244 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 32, 1894. 
VACATIONS— PAST AND PRESENT. 
"As travelers oft look back at eve, 
■When eastward darkly going, 
To gaze upon the light they leave 
Behind them faintly glowing; 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 
To gloom hath near consigned us, 
We turn to catch one parting ray 
Of joy that's left behind us." 
Forest ani> Stream of June 4 has just reached me. 
By the light of the camp-fire I have glanced at it, and 
while resting at noon by the trout stream, where the trout 
reflect the gorgeous tints of flowery banks and soft sum- 
mer skies, I have read and re-read its pages; and they have 
furnished me with a host of pleasant recollections. When 
I was a small lad my passion for rambling first asserted its 
sway. Almost every Saturday from April to November 
would find me wandering over the Orange Mountains. 
Sometimes I would take the train on Friday afternoon 
and spend the next day at Lake Hopatcong or among the 
hills of Sussex or Orange counties. Until the middle of 
July I was armed only with the tin can of the botanical 
collector, a light geologist's hammer and a microscope; 
but after the woodcock season opened on the upper Pas- 
saic marshes and the young grouse whirred through the 
forests, when the rabbits watched the ripening grain and 
gray squirrels chattered among the unopened chestnut 
burrs, my companion was an old muzzleloader — a weapon 
the mere possession of which would invalidate any acci- 
dent insurance policy ever written. 
When I arrived at years that warranted greater free- 
dom from parental supervision — parental supervision 
while on a vacation was to me rather a source of delight 
than of unwelcome restraint— I would camp for weeks at 
the Water Gap, or, with knapsack on back, tramp through 
the romantic Catskills, up and down the classic Hudson 
and the picturesque Housatonic. And during college 
vacations the mountains of northern New England were 
my stamping ground. It was in my freshman year that 
I caught my first fontinalis, in a meadow on the northern 
slope of old' Gray lock. It was only a fingerling, and I was 
prouder of that little trout than I would be to-day of a 
five-pounder landed with a seven-ounce rod. But my 
favorite walks were through southern Vermont. As a 
role, Pittsfield was my starting point. My first day's 
tramp would bring me to North Adams or Williamstown. 
Thence, as fancy would dictate, I would go by easy stages 
through Pownal, Wilmington and other equally beautiful 
and retired hamlets to Woodstock, or, taking the western 
side of the range, I would stroll through Bennington, 
Shaftsboro and Dorset "to Rutland. My route back to 
New York would be down the Connecticut Valley or across 
to Lake George and down the Hudson. 
The last of these rambles is brought to mind by the 
paper to-night. It was early in July that I went up to 
Troy by the night boat, thence to Rutland, thence, over 
the Green Mountains in sight of Killington and Pico, to 
the little village of Bridgewater, where I found excellent 
board at $2.50 per week. Those were halcyon days. 
Under the maples and pines I read and rested. Some- 
times I would climb to the summit of the neighboring 
peaks, at dawn to catch the melodious strains of the her- 
mit thrush, at noon to find some rare habenaria or to 
doze on mossy couch, where the rich green was besprin- 
kled with the shade-loving Oxalisaaetosella, and again at 
sundown that I might feast upon the delicate tints of 
dying day, as they fell upon the valley of the wandering 
Connecticut or upon the far-distant, purpling crests of 
the White Mountains. One day I had an idea that I 
wanted a dinner of fresh brook trout. I could not catch 
them, but an old man who lived up on the brook at the 
foot of Pico offered to fix up a first-rate meal for the 
small sum of 25 cents. Experience since has taught me 
that all the trout I ate were plebeian chubs, but they were 
good just the same. And the people! The old New Eng- 
land farmer can never be duplicated in the West. Why, 
a trip to Boston or to New York was the event of a life- 
time, and a man who had seen Washington or Chicago 
was, locally, a veritable Stanley. Far from those eastern 
meadows the breezes waft the odor of the new-mown hay 
and the clear, ringing music of the whet- stone on the 
scythe and the dreamy echo of the village church bell. It 
is a long time since I have been in any place of worship 
other than the grand "first temples;" but, were I back 
among the hills of Vermont, I believe I could listen to one 
of those long, prosaic sermons, could watch the fair-faced 
rustic maidens, with their quaint costumes, always half a 
decade behind the times, chat with tne grave old deacons 
and enjoy myself even more than I did when all the 
world seemed gay. 
