406 
FOR E S T A X 1) S T R E A M 
August, 1919 
AFTER TROUT IN NORTHERN ONTARIO 
THE RECORD OF A TRIP TO THE NAGAGAMI RIVER REGION WHERE TROUT ARE 
IN ABUNDANCE AND HAVE LEARNED BUT LITTLE OF THE CRAFTY WAYS OF MAN 
By J. R. TODD. 
I F you leave the Porcupine Mining 
Camp on the Friday noon train any 
time in trout fishing season, seven 
hours’ ride will land you in plenty of 
time to make camp that same night 
in what is one of the best spots in 
Northern Ontario for brook trout. The 
section of Ontario spoken of is on the 
Transcontinental Railway between Ame- 
son and Savoff Stations. 
There are, in this distance, five streams 
— and probably others which I have not 
found — that will give one all the sport 
and almost any size fish one wants to 
take. However, Nagagami River, with 
its two branches the White and Skunk, 
are the ones on which my friend, Mr. C., 
and I with Dick the guide, spent what 
were probably three of the best days I 
put in last summer and something that 
I will have to look back upon for years 
to come with very pleasant thoughts. 
We had been talking about this trip 
from the first day of the season and 
after making two false starts, when the 
“something” happened each time, that 
turns up at the last moment and stops 
everything, we at last were really on the 
train and away. On the 12th of June, 
two days previous, we had sent Dick 
ahead to make camp and get things in 
good shape, not taking any chances on a 
late train. 
So it was with satisfied smiles that 
we eventually stowed down our personal 
belongings and got settled for the seven 
hours’ ride. This may seem a long trip 
for fish, but when the train rolls through 
a virgin country across mighty rivers, 
all flowing north to the Hudson and 
James Bays, only some six days canoe 
trip north, not a moment in the whole 
trip seems t^*o long or but what holds 
its full sixty seconds of interest. 
Cochrane was 
reached at two-thirty 
in the afternoon and 
after a thirty min- 
ute wait we were 
away on a one hun- 
dred and eighty mile 
ride on the Trans- 
continental, most of 
which is level as a 
floor. Soon we be- 
gan to cross high 
bridges, over Fred- 
erickhouse. Drift- 
wood, Metagami, 
Ground Hog and 
Kapuskasing Rivers 
and dozens of others, 
all very large and 
nearly all full of 
pulpwood, ready for 
the big paper mills 
on these immense 
streams. 
The country un- 
rolled muskeg. 
spruce, whitewood, jackpine, settlers’ 
cabins, lakes, streams and rivers, an 
everlasting change of green and brown 
blended together, soft and soothing to 
the eye. 
We told ourselves it would be daylight 
up there till about nine-thirty, and as 
the train was on time we would get 
to camp and have a look around before 
dark. 
The engine whistled, brakes ground. 
We started getting out rods and baskets 
and the dozen and one other bundles 
that fishermen always carry and were 
dumped off in the bush by the side 
of the track, but not yet quite in the 
bush, for as the train pulled away we 
saw the station and were able to get the 
section man to hand car us about two 
miles to camp on the bank of the Skunk. 
The Skunk bridge is quite high and 
long and on the west end of it the car 
stopped at the beginning of a small foot 
path, where Dick welcomed us with the 
news that the fish were rising. “Fine!” 
down the steep bank we fell or ran, as 
the case may be, and through a dim 
clump of spruce — which from the top 
of the bank seemed to be directly under 
the bridge, but in reality is some hun- 
dreds of feet from it — and down into a 
flat meadow in which the camp was 
set up on the bank of the stream. And 
what a stream! Winding around the 
meadow and through the woods, its steep 
banks, many rapids and falls, make it 
an ideal trout stream and just at this 
particular part, not a stone in its beau- 
tiful gravel bottom larger than a hen’s 
egg. About knee deep and cold as spring 
water on the hottest day. And fish, we 
had hardly gotten our stuff stowed away 
when Dick called: “See that big fellow 
rising over there?” Yes, we saw him and 
we also saw several rising under the 
bridge, even though we did fall down 
the bank. As It was too cold for black 
flies in the evening, we had a splendid 
night’s rest, except for having to get 
up and get out an extra pair of blankets. 
N ext morning about six, broad day- 
light (and had been since three 
o’clock), we were astir. “What, 
frost last night?” “Yes, siree; froze 
everything stiff.” Grass, weeds and 
bushes were covered with hoar frost, but 
by eight o’clock it was all gone and old 
Sol was warming thing up and a few 
mosquitos and black flies got busy about 
breakfast time, which kept us from 
thinking too much about fishing. 
Now the rods came out and reels 
clicked and buzzed. Leaders, dampened 
the night before 
along with two or 
three sets of flies, 
were soon in place 
and after looking 
around through our 
pockets, fly books, 
etc., about forty 
eleven times to see 
that we had not for- 
gotten anything, we 
were off. 
Just at the edge 
of a camp a tote 
road followed the 
bank of the stream 
up about two miles 
until it lost itself at 
the top of a high 
clay knoll, in a blind 
end. At this blind 
end there were five 
immense pine stumps 
which accounted for 
the tote road. It had 
been made to get 
