Oct. 4, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
423 
the surface, made a lazy dab at the fly, and dis¬ 
appeared in the swirl of foam. 
“Why don’t you try ’em down here,’’ called 
Wallace from the rocky shallows below the 
second pool. Just at that instant, and as though 
to emphasize the suggestion, Tommy emitted a 
shrill squeal. “I’ve got one! I’ve got one! He’s 
a whale! Help, Wallace! Get the net quick, 
somebody ! Hurry up ! Oh, gosh, I’ve lost him !” 
This little episode brought Dubs hustling to 
the lower fishing ground. Like Tommy, he 
adopted a live bait in lieu of a feathered lure. 
Zip! the reel gave a screech, the bait vanished, 
the line drew sharply taut. With the judgment 
of a good fisherman Dubs struck precisely at 
the right moment, and with his pipe hard 
squeezed between his teeth, smiled broadly and 
lay back upon the butt. 
“You've caught my fish,’’ remarked Tommy 
complacently. For an instant Dubs removed his 
eye from the line, and sent a sidelong glance 
in her direction. 
“The little bass are for the girls to catch; 
the big ones for the men,” said he. 
“Never!” cried Tommy, furiously. 
“What! Are you a suffragette?” inquired 
Dubs. 
“I don’t know whether I am or not,” said 
Tommy dubiously. Then she yelled: “I’ve got 
another fish! Keep your old line out of the 
way. Whew! I’m getting exhausted; my wrist’s 
breaking.” 
“Bet he gets away,” said Dubs, as he snub¬ 
bed his own fish at the end of a vicious rush. 
“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” snorted Tommy. 
Both bass fought with vim and kept the 
reels humming. At last, one after another, they 
were brought successfully to net and laid out 
green and glistening on the rocks for inspection. 
“You see, Tommy, what I told you is true,” 
said Dubs. “Mine’s the biggest.” , 
“Ha, ha,” cried the elated Tommy derisive¬ 
ly. “Mine’s just exactly as big as yours. There 
isn’t a bit of difference between them.” 
Dubs stared at her. The bass he had landed 
weighed at least a pound and a half. Tommy’s 
was not more than a pound. 
“Well, I’ll be darned,” said he. 
By 1 o’clock the big pool and the one below 
the ripple had yielded a clean dozen fish. The 
largest weighed close to three pounds, and there 
were several that ranged between a pound and 
two pounds. 
Under some big spruces on a pleasant little 
knoll near the river, Wallace kindled a fire, 
brewed coffee and fried several bass. Nectar 
of the gods, ambrosia of Elysium could not 
have tasted better. 
“What’s the program for to-morrow?” some¬ 
one asked when we had scraped the dishes and 
devoured the last morsel of fish. 
“I thought we’d take a run down into the 
Cold River country,” said Wallace. So to Cold 
River we went the following day. 
From Long View House to the mouth of 
the Raquette River, which forms the outlet as 
well as the inlet of Long Lake, was a matter 
of ten or eleven miles. With the Albert I. we 
covered the distance in less than two hours. 
On the way down we stopped at Long Lake 
village and made some purchases in the line of 
fishing tackle at Sullivan’s store. Judge Sullivan, 
the proprietor, has for many years been a pros¬ 
perous resident of the town, and his store, which 
faces directly on the water and commands a 
lovely view down the lake, is about the most 
pleasant place for shopping one could imagine. 
In it is located the postoffice, a soda water foun¬ 
tain, and a variety of articles to delight the 
camper, angler or hunter. Likewise it acts as 
a sort of rendezvous for the towns people. 
Politics, business, real estate, lumbering, etc., are 
here discussed, and the local news rounded up 
and circulated. 
We came to anchor off the shallows at the 
mouth of the river, and taking the guide boats, 
set forth. Dubs decided to troll for bass with 
Jack and Wallace Emerson, Wallace’s two sons, 
as manly a brace of boys as one could wish to 
meet with. Tommy and I were bent on seeing 
Cold River, so we went our own way. 
It would be hard indeed to find a more en¬ 
thralling waterway than this of the lower 
Raquette. Every bend was replete with the ful¬ 
fillment of promised beauty. The spell of Evan¬ 
geline’s land lay upon it; the breath of Arcady 
was in its skies, and always in the background, a 
nameless presence, lurked the mountains—aloof, 
mysterious, shadowless. 
Thus we came to know the Olympic crest 
of Santanoni, which stands over 4,000 feet above 
the sea level; thus we gained a more intimate 
view into the heart of the Seward Range, and 
saw its uneven spurs billowing eastward through 
sylvan gaps in the landscape; and thus at last 
we swung out off to the right into Lost Creek, 
from which we presently glided out upon the 
wilderness—haunted reaches of Cold River. 
If you believe the Adirondack forest is but 
a thing of the past, go to the Cold River coun¬ 
try and let yourself be disillusioned in this re¬ 
spect. The old-time wilderness, known to our 
forefathers, is still there. The slopes of the 
Seward Mountains harbor numbers of deer, and 
doubtlessly many a black bear, besides foxes, 
martens, fishers, ’coons, mink, muskrats and 
beaver. The latter, I was told, had built a large 
dam on Cold River, about a mile above the place 
where it emptied into the Raquette. The colony 
of animals who had done the work was esti¬ 
mated at twenty, and owing to the unusual size 
of the dam, a great section of swampy lowland 
had been flooded. 
To go from Wallace’s into this wild se¬ 
cluded territory on a camping, fishing or hunt¬ 
ing trip would be an easy matter. Tommy and 
I very soon realized this, and as though to clinch 
the plans, we had been mentally arranging for 
the future, Wallace presently landed us at the 
entrance of a narrow trail and walked us through 
an open woodland of briers and half-burned 
trees up to “Lib.” H.’s camp on the side of the 
mountain. 
The view from the two spacious camps, 
which stood in a little sunlit berry clearing, was 
one to be long remembered. 
Perhaps the best part of the Cold River 
country rests in its apparent inaccessibility. If 
you were a hundred miles from civilization, you 
could not enjoy greater seclusion, or the de¬ 
lights of a camping ground more remote. Good 
fishing, splendid hunting in the season, miles of 
the river and its tributaries to explore, and Long 
Lake only a stone’s throw distant. These con¬ 
ditions undoubtedly arise from the fact that Cold 
River is still more or less undiscovered. The 
casual traveler and tourist has not yet set foot 
upon it, and in this, may be said, lies the preser- 
v ation of its enchantment. 
From Round Island until we came abreast 
of Long Lake village the wonder of the sunset 
(Continued on page 440.) 
WALLACE EMERSON. 