From Bridgewater I went to Tyson Furnace and spent 
the month of August by Plymouth Pond, than which a 
more beautiful spot is not to be found In the length and 
breadth of the land. Here I angled for the sluggish dace 
and shot the loudly drumming partridge. I have won- 
dered that some club of sportsmen has not secured posses- 
sion of that chain of lakes and tributary trout streams 
and of the encircling hills, where among the heavy 
timber the dun deer loves to hide. It would make as 
valuable a property as any that I have ever seen — in fact 
far superior to Greenwood Lake, Hopatcong, or Mohonk 
and the waters could be easily stocked with either trout 
or bass. 
When the first frosts painted the mountains crimson 
and gold, I went back to crowded streets and to my desk 
as an aspirant for journalistic honors. Those mountains 
of New England, how I loved them and how eagerly did 
I look forward to another summer beneath their shadows. 
How little did I imagine as I flew past Toby and Sugar 
Loaf and Haystack and Tom and Holyoke, that I should 
never behold their faces again. How little did I dream 
as I looked from the car window at the stately elms at 
Whately and Old Hadley, that, when next their leaves 
were sere and yellow, I should be wandering beneath 
tropic skies, far from the land of the stars and stripes, 
beside the broad Pacific. How little did I know that my 
brother and I, bosom friends and confidants from the 
very cradle, had enjoyed our last outing together. I 
thought that Bridgewater, only a few miles from the 
Woodstock railway station, was in the wilderness, but 
here I am, 150 miles from the locomotive whistle and 
thirty miles from the post-office, and yet I do not feel as 
much out of the world as I did on some of my boyhood 
vacations. 
But all this has nothing to do with this year of grace 
nor with the mountains of southern Utah. I have been 
long enough in this part of the Rocky Mountain region to 
"size it up." While there is better trout fishing in the 
tributaries of the Columbia and Snake rivers, more big 
game among the Wind River mountains and along the 
Sweetwater, finer grouse shooting on the prairies of 
Nebraska and Dakota, larger flocks of ducks on the 
Chesepeake and among the Suisun tules, as an all around 
game country this is not to be despised. My last letter 
was written from Ike's shearing camp and I told of trout- 
ing on Mammoth and Asay creeks. I had begun to 
believe that the natives told the truth and that these trout 
would never rise to a fly, but one day, as my grass- 
hopper dropped upon the riffle, there was a break. The 
waters parted. There was a sheen of silver spotted with 
rubies, a thousand tiny drops glinted with all the hues of 
the rainbow, hung for an instant above the white, foaming 
rivulet, melted in the stream that gave them birth, and 
the prize was won. That Bottled it. Out came the brown 
hackle, professor, coachman, dusty-miller, black-gnat 
and grizzly-king. My success no longer depended upon 
pole and clothesline, but upon rod and reel, upon cunning 
and endurance. Did the trout rise? Well, I should say 
so. With dull and sober flies my luck has been immense. 
I have been able to furnish eighteen able-bodied men with 
one square meal of trout per diem, and I have been sur- 
feited with my own sport. 
One morning before breakfast I strolled across the 
divide to the Mammoth. A hard tramp of two miles 
brought me to the "black rocks." Here in a narrow 
gorge the waters dashed and boiled; and above them the 
lofty long-leaved pines stretched their sinewy arms across 
the canon. Here fell no ray of sunlight, but an eternal 
gloaming reigned and the thunder of the torrent drowned 
the rustling of winds and the song of birds. Out upon a 
jagged boulder I stepped, balanced my rod, twirled my 
wrist, and the long line straightened over the seething 
flood. For a second the brown-hackle was tossed on 
pearly crests on the way to the edge of the dark pool that 
was my objective point. An instant it poised in air 
between the bejeweled ridge and the placid water below. 
Flash! Strike! Whizz! Can you not tell the rest of the 
story by the tingling of your finger tips? Talk about those 
Rocky Mountain lions being deficient in gamy qualities! 
Bah! It's all gammon. There is no trick or dodge known 
to an old Restigouche salmon of which this unsophisti- 
cated rustic was ignorant. For the nonce I imagined that 
I was dreaming, and that a tarpon had inadvertently 
swallowed my bait. But I had all the business to which 
I could properly attend without letting fancy run riot. 
The rascal leaped, sulked and tried his best to get a slack 
line, but most of all did he endeavor to get the line around 
the roots of a pine tree that was of no earthly use in so 
unpropitious a spot. It seemed to me that I spent an 
hour in getting him to my net, and by the time he was 
landed I was ready for breakfast. On returning to camp 
that little trout tipped the scales at 41bs. 2oz. 
Nightly around the camp-fire sat the shearers and 
herders. Their work ended only when it was too dark to 
see. They were a strange assortment of men. During 
the month of June the shearers make the only cash that 
they possess throughout the entire year. Few, if any, 
have been outside of the Territory, and to the younger 
ones the world is bounded by the surrounding hills. 
