318 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June, 1920 
The Name 
Behind the Cot 
F OR thirty years “Gold 
Medal” has been recogniz- 
ed as the standard camp fur- 
niture among outdoor men 
everywhere. Light, strong, 
compact when folded and un- 
usually comfortable. Gold 
Medal Camp Furniture early 
gained a distinction that has 
never been lost. 
You can depend on Gold 
Medal, always. It is the log- 
ical camp furniture. Many 
styles of Folding Cots, Chairs, 
Tables, Mosquito Frames and 
Nettings, Water Pails, etc. 
At Sporting Goods, Hard- 
ware and Furniture Stores 
and Tent-Makers. Complete 
Catalog and Dealer’s name on 
request. 
GOLD MEDAL CAMP FURNITURE MFC. CO. 
1740 Packard Ave. RACINE, WIS. 
>— ' - < 
Gold Medal 
Furniture For Home and Camp 
Attach this Motor 
to 
Your Boat 
New pleasures are open 
to the man who attaches a 
Lockwood-Ash Row Boat 
Engine to his row boat. 
It saves those long, hot, 
back-breaking pulls to the 
fishing or picnic grounds 
or the camp. 
Ask for our booklet 
and learn about the 
30-day trial plan. 
Lockwood-Ash Motor 
Company 
2003 Jackson Street 
Jackson, Mich. 
(69) 
It is simple, economical 
and practical and takes 
but a few minutes to 
install. 
You remember there is barely room 
for a canoe to get up that stream. And 
it winds through a swamp with small 
saplings of fir and dead wood. Thus as 
we silently poled we came not ten feet 
from a deer, and as she stood there a 
veritable statue of dainty surprise, I 
pulled the trigger, just as she jumped. A 
hundred yards further along we ran into 
another one, and this time came to with- 
in reaching distance of her. But the 
bushes of alder were now thick between 
us and only a glimpse could be gotten. 
Still, I pulled the trigger and went on 
as she threshed her way ahead of us. 
Thus we came to the very head of navi- 
gation for canoes. Before us lay a two- 
mile carry. So, while the guides loaded 
the stuff into the drags, I went ahead 
down the trail from Little Nictau to the 
First Nepisiguit, or Bathurst Lake. 
And here the trail lies broad and mys- 
terious between high trees and dense 
thicket. The summer birds were singing. 
The book of the mudspaces was filled 
with tracks, deer and moose for the most 
part. Clear cut as though in plaster-of- 
paris some of them were. Dew claw and 
delicate hoof clearly defined. 
Alert I went along the trail, till we 
came on a covey of grouse, sitting, hop- 
ping, chuckling, as slowly and as near 
and as tame as barnyard fowl. Eagerly 
I tried for a photo, but the shadows in 
the woods were hopeless on that cloudy 
day. I could only risk a shot which later 
came out with enough of the birds for 
me to recognize, but not enough for a 
clear picture. Great bunches of raspber- 
ries lay red and juicy. Here and there a 
porcupine scrambled up the tree boles. 
But not a squirrel did I see here. Deer 
and moose in plenty were there but to 
get through the thicket without alarming 
them, to gdt within twenty feet of my 
goal, was impossible, till at a bend I 
came on another cow. 
She had seen me, however, and was 
away in the forest before I could get into 
action. A young bull stood five minutes 
with his back half toward me, and his 
hip dropped like a tired horse. But 
though I shot, the developer revealed only 
a vague ghost. So on we went till from 
a little rise, Nepisiguit lake shone before 
us. So I lay down in a cosy spot, reach- 
ing for clusters of raspberries around me, 
while woodnymphs (butterflies) rested on 
wavering wings, and the song of the ves- 
per sparrow came clear, eerie, through 
the forest glades. A big loon flew by, his 
wings whistling like a goose wing near 
by. A fish hawk plunged surging into the 
shining waves of the forest lake. I could 
make out deer after deer standing on the 
edge of the lake. Through the field 
glasses it seemed as if I could almost 
touch them. But even when the carriers 
came and the tumult of embarking again 
was roused, they stood there watching us 
from a distance. 
W E were now over the great divide. 
Starting from the western edge 
of New Brunswick, we had 
come up the St. John, up the Tobique, 
over Nictau, and this carry, to put our 
canoes into Nepisiguit Lake, which in 
turn emptied into the Bathurst river and 
| far away" into the Baje de Chaleures. 
As we drew into the narrows at the 
entrance of second Nepisiguit, the trout 
were leaping in swarms, so we paused to 
bring in a few for supper. 
Soon the flies were looped, Parma- 
cheene Belle, Jenny Lind, Brown Hackle, 
and Montreal, — four flies on a cast, and 
at almost every throw there was a trout 
after each fly. But they were quick as a 
flash. Time after time they struck, some- 
times leaping clear of the water to take 
the fly, but it was spewn forth as vanity 
in half an instant, — as my mate and lit- 
tle girl soon found out. For half an hour 
they could not hook a single trout. 
Then they got the hang of it. And as 
we hung poised in the flow, holding bot- 
tom by pole and paddle, they began to 
bring them in. Pretty little trout aver- 
aging perhaps a quarter of a pound, — 
silvery, clean, just as if come from the 
mint, their sides orange and gold and red, 
speckled too with the forget-me-not blue. 
Two dozen were all we needed, and these 
were sizzling in the pan a few minutes 
later as we rounded the narrows, and shot 
up to the HOME CAMP of Charlie Cre- 
min, a camp that is a dream ef real 
beauty, with all the individuality of the 
Canadian wilds, picturesque in its log cab- 
ins, birch bark roofs, crowding wild- 
ness, and charm, a veritable log cabin 
home in the midst of a dense wilderness 
of lake and stream, headland and forest 
and fragrant Christmas trees. 
Right in front of the camp a moose was 
feeding, deer, in their red coats stepped 
daintily to the lake brink to drink. Part- 
ridge were chuckling right in the thicket 
at the edge of the camp, loons and fish- 
hawks were nesting near by, and a sweet 
cold stream trickled and laughed and 
gurgled within a few feet of our nest. 
Nothing could have suited us better. 
Right back of the camp was a faint 
trail that ran for forty miles before it 
reached the nearest settlement. Along 
this I walked looking for game. Just 
where it crossed a slough I built my hid- 
ing place and lay in watch. 
Black ducks were quacking somewhere 
in the swamp ; from time to time a single 
bird or a couple rising, or a whistle-wing 
slanting down to rest in the lonely marsh. 
As I sat there, deer after deer came down 
the trail, or stepped out of the thicket to 
the edge of the pool. Then came a cow 
moose, and again, a big bull, but all of 
them too far for a good camera shot, 
though in easy range for a riflle. So, 
as the light was still bad, I came back to 
camp, took up my rod, and started out 
for Armstrong Brook, a tiny, ice-cold rill 
that tinkled and gurgled its way through 
the forest to First Nepisiquit Lake. 
Here, just off where the brook fell into 
the lake, we had trout fishing, the like of 
which rarely falls to the luck of any man. 
Any fly would do, though those with 
a brown body and a red tail seemed to * 
be the favorites. We cast out on both 
sides of the canoe and for an hour the 
water boiled with the speckled beauties. 
They seemed almost all of the same 
size. Those at the inlet had all been 
small, these were big. Those at the inlet 
were silver and green, these were ruddy 
and dark and strong and gamey. Time 
after time one would rise, leap clear of 
(continued on page 337) 
