October, 1919 
FOREST AND STREAM 
535 
lake in his relentless pursuit of its deni- 
zens and I bent on still hunting in the 
mountains toward the head of the Kunja- 
muk. Darkness had fallen that evening 
as I broke out of the woods and tossed 
an unusually large raccoon into the boat, 
which I had left drawn up on the shore 
of John Mack bay. The ’coon, shot as he 
jumped for a roosting woodthrush, was 
the sole proceeds of my day’s hunt in ex- 
cellent deer country. While it had been 
possible to work up a track until the 
deer could be heard feeding and his scent 
detected, the heavy foliage, still linger- 
ing, rendered it impossible to obtain a 
sight of the buck in time for a shot. But 
then the actual killing is the least of the 
pleasures derived from a day spent still 
hunting in the woods. And even if re- 
gret be felt, there are days to follow 
when the story will be different. 
Three or four miles down Indian Lake 
our fire, gleaming through the trees, 
served as a beacon on the row to camp. 
As the boat grated on the shore the old 
tropical delver strode down to the land- 
ing. Excitement was in his speech, and 
his discourse was of the Lewey Lake 
pike: He had gone right into their front 
yard and pulled them out the doorway. 
True, his tackle had suffered in the en- 
counter. But in the morning he would 
show me the proper way of it. 
N ext moming while the guide and I 
got breakfast he busied himself 
with preparations for the coming 
fray, unheeding derisive suggestions by 
other members of the party. Selecting 
the heaviest fly rod in our assortment, 
which had seen service with big square- 
tails and land-locked salmon, he rigged it 
to his fancy and cut sundry strips of 
“sow belly’’ from the pork stock of the 
camp larder. 
A couple of hours later, as we rowed 
across the foot of Lewey lake and en- 
tered the chosen field of operations 
among the lily beds, a boat bound to the 
foot of Indian lake drew near. In the 
boat were a sportsman and his wife, with 
a guide at the oars. 
“Good moming! Would you care to 
take out a few nice pike with you?’’ 
hailed my partner. 
“Why yes, thank you, if you have them 
to spare,’’ replied the sportsman. 
“Well, we haven’t got any right now, 
but we won’t keep you long getting ’em,’’ 
was Baker’s confident response as he 
prepared for action. 
His assurance amused the strangers, 
and they probably were impelled to wait 
as much by a desire to see his self-confi- 
dence shattered as to obtain the fish. 
Whatever may have been their motive 
they remained nearby, the guide, his face 
wearing a good-natured grin, resting ex- 
pectantly on the oars. 
Choosing a circle of water a couple of 
yards in diameter and free from lilies. 
Baker drew out about six feet of line and 
handling the rod in the customary man- 
ner dropped in the bait, a white enameled 
spoon with wire leader and a strip of 
pork rind dangling from the hook. Let- 
ting the bait sink three or four feet, he 
raised up on the rod and commenced to 
retrieve the short line. Instantly a huge 
pike shot up under our very noses. Mak- 
ing a half-turn, it seized the bait and 
started off. He struck, at the same in- 
stant easing off sufficient line to put the 
full arc in the rod. And not another inch 
of line did he give the fish throughout the 
fight that followed. 
At first the pike, as was natural, 
sought bottom and fought as far below 
as the tense fibers of the curved bamboo, 
often swishing back and forth under 
water, would permit. Then as the steady 
strain brought the pike near the surface, 
it raced through the lily pads and flound- 
ered upon the top of the water, attempt- 
ing short dives, until brought to gaff. 
The contest likely was of ten minutes’ 
duration. Moving a couple of oar sti’okes 
right or left, he twice repeated the pro- 
cedure. Then our neighbors in the other 
boat, who had experienced keen enjoy- 
ment in the merciless handling to which 
the trout-destroying pike had been sub- 
jected, came alongside and received their 
promised fish. As they proceeded down 
The shores were fringed with dead timber 
the lake, the loud laughter of the guide 
was wafted back to us at intervals, and 
elicited a corresponding echo in my part- 
ner’s chuckle. 
L anding the pike often presented 
difficulties; the fish were too large 
for a net and their thick scales were 
as armor-plate to the steel gaff point. 
In view of these facts the treatment 
received by a brother sportsman at the 
hands of my side partner would appear 
unreasonable and unjust. This occur- 
rence took place some days after the ar- 
rival of a party on its first visit to Lewey 
lake. Until then he had been landing 
the fish with his hands. On this occasion 
he was out on the lake alone, bait casting 
with a stout fly rod, when he got a mighty 
strike. He hooked the fish and, being on 
the edge of the weeds in deep water, had 
a good opportunity to carry on the fight. 
When the pike, somewhat exhausted, was 
coaxed within sight its size startled the 
old fisherman. Nothing daunted, how- 
ever, he made ready to land it in his usual 
fashion of inserting his fingers beneath 
the gill covers. His efforts were not 
proving altogether satisfactory, so when 
old Si rowed up, drew in his numerous 
poles and volunteered to aid him, he glad- 
ly transferred his job to the newcomer. 
But when Si reached to the bottom of his 
boat and produced a patent spring-gaff to 
lift the prize pike from the water, he be- 
come dubious of the outcome and object- 
ed. 
“I don’t like the looks of that contrap- 
tion, Si; it’s too much like a garden 
rake,” said Baker. 
“Oh! it’s all right; it’s what I gaff all 
my pickerel with,” was the reassuring 
answer of Si, as he caressingly entwined 
the fish with his pet tool and pulled the 
trigger. At the same moment he lifted 
the pike from the water. 
Si was just about to be felicitated on 
his skill in using the implement. Reach- 
ing for his club, he was on the point of 
administering the quietus to the wrig- 
gling form when, to his horror, the pike 
splashed back into the lake. Tearing it- 
self free from the hook, it made for the 
bottom and was soon lost to view. 
Si gazed for a moment in crestfallen 
wonder into the depths whither the pike 
had disappeared, and then turned to 
meet a rigid glare. 
“I s’pose you don’t thank me for losing 
that nice pickerel,” he observed meekly. 
“Oh! yes, I thank you. Si — like h — I” 
was the quiet reply that came back. Si, 
trustful soul, considered the incident 
closed, but soon indignation found voice, 
and efforts of former votaries of vituper- 
ation thereabouts counted as naught. 
While Si sat in awed silence, his oars bob- 
bing idly in the water, the hills resound- 
ed with the output. 
“That old man is going to kill Si!” 
came a woman’s shrill cry from the kit- 
chen doorway of the log hotel; which 
probability, enhanced by the sight of the 
bludgeon in the “old man’s” hand, like- 
wise occurring to the object of all this 
wrath. Si made off with rattling fish 
poles as fast as he could row. Nor was 
he again seen on, his favorite fishing 
grounds during the remainder of the stay 
of our party at Lewey lake. 
And, scandalous to relate, in the audi- 
ence on the lake shore by our tents — 
gleeful witnesses to the scene enacted by 
the two old men — the spectator who ai>- 
parently derived the keenest enjoyment 
from it was our guide, Jim Sturges, un- 
regenerate nephew of Si himself 
I T is probable that the automobile has 
made marked inroads on the northern 
pike of Lewey and Indian lakes during 
the past ten years. But if the fishing is 
now even one-third as good as when we 
fished there, it is well worth a visit by 
anglers fond of plug or bait-casting for 
these fish. For the intensive general 
fishing now practised, it is doubtful if 
to-day— as was the case when we were 
at Lewey lake — it has an equal in this 
particular anywhere in New York state. 
(continued on page 552) 
