August, 1919 
FOREST AND STREAM 
407 
timber for the original construction of 
the bridge. The moose evidently used 
the tote road for a sidewalk as it was 
literally covered with moose tracks. We, 
however, had no time for rifled woods or 
moose tracks, the stream gleamed ahead 
through the thinned out trees and we 
heard the chatter of the water as it was 
forced through a rocky gorge and down 
a set of riffles, which surely spelled trout. 
Then just as we reached the stream, 
Friend C exploded and went to the fly 
oil, from which he emerged dripping oil 
from the eyebrows, chin and nose. “The 
blighters,” he said. C and I were fly 
cranks but Dick, however, had no scru- 
ples and proceeded to bait a hook with 
pork rind. 
My first assay at balancing myself on 
a rock in mid-current ended with the 
usual result and I sought the bank wiser 
and wetter. After several attempts to 
reach a very attractive piece of foam 
in an eddy on the far bank, C also went 
in over his waders and we were soon 
fishing in earnest. The only thing we 
had left to lose was our reputation 
as fishermen and we were going to die 
hard before that happened. After tak- 
ing a dozen fish, half a pound or more 
each, C at last hooked a good one and 
up and down the stream he fought him, 
around stones, back and forth, across the 
stream until he finally netted him neatly 
— three and a half pounds on a Par- 
machene Belle. After two hours’ fish- 
ing, in which we lost Dick, C said: “How 
many?” “Oh, about forty.” “How 
many, you?” “About the same.” “Had 
enough?” “Sure.” This conversation 
was carried on across the stream and 
was rather disjointed, but after I waded 
across we went back to camp. Off came 
the wet clothes and we got into loose, 
dry things, with old boots on our feet. 
Then we tapped the jug and wet the 
fish. Then dinner, fried trout and bacon, 
fried potatoes, jam, bread and tea; the 
pipes came out; we lay in the shade 
and talked it over; we got up, looked 
at the fish, came back and talked it 
over again. 
Presently Dick was seen coming 
through the meadow. Now, right here I 
may say Dick had no rod, he used a 
pole. He had no basket, he used St forked 
gad and you can believe it or not he 
had both sides of that gad full of trout! 
They were trailing on the ground. I 
said; “Look at that,” C raised himself 
on one elbow and right there Dick got 
the name of the “Bloody Poacher.” How- 
ever, on looking his string over we de- 
cided he had about twenty-five fish that 
should have never been out in the cruel 
world and we at once put a handicap on 
him and told him that he must take 
“nothing under seven inches unless he 
is dead when you find him.” This may 
seem a strange thing to say but Dick, 
however, spends about fifty per cent of 
his time looking for his fish back in the 
bush. If he gets a bite the fish either 
pulls him in or he pulls it out and the 
result is soon known. However, he was 
quite proud of his catch and asked: 
“Going fishing this afternoon?” “No, 
we think not, we have had enough until 
evening,” C replied. Anyway it was too 
hot for fly fishing even though they 
would bite bait. So Dick busied himself 
about the camp and soon his axe was 
heard off on the edge of the clearing 
where he was getting wood for the log 
fire in the evening which we all helped 
to carrying back to camp. 
S UPPER was over about six o’clock 
and we began to think about giving 
them another try, when a Govern- 
ment Fire Ranger dropped in to see us 
and said that there were some very large 
fish in the Nagagami, three-quarters of 
a mile west. Friend C decided to try 
the Skunk down stream, while I went 
to the Nagagami with Jack, the Ranger. 
We climbed back to the track, got on 
a speeder and were soon at the Negag- 
ami. About half a mile down . stream 
was a set of falls which Jack said was 
the best place. One very large fish was 
rising out in the eddy at the foot of the 
falls and after repeated tries we gave 
him up until sundown. After half an 
hour’s wait the sun went behind the top 
of the hill and we started in again 
getting three right off the bat at the foot 
of the falls. Then we tried for the big 
one again, without result. Down stream 
a short distance was a small island and 
between this and the shore we got four 
more, all about two to two and a half 
pounds apiece. Then back for the big 
one again, but this was not his night 
and after ten minutes more we reluc- 
tantly left him for some better fisherman 
or a more opportune time. 
Back at camp, C had added a few to 
his catch, but somehow Dick fell down. 
They failed to take the bait that even- 
ing. My seven looked as big as a house 
and Jack said I made him mad, with 
that little pole. Some day he said I 
was going to lose a big one, playing 
him around that way. 
That night frost came again and in 
the morning we planned to go away up- 
stream and fish home, but once in sight 
of the stream where we left off the day 
before, new wonders opened up and we 
had to stop and try here and there until 
pretty soon all our plans went smash. 
Just here the character of the stream 
changed and instead of running in the 
valley it started to cross the forma- 
tion and we came to a series of falls 
from four to twelve feet high between 
rocky banks. Here the bed of the stream 
was covered with big boulders and be- 
hind each lay the trout, waiting for 
the luckless fly. And how the trout 
rose! Often leaping into the air for the 
fly four or five inches above the sur- 
face of the water. Seldom a cast that 
failed to bring a fish to the surface and 
doubles were not uncommon. About two 
o’clock the fish stopped rising. The day 
was very hot and bright, so we inspected 
our catches, which were two full creels, 
and started home. Every mossy depres- 
sion in the pine woods was a mass of 
color. Orchids grew in profusion, they 
were very small it was true, but none 
the less beautiful ; deep purples, rich 
reds, and snowy whites were seen com- 
bined on one spike or one flower. The 
air smelled of balsam and pine and small 
northern birds peered at us through the 
leafing willows, while a whiskey jack 
scolded us all the way home. 
At camp, Dick reported a fine set of 
rapids down stream where he had made 
quite a nice catch, however, on account 
of the handicap imposed on him the day 
before, he had not so many. “Gee,” he 
said, “I must have thrown back a hun- 
dred.” Jack the Ranger had also ar- 
rived and had been telling Dick of a 
small brook about six miles east which 
he intended to visit on the speeder dur- 
ing the afternoon. So after a snack, 
Dick and Jack left for Bertram Creek. 
Friend C and I lay around and were 
lazy for the rest of the day, occasionally 
we took up the rods and went a short 
distance from the camp, but the fish 
didn’t take the fly. They came up, had 
a look and went back under the bank. 
Dick and Jack got back about seven 
o’clock. Dick had about thirty-five trout, 
all from nine to ten inches. He said 
the little brook was just alive and we 
believed him. Thirteen miles on a 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 437 ) 
We camped in a little open meadow, surrounded by thick timber 
