June, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
251 
HAUNTS OF SALMON AND TROUT 
WHERE GOOD FISHING FOR THESE GREAT GAME FISHES MAY 
BE FOUND AND SOME OF THE FASCINATIONS OF THE SPORT 
By CHARLES A. BRAMBLE 
M ANY modest souls derive a placid 
enjoyment from bait fishing for 
sundry of the lesser fishes that 
inhabit fresh waters. Once I knew a 
man in Lincolnshire whose vocation 
was apparently catching roach, a very 
moderately good fish — and one must 
admit* that a lazy afternoon, under a 
spreading tree, with a pipe and a book, 
while a float bobs serenely in the fore- 
ground, or rather, water, is a soothing 
pastime. But my tastes do not lie in 
that direction. Best do I love the noble 
salmon; next would I vote for trout 
fishing, where they run big, yet must 
you use slender tackle, and beyond 
these, excepting for the lusty masca- 
longe and game black bass, I care hard- 
ly at all. 
Few Americans have angled in Nor- 
wegian waters, though many know the 
streams of Nova Scotia, New Bruns- 
wick and The Labrador, so, although 1 
have fished some of the most famous 
salmon rivers of both the Old and New 
Worlds, I will confine myself to the 
latter. 
Flowing into Bathurst Bay are four 
livers, each holding salmon, the most 
famous being the beautiful Nipisiguit. 
This river heads in the very centre of 
the Province of New Brunswick. Hunt- 
ers know its upper waters well, for in 
the Bald Mountain district there are 
many moose, caribou and bear, but the 
salmon angling is all in the lower 
waters, for, unfortunately, the Grand 
Falls, some 25 or 30 miles above tide- 
water, form an effectual barrier to all 
anodromous species. 
The first run begins early in June, 
and the rough waters between the mouth 
of the river and the crossing of the 
Intercolonial Railway, yield many fine 
fish at this season. But this first fish- 
ing is a lottery; not until the grilse, or 
young salmon, strike into the river a 
month or so later are you sure of a 
tight line each day. 
During my first visit to the. Nipisi- 
guit, I put in fourteen solid days, fish- 
ing religiously morning and evening, 
without raising a fin; then came my 
reward. Now I cannot conceive of any 
other kind of angling that could hold 
a man in thrall for fourteen blank days, 
yet salmon fishing takes such a hold 
of you that you are able to keep a keen 
edge on your interest notwithstanding 
numerous disappointments. 
“Sure you catch ’em today,” John 
Bushey would say as he handed me my 
rod each morning; and just as inevita- 
bly would he remark, “Too d — d bad 
you no have any luck,” as I handed it 
back to him at night. But if we did 
not get salmon all those weary days 
we caught some whacking big sea-run 
trout, even up to four pounds weight, 
only hooking them on salmon tackle 
was very much akin to murder. 
O NE fine morning, however, the 
luck changed; there had been a 
little rain during the night and 
the river was rising and slightly col- 
ored. Almost at the first cast I had an 
eleven-pound fish on — they do not run 
heavy as a rule in Nipisiguit, my best 
of two seasons being but 23% pounds — 
and after a fine trial of strength John 
slipped the gaff into a fresh-run sal- 
mon with the sea lice yet clinging to 
him, a sure sign he had not been many 
hours out of salt water. After this 
my luck was very fair, though I never 
made any record catch on that river 
or even one approaching a record. 
Later in the season Pabineau Falls, 
Fishing a salmon pool 
Chain of Rocks, Middle Landing, and, 
lastly, the basin and gorge beneath the 
Grand Falls all yielded fish to my rod. 
The last-named pool is most romanti- 
cally situated, but the water is so clear 
and the ledges from which you cast are 
so elevated that you can see your fish 
coming for the fly, which to my mind 
rather spoils the charm of the fishing. 
It is the sudden, somewhat unexpected, 
tiger-like rush that constitutes the 
main attraction of the salmon fishing 
game, as I see it. 
There were many bears along the 
stream, and we often saw them. One 
morning very early, while camped at 
Pabineau Falls on the right bank, I 
went down with one of the men to try 
the famous Flat Rock pool. The mist 
was yet on the water, and this means 
that you had better bide a wee, as you 
will probably only disturb the pool to 
no purpose; the fish seldom rise until 
the sun has touched the water, why I 
cannot say. So we lit our pipes, and 
squatted down, as it happened behind 
a large boulder to await the psycho- 
logical moment of attack. 
“Hist,” whispered John, and we hist- 
ed right suddenly, for his quick eye 
had seen “Mouim,” the Black Bear, 
coming out of the spruce timber just 
^facing us. We were separated from 
Mouim by a narrow but impetuous 
stream, almost a torrent, so that we 
could gaze upon our visitor with per- 
fect equinimity. That bear was more 
truly and unaffectedly comic than any 
clown on the vaudeville stage. He in- 
tended to cross, but all in his own good 
time, and not until he had found a more 
suitable place, so he just played around, 
rolled on the damp moss, performed 
uncouth antics and had a great time 
generally, without the slightest sus- 
picion that his enemy man lay a-watch- 
ing within short pistol range. 
Laugh, I should say we did, though 
it had to be noiseless laughter, but by 
now the sun wasAancing over the pool, 
and time was fleeting, so we arose and 
raised up our voices in unison, though 
not exactly in praise. Poor bruin, I 
almost fear he contracted heart dis- 
ease. He got tangled up in his own 
legs, and the faster he tried to go the 
worst time did he make, until at length 
he reached the shelter of the forest and 
disappeared. He may be going yet for 
all I know. 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 271) 
