486 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec. 2, 1905. 
An Angler in Newfoundland. 
Editor F orest and Stream: 
Having spent a most delightful summer in New- 
foundland, that Mecca of fishermen, I though it might 
interest some of my brother anglers to give them a few 
of my experiences in that almost unknown region. 
The climate of this beautiful country to the parched 
and sun-cured denizen of New York and to the tired 
and used-up sportsman is like a bracing tonic. Think 
of the therniometer ranging from 58 to 68 degrees dur- 
ing the torrid months of July and August! While your 
friends in the States are sweltering under the heat, you 
are tucked under two blankets, dreaming that the sum- 
mer is ended and wondering perhaps if there will be 
frost in the morning. In July there were still large 
amounts of snow lying in the valleys. 
Newfoundland - can also boast of mountains, those 
of the Southwest Range varying from 1500 to 1800 
feet in height. They are covered to the top with a 
species of fir whose branches spread over the ground 
and make a capital bed for the sportsman to sleep 
on. They are so used by the caribou hunter in the 
fall on his way to the barrens — large, flat plains, miles 
in extent, covered with short, wild grass and crisp, 
white, curly moss, the main food for big game during 
the winter months. As for the wildflowers, they are 
of every conceivable hue and shade, forming combina- 
tions of color that Turner would delight in. 
_ Many people living in the States have the impres- 
sion that Newfoundland is a low, flat, rocky and un- 
attractive country. The truth is quite the reverse. It 
is a land of mountains, glorious, rushing rivers, fertile 
plains and well-cultivated valleys. As for the natives, 
though primitive in their living and views, they extend 
a warm welcome to the stranger and do all in their, 
power to make him comfortable. I wish I could re- 
member all their little acts of kindness during my 
recent trip. To give an example: On Sunday, which 
is a day of rest from fishing, the farm horses were 
hitched up to the Sunday-go-to-meeting wagon and I 
was invited to take a drive to a point of interest some 
twelve miles away. This was a free ride and never 
charged in the $7 weekly bill. I thought of those 
drives, extras put up for my lunch, mending and dry- 
ing my clothes, and felt mean when I made a little 
present to the family and help. On leaving, the kind 
shake of the hand, the pat on the shoulder, and the 
voices which _ said: “We hope you will come again, 
when you will_ find things more comfortable,” make 
one feel that life is worth living surrounded by such 
sympathetic, loving folk. I met a man, while staying 
at the Bay of Islands, who intended visiting some 
copper mines, rniles up the coast. I asked him where 
he stayed, as his journey led through a very sparsely 
settled country. His reply was simple and to the point, 
“At night, you make a bee-line for the first house you 
come across. Walk in and you will be given the best 
the house affords, not always a bed, but plenty of 
blankets, a good breakfast and started on your way 
the next morning with the good wishes of your host, 
and no money asked. If you should happen to be a 
native you could travel from one end of the country 
to the other without costing you a single cent for 
board and lodging.” He added that he had a house of 
his _ own at York Harbor, which was generally full 
during the winter with strangers passing through, and 
of these he would take money only from those who 
were able to afford it. 
On arriving at Port au Basque, Newfoundland, after 
a six-hour night trip on a most up-to-date little channel 
steamer, The Bruce, _ having left North Sydney, Cape 
Breton Island, the night previous, you are summoned 
to appear before the Customs and declare what you 
have dutiable in the shape of sporting implements. 
There is a duty of 20 per cent, on all rods, rifles, shot- 
guns, covers, etc. The money, however, will be re- 
funded if you produce the articles on your return home. 
The custom house officers I found most obliging and 
welcomed the old guard, who come year after year, 
calling them by their first names. 
I left a deposit on my rods, and as my small bills 
were about used up, I offered a $50 bank note. I re- 
ceived a lot of paper certificates, printed on a form 
similar to a receipt book, engraved with these mystic 
words: “The Commissioners of Charities will pay to 
James Smith, pauper, three dollars.” I had some of 
the Smith, Brown, Jones family with varying amounts, 
and one old “Brown, pauper,” for eleven dollars. I 
rebelled at first, but was pacified when told that they 
were taken at all places at a premium over notes, even 
guides preferring them to silver dollars. As things 
are not very expensive in this land of simplicity, it 
took me nearly a month to work off this valuable 
amount of script. 
