 in broiling a pike on a stick spUt and spread like a hand, 

 with strips of birch woven in between, and our lives were 

 prolonged. 



Our worst experience was in going up to the railroadl 

 on Wednesday. We started early in the morning, but 

 did not finish the 10 (?) miles until 5 o'clock, though using 

 four oars and pulling steadily all day. The dam, 14 miles 

 above the raihoad, had been opened, and the river cur- 

 rent was like a mill race. Before the long pull wa.s over 

 we felt the lonehness and wildness of the vast wilderness 

 so oppressively that to have seen an Indian, we agreed, 

 would have seemed hke civilization. At last we finished, 

 tlie long pull and were greeted by Joe Odgers, who had 

 furnished us our guides and boats. And I will say right 

 here that no one can do better than by putting himself 

 under Joe's direction if he wants to fish or hunt in the 

 neighborhood of Manitowish. Larson, the section boss, a 

 whole-souled fellow, took us to his house and gave us a 

 good supper. So ended a glorious trip. We heartily hope 

 to see its like again, though perhaps we will never make 

 as good a score again, for we took 460 big fish— among 

 them 52 muscallunge. We fished about six days alto- 

 gether, and that, too, in wholly unfamiliar waters. We 

 were not ashamed of our score. It was neither too large 

 nor too small. Richard Gkar Hobbs. 



The Epitaph of Bush. 



SowERBY, Ontario. — Editor Forest and Stream: I send 

 you the epitaph over my dog's grave, referred to by ' 'King- 

 fisher" in his account of Big Basswood Lake. Mr. Hick- 

 man, you wiU remember, wrote that he had mislaid his copy : 



In memoir of a true friend, pure and honest, an example to human- 

 ity, more honorable than the Star or Garter, a simple canine whose 

 remains are interred at the root of this maple tree, by its owner, G. F. 

 Dyer. 



Here lies a.dog that was almost a man, murdered by a man who was 

 almost a brute. This faithful dog 



•'Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 

 So clear to his that his virtues 

 AVill plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 

 The deep damnation of his taking off." 

 His name is Bush, a dutiful companion of his owner, murdered by a 

 Fiend 



July 26th, 1889. 

 The Dog was superior to its Aasaasin, It had a Pedigree. 



G. F. D. 