Through the night air rang the strains of accordeon and 
harmonica, and many were the tales of hunting and 
adventure that I gathered for future use. One story, 
however, filled me with indignation. Dave Hatch 
claimed to have killed six mountain sheep last winter 
without stirring from his tracks. I wish that I possessed 
sufficient evidence to cinch him for the crime. 
But Ike's 8,000 sheep have been shorn. The wool has 
been sacked and is already on its way to Salt Lake and 
we are up on the summer range. It was a two days' 
walk. The country is impassable for wagons, and all 
provisions are brought up on burros. I have become 
more attached to the shepherd dog than to any specimen 
of the genus homo that I have met in the country. No 
two herders use the same form of expression in working 
their animals, so I simply whistle and point out that 
which I want done and my faithful friends obey as well 
as though they understood raw thoughts. We have pitched 
camp on Houston Mountain, within a mile of the summit. 
A short walk brings me to snow and to a spot whence I 
can overlook "Dixie" and the vast valley of the middle 
Colorado. Two miles below us is good fishing in some 
nameless creek, but the main attraction big game, fresh 
sign of bear and deer being everywhere abundant, though 
I have not vet had a chance to fire the rifle. 
Whew, but it is cold! Every night half an inch of ice 
forms in the water bucket, though during the day the 
temperature rises to 70 and 75°. There is an entire change 
in the flora. Below us is the long-leaved pine, but here 
there is only the red pine and spruce, and a few feet above 
us no tree but the quaking aspen will grow. Many of the 
flowers are such as I have found upon the summits of the 
New Mexican Mogollons, but I have found a new colum- 
bine that is a salmon-colored beauty. Many of the 
southern songsters are here for their summer vacation. I 
have heard a note that sounds exactly like that of the 
Eastern brown thrush. This is also a great region for 
Indian relies — arrow-heads and curious pottery of a 
uniform burnt umber color and hard as flint. 
Sunday afternoon, the last Sunday in June, the Sunday 
when the mountains of New England are in their loveliest 
dress. How many school children and business men are 
to-day dreaming of nothing but the approaching vaca- 
tion? I sit alone in the tent. Ike has gone to Panguitch 
for supplies; it will take him four days to make the trip. 
Brig, the herder, left at sunrise for a neighboring camp 
to secure matches, flour and tobacco; he cannot return 
before dark. I have four matches in my pocket and there 
is scarcely sufficient flour in the sack for me to make a 
small slapjack for supper. But lambs are plentiful and 
that is one consolation. Old Trust lies beside me and my 
rifle is ready for a shot at any game that may come within 
my range of vision. From the aspens on the mountain 
side comes the bleating of the sheep and from the forest 
below the vesper song of the birds arises. The sun slopes 
slowly to the west. Twilight comes apace. One of my 
matches must be used to light a fire, and the fire means 
that this rambling screed must co_ae to a close. 
Shoshoxe. 
TWO WEEKS AT WABASIS. 
Lake Wabasis is situated in the northeastern part of 
Kent county, in the State of Michigan, about 25 miles 
from the great furniture manufacturing city of Grand 
Rapids, and 9 miles from the nearest railway station. It 
derives its name from an Indian chief who, for some mis- 
demeanor, was exiled to a territory within a radius of 
two miles of its shores, and who one day venturing be- 
yond the territory allotted to him was slain by one of his 
own tribe. It is a picturesque body of water, bounded on 
one side by high, rugged hills, while the opposite shores 
are low and marshy, the whole being surrounded by a 
heavy growth of timber. The country around abounds 
in trout streams, and the lake itself, being well supplied 
with a variety of fish, and fed by numerous small creeks 
of the purest and coldest water, affords an excellent place 
for lovers of the piscatorial sport to spend a week or two 
in camping out. 
Here the pickerel darts among the reeds in quest of 
minnows, and the black bass snaps at the luckless fly that 
falls within its reach. Perch of the largest size are found 
in great abundance, and will almost bite at the bare hook. 
Occasionally a crane flies lazily across the lake and settles 
in the tall reeds that line the shores to watch for his din- 
ner of tender frogs and tadpoles, and now and then a 
wild duck starts up with a rush from some quiet bunch of 
wild rice, which grows in abundance. 