While at the Customs, I noticed a party of young- 
men under the care of a fishing tutor (most probably 
sent by their father) to be crammed tip for their next 
fall exams, and also to get health and muscle in the 
woods. They were told they must first pay the duty or- 
leave their effects behind. They all had new outfits. 
This unexpected demand on their purse cast a gloom 
over the whole party, the sporting tutor, no doubt, ex- 
pecting to. get his charges into camp and then get his 
remittances later. 
My first experience of Newfoundland fishing was at 
Doyles, on the Grand Codroy, but as it was late for 
that river (I found most of the salmon had been taken 
early in June and most of the attractive pools occupied), 
I contented myself with catching some sea trout and 
grilse, but no salmon. To fish this river we had to 
row. three miles up in a light-built dory to the tide- 
water pool, the tinie spent in making this morning 
journey was. one of the pleasantest of the day. The 
river is wide, rather sluggish, with few large boulders 
to hit upon, high, densely-wooded hills, dropping gently 
down to walls of rock which descend to the river’s 
edge. In places I noticed trees which had fallen or 
rather seemed to have been wrenched from their roots 
fully fifty fet above the river’s bed. I was told that 
this was caused by the ice coming down in the spring 
freshets. The lights and shadows falling on the water 
from trees and rocks, painting its surface with varying 
tints of green and purple rising into harmonies of 
brown and red, made a picture never to be forgotten. 
It was on one of these forest excursions to un- 
known pleasures awaiting me in casting a, fly, that I 
found, on arriving at the pool, I had lost my fly-book, 
containing leaders, etc. I told my guide to row back 
and see if . we could find it. I remembered putting it 
in an outside pocket of my fishing jacket, on starting, 
but as the after part of a dory is rather limited, it must 
have worked itself out as I turned from side to side 
to take in .the beauty of the scenery. After paddling 
slowly for about a mile, Tom remarked: “I thought 
I saw something floating like a chip about here. It 
might have been that book,” but we reached home with- 
out it. 
I got some more tackle from Halifax, after three 
days, in the meantime using a trout rod and small 
flies I had in a pocketbook. I told the youth of the 
place to search the edge of the river and offered a re- 
ward to the finder, but without results. Nine days 
after, without a particle of wind or ripple on the 
water, we started for the pool. After rowing about 
two miles, not thinking of the lost book, it suddenly 
came to my mind that we must be in the vicinity of 
the floating chip. I called Tom’s attention to the 
fact. He said: Too bad, that book must have cost 
$25; but you won’t find it, as it must be soaked and 
gone to the bottom. The boys have hunted and have 
not overlooked a stone, hoping to get that ‘fiver’.” 
In meditating upon' my loss, I looked to the bottom 
of the river and spied my book. At first I thought it 
a red stone, but this stone had a stripe about in the 
middle, which I at once recognized as the elastic band. 
“Back water, Tom,” I cried. “There’s the book.” 
His answer was: “Well, gosh!” With the aid of a 
gaff we pulled it to the surface, out of five feet of 
water. But, alas! what a sad shame-faced book! On 
opening it and letting it shed a few tears of joy at 
getting back in my possession, the duplicity of the 
fly-makers was clearly exposed. Here were my beauti- 
ful silver-doctors mingling the blue of their hackles 
with the gaudy yellow of the Durham-rangers, and 
over both, like a pall, were cast the black and brown 
of the Dose and brown-fairies. I remembered the 
tackle dealer saying: “These are all made from the 
natural feathers and none dyed.” 
