438 
warned us of coming night and we all got busy. 
With evergreen boughs we swept up and dusted. 
Water was brought, wood gathered and beds 
made of balsam boughs. A blazing fire on that 
old-time hearth made the place glow with warmth 
and good cheer, and how we did enjoy hot bis¬ 
cuit, bacon and tea under the friendly firelight 
with the low benches for seats and the floor for 
a table. 
It was long after our usual woods bedtime be¬ 
fore the speculative smoke talk stopped and we 
sought our fragrant balsam beds. 
The outlet of Lake Clear empties into Lake 
La ieille. It is a short sizable stream of white 
water in a mad rush among the boulders in its 
race for bigger waters. We concluded, after a 
little observation, that this rushing stream be¬ 
tween two fine lakes was a recreation place for 
brook trout, a sort of Coney Island, as it were, 
where the red speckled beauties came out of the 
cool depths of deep water frequently, for a little 
frolic of loop-the-loop among the boulders. 
One day Scott and myself trolled Lake Clear 
from end to end with no success, so we paddled 
to the outlet and my companion rigged a trout 
rod, and with a small live minnow for a lure, cast 
into a little swirling foam-fleeted pool. I hap¬ 
pened to be standing where I could look down 
upon the scene and it seemed to me, as I watched 
the fisherman get ready, that it was all a waste 
of time, for the water appeared too lively for 
trout even. But instantly there was a strike, and 
the way Scott yanked that poor little rod was a 
caution and reminded me of a small boy landing 
his first pike with a bamboo pole. There was 
a flash and a fish crashed against an overnanging 
limb with a sound like a cod being slammed on a 
butcher block. Released from the hook, the fish 
dropped back into the water. The fisherman was 
considerably upset, but I managed to catch above 
the roar, “Gee! that was a brook trout.” Then 
he unlimbered a landing net and cast again. 
There was a scrap on at once and a pretty one 
to watch. Scott was onto his job this time, how¬ 
ever, but the way that trout rushed him was a 
circus. Back and forth across the stream, up 
and down, I could hardly follow the zipping line, 
getting an occasional glimpse of a yellow belly. 
After a time, and with not a little skillful han¬ 
dling, the angler won out, and he held up the 
landing net with the flopping fish in triumph. 
No wonder, for the trout measured seventeen 
inches, a red speckled brook trout, taken with a 
light six-foot rod, one of those dainty short sec¬ 
tion affairs, made to slip up your sleeve when 
you go fishing for six-inch trout in Vermont—on 
Sundays. 
Two other trout nearly as large were quickly 
taken and then not another strike. Back in an 
hour or two we were always sure to land two or 
three good ones. We made during our stay many 
successful trips to that splendid bit of brook trout 
water. With surroundings unique and pleasing 
the thought of leaving Lake Clear was coupled 
with regret. 
The map indicated an old Indian trail from 
Lake Clear west to the Great Opeongo Lake, and 
Don and Comstock started out one forenoon to 
try and locate that route which, if found, would 
considerably shorten the return journey. Scott 
and I fussed around the camp, packed up some 
of the stuff and then went fishing, and before we 
realized it the day had slipped away, but the 
trail hunters had not returned. Night closed in 
FOREST AND STREAM 
and we prepared supper and waited. A big pot 
of old-fashioned bean porridge had been cook¬ 
ing since early morning. We had a stack of bis¬ 
cuit made with entire wheat flour, stewed dried 
peaches and tea. We had about given up seeing 
them for the night when they broke in from the 
darkness, pretty tired and on the point of starva¬ 
tion, and that homey old place and the bountiful 
feed made them feel they were in the promised 
land. 
They had experienced an interesting and 
strenuous day and had quite a story to tell. It 
seemed they readily picked up the old trail at the 
start, but followed it with difficulty, re-blazing 
the route as they went. Finally they found them- 
se'ves up against a big windfall which was simply 
impassable. In trying to work around it they got 
twisted and completely lost for a time. With 
darkness coming on they decided it was a bed in 
the open and no supper for them that night, when 
they discovered a tree they had blazed. Then 
they worked back. 