What better place than one such as this for the over- 
worked business man or any other man who, as the sum- 
mer months advance and the atmosphere waxes warm 
under the concentrated rays of Old Sol, feels the need, or 
at least the inclination of taking a brief respite from the 
toil and strife of city life. Go, then, all you who are 
suffering from such an attack, to some such secluded 
spot as this, for even at the numerous resorts and water- 
ing places there is a sort of restraint put upon you, but 
here, in the wild, free woods, away from the criticisms of 
the outer world, you can wear your clothes until they 
stand alone if you feel so disposed, and shout till the 
welkin rings with no one to exclaim at your rudeness. 
Your step becomes elastic and your skin acquires a com- 
plexion that would do credit to a pretzel. How good 
everything tastes, and what an enormous quantity you 
can stow away under that old vest! It would do your 
sturdy ancestors good to watch you and cause your land- 
lady to turn away in fear and trembling at the thought of 
your return. Then at night, who of you who have been 
there, have not enjoyed the pleasure of sitting around the 
crackling camp-fire, relating some past experience of your 
own or perhaps listening to the more thrilling ones of 
gome greater tale teller than yourself. 
The season was pretty well advanced, and one July 
night my two friends, B. and C, and myself came to tho 
conclusion that for the next two weeks life would be a 
buiden to us if passed within the limits of the city; so 
after consulting an old pioneer who had been over the 
ground and knew the country like a book, we decided to 
start on the following Saturday for Wabasis. We secured 
the rental of a good tent and boat, an old wagon, and 
lastly, a horse. 
As the end of the week drew near we became anxious 
to set out, and by Saturday night had everything in 
readiness to start; so after removing two or three sections 
of a lumber pile kindly placed against the gate by some 
of our thotightful friends, we loaded up our wagon, 
attached Bucephalus to it and sallied forth into the night 
with great expectations and a goodly supply of pork and 
beans and other articles necessary to the welfare and 
comfort of an expedition of this sort. 
For the first ten miles, or as far as Plain field, there is a 
good gravel road, and by occasionally shouting at him and 
getting out whenever we came to a hill, we managed to 
keep Bucephalus awake. At the Plainfield toll-gate a 
figure arrayed in night robes and a piece of old carpet 
appeared shivering upon the scene (it was a very cold 
night for July) and exacted our toll. After leaving 
Plainfield the roads became quite sandy and traveling 
more difficult, and at 7 A. M. we reached Silver Lake, a 
beautiful sheet of water with prettily wooded banks and 
hard pebbly beaches, a fine place for picknickers. There 
is a story current among the neighboring farmers of a 
miser who buried his gold somewhere in the vicinity of 
this lake. Many have searched for it without success. 
Here we stayed until the following Tuesday, when we 
struck out for Wabasis, reaching it about noon of the 
same day. A party of campers from Greenville, just 
getting ready to leave after a two weeks' stay, reported a 
very pleasant time, with plenty of good fishing. 
Our camp was situated at the west end of the lake near 
a small creek, which besides supplying us with the best 
of drinking water, served as an excellent refrigerator, 
being the best possible place for keeping butter, eggs, 
milk, etc., which were supplied by a farmer about a 
quarter of a mile distant. That night (we having neg- 
lected, to dig a trench around the tent) it rained. The 
water ran' in under the tent, wetting the bedclothes and 
making it exceedingly disagreeable for all concerned. 
The next morning, however, the sun came out bright and 
warm and we felt like new men. Breakfast over we pro- 
ceeded to the lake, taking with us a good spoon hook and 
strong line. Keeping pretty close in shore we trolled for 
about fifteen minutes without getting so much as a nibble. 
I was sitting in the stern holding the line, and just as we 
rounded a point where the reeds grew pretty thick felt a 
decided pull. The fish jumped clean out of the water 
and the line straightened out with the long, slim body of 
a fine pickerel about 2ft. in length hooked to the other 
end of it. 
"Give him line; no, haul him in; let me manage him," 
and similar other pieces of good advice were launched at 
me with great rapidity, but being unable to follow all of 
these at once, and having a good stout line, I hauled 
away. Nearer and nearer to the boat, hotly contesting 
every foot of the way, came the unwilling fish, occasion- 
ally leaping clear of the water and showing his bright, 
mottled sides. He was almost alongside and I had just 
begun to feel pretty sure of him, when flop! with a swish 
of his tail and a savage jerk he tore himself loose and was 
gone, never to return. It was one of the meanest things 
I ever saw a fish do, and a sore disappointment to us; but 
not to be discouraged by a slight mishap of this sort, we 
persevered and in a short time secured several fine bass. 
After this we made numerous excursions, exploring all 
parts of the lake, never, however, forgetting to take along 
our fishing tackle, and almost invariably returning with 
at least a fair catch. 
