Nov. io, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
73 * 
had been kept closed in violation of law, and 
with the unauthorized consent of the game 
warden. We visited the nearer pools the first 
afternoon, finding the river rocky, swift and 
quite shallow. The pools were not like those 
we had read about, with quiet waters below a 
fall, and yet the chance for exciting work 
seemed to be enhanced by the swirl of the 
stream curving to the banks. There was less 
chance for the fish to be disturbed at the sight 
of their enemy. But that first trip disclosed 
nothing stirring of sea trout or salmon, though 
we whipped and whipped with great industry. 
The next morning we were off at 4 o’clock for 
the big pool four miles up the stream. If our 
horse could have talked when we hitched him in 
a cloud of mosquitoes, he would excusably have 
been too profane to be ignored. But we were 
too intent on seeing that pool to be thinking 
much about cruelty to dumb beasts. A quarter 
of a mile’s walking found the youngest of the 
crew leading guide and all, eager to get his 
rubber waders first into the water. It was mad¬ 
ness without method, and, though it netted one 
salmon, it made a deep and destructive impres¬ 
sion. There was a full congregation of them 
side by side, and the first rush for the fly was 
blind and passionate. Then, as the reel dropped 
from its seat into the water, it was an open 
question whether the fish was trying to rope the 
sportsman or steal his tackle. The hook had' 
anchored itself in tough gristle, so that, with a 
great scramble, much yelling and the superior 
agility of Pat Croke, our resourceful guide, we 
were soon saved from nervous prostration and 
made happy in the midst of seeming catastrophe. 
Just to see those great ridges on the surface 
when the frightened school ran from the com¬ 
motion made by the first victim was a revela¬ 
tion of power and possibility. The water was 
shoal where they lay, just where the quick 
stream blended with the calm pool, and they 
could not rush away without lifting the surface 
into great ridges. Yet they were not contented 
to give up their favorite ground without being 
sure that there was good reason, so they kept 
rushing back and forth for quite a while. Finally 
they stayed in the deeper water,-leaping into the 
air every now and then with an explosive force 
reminding one of torpedoes. 
This pool was about 300 feet across, in the 
widest place, and said to be nowhere deeper 
than 7 feet. There was hardly a square rod of 
its surface that was free from that torpedo prac¬ 
tice, and it was a three-ring-circus performance. 
None of the salmon appeared to be large. We 
thought they would run from 4 to 5 pounds. 
Our first trip netted but two. For three days 
we chased it at early morn, and from sunset 
till dark, but the lowering water and increased 
wariness of the fish turned 11s to the other 
smaller pools, where the water was more lively. 
GREEN CAMP AT SPRUCE BROOK. 
Our entire catch was only eight. Two of those 
we caught with a 6-ounce rod, and the sport was 
greatly enhanced by the delicacy of fine tackle. 
Had they been very heavy fish, probably the 
story would have been cut short by a rush down 
stream, but for a salmon of 4 to 6 pounds a light 
rod is just the thing, giving abundant anxiety 
and a fair chance for success, if you maintain 
your nerve and “keep your eye on the pie.” We 
lost some, we don’t deny it, but not a large 
percentage. 
The sea trout refused to run on account of the 
low water. The opening of the gates of the dam 
a day before we came away started them up 
stream plentifully. Occasionally we caught a 
peculiar fish with a forked tail, bright red spots, 
body about 6 inches long, called salmon peel, 
but they were plainly not the young of salmon, 
as that name imports. We hooked a very few 
young salmon, quite different from these. No 
one seemed to know exactly what species of fish 
they were. They looked like trout, and the 
natives said that they were trout. 
Finding that we had educated all the pools 
in that stream to our destructive purposes, we 
ate all we could without danger of bringing on 
the hives, and packed our belongings for the 
west coast. To sum it up, Placentia is good so 
far as it goes, but there isn't enough to go round 
many days. 
On our way to St. Johns three young fellows 
boarded the train with the results of two or three 
days’ trout fishing in ponds, only eighty-five 
dozen. Think of that for a weak wrist. Per¬ 
haps it was sport for those used to herring hauls 
or codfish traps. 
Two days at St. Johns gave us enough of pure 
sight-seeing, and made us again anxious to get 
away from the interminable sameness of business 
and its hives and appurtenances. By rail it is 
about twenty hours to Spruce Brook, where is 
the most delightful place that we saw, the “Log 
Cabin.” The road runs pretty close to the ports 
of the northeast coast, and reveals nothing of 
inland enterprise other than the stripping of the 
slow growing timber lands. We were watching 
as soon as it was light for any caribou that 
might be crossing to the further north. They 
had been advertised as possible incidents of the 
ride, and we considered ourselves entitled to 
at least one drove, but they declined to show 
off as laid down in the railroad programme. 
Never mind, later we saw one very plainly on 
the track at the fishing camp on Harry’s brook, 
and lost the chance to demand any rebate on our 
tickets. We never saw any country that was so 
well named as the “Barrens” of that island, 
where the caribou wander in coming and going 
from north to south. There is a mixture of 
boulders, ledges crumbled by fire and bleached 
by rain, rocky hills starting up bold and clear 
out of a vast level, “Topsails,” they are called, 
stunted trees, low bushes and brambles, wild 
grasses springing out of thin black vegetable 
mould, full of water like a sponge, and then 
the infinite dead timber, standing or fallen, re¬ 
cording the fires that have come with the loco¬ 
motive sparks to waste the value and beauty of 
the wilderness. It is quite surprising to find 
such an abundance of moisture in the shape of 
streams and ponds where goodly water sheds 
and forests to shelter from the sun often seem 
nowhere to be seen. 
So far as the eye could judge, the Humber 
river must be the great stream for large salmon, 
but the chances for entertainment and care of 
sportsmen are exceedingly limited. We found 
everything all right at the “Log Cabin.” It 
stands on the bank of a clear stream, Spruce 
brook, near its outlet into St. George’s lake. 
This lake, right in front of the cabin, stretches 
away for five miles to its outlet, Harry’s brook, 
down which it runs twenty miles to St. George’s 
bay. Go across the lake to the east, make a 
good long day’s march over the trail, and you 
come to the caribou barrens along the Grand 
lake region. This is a fitting-out point for such 
LOG CABIN AT SPRUCE BROOK. 
harry’s river and guide’s camp. 