A forest windfall is an appalling thing and 
hard to adequately describe. A field of grain 
under a windstorm is sometimes laid flat. So 
with a forest windfall, giant pines, noble spruce 
The Bountiful “Feed” Made Them Feel They 
Were in the Promised Land. 
and sturdy hardwood laid low. Usually several 
acres of timber are prostrated where the mighty 
hand of Nature’s forces swooped down and 
smote the earth. 
We took a day returning through Lake La- 
vieille and up the mouth of Crow River to our 
former stopping place for the night at the half- 
roofed shack on the high ground. With an early 
start next morning we pushed rapidly by paddle 
and by portage for the Great Opeongo. Noon 
found us at an inviting spot and dinner was 
started. Some of the party had been suggesting 
a “bread line” for an hour, and rest and feed 
seemed to be the thing. This is what we had. 
Three big brook trout, brought from Lake Clear, 
were wrapped in cotton cloth, carried for the 
purpose, and boiled, then smothered in drawn 
butter gravy; hot biscuit, mashed potatoes, boiled 
rice into which was stirred some stewed dried 
peaches, the whole liberally sweetened, making 
a sort of rice pudding. Tea, of course. Now 
what is the matter with a feed like that prepared 
in a limited time, on the trail in the open, and 
we did not have “Old Camper’s” well-stocked 
larder and a fixed camp to fall back upon, either? 
Without an extra dish or plate, the potatoes were 
mashed with a baking powder can in the pail in 
which they were boiled. The inverted cover of 
the largest pail served as a platter for the pota¬ 
toes. The biscuit, when baked, were stacked up 
on a flat stone in front of the fire and the boiled 
trout placed in the baking pan from which they 
were taken. In one of the fry-pans a little butter 
and flour was mixed to a paste, and water, 
brought to a boiling point in the extra fry pan, 
was poured over this, making what a swell hotel 
menu calls a sauce with a foreign name. With 
us it was just plain gravy, and how splendid the 
pink trout meat did look under it. The dessert 
was served in pannikins. 
The last portage for the day was made after 
nightfall, but we had a splendid moon and a nice 
breeze on the homestretch to “Sunnyside.” 
THE NATIONAL AMATEUR CASTING ASS’N. 
The special meeting of the N. A. C. A. was 
held in the parlors of The Great Northern Hotel, 
Chicago, Ill., on February 20, 1914, and was 
called to order by President T. A. Forsyth. 
The minutes of the annual meeting in Septem¬ 
ber were read and approved. The treasurer’s re¬ 
port showed a substantial balance in the treas¬ 
ury. 
President Forsyth presented the “Blue Button” 
of the N. A. C. A., the award for contestants 
making an average of 98 per cent, or over, in 
the two accuracy bait, and two accuracy fly 
events in the last annual tournament. 
The contestants receiving these “Blue But¬ 
tons” were : 
Average 
Per Cent. 
I. H. Bellows . 99 23-120 
E. Lambert . 99 13-120 
■F. E. Church . 99 5-120 
l T. A. Forsyth . 98 101-120 
L. E. De Garmo . 98 97-120 
lH. Wheeler Perce . 99 88-120 
W. T. Grant . 98 80-120 
5 D. R. Linder . 98 65-120 
Leonard Goodwin . 98 24-120 
D. H. Ellsworth . 98 13-120 
These general averages are very gratifying, 
disclosing as they do the highest general aver¬ 
ages that have yet been made in the sport, from 
such records as are available, or have been pub¬ 
lished. 
They serve to recall also, other scores made in 
the annual tournament of the N. A. C. A., viz: 
the score of Dr. C. O. Dorchester in the “Sal¬ 
mon Fly” event, using 15 ft. rod, and making 
a cast of 155 ft., exceeding all previous records. 
Mr. I. H. Bellows’ score in “Light Tackle Ac¬ 
curacy Fly’ of 100 per cent., or perfect score, 
the first perfect score ever made in a National 
tournament. This was a new event, and was cast 
for tiie first time on this occasion. 
The design of the “Blue Button” is a very 
pleasing one, the general idea being two fish of 
gold, encircling a convex disk of blue, that car¬ 
ries the inscription N. A. C. A., 1913. 
The meeting then considered the permanent 
constitution submitted by the committee, article 
by article, and after a few minor changes the 
constitution as a whole was adopted, and is ncm 
in force. 
Down-east newspapers are expressing the opin¬ 
ion that the protection of quail is being over¬ 
done, and that grouse are in much greater need 
of protection. 
