182 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
m March 9, 1895. 
BOAT HOOKS AND HEROES. 
At the club, one [ dreary afternoon in winter, we were 
scattered about the reading room smoking, or drowsing 
over the papers, while we waited for dinner. 
Finally one of the loungers beckoned to a window over- 
looking Puget Sound, an! as though afraid speech would 
dispel the charm, by a sign diverted the attention of 
those who developed sufficient energy to join him, to the 
gorgeous picture formed by the haze of many tints that 
rested on the snowy crest of the Olympic Mountains; the 
rolling, leaping, foam-lashed waves spending their fury 
on the beach below; a passing ship with sails unfurlei 
that sped before the semi-gale that seemed to gather fury 
with each succeeding gust, and the Indians in their frail 
canoes, that like the circling, screaming gulls, are most 
to be admired when floating on a raging sea beneath a 
threatening sky. 
While we gazed enraptured upon the scene, in some- 
thing changing with every instant, a shout from off the 
pier, a gathering crowd, a' human form that madly plun- 
ged into the waves despite the hundred hands that sought 
to stay the act, made us forget the beautiful and grand 
arrayed by thought divine for our delight, to view the 
hideous contretemps, born from the misery of a man to 
mar for us an hour of peace, for other such, maybe, a life. 
"He is lost!" some one whispered. "None but a Siwash 
could brave such waves and live." 
Providence was kinder than we thought — an Italian 
fisherman just then had lashed his sloop securely to the 
pier, and interposed his boat-hook between the maniac 
and eternity. With vast relief we saw him, cold and 
dripping, yanked upon the land, where, for an instant, 
dazed and trembling, he submitted unresisting to re- 
straint, and then, with mighty unsuspected effort 
wrenched away and plunged again into the water. Again 
the friendly boat-hook played its part, defeating watery 
death; and now the late policeman took the cue and lodged 
the madman in the station-house to answer to the law 
upon the ignominious charge of "attempting suicide." 
"A gallant rescue!" cried our legal light, "Oh, worthy 
copper; how much I honor thee. " And then he smiled 
to think that now he, or some more lucky brother at 
the bar would seize the chance to mulct the poor man's 
friends, if such he had that cared for his release from 
chain-gang durance on the city streets. 
"Such shames are common," replied the doctor. 
. "Pneumonia follows such a ducking. The hospital, not 
the. lock-up, is the place most mete for that prospective 
patient. I will seek the Mayor so soon as I have dined." 
"That boat-hook will figure as a heroin to-morrow's 
dailies," said the man who shoved a pencil at so much 
cash per mile. 
"Alas! too true," chimed in the cynic, "of just such 
stuff our heroes are, in these degenerate days." 
"What's this unseemly interest, this plebeian anima- 
tion in a social club?" exclaimed a cheerful comer-in, 
whose unkempt hair and beard unshorn bespoke a traveler 
just returned from some unbroken wild. 
"Why, Charley, Charley!" replied the chorus, "where 
have you been this fortnight? We have missed you 
from your favorite corner, and not a man could tell your 
whereabouts" 
"Oh, just a little journey down the Sound." 
"Horrible weather for your trip, old man!" exclaimed 
the lawyer. "Some client that was worth the fee?" 
"No, not that." 
"A timber-claim; going for a song, perhaps; asked the 
silent lumberman, who thought the world was saved by 
saw-mills. 
"No." 
"If you were a doctor, Charley," said he of pills and 
poison," I should say a wealthy patient that never growled 
at triple charges had lured you to the wilderness. Tell 
us where and why you went. ' ' 
"I hardly know, boys, where I went, or what to tell 
you; but you shall have the story— what there is to tell. 
"You see this little pin? Yellow and red and blue— an 
emblem of some order, is it not? That tells you all I know. 
"I was on the wharf one night about ten days ago, idly 
waiting for the steamer from Victoria, hoping thus to 
kill a little time— you know I have too much of that. 
Well, the boat was late, and after a while I drifted into 
the 'Sailors' Rest,' a drinking place of mean repute, and 
there. I overheard a man before the mast telling how, 
that day, an Indian came aboard his ship at Townsend, 
and told the captain that in the forest, fifty miles away, 
and just as far from any habitation, a white man lay 
unattended in his cabin, dying of cold, disease and hunger. 
'At first the story did not impress me very much. I 
felt sorry for the poor unfortunate in a vaguely careless 
fashion, and wondered who he was,and how he came to 
be alone, or thus deserted. 
