718 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June 7, 1913 
where I had seen the small boys with the two 
salmon fry and carefully fished along the 
meadows back to the lake, but without a sign 
of Salnio salar. At supper time the Kid and 
Henry returned with a well filled creel of pretty 
trout. I was, of course, the object of much 
good-natured raillerj- when my day’s fishing had 
to be announced as a failure. 
No notice was. taken of me, when, after 
supper, I mosied down stream again with rod 
and gaf¥. My faith in the river was certainly 
not great, but it felt good to cast, and besides 
there was a quarter mile of untouched water to 
fish. At last a foot bridge crossing the river 
was reached. Standing upon it, the conditions 
were perfect for long casting. More and more 
line was pulled from the reel and shot through 
the bridge rings, until thoughts of how each 
lengthening cast would win at the Guides Meet 
in July, and all competitors would be left hope¬ 
lessly behind in the long distance events, pos¬ 
sessed me. Then something happened away 
out there where the brook and river met. In 
the tumbling foam-flecked current, the dorsal 
fin of the king of all fish appeared. He did not 
jump, but I got a splendid view of his huge 
form as his broad back and wide tail stiffened 
for the downward plunge. He simply rolled. 
A heavy tug straightened out the drowned 
enamel-covered line as tight as a fiddle. The 
very weight of him drove the barbed hook 
home. 
To the writer there are three occasions 
which eclipse all other thrills in salmon fishing. 
The first is after one has raised a fish, and fol¬ 
lowing the short rest one gives him, one begins 
to cast again, gradually allowing the fly to drop 
lower down to where his Lordship lies. ’Tis 
hard to lay the line and leader out cleanly when 
expecting, with nerves strung, an immediate 
strike. The next most anxious moment to me 
is when the line and rod vibrate with the elec¬ 
tric quiver that precedes the first leap of a 
hooked fish. You see his size and guess his 
weight as he shoots out of the water, and as he 
hits it again on his side with a smack, and the 
tip of the rod dips toward him, the feeling takes 
possession of you that he is free, leaving you 
with a sense of mortification and “love’s labor 
lost.’’ The third and possibly most trying of 
all is when he begins to “jig’’ and jerk side¬ 
ways at your hook. Then it is that your tip 
nods toward him at every tug, and you feel as 
it the line has caught and fails to run 
freely; every second you feel he must tear 
loose. 
When a salmon finds himself fast, in nine 
cases out of ten he returns to the bottom, 
whence your fly coaxed him, and seems puzzled 
and undecided what to do, and this fish was no 
exception. Running to the end of the bridge 
and jumping into the swollen and boiling river, 
I was ready for his rush by the time he found 
himself. Another second, and the reel screeched 
zee-zee e-zee-ee-eee as he streaked down stream, 
and what that salmon did to me for the next 
ten minutes was a sin and a shame. Wjth my 
shins bruised and bleeding, I slipped, fell and 
splashed my way over slippery rocks after him; 
down around the bend we went into a deep 
pool. With a sigh of relief I noticed at a 
glance a few more precious strands of line re¬ 
mained on the drum of the reel. Giving him 
the butt, I felt him yield, and a few more price¬ 
less feet of line were recovered as the reel 
slowly clickd their return. He now took a short 
dash up toward the rapids, but the combined 
strain of the greenheart, and heavy water, bore 
him back, and with gasping mouth he drifted 
close beside me lying on his side. A poorly 
placed stroke of the gaff in my trembling hand 
only scratched his mighty back and awoke new 
life in him. Away he darted again with his 
wide tail churning the surface like the blades of 
a propeller, and a long jump at the end of the 
run showed there was yet some fight in his 
tired body. 
But now slowly, but surely, the reel clicked 
as the line ever shortened between us, and then 
he rolled and feebly jigged. Yes, at last the 
rod had won. for I could now lead him, rolling 
and jigging, his silvery sides alternately shim¬ 
mering through the eddy of the pool. The 
naked gaff was ready waiting, and carefully plac¬ 
ing it over his wide shoulder, just right this 
time, I struck, at the same time stepping back 
toward the shore. My heel caught and slipped. 
