Aug. 3, 1901.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
87 
us to the celebrated muscallonge water, known as Back 
of Sir John's. The reason why it always contains plenty 
■of these fish is that it is one of their breeding grounds. 
On the Canadian mainland side it is one continuous 
weed bed. The principal grounds lie alongside these 
weeds. There are three good spots in the weeds, which 
if worked properly will almost to a certainty bring a 
strike. 
The first is a hole in the weeds just above Grass Island, 
This hole can be located by bringing a clump of bushes 
on the shore in line with the cottage above. This hole 
is about 150 yards long by 75 feet wide. We once drove 
a stake on the end of the upper bar. It remained there 
for a long time, and may be there now, or another in 
its place. 
". The second is a hole about 1,000 feet from shore, 
directly out. from the clump of trees. This hole is about 
300 feet square and quite deep. We have taken many 
a bouncer out of it. 
The third is a hole about 300 feet out from the Quarry. 
This hole is only about 100 feet square. The way to fish 
it is to shorten lines up to 75 feet, come down from 
above, and as soon as the hole is struck, turn out and 
dash over or through the weeds which lie between the 
hole and channel. If a fish is struck in this hole, do not 
let up on him at all, but drag him out into the channel by 
main force. It is the only way of saving him. 
These are the principal grounds, but others almost 
equally good are to be found below. The runs are as 
follows: 
From the center island in the narrows to the dock. 
From the center island in the narrows to the mouth of 
Grass Bay. Circles from the dock to the mouth of Grass 
Bay. This is deep water, and if a fish is struck it is 
generally a big one. One more run is worth fishing; 
this is across the mouth of Foley's Bay. There is some 
excellent bass fishing just below Grass Bay among the 
rocks, and again from Foley's boat house down to the 
point. We once took forty bass in this run of 100 yards 
after 4 o'clock one evening on a pair of Delaware-belles. 
Foley's is a nice place to stop at to fish this water. 
J. C hurchward. 
From Northeast Maine to Lake 
Chinquasabamtook*— L 
The Maine wilderness that lies far west of Allegash 
and Churchill Lakes was unwritten and unsung until the 
writer penef rated its mj^steries in the fall of. 1900. It 
was in the shadow of old Katahdin that a strange guide 
told me of a wild region over toward Chinquasabamtook 
that abounded in moose, deer and trout. While hunting 
and trapping in this solitude we had traversed most of 
the wilderness around Crescent Pond and the Big Lake. 
His account of this sportsman's paradise fired my imag- 
ination, as there are precious few of such places left 
now east of the Rocky Mountains; so when the next 
season worked around I engaged him and his friend 
Lyman Hunt, of Lincoln, Maine, to meet me at Grind- 
stone, on the Bangor & Aroostook Railroad. I left New 
York about the last of August. There is not much to 
interest the sportsman until he gets beyond Oldtown. 
After passing Milo Junction the country along the line 
begins to put on a wild and rugged aspect, the clearings 
are blotted out, one by one, and presently the skirmish 
line of the great North Woods is encountered. By the 
time West Seboois is reached the train is running between 
a solid wall of forest. The fearful work of fire and the 
axe is seen in acres of dead and dying trees that stretch 
out ghastly arms, as if in mute protest against the inva- 
sion of this once happy hunting ground. In the early 
days of the Bangor & Aroostook Railroad the night train 
collided with a moose, near Crystal Station, _ killing the 
animal and crippling the engine. This experience is not 
likely to be repeated at the present time, as nearly all 
the moose and deer have fled before the shriek of the 
locomotive and the merciless rifle of the camp sports- 
man. The train halts at Norcross and Millinocket, mere 
gashes in the forest, and then hurries ofif through the 
woods. Presently a vicious scream from the locomotive 
told me that my time had come — the charming view of 
the East Branch, from the bridge, was quickly snatched 
away, as the train pulled up at the little station beyond. 
Here I dropped off, and meeting my guides we all ad- 
journed to the Grindstone House to talk it over. There 
is black bass fishing near by, in the East Branch, and trout 
further back in the woods, Schoodic Brook and Salmon 
Stream Pond are all accessible to a good pedestrian. 
The next morning we prepared for our long journey to 
the far away Allegash country. After laying in our camp 
supplies we launched our canoes above the bridge that 
spans the East Branch and hasteqed on our way up the 
beautiful still water. A good country road follows the 
river for about two miles, and then trends northeast to 
Stacyville. Soon after passing Mud Brook the paddle 
was "exchanged for the setting pole. Burntland, Rips 
and Whetstone Falls were easily disposed of. A few 
miles above the falls we came in sight of a large clearing. 
