Dec. 27, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
821 
of fear, and paraded before me. Then suddenly 
alarmed, rose with a reverberating roar, and 
dropped down into the gulch and were lost in 
the blue haze of the lower reaches. I soon caught 
up with the canoe men and it was worth while 
to see them plunging through the lush verdure 
often nothing to be seen but the canoe, like a 
big pointed log hat worn by the lay brothers 
I had seen in Rome. 
Up we went, a hard climb without a canoe 
on back, and a splendid demonstration of the 
celerity with which a big party can race over 
forest and lake, carrying canoes and making good 
time. At last we reached the summit and pushed 
on through the tall grass and ferns, of a forest 
garden; the trail now led to a little bay filled 
with logs, covered with flowers and 'bunches of 
the quaint pitcher plants. 
A big heron rose and flapped away, and the 
wild laugh of a kingfisher gave the trout due 
notice that we were coming. Out of the little 
bay we paddled on to Trout Lake, normally one 
of the fine angling places of the region and cer¬ 
tainly one of the most beautiful, a turquoise in 
a setting of verde antique. It was a large lake 
with several little islands at the east end, about 
which I cast a fly later on. 
A big eagle’s nest in a blasted tree was a 
conspicuous object. Here an occasional mink 
lumbered clumsily along on the shore line, but 
it was difficult to see anything disassociated with 
the water so radiantly beautiful were its tints, 
shades and deep tones of color. Along the water 
line it ranged from deep browns to blazing, fiery 
red, that intoxicated and made one fairly drunk 
with color. One might have imagined an incense 
of color, reds, browns and purples, to the gods, 
and all staged in profound silence, if we except 
the weird laughter of the loon of that particular 
lake, as each lake seemed to have its loon that 
we could enrage, arouse or amuse. I never could 
decide exactly which. 
We ran the canoes into a little bay, a 'breed¬ 
ing ground of trout. The men swung them aloft 
with a splendid motion, and up a little incline we 
strode, in high grass and yellow flowers, on our 
great adventure to find the cloud that stopped 
to “kiss leetle Lac Grenier down below.” 
I had often been impressed with the effective¬ 
ness of the white birch, whether at night as a 
column of gleaming ghosts, or in the sunshine 
as silver pillars of the big turquoise that really 
form the sky; but as our silent cavalcade left the 
shore and turned sharply to the left, we entered 
a tunnel of white birches altogether the most 
beautiful thing I had ever seen in its way—so 
effective that it stopped us. It was an old road 
built by some habitant who years ago had cut 
out everything but the white birches and perhaps 
planted more, until they lined the road with sil¬ 
ver and bent over at the tops, intermingling in 
a friendly way. 
Beyond through the silvery flashes we saw 
other and larger trees rising to the summit. For 
nearly a mile we followed along this silvery way, 
counting the bear and moose tracks, a mile of 
a symposium in greens and silver, then turned 
sharply to the sun, the west. Now the road nar¬ 
rowed, then we seemed to be lost in the forest 
for a moment, but suddenly through the trees 
came the glitter and shimmer of water, and Lit¬ 
tle Lac Grenier was before us. 
As though they were changing in a relay 
race, the men threw off the canoes, dropped them 
in the water by a convenient log, and I was 
aboard and off without losing a second. Little 
wonder that Drummond became enamoured with 
Little Lac Grenier. It was little, hardly an eighth 
of a mile across, a watery nest on the top of a 
mountain, or under the top, surrounded by big 
trees and the finest pines I had seen, from which 
rise tier after tier of trees, forming a solid 
emerald setting for this big aqua marine set in 
the Laurentian hills. “Little Lac Grenier, she’s 
all alone, upon de mountain high.” 
Here was absolutely pure mountain water, 
so "Mons. Webaire” drank a toast in the deep, 
icy, cold liquid, so very like liquid crystal and 
so very delicious that my conscience troubled me. 
I felt that I was robbing the very trout some¬ 
where down below, in that limpid, green-tinted 
deep, the most wonderful mirror in the world. 
Surely Little Lac Grenier was "all alone.” There 
was something about it that silenced one, and as 
my men paddled around the edge we said very 
little. There was a real sweetness to it that 
ought to have bred enthusiasm. Around we went, 
the paddles flashing, and I saw that it was abso¬ 
lutely uncontaminated. There was no beach, a 
moose could hardly have broken through the 
shore line of trees and brush that lined it or shut 
it in. The trees seemed to blend with the water, 
forming a wealth of green, rising tier upon tier, 
so that one could not tell where water began or 
trees left off. There were no birds, even the 
loon that doubtless held forth here was away, 
and a silence deep, profound and eloquent was 
in possession. 
As we left, and started down the mountain 
into the canopy of white birches, I turned and 
for a moment caught a glimpse of the little lake, 
whose surface seemed to be ablaze with an irri- 
descence like silver. I stood and watched it 
gleam and sparkle through the tracery of leaves, 
until the men and canoes formed a silhouette far 
down the old road of the moose, deer and bear. 
Once again we were on the waters of Trout Lake, 
big, broad and rough, in the path of the wind. 
