Aug. 35, 1894.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
188 
DAYS AT OKOBOJI. 
June 22 was selected as the day for starting on our trip; 
rather late for good fishing, but as George could not leave 
his business sooner we made the best of it. My "young 
hopeful," having made the acquaintance of the train men, 
elected to ride on the engine, where he amused himself 
by blowing the whistle most of the way. We arrived at 
the lake at 3 P. M., and by supper time we had our five 
tents up, beds made, and with appetites sharpened by the 
fresh air as well as our labors, we needed no second call 
to the dining tent, where smoking hot we found a dish of 
fresh fish, caught by young hopeful, aged seven. It was 
the first meal in camp of "The Kickers" of '94. 
Four o'clock Saturday morning found George and my- 
self stirring, and after a refreshing plunge in the lake, we 
started in to finish up the remaining things necessary to 
establish our housekeeping. Among these was cleaning 
out the cellar — a large box we have sunk in the ground 
and with a cover on hinges, in which we keep our supply 
of ice, butter, cream, and such fish as we catch. We 
found it in good repair, though well filled up with leaves 
and dirt, the accumulation of the past winter. 
After breakfast we decided that the next thing in order 
was to get a boat into Lake Minnewashti (popularly called 
Middle Gar Lake) with as little delay as possible. This is 
one of a chain of small lakes connected with Okoboji and 
very popular with us, for in it we have always met with 
fine success. Bass and pickerel are in abundance, with a 
fair sprinkling of wall-eyed pike as well. By a short cut 
through the woods it is not over a quarter of a mile from 
our camping grounds; but by water it is fully six miles, 
and for about one-third of the way through an almost 
impenetrable mass of water vegetable, that makes life a 
burden to him who attempts the passage. On this account 
we always leave one boat there during our entire stay at 
the lake. In the trip around we pass under four bridges, 
two of which are usually so close to the water that we 
have to lie in the bottom of the boat in order to get 
through; this year, however, being exceptionally dry, we 
found the lakes at least four feet lower than usual. Lower 
Gar Lake we found completely choked up with weeds, so 
much so that the water was only visible in a few small 
patches, and at the entrance of this lake we found our- 
selves at 10 A. M. , a broiling hot sun beating down and 
rapidly blistering arms and faces. Through it we had to 
go, however. 
By dint of hard work we at length found an opening 
that carried up beyond the outlet and into somewhat 
more open water, though still so dense with weeds that 
we had to use our oars as paddles, and after three hours 
hard work we managed to get through and into the open 
water of Middle Gar. 
This lake is about two miles long and a little over a 
mile wide, with heavily wooded shores, full of bays and 
promontories and a perfect gem of beauty. Owing to its 
inaccessibility by boat it is fished but little, and one is 
reasonably sure of good sport. 
Thoroughly tired out from our struggle through the 
weeds, we stretched ourselves out under the trees. Then 
we rigged our rods for the first time and gently rowed 
along the shady side of the lake— up and back again, 
alternately casting and taking turns at the oars, rewarded 
for our efforts with only three small black bass of a pound 
each and one wall-eyed pike of 3|lbs. 
We returned to camp by the short cut, arriving about 
5 P.M., hot, tired and hungry, and as it proved none too 
soon. I had just stepped into our tent, but an urgent 
call from George made me rush out. I found George 
frantically searching for an axe, hammer, or anything 
else with which to drive down tent pegs. He pointed up 
the lake; and there I saw a sight that started me to 
hustling on my own account; coming down the lake and 
bearing directly toward the camp was a wall of water 
and foam several feet high. It was the worst storm we 
had ever seen on these lakes; and here were the tents 
all open and things scattered around promiscuously, and 
just right to blow everything clear across the State. 
Before we could do a thing the storm was upon us, the 
wind blowing with the fury of a tornado, the trees bend- 
ing like reeds before its might, the rain pouring down in 
torrents and those tents flapping in a mad dance with the 
elements. In less time than it" takes to tell it, George and 
I were drenched to the skin and the water running out of 
our shoes at every opening. We soon had the tent flaps 
down and then commenced a rapid scramble from one 
peg to the other, varied by an occasional excursion after 
some of our household goods that the wind carried away. 
The ground had been very dry and crumbly; and with a 
perversity worthy of a better cause those pegs kept 
pulling out with painful regularity; one tent in particular, 
the oldest in the lot, insisted on rising like a balloon, and 
was only restrained from soaring over the tree tops by 
the corner ropes made fast to convenient trees. My wife, 
who viewed the whole panorama from the end of our 
tent, says that for the wild grandeur she never witnessed 
a more beautiful scene than that storm-tossed lake. 