Stopping on our way to quench our thirst at a spring of 
Arctic coldness, we continued on past the beginnings of 
a hatchery and reached the old Hunt farm about sun- 
down. On a slight elevation above the river stands the 
ruins of the old homestead, a mournful reminder of the 
happy past, when its hpspitable walls reechoed to the 
merry songs and jests of the lumbermen and hunters. 
In startling contrast to the old ruin is the smart little 
Matagamon house. Here we found shelter for the night. 
A few nearby stragglers dropped in during the evening 
and helped make things cheerful. In the morning we 
were informed that there was nothing to pay, and we 
were presented with the freedom of the potato patch. 
Taking advantage of this kind offer we helped ourselves 
liberally. The beautiful Wassataquoik joins the_ East 
Branch close to the clearing, its head far back in the 
mountains; it has probably seen its best days as a trout 
stream, as there are two lamps on it. Passing the mouth 
of the ?tream in the early morning we soon sighted the 
East Branch ferr>'. There is a sportsman's camp a little 
back from the river, and a farm house close by. The 
lamp looked deserted, but when the hunting season sets 
?n the woods around the clearing are alive with hunters. 
This is the last clearing on the river this side of Grand 
Lake, for which let us be thankful. The coolness of the 
morning wa§ fast giving place to the intolerable heat of 
midda3r. There was no escaping the fiery darts ol Old 
Sol save where the channel sought the shady side of the 
river. Every cold spring and brook paid its tribute to 
us as we fought our way upward. Toward evening we 
drew near to the mouth of a pretty trout brook, and 
here wc pitched our first lamp Early in the morning 
we started off through the woods to "find a trout pond 
that lies well back from the river. The guides, after a 
careful search, found an old canoe, and, paddHng out on 
to the pond, I cast the fly into every likely place. I got 
plenty of rises, but no trout. As we had no angleworms 
it did not seem worth while to remain any longer. In 
the stream below I found the trout both plenty and will- 
ing. The pond has no doubt suffered from the attacks 
of the lumbermen, as there is a deserted camp near by. 
On our return trip we caught a fleeting glimpse of a deer 
and ran into a large covey of ruffed grouse that were 
as tame as barnyard fowls. This halt by the way put the 
guides in excellent trim for the hard work before them. 
The next day it was a fight with rapids and falls from 
start to finish — we were never at any time out of sight 
of white water. Such places as Hulling, Machine, Grand 
and Hollistcr's Pitch had to be carried around. Betwixt 
and between were numerous rapids that were surmounted 
with more or less difficulty. An incident occurred dur- 
ing the dav that shows the danger of river navigation. A 
wicked looking piece of wild water confronted us near 
the Grand Pitch. After landing to lighten up the cahoe 
I followed a path along the shore that led up to a bluff 
that overlooks the river. I could see the guides far below 
me fighting their way upward through the boiling rapids. 
Presently the canoes appeared at the head of the swift 
water. I was losing all interest in their proceedings, 
when suddenly layman commenced to make frantic passes 
with his setting pole. Cram had his hands full, and could 
give him no assistance. Slowly the canoe swings around, 
the rapids almost have it in their grip, when at the very 
last moment the iron shod end finds a holding place, and 
putting all his strength into one mighty effort, the canoe 
flies free from the brink like a startled deer, and seeks 
safety on the opposite bank. Lyman Hunt can handle 
a canoe better than anv guide I know of. I have seen 
him ascend a piece of rough water on the West Branch 
with comparative ease, while a good canoeman that pre- 
ceded him was swept back and nearly capsized. And now 
the wild song of the rapids is drowned out m the mighty 
voice of the'" Grand Pitch, as it hurls itself in thunder 
and foam through a narrow cleft in the rocks to the 
depths below. Never pass by without stopping to gaze 
on the mad whirl of waters, imprisoned in their rocky 
settings. The angler is not likely to meet with any 
response as he drops his Parmachenee-Belle near the 
foam patches below the falls, save from small salmon, or 
a few undersized trout. The river drivers and natives 
got in their fine work on this river long before the rail- 
road came. We camped that night on the Dead Water, 
above HoUister's Pitch. Canoeing from the W^ld Strife 
below it deemed a haven of rest to the tired guides. 1 
intended it should be so in more senses than one, as 1 
proposed to spend a quiet Sunday in this beautiful spot. 
