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Vol. XCI JANUARY, 1921 No. 1 
OLD ALBERT OF CHEMUNG 
MOVED BY THE MAGIC OF NORTHERN CAMPFIRES AN OJIBWAY 
INDIAN RECOUNTS THE MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF HIS PEOPLE 
“’HE incidents in this story are com- 
piled from a diary of 1916 and detail 
a canoe trip in the Burleigh Lake 
jion of Ontario. This country is so 
tie known and so accessible that it 
>uld be brought to the knowledge of the 
lerican fisherman. Such a wonderful 
r ersity of lakes, which for beauty I 
ve never seen excelled — and supreme 
ling for muscallonge, small and large- 
iuth bass, charr and lake trout in 
sat abundance and taken in the most 
rfect waters. The lakes are chain upon 
ain, numberless and all connected or 
sily portaged. To the lover of angling 
will be a revelation. 
[ arrived at Buckhom on the morning 
ige, to find my old guide awaiting me 
the little hotel in this spot — so notable 
the security of its fame, as the finest 
iscallonge fishing place in Canada, and 
e of the best in the world. 
My guide is the centre of the story. I 
d first met Old Albert away North 
me ten years ago ; he was trapping 
ere and I was fishing the then virgin 
iters of the upper Montreal River. I 
ppened on his cabin at the close of a 
lg, troublesome paddle and whether 
ilcome or not, had made up my mind to 
mp at the clearing. Any misgiving 
iad had as to my welcome was soon dis- 
lled for in the silent Indian way he 
Id me, “he had a bunk for any guest 
e trail or river brought.” 
That first night together was spent 
incipally in gazing into the flames of 
e stone and blue clay fireplace and si- 
ntly smoking our pipes. I saw Old Al- 
rt several times after that and found 
at he came from my part of the South- 
nd; the lakes and rivers I had traveled 
ere his home. The bond was made which 
as in after years to ripen into a friend- 
dp which is only possible with the In- 
an who knows that the common ground 
^ tween is for the feet of both to be trod- 
;n with understanding. I lost him for a 
!W years, then upon my annual inquiry 
3 to where in the North he was, I learned 
iat he had returned to stay at the Indian 
By CHARLES MEAK1NS 
village of his youth on the Curve Lake 
Reservation. I hurried to see him and 
found him aged but still the same friend, 
and when I asked if he would be my com- 
panion on a fishing trip he seemed pleased 
and anxious to go. I was glad of my tact 
in omitting the word “guide.” 
O LD Albert is one of the type, now so 
few, which has all the silent ideal- 
ism of the great nature-loving and 
nature-fearing Indian. Of medium stat- 
ure, he has the eyes of one continually 
The author with a string of bass 
looking into the past, — an expression I 
have noted in many of the older Indians — 
and with hair quite white, unusual in the 
Indian, but I found out later he had been 
gray as a youth. Being an Ojibway 
(Water Indian), he was not at his best 
on shore, but in the canoe, there are no 
words to describe the symmetry of motion 
or the absolute life of the canoe in his 
hands. One must needs see it to appre- 
ciate what such mastery means. 
I had written ahead to outfit and have 
everything ready so it was only a matter 
of moments till we had stored the duffle 
and were away. As we left the little 
landing in front of the hotel and paddled 
into the ripple of the stream connecting 
Buckhorn Lake and Deer Bay, I felt we 
had started on adventure. 
We had hardly left the stream, which 
at this point is close to its entrance to 
Deer Bay, when Old Albert said: “The 
day looks right.” The hint was enough 
and quietly turning from my position as 
bow paddle I sat facing him and began to 
get the rod and tackle out, — the bait, a 
long copper willow leaf spoon which I have 
found the choicest lure for the “Musky” 
in these waters. Meanwhile Albert had 
guided the canoe to the lee shore and with 
slow, even strokes, we passed a small 
point where in the eddy of the water I 
saw the long, narrow leaf of the bass 
weed trailing. We were just outside the 
outermost edge of the bed, — then came 
the strike — the whirr of the reel, the long 
tip of the rod which seemed to become 
part of the line and then fifty feet behind 
the canoe, a living arch of silver throwing 
itself up and out of the water, shaking 
its wolfish head and making it “touch 
and go” as to whether or not I could reel 
in fast enough to save the hook from 
being shaken out of the mouth. He struck 
the water, the line eased, my heart sank! 
I had fished the muscallonge many times 
before but that important second will al- 
ways be the same. I knew that after the 
“break” they invariably eased the barb by 
following the strain for a short distance, 
but in those few seconds, the swimming 
forward of the fish makes the “Musky” 
angler think of the old cattleman who 
said: “Success isn’t in playing a good 
hand, but in playing a poor hand well.” 
You think you have played your good 
strike poorly, till you feel a tightening 
of the line and 'the fight is on again. 
Contents Copyrighted, 1921, by Forest and Stream Publishing Co. 