"Afterlhad gone to bed the story occurred to me again; 
and with it came the thought that I had nothing else to 
do but gratify my curiosity upon the subject, so I dressed 
and filled a bag with necessaries for the trip, caught the 
midnight steamer down the Sound, and ate my breakfast 
at Port Townsend. 
"With but little trouble I found the Siwash who told 
the story, and by using much persuasion, a little money 
and a deal of whiskey induced him to take me in his dug- 
out to the nearest point attainable by water and guide me 
overland the remaining distance. 
"As I told you, it was only fifty miles, and only five of 
these to foot, but so cold and fierce the wind, and so few 
the hours of day, that the second night came down before 
we reached the cabin. The man was still alive, but reason 
was dethroned, and not a word of all his ravings gave 
me any clue to, what his name or whence he came. 
% "The Indian helped me gather wood and minister to the 
poor man's comfort as best I knew, and then he left me 
with returning daylight, promising to come again 
"^V'i'fcliin £b ^vGok* 
"Before another day had dawned my patient paid the 
debt to nature, and in my turn I was left alone in the 
forest. Not until then did it occur to me that not a man 
in all the world knew my whereabouts except that 
treacherous Siwash; and, should he deceive me, that it 
was impossible for me to make my way alone to the 
world of civilization. 
"It would weary you to listen to the mental suffering 
I endured during the days I waited there alone with the 
dead, uncertain of the living; or with what'relief I hailed 
the liberating red skin, who appeared promptly as ap- 
pointed. Suffice it to say we wrapped the body in a 
blanket, and, at Port Townsend gave it Christian burial- 
ia,"My trip was all in vain, not a line, not a scrap of 
anything did the man have about him, to tell even his 
his name. Beside his gun and tra^s, this little pin, 
fastened on his pillow, was all he had of value. My 
curiosity is still ungratified, and— I am hungry as a bear." 
"All that goes in the paper to-morrow," said the 
man of the pencil. 
"Not a word; not a word,' an you love me,'" replied 
Charley, laughing, as he turned to go up to his room. 
"I do not like to advertise my failure to the world." 
"Boat hooks and heroes! There are heroes after all," 
said the cynic softly. Wiul Scribbler. 
Greenbrier, Ala. 
FROM A FAMILIAR LETTER. 
Pittsburg, Pa. — 1 have just received another long let- 
ter from my old-time friend and companion of many a 
memorable outing, L. P. A., of Portland, Oregon. He is 
one of the retinue of Judge S. H. Green, as, in fact, I 
used to be myself, and many's the time we have dropped 
into the judge's office together for a few minutes chat 
about bass and pickerel vs. "the bloody carp" that are 
eating all the widgeon grass and wapitos, and ruining 
the once famous duck shooting of the Columbia River. 
Lon has just returned from a two month's stay at his 
camp, "Bleak Hall," at Lake Merrill, up near Mt. St. 
Helens in the Cascade Range, where he and John Davis, 
veteran guide and trapper, went for a personal interview 
with the white goat. They were not so fortunate with 
the goats as on previous occasions, but bagged several 
doer and caught enough of the beautiful cut-throat trout, 
for which the lake is famous, to keep the sj)acious chim- 
ney of Bleak Hall filled with their smoking remains. 
Artist, poet, philosopher and tiue lover of nature would 
that I might prevail upon him to lay aside his modesty, 
take time, and give Forest and Stream a worthy account 
of many adventures in that wild region. He has half- 
promised that he will do so, and in the meantime I can do 
no better than to make a brief extract from his letter: 
"I suppose," he writes, "I would drop a job at a thou- 
sand a month and go to the mountains, if I became im- 
bued with the desire as strongly as I have been at times; 
and, in fact, I know I would, for I would estimate that a 
month's salary would buy enough grub to last two or 
three years and I might not live that long, so it would be 
foolish not to take my opportunity at once. We have 
had more snow than usual here, and there seems to be 
considerable in the mountains. You ought to see the pair 
of antlers I traded John out of. They are only two-point 
horns, but are larger at the base than any eight-point 
horns you ever saw. Each branch is twenty inches from 
base to tip of longest point, and they are completely cov- 
ered to five or six inches from the base with abnormally 
large and numerous "warts" of all forms. They are as 
symmetrical as could be made and are altogether as ha nd 
some a set as I ever saw. A good match for yours. They 
were upon the "biggest buck" John ever killed; and 
he was certainly over two years old. He has also killed 
small and apparently young deer with many points, and 
scoffs at the theory of telling age by the points. I pre- 
sume that the rule is all right, but certainly has excep- 
tions, as most rales have. Monstrosities are bound to 
occur almost in any place and without visible reasons. 