There was a partv stopping at a private camp above us 
and the mouth of the little brook near our camp was 
whipped unmercifully bv them. The few unhappy little 
trout that iumped at their flies are all that are left to rep- 
resent the big, squaretails that used to haunt the Dead 
Water. Lvman told me a barrel of trout was taken out 
of here in' the good old times, or rather bad ones for 
trout. The merciless bait-fishing by the river drivers 
and natives accounts for the scarcity of the big speckled 
fellows up and down the river. Sunday was spent by me 
in strolling around the falls and admiring the beauties 
of forest and stream. 
Earlv in the morning we started up the StUlwater at 
a good pace, that soon landed us at the foot of Stair 
Falls. The water falls over two sets of steps and this 
makes the illusion perfect. Carrying around we embarked 
on the placid surface above. The magnificent forests 
that Uned the banks provoked the admiration of that 
true lover of the woods, Lyman Hunt— would that more 
of the guides had his refined tastes. We occasionally 
got a glimpse of the beautiful Travelers who persisted in 
accompanying us on our journey. After awhile we came 
in sight of a party of foolish anglers that had paddled 
thei'-^canoe into the center of the pool, off the mouth of 
Big Fish Brook, thereby ruining all their chances. Turn- 
mg our backs on this burlesque on angling we proceeded 
on our way and soon fetched uo at Grand Lake Dam. 
There are verv few left of the glorious trout that used 
to throng the eddies of the pool. No wonder, when every 
crevice aboitt the dam, or likely place for large ones to 
hide, is carefully investigated by the bait fisherman. 
Grand Lake, with its. superb mountain views, easily takes 
precedence over all the lakes between here and Cham- 
berlain. Harney's Camp, on the north shore, near the 
head of the lake, is a cozy farm house, where the sports-' 
man will receive every attention. The country over 
toward Sordnahunk Lake is dotted with numerous trout 
ponds; deer are often seen feeding along the edge of 
the ponds or bounding through the woods. The region 
north and south of the lake, and over toward Chamber- 
lain and Eagle, abounds with deer, with here and there 
a cunning old bull that is perfectly familiar with the 
wiles of the hunter. 
Resuming our journey we glided past Moose Cliff 
and Louse Island, and soon reached the head of the 
lake. The tortuous thoroughfare that connects Second 
Lake with Grand is a good place to ambush ducks. 
There is about four miles of this crooked navigation 
before coming to the lake. Second Lake is about three 
qiiles long: and apart from its wildness has no particular 
claim to beauty. Here we bade farewell to the Traveler 
Mountains. The day was departing when we entered 
the inlet, seeking a place to camp. After paddling ud 
stream some distance we stopped at the foot of a high 
bluff. Climbing to the summit we found ourselves in a 
beautiful fore.st glade. Here we pitched our tent and 
made everything snug and comfortable for the night. 
The morning light .saw us on our way to the Indian carry. 
Here we left the East Branch, and carried over to Web- 
ster stream. This wild forest brook, with its Singing cas- 
cades, appeals to every lover of the beautiful. The upper 
waters of this lovely nook of the woods abound with 
trout and deer. The brook was very dry. This was any- 
thing but a blessing to the guides, although it put the 
ftream in prime order for fly-fishing. 
As our canoes receded from the carry ouf troubles 
closed around us. The eight miles of pitches, rocks and 
bars between us and the laks promised to make it inter- 
esting for the guides. Wading, dragging and lifting the 
canoes over obstructions made our upward progress 
slow and laborious Deer were frequently seen staring 
from the banks, ready to wave their white flags on our 
closer approach. Along toward sundown I started in 
to whip the brook. The stream gave no sign of life 
until the light had faded from the sky; then the trout 
rose fast and furious. Nearly every cast of the fly 
impaled a hungry squaretail. The shades of night were 
fast descending on the stream when I came in sight of 
the camp-fire. As I drew near and gazed on the light 
within the shadow I was impressed with the charming 
picture of wood life, in its framework of white birches 
and darkening forests. The forms of the guides could 
be seen flitting about in the demoniac glare of the camp- 
fire, adding huge birch logs to the pile, causing the flames 
to leap upward, turning night into day, and chasing the 
shadows into the darkness beyond. We soon had the 
trout sizzling over the glowing embers; and biscuit, pork, 
potatoes and coffee completed our woodland repast. The 
trout were delicious; so were our slumbers. Early in the 
morning I started out with Lyman to try our luck. It 
was fly versus pork bait. I chose down stream. The 
pools were alive with hungry trout, that rose well to a 
rather large orange body blue-hackle of my own tying. 
When I finished up in front of the camp I had a nice 
lot of trout — the largest about 12 or 14 inches. Lyman's 
string was nearly the same, but he claimed to have lost 
some big ones in the stream above. We had no time to 
investigate further, as we had a long journey before us, 
so, striking camp, we headed up stream. 