One mighty flounce as the sharp steel cut him. 
and the gaff was wrenched tree from my grasp, 
the next second I lay on my back half out of 
water. Scrambling to my feet, I saw the end 
of the gaff handle zig-zagging through the eddy 
as the steel yet stuck to his side. In the rapids 
beyond the eddy it floated loose and went 
bobbing down toward the sea, but the fly still 
held in the fish’s jaw, and rapidly reeling in, I 
soon had him close to shore again. He was 
killed, as dead as fish was ever killed; in fact, 
so dead was he that not a wiggle was left to 
help the rod in beaching him. I tried the butt 
once more in hopes to strand him, when the 
extra pressure tore loose the hook, and back¬ 
ward into the river my salmon fell. 
Can you, dear reader, divine my feelings as 
sitting on the bank I poured the water from 
my waders, and rubbed my battered shins? It 
has been my good fortune to kill many fine fish 
in Salmon River since that day, but I have yet 
to live to see that salmon’s peer. 
That night Henry, the Kid and the writer 
named the pools in my river. Who that casts 
a fly in its waters to-day does not know the 
“Upper Pool,” “Middle Pool,” “Mill Pool,” 
“Sheriff's Pool” and “Lower Pool.” Through 
my bedroom window that night the purr and 
rumble of the river smote my ears (a virgin 
river until to-day!) as I lay thinking of the 
fish I killed and lost. News even in the country 
soon flies, and to-day this dear little river is 
fished to death by day, and netted by night, 
until at times I wish it had never been dis¬ 
covered. 
’Tis really marvelous the rapidity with which 
the natives have become expert with rod and 
line. Small boys a-plenty who had never seen 
a salmon rod until they envied mine, now talk 
of Jack-Scott, Durham-ranger, silver-doctor 
flies as a matter of course, and cast as pretty 
a line as one may wish to see. Sixty-dollar 
split bamboo rods compete every day in the 
season with the home-made productions of ash 
and maple. Yes, and let it be said softly, the 
latter generally get more than their share of 
the gamy fish that swim in fresh from the cold 
salt sea of St. Mary’s Bay, and whose flesh is as 
pink as the pinkest May flowers that grow 
along the banks of their native river. 
Grand Portage 
A Forgotten American Highway 
A Long Trip in Short Instalments—Number Two 
S IR ALEXANDER MACKENZIE describes 
something of the scene at Grand Portage, 
when the partners aVrived in the summer 
and the old canoe pier grew busy with the load¬ 
ing and unloading of freight. 
“The houses,” he says, “were calculated for 
every convenience of trade, as well as to ac¬ 
commodate the proprietors and clerks during 
their short residence there every season.” The 
North men lived under tents, presumably on 
the level lowland which extends along the shore 
By S. H. HOWARD 
east of the creek, where the scattered Indian 
village is to-day. The “pork-eaters” slept under 
huge canoes. Meadows for the cattle spread 
further along the arc of the bay, and on a 
natural terrace a little further back, where the 
weather-beaten church and the Indian grave¬ 
yard now looks down. 
The officers of the company, the clerks, 
guides and interpreters tO' the number of a 
hundred or so, dined in one large hall at several 
tables. They lived tolerably well, according to 
accounts, having the resources of a virgin 
wilderness to add to what the canoes brought 
up from Montreal. Lake Superior is always 
icy cold, and its keen air gives hunger zest. 
Appetites of healthy vigorous men were brought 
to those loaded tables in the mess room, where 
good wheat bread, butter, salt pork, beef, fish, 
venison, peas, Indian corn, potatoes, tea and 
milk were served, with wine and spirits in 
liberal measure besides. The canoe men, how¬ 
ever. fared less luxuriously. Their rations con- 
