296 
FOREST AND STREAM 
July, 1921 
UP THE HUMBER TO THE BIG FALLS 
TAKING DORIES UP A WILD RIVER IN NEWFOUNDLAND IS HARD WORK 
BUT THE SALMON FISHING AT THE END BRINGS FULLf REWARD 
By THOMAS KNIGHT FISHER 
T HE Reid-Newfoundland 
Railroad Company’s 
circular asserts that 
“the Humber is a noble 
river and full of fish.” We 
all smiled a bit when we 
read it and swallowed it 
with just a grain of salt, 
but the appeal was there. 
There were eleven of us 
in the party that sailed on 
the Boston-Yarmouth boat 
on July first — three school- 
masters and eight near-col- 
legians. All of us were 
husky and full of the spirit 
of adventure, but there was 
a long, long way to travel 
to the promised land. Cus- 
toms officials at Yarmouth 
took considerable convinc- 
ing and some of our money, 
but finally admitted there 
was a possibility of our 
going that far. Nova Sco- 
tia trains took us in two 
days to the port of North 
Sidney, but that was a civ- 
ilized ride in comparison to 
what we were going to en- 
dure. 
We arrived at North Sid- 
ney in the early evening 
and took the shuttle train 
to the dock. There was the 
good ship “Kyle” ready — 
no, not for three good 
hours after scheduled sail- 
ing time — to take us north. 
At last we got under way 
and after a disagreeable 
night bucking high seas in the teeth 
of a northeaster, we arrived at 
Port Aux Basques. The sight that 
met our gaze was anything but 
cheerful. Bleak, wet, rocky bluffs, 
with a little Customs House at their base 
and a diminutive train waiting for pas- 
sengers. We soon got through with the 
Custom officials and boarded the train 
for Curling, a train of tiny cars on a 
narrow gauge track. 
The less said of that six hour ride the 
better. The motion of the cars was 
jerky and abrupt. There were frequent 
dangerous careenings as we passed 
along hillsides covered with stunted 
spruce or through caribou barrens. 
Our arrival in Curling, our so-called 
jumping-off place, was an event to call 
forth heartfelt thanksgiving. 
We had intended going up the Humber 
River to the Big Falls at the start of 
our trip, but turbulent water prevented. 
Consequently, we put off this part of 
our trip to the second period of three 
weeks and started by freight for Sandy 
Crossing on the way to the Sandy Lake 
country. At about eleven at night we 
unloaded at the Sandy Crossing Bridge 
that we were hungry. Con- 
sequently, there was a con- 
certed rush for camp, where 
frying pans, cornmeal, 
grease, and later catsup 
were at a premium. How 
many did we eat? Seventy- 
five as a starter! Then we 
had supper. When we had 
finished, twenty-five good 
trout were still left for 
breakfast. 
Perhaps you have been 
wondering if it was worth 
while coming so far. Per- 
haps you no longer harbour 
those doubts. 
Across twelve miles of 
beautiful Sandy Lake we 
rowed and far up into the 
Birchy Lake country We 
had seen noble specimens of 
caribou and moose. Ducks 
were everywhere. Beaver 
were at every turn, and a 
loon or snipe held solitary 
watch over the waters at 
frequent intervals. 
We were now in territory 
beautiful beyond belief. 
Great red rock and spruce 
covered mountains rose 
from the very water’s edge, 
and the scene was almost 
the same as in parts of Gla- 
cier National Park, though 
a little wilder and of a 
more “lost country” aspect. 
We took time to climb two 
neighboring pinnacles and 
view that marvelous pan- 
orama of connected lakes, of wood- 
ed hills, and long belts of brown cari- 
bou barrens. Oh, it was good to be 
alive and enjoy it all! 
Soon, however, it was time to turn 
back downstream if we were to com- 
plete our trip up the much vaunted 
Humber River to the cherished Big 
Falls. Three weeks had passed in seem- 
ingly as many days. When finally we 
crossed Deer Lake and camped for the 
night at Mosquito Island at the mouth 
of the Upper Humber, we were hard- 
ened and experienced campers, ready 
for the struggle against the worst rap- 
ids in Newfoundland. We had no 
guides and wanted none, though many 
a sage head had wagged back at Curl- 
ing and many a knowing wink had been 
exchanged over these “fool campers 
who will soon be back for help.” 
That night, the night before starting 
for the Big Falls, we determined to 
have a royal feast, and such it was, 
Trout with catsup, split pea soup, 
boiled potatoes, canned spinach, rice, 
twenty-two biscuits apiece, jam, coffee, 
and peaches with condensed milk made 
up the menu. Nothing was left over. 
Jud tries his luck at the foot of the falls 
in the midst of a barren waste. A 
quickly improvised shelter of two boats, 
oars, and tent flies furnished protection 
from the elements. In a few moments a 
roaring blaze was going, and as hot soup 
was being passed around, our spirits 
quickly revived. As we were all dead 
tired, however, we soon turned in for 
a sound sleep. 
W ITH the coming of the morning 
we began to enjoy the reality 
of an outdoor life of which we 
had dreamed for months. We 
launched and loaded our two dories and 
two light boats, — chosen for their car- 
rying capacity and safety in the hands 
of inexperienced boys — and for four 
days travelled upstream through wild, 
barren, and wind swept country to the 
last few rapids below Sandy Lake. 
Here was where we first found trout in 
large numbers. 
Listen to this, ye lovers of the sing- 
ing reel. In two hours’ time our net 
catch of brook trout was one hundred 
and twenty-five, ranging from three 
pounders to quarter pounders. It didn’t 
take us long to make up our minds 