George and I, however, were too busy with our tent pegs 
to think of anything else, save to give an occasional 
glance of apprehension as some huge branch came top- 
pling down, or a near-by tree gave way and measured its 
length on earth before the fury of the blast. Fortunately 
for us it passed away as suddenly as it had come; and as 
the sun came out beneath the banked up clouds, causing 
countless thousands of diamonds to flash forth from the 
rain-kissed leaves, we sought the seclusion of our tents 
and dry apparel. 
Just as supper was cleared away, from out the darkness 
came a shout, and by the aid of a lantern we discovered 
a team tangled up in the fallen tree tops. It proved to 
contain the rest of our party — my brother-in-law, his 
wife and eleven-year-old daughter, just arrived from hot 
and dusty St. Louis. 
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear and the sum 
found us all in conclave, gravely discussing the moment- 
ous question of wherewithal we should be fed. 
On Phil had fallen the responsibility of purchasing our 
main supply of provisions. With childlike innocence he 
had intrusted them to an express company, and here we 
were ten miles from town (and the express office closed 
besides), and nothing between us and starvation save a- 
sack of flour, a little coffee and a stray package or so of 
salt. 
We ate waffles for breakfast, though how they were' 
evolved from our scanty supplies remains a dark mystery 
saf ely locked in the bosom of our cook. 
After that substantial meaf we resolved ourselves into 
a committee of the whole to discuss ways and means of 
averting the threatened famine; the outcome was that 
George and myself were detailed to forage for meat and 
anything else we could lay hands on, and with strict in- 
junctions to return empty-handed at our peril. Taking 
one of the larger boats and a cold waffle or two under our 
arms we sallied forth with a do-or-die expression on our 
classic faces, as determined a pair of pot-hunters as ever 
lived. The day proved uncommonly hot, the wind vari- 
able and the fishes better observers of the day than we. 
Along toward the middle of the afternoon we returned, 
hot, tired and hungry, but flushed with victory, for in our 
boat we had about 501bs. of fish of assorted kinds, shapes 
.and sizes. On starting out George had announced in a 
determined voice, "Billy, everything goes," and go it did 
— everything was fish that came to our landing net, in- 
cluding a venerable fowl that had roamed from home. 
"The Kickers" now being all in camp, an introduction is 
in place. First, George S. and wife (from that thriving 
metropolis of the Northwest, St. Paul, and as ardent a 
sportsman as ever wet a line or shoved a tight shell into a 
gun), Miss B. of Sioux City, Phil P , wife and daughter, 
of St. Louis, the writer, his wife and young son, claiming 
St. Louis as home, Lizzie, the cook, and last but not least, 
Sam, a red Irish setter and the property of George, a vet- 
eran of ten years' work afield, old and deaf as a post, but 
still able to give the younger generation of dogdom a few 
pointers on the art of finding birds. It was my intention 
to bring my own dog, a three-year-old Irish setter, with 
me, but Sport is like his master, somewhat given to roam- 
ing, and is at present taking an outing on his own ac- 
count, and as his post-office address is unknown, we had 
to leave without him. 
Monday morning found George and myself as usual up 
before the sun, and leaving the sleeping camp behind us 
we soon pushed our boat out in Gar Lake. All around us 
we could hear the pleasant song of birds, just arousing to 
greet the awakening day; a gentle ripple stirred the 
water, while here and there a great swirl showed some 
hungry bass was foraging for his morning meal; over all 
the merry voice of Bob White piped loud and clear from 
every side, and just tinging the sky with crimson and 
gold came old Sol, smiling a warm good morning to the 
wild flowers that perfumed the air. 
Leisurely rowing along and paying more attention to 
nature than to fishing, we passed entirely around the 
lake, pausing here and there to cast into some favorite 
spot, now into a deep bay thickly grown with moss, and 
again close beside some steep and rocky bank, under the 
shade of leafy oaks and drooping willows, catching an 
occasional bass and pickerel and drinking deeply of the 
beauty of the scene. Thus we passed two delightful 
hours. Our catch, though large neither in size or num- 
bers, still repaid us for our time; though indeed had we 
had never a fish neither would have thought the trip un- 
profitable. 