Near a little island, I dropped a fly and came 
into my reward, as into the air went a pound 
brook trout, playing a bararole on the reel and 
proving itself a ground and lofty tumbler, bend¬ 
ing the resilient rod, rushing in and out, earning 
his escape in a hundred ways, but coming to the 
net. 
We paddled along shore in the lee a mile or 
more, then hauled the canoe up into the brush, 
and with rifles and rods went directly west, fol¬ 
lowing a little stream or canon down a steep 
mountain which led to another river, as we 
learned a feeder for Lac McLaren, which was 
near La Rintoul and led into the Shawenegan, 
and so into the St. Lawrence. 
It was amazing that we met no game as the 
soft, muddy mat-like trail was cut by hoofs of 
deer and moose, and the big plantigrade of a 
black bear crossed or obliterated them all here 
and there. "At the bottom we found a little 
stream and a deserted log cabin. I wandered up 
the ravine, wondering where the game hid, as 
every little beach, every sandy point told the 
story of bird and beast, new prints and old as 
they wandered up and down, making literal foot 
prints in the sands of time. 
In the little pools were countless minnows, 
which were so tame that they would swim into 
my hands. They were innocent of fear and had 
never known a minnow net or heard the terms 
“bait” or “black bass”-—nothing could be more 
certain. Late in the afternoon we climbed the 
hard trail, crossed the carry, and were soon rac¬ 
ing down Trout Lake before the wind, stopping 
now and then to cast a fly or to challenge a 
loon. 
A splendid change was setting on the stage 
of the upland lake, one of nature’s hanging gar¬ 
dens. The sun was dropping and a deep and 
purple haze was settling down on the lake and 
forest. Far away we saw a ghostly pure white 
canoe, stealing slowly along in the shadows, some 
belated angler perhaps going out by the north 
carry, but the vision suggested the story of the 
ghostly canoe, which George told again, as he 
swung along like an automaton. 
The sun had set before we reached the carry 
and as the men swung the canoes onto their 
backs and I picked up my rifle, it was dark and 
the northern lights blazed and wavered like beck¬ 
oning fingers. Then we moved on and plunged 
into the forest, dark in the fine sunlight, black 
now. Eubold and the Cadarettes did not need 
light. They knew the trail and carry (one of 
the most difficult I recall) by intuition, and I 
swung in behind them and literally let gravity 
pull me down through the brush to Lac le Peche 
far below. 
There is something supremely fascinating in 
being alone in a deep forest (when you know 
you can get out). Mr. Weber, of Sans Souci, 
and Eubald wandered about for two days not far 
from here and came out at last about seventeen 
miles from the place they went in. The region 
is not to be trifled with. I stood quietly several 
times and listened. The gloom reminded me of 
a night on the desert in California. I could 
hear a strange scratching, then far away a weird 
cry, then deep silence, so deep that I could hear 
my heart beat. Then came a crash far away, 
and the morunful cry of the black crickets, the 
same social fellows that bit me at every oppor¬ 
tunity. 
Far away I heard the deep boom! 'boom! 
of frogs in concert, then the screech of an owl— 
a demoniac sound—that gave me a start, and a 
desire to catch up with the canoemen, now crash¬ 
ing on far below me. I do not believe I am 
absolutely happy in a deep, absolutely black forest 
alone at night. My finger instinctively creeps 
to the trigger of my rifle, and I have a feeling 
that I am liable to be struck. I wonder if this 
is fear? I certainly feel better the nearer I get 
to the men, and very much better when Eubold’s 
voice breaks in to the sweet strain of 
“La Roulant ma Boule.” 
I do not believe in ghosts. I know a ceme¬ 
tery is one of the safest places on earth, yet I 
never feel perfectly comfortable in one or 
near one at night, and it is comforting to knoW 
that I never knew anyone who did. I fancy such 
a fear is the survival of the superstition of man 
when he was a savage. 
I stopped again and thought I heard the 
whistle of a mink and the scratching of a musk 
rat, where the waters of Lac Le Peche were lap¬ 
ping musically against the stones. The wind was 
blowing in this lower level and it came sough¬ 
ing on through the trees with a musical cadence, 
weird and ghostly, making the bows creak and 
groan. 
The tree toads hailed me, and down deep in 
the ravine I fancied I saw a ghostly flame of 
Ignus fatui. Then from far out in the lake came 
the laughter of the loon. The gentle wind jan¬ 
gled the leaves of the birch and maple and it 
was music, and the same wind toppled over an 
old tree a mile away which went crashing into 
the ravine .arousing a thousand and one rever¬ 
berations. Whenever I came to an opening in 
the trees to the north, I could see the waving 
northern light, but lost it as soon as I dropped 
down onto the shore, to pick it up again as the 
men shoved off, and we raced down Lac Le Peche 
to the south over the edge of the world far to 
the north. Again we are at the carry, and the 
men pick up the canoes and we swing into the 
black forest which leads to the south, coming 
out after a mile onto Lac Perchaude, and across 
the bay through the silver beeches see the house 
lights of San Souci. 
“Monsieur forgot one ting,” said Tom Ca- 
darette, as he lowered the big canoe gently into 
its place in the canoe house in the forest of white 
birches. 