After worrying along a few miles we left the canoes 
and started up a wood road towrard Webster Lake. On 
arriving at the dam we found a gang of lumbermen in 
possession. After the guides -had departed to bring up 
the canoes I amused myself watching these human 
beavers at w-ork on the structure, and noted their accu- 
rate balancing on slippery logs and timbers, varied by 
plunging into the chilly waters of the pool and swimming 
out after stray timber that had lost its momentum. No 
wonder most of them sooner or later fall victims to that 
curse of the lumberman, rheumatism. I have seen the 
floor of the lumber camp strewn with bottles. The Soca- 
lexis brand from Oldtown appears to be the favorite 
remedy. I was aroused from my reverie by the appear- 
ance of the guides with the camp stuff. Leaving the pool 
and its trovit in possession of the gang we paddled out 
into the lake. Webster Lake is less than three miles in 
length, .and is very narrow. The presence of the dam 
and carry detract much from its wildness. We soon 
made a landing, near the Telos canal, and leaving the 
canoes started up the carry that leads to Cooper's Camp. 
This old road is the last link that binds us to civilization. 
It runs from Telos' Lake, along the .south shore of Web- 
ster, to Trout Brook Farm, thence to Patten, on the 
Bangor & Aroostook Railroad. W. C. Squier, Jr. 
How the Parsons Put Troijt in 
Crater Lake. 
Saratoga, Cal. — Editor Forest and Stream: Somewhere 
about the time I gladly sent a dime to buy one of the 
first copies of Forest and Stream, I read with a Yale 
man's pride how my classmate, Maj. Dutton, who had 
gone into the regular army, had surveyed and written up 
a wonderful lake in Oregon. I promptly registered a 
vow to follow his steps and see the wild wonders he was 
so enthusiastic about. 
Three summers ago two of us voted our eamp on 
Rogue River a little too tame and started with an old 
prospector "and miner, Theodore Pendleton, of Table 
Rock, lo drive around Mt. Pitt. This two hundred mile 
drive we accomplished, notwithstanding the beautiful 
gray horse of the team was "funny" and often kept us 
waiting before he was willing to pull his share of the 
load up hill. The strangest experience of that trip was 
finding about twenty-five thousand flies between the 
new Minneapolis blankets we had spread out on our 
camp bed before going out for some of the monstrous 
trout of Klamath Lake. Can any camper explain this 
fly fact? 
The wildest,, weirdest body of water I ever saw was the 
famous Crater Lake. Maj. Dutton's modesty has not 
preserved for himself a copy of his scientific report to the 
United .States Government, so I can only give Forest 
AND Stream general but conservative figures. Crater 
Lake lies about one hundred miles east of Ashland, a 
station of the San Francisco & Portland branch of the 
Southern Pacific Railroad. It is fifty miles east of 
Klamath Lake. I cannot pass that lake without mention. 
If you will patiently foflow my fish-line I'll lead you 
into the snows of Crater Lake. Both lakes are notable. 
Klamath Lake, fed by the snows of Mt. Pitt, is the cen- 
ter of the best hunting country it has been my fortune to 
see. Except elk, motmtein sheep and wild goats, every- 
thing is found there to' 3e!ight a sportsman's heart. Par- 
ticularly trout. Bears, mountain lions, deijer, pelican, 
cranes.' geese, ducks, are abundant. But trout! I have 
seen shoals of fishes in the salt sea, but never before 
shoals of great lake trout. The north shore of this 
Klamath Lake is of hard white gravel. The great 
springs, fed from Mt. Pitt, pour out in the clear lake 
bottom tumultuouslv. The eager sportsman needs not 
the glass-bottomed boats of Catalina to detect the schools 
of fish beneath him. Thev swarm. His boat prow drives 
them before him thick as the kids who strew flowers be- 
fore President McKinle'y in Santa Clara county. They 
bite, too. Our first trip on our one spare day brought 
us cranes, ducks, geese and trout. The largest for our 
party fell to me that memorable afternoon— 6J4 pounds. 
But when I took it to the house to weigh the man m the 
other boat had a 10 pounder. Little Beth Scudder, whose 
father was one of the persons I am writing about, two 
years ago hooked a I2V^ pound trout, and was obliged 
to ask Rev. J. K. Harrison's help to gel it into the boat. 
I won't write any more about Klamath Lake, but 
when I tell yon Mrs. Denis' beds were comfortable, 
her biscuit light, her coffee clear, and her cream un- 
stinted, you will appreciate the sportsman's spirit which 
led men" whose vacation days were only ten to pu5n on 