"I also have the skin of that deer soaking in the cellar, 
and am going to make a rug of it. 
"Say, you just take pains to cultivate that turkey 
man. Such chances only come once in a life-time, and 
people have been known to turn to salt while hesitating 
when an opportunity was before them. I would rather 
kill a wild turkey than an elephant. 
"You remarked that the love of nature and wild life is 
born in us. You are correct, for I stand before you a 
living example. Among some old letters in my posses- 
sion, written by my mother before my birth, I found one 
from which I make this extract: 'When all is quiet in 
the house I can listen to the roar of Mary's River (which 
is in sight of the house) , and it reminds me of being at 
my old mountain home and h'stening to the roar of the 
water in the ravine, for it makes a noise almost equal to 
that, especially after a heavy rain, and you may be sure 
this is the kind of life that suits me.' The place they 
were living at was near Corvallis, in Benton County, and 
is where I was born, within sight and sound of the mount- 
ain stream. So it is no wonder that there are charms 
for me where I can listen to the music so much like ray 
earliest lullaby. 
"I commend you for your expressed hopes for the lad's 
interest in such things and feel sure that there is no cause 
for uneasiness on your part, for I know you can't help but 
impart to him a full share of your own nature and that 
is enough. I am just as sure as you are that such a good 
time will come when we shall have the opportunity to 
start the youngsters right, and I am sure it will be as 
full of pleasure to us as I hope it will be to them. Your 
devoted mate must not be forgotten either — along this 
line— for I believe a woman can find just as much enjoy- 
ment in whipping a stream and stalking a deer and fol- 
lowing a pair of well-trained dogs over sweet fields, as can 
a man; and I believe it is the duty of a. man who loves 
such things to provide all the means possible with such 
an end in view, of course providing she is able to enjoy 
it and cares to. Some women could never do it. Of 
course, few could go where a man generally goes, but a 
loving husband can find a way where both can go, Only 
think of the more than doubled enjoyment he could get 
out of his trips with rod, gun and camera, could they be 
shared by the one nearest and dearest to his heart. The 
camera offers a very interesting field for women if they 
do not take to rod and gun, and will afford as much pleas- 
ure in all probability. 
"I don't think I mentioned my new tobacco pouch. 1 
made one from the pericardium, or heart skin of the little 
doe we killed. It makes transparent parchment like 
skin. I fined it and sewed on black velvet around the 
top, and put in a puckering string of silk cord (an eye- 
glass cord) , and at the loose end of the strings I fastened 
on one a bear's claw, and on the other the big bear's 
tooth, which formerly graced the latch string of Bleak 
Hall. It is very neat and serviceable. The old one you 
gave me at McKenzie Springs has seen its best days, and 
will now remain an ornament and a souvenir forever. 
"Well so long— write as often as you can. Your letters 
are to me like a gushing spring half-way up Totman Hill 
on a hot day, and with a big bush of ripe brown huckel- 
berries on one. side and a plate of seedless oranges on the 
other." 
You will recognize in the names "Bleak Hall" and 
"Totham Hill" a tribute to the gentle patron saint of all 
anglers, and any one who has ever toiled up the long 
trail over the backbone of that hill, sometimes facetiously 
called "Topnone," will appreciate the reference to a 
gushing spring with huckel berries and seedless oranges 
on the side, R. L W. 
PERE MARQUETTE FISHING CLUB. 
If you will take a map of Michigan and follow the line 
of the F. & P. M. R. R., northwest from Saginaw, a little 
over a hundred miles, crossing the G. R. & I. road at 
Reed City, the C. & W. M., at Baldwin, you will notice 
in Lake County, about four miles west of Baldwin, a spot 
on the map designated by the unusual name, Wingleton. 
Wingleton is a pretty long name to use, and whenever 
any of the Saginaw crowd start out on a fishing trip, they 
generally say they are going up to "Kinne." 
This little place was formerly the center of a lumbering 
operation, carried on by our good friend, W. D. Wing. 
