Aug. 30, 1913- 
FOREST AND STREAM 
263 
supper. This will be a trip strictly for the 
scenery, as there will be no time to wet a line. 
Or, go down the lake to the mouth of the 
little stream opposite Long Point, fish the water 
along there for half a mile, and go on down 
into the pocket and around the islands, and you 
may be sure of good sport among the bass and 
longfaces. 
From Central you can make the trip in 
small boats down through Intermediate, Grass, 
Clam, the lower end of Torch, Round and Elk 
lakes to Elk Rapids, the outlet of the “Six 
Lakes’’ into Great Traverse Bay, fishing where 
you please and camping where you can, for good 
camping places are scarce along the shores of 
these lakes. 
From Central across to Russel’s landing on 
Torch Lake is four miles by a good road, and 
four miles across the lake is the Lewis House. 
At either place you can take a daily steamer 
and reach Elk Rapids, which is a beautiful sheet 
of water eighteen miles long and four miles wide 
and clear as crystal. 
Going down, you pass the mouth of Clam 
River to the left, which is the outflow of Clam, 
Grass and the lakes above. 
At this point is a fair “hostelrie” kept by 
Mrs. Lucy Thayer, where you may also procure 
boats in which to go a fishin’. 
To the left, after leaving Clam River, you 
pass Spencer Creek, flowing into Torch Lake 
from the East, and into Torch River from the 
same side comes Rapid River. Both excellent 
trout streams, the latter, perhaps, the best for 
large trout in Michigan. 
At Elk Rapids, after a transfer of a few 
rods, another steamer takes you to Traverse 
City, the terminus of the branch road, twenty- 
six miles from Walton Junction on the G. R. 
& I. R. R. 
This is a much better route by which to 
reach Intermediate Lake via Central than the 
one we went in by, and we intend going in that 
way next season. By this route there are only 
four miles of wagoning, and it saves the labori¬ 
ous and back-breaking trip up Intermediate River 
and the twelve and a half miles hack-ride (?) 
not to mention the amount of plain and orna¬ 
mental “cussin” necessary to reach Lewis’ Island 
from the head of the rapids. 
Another way to go in is by way of Torch 
Lake and the Lewis House near the head of the 
lake. 
A steamer takes you from Traverse City 
to Torch Lake, where a narrow strip of land 
separates the lake from the bay, crossing which 
you run into Frank Lewis and his house—famed 
as a resort for hay fever victims. Frank, besides 
knowing how to keep a hotel, is one of the best 
“inveiglers of trout and grayling in them parts,” 
and knowing the streams and lakes of that sec¬ 
tion like a book, can tell you where to drop 
your fly and be reasonably certain of a rise. 
From his place, Traverse City, Charlevoix, 
Petoskey and the Island of Mackinac may be 
reached by a daily line of steamers. 
The sun was well past the noon mark when 
we headed for camp, with a gentle breeze in our 
favor. 
For two miles or more we tried the 
“shiners. ' but as we did not get a run we were 
glad we had not wasted more time in catching 
them. 
\\ hen opposite Johnson’s the wind freshened 
and was soon blowing half a gale down the lake, 
curling the waves up out in the middle to a 
height of three or four feet and covering the 
surface of the water with a fleecy foam of white 
caps. 
We kept near the east shore where the water 
was a little smoother, that in case our boat should 
broach to and “flop” we could easily wade or 
swim ashore and save our tackle. We, however, 
managed to keep her before the wind, and went 
forging and wallowing ahead at a rate that some¬ 
times nearly buried her bows under water. Our 
editor, who is a little timid on rough water—al¬ 
beit he never did take kindly to it—shut his 
teeth hard together, and grasping the sides of 
the boat with a firm grip, sat stiff as a telegraph 
pole, all the while keeping his weather eye out 
for “rollers” that every moment threatened to 
come in over the stern. 
A couple of miles above camp we shot 
around a point into a little cove sheltered from 
the wind into quiet water, where we could light 
a pipe and look out with a feeling of relief from 
our haven at the foam-capped waves tumbling 
and roaring out in mid-lake. The editor so far 
forgot the squall as to hook on a small green 
frog, one of three or four procured from Bre’r 
Smith, and in ten minutes was mixed up in a 
personal difficulty with a five-pound longface, 
right there in the rushes. He was a game and 
cunning rascal, working his way around inshore, 
and then dashing under the boat where we lay 
in four feet of water. A fit of absentmindedness 
on Jim's part came near losing him his fish, as 
he forgot to let the line run from the reel, and 
in a flash the tip of the rod followed the fish 
under the boat. For a time we thought the line 
or rod would certainly snap, as Jim still refused 
to surrender his grip on the reel handle; but by 
the excellence of the tackle and a liberal outlay 
of main strength solely on his part, longface was 
finally worked back from under the boat, when 
the Scribe jerked the gaff in his jaw and deftly 
knocked him on the head. 