While fishing on this river at the Over Fall pool, 
with little success, the fish not rising to any of my 
flies, I saw on the opposite bank a boy of about fifteen 
years of age, doing good work; he took three grilse 
to my none. He was fishing with a birch rod cut 
out of the woods and I saw him put on a new tip which 
he cut from a tree behind him with a jack-knife, ty- 
ing it on the rod with a piece of string. Meeting him 
on my way home and knowing him to be the son of a 
guide, who guided for a friend of mine, I asked him 
to show me the fly he was using in the morning. He 
laughed and said, “Certainly, Mr. W., I will give you 
the one I was using and you will kill some salmon. 
I lost two about 8 pounds each this morning, as these 
hooks are no good.” He took out of his jacket 
pocket a cheap penny memorandum book, in which 
were placed between the leaves the feathers of the 
Newfoundland jay and the small screech owl. Both 
were of a mixed color, from gray to black, producing 
a pepper and salt effect. From his trousers’ pocket 
he brought out a thin match box containing about a 
dozen small iron trout hooks with an eye in the shank, 
and sold in country stores at a cent apiece. Seating 
himself on the shingle, he selected a few feathers, which 
he tied to the hook with a piece of black thread — 
no body, nor gimp, nor feathers of the jungle cock for 
him. It took him about five minutes to make a fly, 
using more of the jay for the salmon fly, while the 
owl feathers were “killers” for grilse. Total cost for 
two flies, five cents! He had in his canoe nine grilse 
and one salmon, about 9 pounds, which he had taken 
the day previous, having camped at the pool over night. 
He had a companion, a younger brother about ten, 
who assisted when the fish were brought to land, by 
wading in and flopping them ashore by a dextrous 
upward fling. He used no gaff, perhaps not having the 
price of one. Fie sold this outfit, a second-hand trout 
reel, wdth a linen line, for $2 to some Baltimorean fish- 
ermen, for their collection after landing an 18-pound 
salmon! I gave him some good hooks and he went 
on his way rejoicing. I looked at my 75-cent flies, im- 
ported from the best makers in England, and felt some- 
thing was wrong. 
Ori; going further up the country to Bay St. George, 
I entered the smoker of a Newfoundland passenger 
train. This train allows the fishermen to get on or off 
at any point on the line he desires, for a day’s sport 
at a pooh and stops for him at night on the return trip. 
If it is too dark, the fisherman has only to light a pine 
bough to have his whereabouts known. 
Speaking of gnats and the various Varieties of insect 
life in the Newfoundland woods, I can only say, “they 
are ,'fierce.” The black flies commence in the morning 
at 5 o’clock and keep it up till sundown, when they 
disappear and the mosquitoes arrive and stay with 
the sportsman till sunrise. At dawn the sand-flies, not 
to be outdone, join in the chorus to show their sym- 
— - 
pathy with their brethren. I have heard persons give 
this conundrum: “What do you suppose mosquitoes 
w-ere ever made for?” In Newfoundland they ask the 
same question as to sand-flies. The answer is: “I 
give it up.” 
The solution of the mosquito riddle applies to the 
fisherman’s train. It is usually an hour or more late. 
On one occasion I wanted to fish a pool and started 
for the station to be on time — the train had not been 
on time for two months — but that morning it left five 
minutes ahead of schedule. I noticed some fishermen 
gotten up with great care in the smoker, one especially, 
his legs encased in wading stockings, over which were 
buckled canvas shoes, with hobnails, a heavy, woolen 
fishing jacket, a cloth cap, covered with flies of all 
colors of the rainbow, a large fishing creel, two salmon 
rods, and a gaff large enough to gaff a tarpon. I 
wondered whether the salmon would take the fly to 
show their appreciation of the get up! The ther- 
mometer in car registered 75 degrees. 
1 reached Stephensville Crossing — on the Bay St. 
George — on a perfect afternoon in July, and put up at 
the Bay St. George Hotel. The weather remained one 
of early September in the States, so cool, crisp and 
pure, that the mountains to the east in the far distance, 
tinted with blue and purple, looked as though they had 
been cut out of carboard and pasted against the sky. 
