364 
FOREST AND STREAM 
July, 1920 
cast my best, my flies remained untouched. 
Above every rocky, swift rapid, there 
would be a dark pool suggestive of square 
tailed monsters. Those square-tailed 
ones are there in every pool. We were 
speeding too rapidly to fish successfully. 
One should carry an anchor and long 
rope, letting the canoe down into the 
pools carefully and quietly. It goes with- 
out saying that the fishing is not good 
until night. 
A sudden bend of the stream, swift 
and rock filled, which required all our 
skill to obviate a wreck, shot us out into 
a quiet pool or pond. A pond it was, for 
a few rods below we saw a make-shift 
dam with a dilapidated and dismantled 
saw-mill at the left. The dam necessi- 
tated a carry and we ran in shore at the 
right. Two rods back from the river a 
low knoll offered a good camp-site and we 
debated some moments whether or not to 
pitch our tent and fish the pond in the 
evening, a thing we should have done, 
but we determined to push on. We 
promised ourselves that we would revisit 
that pond and catch some of the big ones 
our fish sense told us it must have shel- 
tered. We • have never gone back. A 
chance to fish in the present is worth un- 
limited opportunities in the future. 
A HALF hour or so after carrying 
around the low dam we shot out 
into open country and a low foot- 
bridge compelled us to stop and look 
things over before attempting to pass be- 
neath. We made up our minds there was 
room, but a goodly sized creek coming in 
that evening, my largest fish weighing a 
trifle over two pounds, though George 
thought he had hold of a larger one. 
And believe me, fellow anglers, larger 
ones are in that strip of rapid water. 
To camp near the mouth of Big Brook, 
fishing the little stream as well as the 
Nemefcagon, would result in many a fine 
basket. The morning fishing proving in- 
dinerent, and being supplied with dinner 
anyway, we struck tent and shoved off. 
Now I may not enter into an exact 
description of all that happened that day; 
how we bumped into rocks, cracking a 
swung off to the south-east, thinking 
the outlet in that direction, but upon in- 
quiry at a settler’s home found that we 
had been paddling right away from it; 
however, we secured some onions and 
radishes from the garden and made our 
way back to the southwest corner of the 
lake in the face of a high wind. 
The carry at Puck-Way-Wong Dam is 
at the right above, then along the road- 
way over the dam and in again at the 
left. A short carry. There are signs a- 
plenty that in some freshet the dam will 
go out and then, of course, the lake will 
A few rods below we found a makeshift dam 
upon the right seemed to spell brook- 
trout, and we went into camp upon the 
left bank just above the bridge. Soon the 
tent was up, bed made and firewood pro- 
vided. Then we set out up the little creek, 
which we afterward learned was called 
Big Brook, in quest of supper. An hour 
gave us six fish— two brook trout, three 
rainbow and a brown. 
As darkness came on the trout rose 
more and more frequently, until at last 
from the water in front, above and below 
our camp came almost continuous sounds 
of rising fish. We had some rare sport 
couple of ribs as well as breaking two or 
three planks. Twice we ripped the can- 
vas and were compelled to stop for re- 
pairs, which were quickly accomplished, 
thanks to canoe glue and patches. We 
had several carries, our chief trouble 
being wire fences which the farmers had 
stretched across the stream, though down 
timber and an occasional' low bridge 
compelled us to unload. Along towards 
noon we came out into a long dead-water 
— Puck-Way-Wong Lake — the back water 
from an old dam, a relic of logging days. 
Being unacquainted with the river, we 
disappear. It would be too bad, for there 
is fine fishing for rough fish in the lake, 
and the swift water below the dam pro- 
vides the evening fisherman with many 
a large brown trout and rainbow. Be- 
cause of the fine outlook and noisy water 
we had dinner at the dam, e’en though 
somewhat early, and were back on the 
river by twelve. 
For some distance below Puck-Way- 
Wong the Nemekagon is rocky and swift, 
and, though the water looked trouty, it 
took both of us to keep the canoe from 
“climbing a tree.” I am sorry now that 
we did not fish that stretch of water, for 
I am certain that we missed some of the 
best fishing for big trout — brown and 
ranbow — to be found anywhere in the 
Badger State. 
Along in the afternoon, flying along at 
express-train speed, I descried a low 
hanging log below, and thinking that by 
depressing the bow we might slip under, 
I spread myself out on the covered deck. 
Imagine my fright when, peering be- 
neath the log, I beheld a three strand 
wire fence not ten feet below. Shouting 
to my companion, I straightened up, just 
in time to be hurled against the log with 
terrific force. Sticking my feet beneath 
the forward seat, I clung to the log as 
a drowning man is said to cling to a 
straw. George, without an instant’s hes- 
itation, sprang out into the waist-deep 
water, and braced against the rushing 
current, prevented the canoe from turn- 
ing turtle. About all I could do was to 
cling to the log and gasp for breath, 
though I kept my feet in the canoe and 
