August, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
431 
A few trout for supper 
An ideal camping site 
Getting hay for browse 
a furnace. Disgusted, we were out at 
6:30. As we had all the time there was, 
we began the day right by having pan- 
cakes for breakfast. I initiated George 
into the mystery of flopping cakes in the 
air, -without which accomplishment no 
one is deserving of the name OUTER. 
The day was hot and sultry, because of 
that and because it was Sunday, the bass 
persisted in jumping close in under our 
bank; great big fellows, for, as George 
said, at times it sounded as though “a 
log had fallen into the water.” We pre- 
served our souls in patience, telling each 
other that we wouldn’t do a thing to 
those fish early Monday. 
By noon thunderheads were rolling up 
in the west, great big yeasty fellows 
worth going far to see. Thunder- 
shower after thunder-shower circled to 
the south, growling ominously, but we 
only laughed at Thor and his threats. 
The baker was set up and the pike, 
properly stuffed with a special dressing, 
placed on the dripping pan. (Makes me 
hungry even at this distant day just to 
think of it.) George’s part was to sup- 
ply me, the cook, with dry oak branches 
cut to a proper length. Busy over the 
baker, for the successful baking of a 
fish in a reflector requires care, I had 
not noticed that George’s axe was silent, 
so I was brought up “all standing”, as 
it were, when he called from back of 
camp, “Bring that first aid kit over here, 
will you?” 
I found my companion sitting with his 
right foot in his lap, for he had sunk 
the bit of his axe deep into the upper 
part of the instep. I was frightened, 
for I have seen many a man laid up with 
less severe-appearing axe wounds. I 
saw the end of our trip right there, and 
I wondered if, with my broken ribs, I 
could get my companion out alone. The 
only map we had gave Danbury as the 
next town, where the Soo Line crosses, 
some thirty-five miles distant, with sev- 
eral rapids intervening. I doubted. My 
imagination was busy while I unstrapped 
the precious first-aid kit. Mentally I 
thanked my lucky stars for my smatter- 
ing of first-aid knowledge, gained 
through a Scout Mastership. Boiling 
some water, I prepared a strong anti- 
septic solution, and telling George to 
say anything he had a mind to, turned 
it in the cut. Then I drew the sides to- 
gether, binding firmly with surgeon’s 
piaster, for I did not have the nerve to 
attempt stitching, and bandaged up the 
foot. Warning him that to stand up 
might be to produce a hemorrhage that 
I could not manage, I returned to my 
cooking. Let me add, lest I forget it, 
that my bungling attempt at surgery 
was a success, and aside from the inevi- 
table soreness and difficuty of getting 
about, my companion experienced little 
difficulty and no evil after-effects. The 
first doctor we found reported the foot 
0. K. and my ribs knitting all right. 
In spite of our accident, the dinner 
was a success, a meal long to be remem- 
bered and tasted of in retrospect. The 
afternoon passed comfortably enough 
with conversation and reading, for I had 
a vest-pocket “Tempest”, which lends it- 
self admirably to outdoor study. A thun- 
der-shower at three o’clock added variety 
to the day, but soon passed and the sun 
came out and dried the vegetation be- 
fore night. On the whole it was a very 
satisfactory and comfortable day. 
Monday we were a-stir at dawn and 
ap the Totopatic after the big bass, but 
failed to secure a rise. Back at camp, 
we caught a couple of pike while break- 
fast was cooking, so our dinner was 
ready when we shoved off at eight. 
There was a very bad rapid; that is, 
shallow and swift, half a mile below 
camp, and I was glad George was in 
the stern of the canoe. I could not help 
thinking what might have been my por- 
tion, had he been stretched out disabled, 
and I think I was sufficiently thankful. 
Islands increased in number and size. 
At eleven o’clock we slid under a large 
iron bridge and landed to reconnoiter. 
George crossed the bridge south, while 
I travelled north. George had the best 
luck, for he found a little store not far 
from the bridge, its proprietor being the 
inevitable “old settler” with an abundant 
store of information. We were already 
in the St. Croix, had been for four miles, 
“as the crow flies”, and had passed two 
good trout streams just below the mouth 
of the Nemekagon — “within half a mile” 
— one upon either side of the river. We 
were informed that the one coming in 
near “Moore Farm” contained plenty of 
brook trout. The canoeist will recognize 
Moore Farm, a cleared sandy expanse 
upon the north bank of the St. Croix 
not far below the mouth of the Neme- 
kagon; the rotten remains of several 
ancient lumber camps mark the spot and 
speak of an industry that is all but past. 
Indeed Moore Farm, so our “oldest in- 
habitant” informed us, was an historic 
spot dating back “before the war”. 
There is an old “tote road” running up 
to the headwaters of the trout stream 
from the Farm,, but of that I may not 
speak from personal experience. There 
is a very good stream entering the St. 
Croix about half a mile below Hay 
Bridge, or Hay Town Bridge as it is 
called, easily reached by the highway; 
indeed, Perkins’ Brook can be reached 
at a number of spots from the highway. 
Just above the bridge, Hay Creek, a 
still better stream, enters; it can be 
reached by following the highway north 
a mile and a half and turning to the 
east; or by traveling north two and a 
half miles, and east a mile and a half — 
the latter would give the ambitious 
angler a long day’s hard fishing. It is 
bait fishing for the most part, though 
the fly enthusiast will find places where 
he can dangle and tangle his lures. 
There is a good camping spot under a 
big elm tree just below the bridge. Sup- 
plies can be secured from the Oldest 
Settler’s store. 
We discussed long and earnestly as to 
what we should do — both desired to fish 
for trout, but my side still bothered me 
more than I cared to confess, and I was 
morally certain that George had no busi- 
ness scrambling along a trout stream 
with that foot of his; so we had lunch, 
rested and mourned our inability to do as 
we desired, promised each other that 
some day we would take that portion of 
the trip over again, climbed aboard and 
shoved the canoe into the stream in quest 
of “State Line Rapids”, one-half hour 
below Hay Bridge. 
L ET me break the narrative here long 
enough to say that the man seeking 
the best possible bass fishing can- 
not do better than ship his canoe to 
Gordon, on the Soo Railway, fishing 
down the upper St. Croix. Take my 
word for it, until you have had the ex- 
perience for yourself, there is wonderful 
bass fishing, either for the fuzzy wuzzy 
lures or the short rod, and good trout 
fishing in the numerous confluents, only 
you will be apt to pass the creeks un- 
recognized unless you are more than or- 
dinarily sharp-eyed. Take a week from 
Gordon to St. Croix Falls, say, or bet- 
ter two weeks, that will give you ample 
time for fishing and both State Line and 
Crooked River Rapids to run, not to 
mention the swift water of the St. Croix. 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 471) 