When we first started out I had had a vigorous strike 
that did not hook, and repeated casts failed to again 
arouse him, and now as we neared our landing place I 
suggested trying the spot once more. We rowed to the 
place, a small bay having a steep rocky shore k line, and 
getting our boat near the center cast in all directions for 
several minutes without success and concluded that our 
friend of the bronze back was not at home. As I care- 
lessly reeled in the final cast the bait was seized with a 
jerk that almost took the rod out of my hand, and with a 
rush that caused the reel to sing a merry tune out went 
twenty-five or thirty yards of line directly toward a 
dense bed of moss and weeds. Once he got in there I 
knew that I stood a good chance of losing my prize, so I 
jammed my thumb down hard on the spool with a force 
that made the pliant little six-ounce bethabara tie itself 
into bow-knots. The maneuver had the desired effect 
and brought the fish to the surface and out of the water 
nearly two feet. Down again he went with a rush in a 
new direction, this time directly at and under the boat, 
calling for lively movements to save my tackle from de- 
struction. By this time George had rowed me out into 
deeper and open water, and I had things more my own 
way. I reeled in time and again, only to lose the line as 
rapidly, as he rushed about, now sulking at the bottom 
and again high in the air, and dancing a hornpipe on his 
tail as he tried to shake the hook from his jaws. Six 
times the beauty jumped clear out of the water, shaking 
his head like an angry bull and making rushes that 
jerked the handle of the reel out of my fingers. At last 
I brought him to net, tired, but by no means conquered. 
I could have played him some time yet, but I feared the 
hook — none too well fastened — would tear out. He 
weighed on the scale 41bs. 2oz. and had fought for twenty 
minutes. I was thoroughly tired out and trembling all 
over with excitement when at last he lay in the bottom 
of the boat, and I was well satisfied, though they claim 
the large-mouth is not a fighter. Willingly I rested on 
my laurels and we started for home, reaching camp just 
in time for breakfast, over which meal I fought again my 
battle with the big bass. 
The others of the party, hearing the results of our trip, 
were eager to try their hand, so started out, taking three 
boats, in each of which was a large pail filled with ice. 
We passed a pleasant day, although the wind was so light 
that the fishing was poor. Our string of fish, though not 
large, was more than enough for our immediate wants, 
and we divided with some neighbors. 
Tuesday morning dawned in so threatening a manner 
that we deemed it best not to venture out that morning. 
Large masses of clouds hovered around, driven in every 
direction by a wind that blew in fitful gales from all 
points of the compass and lashing the lake into a seething 
mass of foam. It made us think a repetition of Satur- 
day's storm not improbable. We filled in the time by 
practicing with a .22cal. Colts rifle, at this sport my youth- 
ful son developed unexpected aptness, hitting a target 4in. 
square on an average twice in five shots at a distance of 
60ft., being his first experience. I felt a very pardonable 
pride in his work 
About the middle of the afternoon the wind died down 
in a measure, and though the lake was still very rough, 
my wife and I determined to vary the monotony by catch- 
ing a fish or two, or at least having a row. So out we 
started, taking one of the large boats and two pairs of 
oars. Our fishing, however, was unsuccessful, for though 
we managed to reach several spots in which we usually 
find fish, we could not hold the boat against the wind and 
waves long enough to make more than one cast, even 
with the aid of a 201bs. rock for anchor. We trolled; and 
the only strike after an hour's work was a pickerel of be- 
tween 4 and 51bs., that fell to my wife's rod. We made 
one attempt to cross the lake to smoother waters, but 
though my wife handles a pair of oars as well if not bet- 
ter than the average man, we were forced to turn back 
after going about a third of the distance. Coming back 
we drifted over a reef of rocks which usually yields some 
good-sized wall-eyed pike; but all we could do was to 
tangle up our tackle in the rocks, breaking several yards 
of new line and losing our hooks. The pike were evi- 
dently not "at home" to-day, so we concluded to set them 
a good example and go home ourselves. 
Lester, my son, all through the spring preparations, had 
expressed so evident a desire to possess everything in my 
tackle box, that I concluded to get him an outfit that he 
could call his very own. I bought him a small tackle box 
and filled it up for him. Last year, young as he was, he 
had showed a desire to use a reel; so this year, when order- 
ing our new tackle, I bought him a very fair multiplier 
and gave him about twenty-five yards of silk line. It was 
part of a hundred yards of high-grade line that I bought 
some time ago, but had hardly used at all on account of 
its being heavier than I like to use. His rod I made my- 
self, a three-piece lancewood of 6|f t. , and stout enough to 
stand the rough usage I imagined it would get. Much to 
my surprise, however, he came out strong as an angler 
this year, and under the instructions of the crowd gener- 
ally, and George in particular, has learned to cast with a 
precision that many persons of several times his age would 
not be ashamed of. His knowledge of fishing tackle has 
also developed into the critical stage, owing, I fear, to 
George's coaching; and as I sometimes amuse myself with 
rod making in an amateur way, I find myself pledged to 
produce before another trip a split bamboo "with more 
spring in it" than the somewhat heavy affair he now 
has. 