For years the busy hum of industry enlivened the sand 
plains at this point. A logging railroad extending some 
miles to the north brought in the saw logs from the sur- 
rounding pinery, and an active saw-mill turned the logs 
into boards. A planing-mill, too, stood there in the 
palmy days of this now deserted hamlet, a relic of which 
remains in the shape of an enormous stack of pine shav- 
ings that the boys always want to touch a match to when 
they are passing it; but the busy ax of the lumbermen 
soon brought an end to the pine forests, and like many of 
our North Michigan towns that thrived on the lumbering 
industry, it reached its limit and death. 
The mill was moved away; the houses became vacant 
and nothing of life remained but the dozen or so of do- 
mestic cats that did not move when the inhabitants of 
Wingleton left, and the shriek of the whistle was re- 
placed by the shrill cry of the blue jay, busy gathering 
acorns from the scrub-oaks that grew here in abundance. 
Many and many a time have we in the past partaken of 
the hospitality of our good friend Derniont or Wing, and 
either made up a party for fishing the Little River, the 
grayling stream that was so aptly described by our friend 
Mitchell not long ago in Forest and Stream, or fished for 
trout in "Kinne Creek." 
This creek was not naturally a trout stream, but had 
been planted years before by officials of the F, & P. M. 
R. R., who have done much to develop trout fishing along 
the line of that road. Originally it was full of grayling, 
but with the coming of the trout the grayling disappeared, 
although even to this day one is occasionally taken. The 
boys never thought of fishing with a fly when the stream 
was in its primitive state. It ran through Cedar swamps, 
and was fringed with overhanging boughs to such an ex 
tent that it was almost impossible to cast a fly. Besides, 
the big trout lurked underneath the roots and logs, and 
it was supposed that the only way to get them was to drop 
a seductive worm placed on a good, strong hook, and at- 
tached to a still stronger pole (not rod), and yank them 
out with one supreme effort. We always looked with 
envy on the basketful that Poquette, Wing's sawyer, 
was sure to have every Sunday night during the season, 
and, in fact, it was sometimes hinted that he had about 
the same basketful out of season. Great stories were told 
of the three-pounders, four -pounders, and even imagina- 
tion would stretch to the five-pound limit. There is no 
question, though, but that the little stream has produced 
and does produce some very large trout, but I doubt 
whether the scales would ever come down good and 
strong over any of them beyond the three-pound mark. 
At the opening of the season, May 1, three or four of 
us would borrow from the railroad superintendent his 
car "Peggy," being a combination of engine and car that 
would take care of three or four people very well, and 
could run like a scared dog a mile a minute or more, and 
after a late game of pede at the club would pull out for 
Wingleton. As the morning was getting gray we would 
fly by Dermont's house, and salute him with a shriek 
from the "Peggy." that let him know at once that the 
boys from Saginaw were on hand for the opening of the 
season. 
Sometimes the worms would spoil bi being placed too 
near the steam-pipes in the car, or Jack would forget to 
put them aboard. This we never discovered until the 
rods were put together (beg pardon, I mean poles), and 
some one would run back with the "Peggy" and borrow 
a few from Dermont from his little hoard that he had 
boxed up in the garden. Angle worms will not thrive 
here for there is nothing but sand, sand, sand, hundreds 
of feet deep. The coffee was usually made by Jack on a 
kerosene stove with a very pungent odor of the stove and 
coffee, and then we would sail in for the day's fishing. 
All this, though, has passed and gone. What has 
taken its place is more sportsmanlike, is easier fishing, 
but I wonder it it is more fun. We always look back on 
our boyhood days as the most pleasant of our lives, and I 
think retrospect in this case loses none of its force. 
In 1892 a few of us concluded a trade with Mr. Whig 
for several of the houses still standing and seventeen hun 
dred acres of land, giving us the ownership of the stream- 
and the land on each side of it from where it headed in a 
spring-fed lake of five acres in extent, that we call Spring 
Lake, to where it empties into the Pere Marquette River, 
nearly three miles farther on. Dermont's residence we 
fitted up for the club house, which was put in charge of 
Mr. and Mrs. Bates, both telegraph operators. Mrs. Bates, 
one of the best housekeepers in the world, and her hus- 
band, just the chap to look after the trout stream. To 
the right of the club house we moved another one of the 
vacant buildings, built a large fire-place in it, and par- 
titioned it off into one large room, where we could all sit 
round the open fire, prevaricate, dry our feet, smoke, and 
spit on the sizzling hearth. The rear of this room is a 
locker-room and bath-room. Up stairs several extra 
sleeping-rooms were provided. 
Now, suppose you follow the board walk back of the 
house for about a quarter of a mile; you come to Spring 
Lake, clear as crystal, from which runs a little stream. 