The Bay St. George in the middle distance emptying 
itself into the sea, its tiny billows crested with white 
and gently lapping the shore of a sandy beach, along 
which, on the rising ground, grew pine, birch and fir 
trees. To the northwest was a high, rocky headland 
jutting out into the Atlantic. 
The Bay St. George Hotel, or log cabin, I found most 
comfortable, all the furniture in the house being of 
natural wood (no paint or polish), cosey lounging 
rooms, plenty of books and attractive engravings on 
the walls. After my farmhouse and camping experi- 
ences I could hardly realize that I was still in the 
wilds of the north! 
While conversing with some gentlemen at the hotel, 
interested in the-feheries, from St. Johns, I was told 
that the laws relating to the taking of salmon were 
sound in principle, but not carried into effect, as no 
poacher or illegal netter had been brought to trial in 
the capital, St. Johns. This gentleman stated that 
while fishing one of the rivers this season he had found 
a net extending out beyond the law limit. He told 
the owner he must take it up and place it where it 
belonged. The man seemed surprised and said no 
one had asked him to remove it before. When asked 
if the river warden had not noticed it, he replied: “He 
might have, but as his grandfather had always had 
nets there he supposed it was all right.” “How 
many quintals of salmon did he take?” “About a 
hundred and twenty.” “How many did your father 
take in his time?” “About sixty.” “How many have 
you taken this season?” “About twenty.” “How 
many do you expect your son to take?” When I re- 
turned, I found the net taken up and placed where it 
belonged. I advised the Fish Commissioners to give 
that man $100 to stop netting and make him the river 
warden. If this scheme was carried out at the mouth 
of all the rivers, tie salmon would become plentiful 
again in rivers that are now almost depleted by such 
means. 
Wh-le fishing a pool on Harry’s Brook I saw a large 
number of eels near the bank. The guide said they fol- 
lowed the salmon up the river and ate the spawn, and 
seemed pleased to see them. With a smile of satisfac- 
tion he said: “We will have eels for supper.” They 
caught all they wanted, using an old tin cracker ,box and 
the roe of a salmon tied to a string. They laughed when 
I offered them hooks, their process was a simple one. It 
consisted only of placing the cracker box under the water, 
tilting the edge to the level of the stream, throwing in 
the roe tied with a string. Soon they had the eels tug- 
ging at it, slowly drawing them to the_edge of the can, 
they flopped them in. We had eels for breakfast but I 
found them tough and stringy. They however would not 
touch smoked or broiled salmon, till all the eels were 
eaten. 
To broil a salmon in the woods, cut a stick about five 
feet long, split the stick three feet down from the end, 
whittle out the center, take a salmon that has been hang- 
ing over the camp fire for two or three days, place it tail 
downward in the split stick, tie the upper end of the fish 
to the stick above the fish, jab the end in the ground in 
front of the fire and incline toward it; when done you 
have a dish fit for an epicure. 
The woods are certainly the place intended by the 
Creator for man to live in. All the old fellows know it, 
and as the air softens the cool blasts of spring, they long 
to kick off the shackles of being tied to a desk and flee 
to the woods, with its wonderful changes during twenty- 
four hours. The early morning, the sun just topping the 
trees, the rushing river and woods of ever-changing 
beauty, the hot noon time, the buzzing of insects, the gos- 
hawk chasing the kingfisher, the splash of leaping fish, 
then evening twilight, the darkening of the forest, the cry 
of the lynx, the hooting of the great-horned owl, the ex- 
quisite night, with its invigorating air, the twinkling 
stars, shining above you, while you lie with your feet 
stretched out to the camp fire, listening to the tales spun 
by your men of the glories of the past. Take a trip next 
summer to this land of delight and you will experience 
all the moods of nature and see the glories ot God. If all 
the old men and middle-aged club men, the dyspeptic bank- 
ers or brokers who make an annual trip to some German 
watering place, would turn their faces toward Newfound- 
land and try a cure in the wilderness for the same period 
spent abroad, swing a salmon rod a few hours a day or 
east a fly- rod, eat good salmon steak or trout just taken 