It is amusing to watch this small edition of a "Compleat 
Angler," perched in the bow of the boat, gravely casting 
with the rest of the party, and usually getting the most 
strikes, by the way. He handles his fish entirely by him- 
self, and save an occasional request for a frog or minnow, 
or for some one to use the landing net, he troubles no 
one. 
Fishing in the mornings and evenings, lolling lazily in 
the hammocks through the heat and burden of the day, 
reading back numbers of the grand old Forest and 
Stream, and eating three times a day with appetites 
made keen by our outdoor life, we lived while the days 
swiftly glided by. No news from the outside world, with 
its railroad strikes and turmoil, reached our shady Arca- 
dia. Peacefully and contentedly we drifted on, drinking 
at nature's fount renewed health and happiness. Thus 
passed the time, until on July 5 our outing came to an 
end, and we regretfully "folded our tents like the Arabs" 
and wended our homeward way. W. E. Hall. 
SALMON OF THE TOBIQUE. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Last week "J. W. B." expressed a wonder which is 
shared by very many others, that the young salmon, leav- 
ing its home the first year, when not much over 6in. in 
length, should return the next year a grilse weighing 
from 3 to 8lbs. My own misconception on that point was 
pointed out about a year ago by Mr. D. Gi Smith, of the 
Mirimichi Advance, who wrote that the more probable 
explanation of this seemingly marvelous growth the first 
year in salt water was that the young salmon does not 
return to its fresh-water home at all for several years. 
That, furthermore, the females did not spawn every year, 
but that several years might elapse, which would mainly 
account for the greater abundance of salmon some years 
than others, in the spawning beds. 
I take the liberty here of quoting from Mr. Smith's 
letter a matter of interest regarding the salmon's food, 
lest it may not have been published elsewhere: "* * * 
These problems of the salmon are interesting, but we all 
want more definite information than we possess. Mr. 
Mowat, to whom I have referred, is perhaps one of the 
four best authorities on the salmon, but he has committed 
himself to the statement that 'the salmon will not touch 
a smelt,' yet only a fortnight since I saw four smelt taken 
from the stomach of a salmon (lOlbs.) that was netted at 
Escuminac, forty miles below Chatham, in the Straits of 
Northumberland." 
In regard to the salmon on Tobique I recently learned 
from Mr. Taylor, of Fredericton, N. B., who is knowm 
especially for having taken the best photographs ever 
taken of the New Brunswick wilds, a story which, if true, 
is worthy of note. 
Mr. Taylor related that in "1863 or 1866" (the exact date 
slipped his memory at the moment) Mr. David Wilson, 
secretary to Sir Arthur Gordon, Governor of New Bruns- 
wick, was with a party fishing for trout from Bathurst 
Lake (on Nepisiquit) across to and down the Tobique 
River. Mr. Wilson alleged upon his return that when on 
his way down the main Tobique he had a rise from a fish 
which he was not able to secure, but of which he saw 
enough to satisfy him it was a salmon and not a trout. 
No one believed him then, for at that time a salmon had 
never been known to take a fly in that river. Mr. Taylor 
made many inquiries there afterward, but no one had 
known of a salmon having risen to the fly. Salmon fish- 
ing with fly really did not begin, said Mr. Taylor, until 
after the introduction into Tobique waters of salmon 
from other waters, and from that time salmon have been 
steadily taken there. And it was his belief that the 
salmon caught since then have chiefly been the offspring 
of the fly-taking fish put into the river. 
Tappan Adney. 
A Ronkonkomo Bass. 
Mr. W. A. Gray, of Brooklyn, caught in Lake Ronkon- 
komo, Long Island, last Saturday, a large-mouth black 
bass weighing 81bs. This is supposed to have been the big 
one that had been hooked and lost by so many other fish- 
ermen. Mr. Gray was stopping at the house of John W. 
Davis, of Ronkonkomo. Mr. Davis made a bid for the fish 
to stuff with sawdust and set up on the office mantel as a 
mascot for his fishermen guests. But it is not every day 
that a frog-caster, cast he never so seductively, can take 
in an 8-po under; and when fortune does send such a fish 
the lucky catcher does not leave it behind him in such 
seclusion as the country hotel grants, but takes it home 
to show to his uncles and his cousins and his aunts. 