We lay under the lea of the little headland 
for over an hour, waiting for the blow to go 
down, the Scribe meantime taking a couple of 
large-mouthed bass, and Jim another pickerel. I 
tried the shiners again, but could not stir a fin. 
Poor day for shiners! The wind and sea went 
down as the afternoon wore on, and starting, 
we followed the shore around until opposite the 
island, when, as the shadows began to creep out 
on the water from the west, we crossed over to 
camp and into quiet water. Johnny had seen 
us coming when away up the lake, and had a 
fire started and supper well under way when 
we arrived. We broiled a pair of bass, and 
when the Scribe had brewed a pot of coffee that 
would carry a bead equal to “Old Crow,” we 
sat down to supper with appetites w T ell sharpened 
by the pure air and the fourteen miles' work at 
the oars. 
It is astonishing how an appetite will de¬ 
velop and hang around one when camped out in 
the woods, and the quantity of groceries and 
provisions, fish and game hid away seems to be 
limited only by the capacity of a party for stor¬ 
age. 
Our Johnny was always hungry and ready 
to tackle a square meal on the slightest pretext, 
and after watching him manipulate his knife and 
fork for three-quarters of an hour without miss¬ 
ing a stroke, we concluded he was hollow from 
‘ eend to eend.” But he was a growing youth, 
modest and cautious withal, and never ate more 
than he could hoid. From force of habit rather 
than for warmth, we lingered around the fire till 
it went out, talking over the incidents of the 
day’s trip and planning a day's trouting up Cedar 
River. 
We awoke late next morning and stepped 
out of the tent into a fog so dense it could al¬ 
most be felt. Everything outside a radius of 
ten yards was completely hidden in a white bank 
of mist, and the only signs or sounds of life 
were a few bird notes issuing from the sur¬ 
rounding gloom and the measured snore of the 
camp boy in the small tent. Over near the 
water, in some low bushes, a dozen or more 
swamp blackbirds were making the air vocal with 
a morning rehearsal, and a half dozen of our 
little brown friends that came around the table 
every day for the crumbs thrown to them were 
twittering and peeping from a low tree near the 
kitchen fly, wondering, no doubt, if breakfast 
would soon be over; while overhead, in the 
branches of an elm, a small colony of restless, 
inquisitive bluejays flitted and hopped and peered 
furtively at us through the mist and the drip¬ 
ping foliage, scolding and jeering at us and call¬ 
ing us a score of unpronounceable names in the 
jay language for being so late astir. 
The tents and fly were wet and shrunken till 
the guys were taut as drum-cords. Leaf, branch 
and twig was covered with a thin film of moist¬ 
ure, and a touch of a bush brought down a 
shower of glittering drops like a rain. The air 
was cold and raw, and Jim and I proceeded to 
construct a rousing fire, over which we hung 
the coffee pot, while our hollow youth sonorously 
and peacefully snored. 
About 8 o’clock the warm rays of the sun 
lifted the fog, giving us a glimpse of the oppo¬ 
site shore, and in half an hour more we were 
on our way up the lake in search of the “bull 
bass.” I used up the forenoon fishing along the 
west shore two miles or more above camp; total 
result, one little bass a trifle longer than the 
frog I baited with. I dropped him back into the 
lake with a piece of good advice to grow up 
with—emulate our camp boy, and never tackle 
anything to eat that he couldn’t get away with. 
[to be continued.] 
Ike Walton. 
When old Ike Walton wrote his book 
About the rod and line, 
There was a fish for every hook, 
And angling then was fine; 
But if Ike Walton lived to-day 
He’d hear, past any doubt: 
“This stream was once a peach, they say, 
But now it’s all fished out.” 
When old Ike Walton grabbbed his pen 
And wrote, by reams and reams, 
It seemed he had no bum luck when 
He whipped old England’s streams; 
He tells about the lures that won. 
And all the kinds he tried; 
But when that wondrous book is done 
One thinks: “Old Ike has lied. 
When old Ike Walton lured men out 
To wade the babbling stream, 
He was inspired, past all doubt, 
By many a wondrous dream; 
But if the fish he caught were dumped 
Upon an honest scale. 
We’d find Ike Walton’s stock had slumped— 
Which is no idle tale. 
—Denver Republican. 
