FOREST AND STREAM 
651 
How I Found a Salmon River 
By H. A. P. S. 
May 24, 1913 
games played in modern times, thus found its 
way to existence. Where Scotchmen are and 
sufficient ice is, the game will flourish. Like 
the other Scotch classic—golf—it is enjoyed by 
all classes of society in almost every village in 
Scotland. Votaries of the sport, from the 
village cobbler to the ’laird himsel’, will be 
found side by side on'the curling rink. In the 
land of the Star-Spangled Banner, not only in 
the public parks, but also on the private rinks, 
“Croesus”, the fiercest of all democrats, can be 
heard discussing the fine points of the game 
with his poor, but much respected neighbor. 
Historian, college professor, engineer and 
builder of great modern structures, meet and 
mingle on equal footing with the busy sons of 
traffic. 
It is interesting to observe on the curling 
rinks these men, some of whom have created 
their own greatness, while many have sprung 
up under great disadvantage. Nature seems to 
glory in her chance productions, while some 
that have been cuddled in the lap of luxury— 
“born with a silver spoon In their mouths”— 
have been choked with the thorns and brambles 
of an easy life, and almost all of them have 
been sprinkled a little with the “heather dew.” 
Pride is certainly the least becoming of all 
vices in the players of any game, while chance 
in all pastime “showeth her handiwork,” and 
pride is likely to meet with disappointment. 
But to appreciate these things to the high¬ 
est degree, you must not be content with read¬ 
ing of them. You must go to them, and once 
you form the habit, you will never regret it. 
If, however, I have been able to rub out some 
of the wrinkles from the care-worn brow, or 
perhaps beguiled the heavy heart or helped 
the reader to get into better humor with him¬ 
self or his fellows, then my efforts have not 
been entirely in vain. 
Reprint “ The Red Gods.” 
Albany, N. Y.. May 25 .— Editor Forest and 
Stream: If you ever do reprint any of those 
good old communications, for which readers 
sometimes ask, why not add those stirring ones 
on “The Red Gods”? 
Personally, I’d like nothing better for a 
present. As a tempting ad. for the best open 
air publication, what could be better. The idea 
has possibilities. What say the brethren? 
J. D. W. 
Pet Foxes Do Damage. 
Many persons secure young foxes, raise 
them as pets, and, after keeping them for a 
while, turn them loose on the public, saying 
that “it would be a pity to kill the poor 
things.” 
These liberated foxes, having become 
somewhat domesticated, yet never having been 
schooled as to how to obtain a living, do not 
hesitate to visit the poultry yard; in fact, they 
could not be expected to seek food elsewhere 
when they are positive as to where there is 
an abundance of it. One of these partially 
tamed foxes will do more damage in one or 
two nights than a wild fox will do during his 
entire lifetime. 
In changing address, the old as well as the 
new should be given. 
M y office of Sheriff takes me to many parts 
of the county in which I live. And it 
was upon one of these trips that I un¬ 
expectedly found a salmon river. For many 
years a sawmill had been in operation just at 
vhe point where the salt water from St. Mary’s 
Bay reaches the narrowest part of the river of 
which I write, through its short estuary. In 
due time the timber was cut off for some miles 
up stream, and the old mill was allowed to rot 
down, but for years afterward the dam still 
held, and prevented every fish from getting any 
further up the river (there being no fishway 
provided for that purpose). I knew that sal¬ 
mon had been seen trying to leap this obstruc¬ 
tion, and also that a wandering pair of pros¬ 
pectors had killed some dozen fish with dyna¬ 
FOOT OF MILL POOL, WHERE OLD DAM STOOD. 
mite one spring, in the deep hole under the 
old dam. 
Eight years ago the fall rains had swollen 
the river to an unusual height, and the heavy 
pressure thus placed on the old dam caused it 
to burst, and in a couple of hours every trace 
of it had gone to sea, save an old log or two 
stuck up here and there, which bowed and 
courtesied as the heavy freshet smote their 
nodding ends. The following April it became 
my duty to travel on business to within about 
a half mile above where the dam used to be. 
I was admiring the river as I drove along the 
muddy road, which follows the river’s course 
for some miles, when I happened to notice a 
couple of small boys fishing with wattles and 
hooks baited with worms. Two small fish lay 
on a point of greensward near their feet, when 
something about their shape and color arrested 
my attention. I jumped from the wagon to 
examine the tiny fish. I saw at a glance they 
were salmon fry—their small, gamy heads and 
silver scales left no doubt. The boys said they 
had caught the two fish from where they stood. 
I drove on, but my thoughts were not of busi¬ 
ness. I knew that where those little fry were 
salmon had been, and the prospect of getting 
some fishing for the king of all sporting fish 
right in my own county haunted me night and 
day for the next two weeks. Consequently, my 
young son and I planned a trip with canoe and 
tent, starting at the head of my newly found 
salmon river, ending at tide water. I knew that 
no salmon could possibly get past the first 
mill dam, some two and a half miles from the 
sea, and also that fine strings of trout, of goodly 
size, had been taken from the upper reaches of 
the river. So we decided to take a trout rod 
and fish for trout until we passed Saulnier’s 
Mill, after which I should put up my salmon 
rod and carefully fish every pool which looked 
likely to hold a salmon. 
The kid’s birthday being on the 28th of 
April, that date was decided upon for the de¬ 
CLIFFORD’S RIVER AND SHERIFF’S POOL. 
parture of our little expedition of exploration. 
On the afternoon of the above date we stood 
on the platform of the siding and watched the 
freight train disappear around the curve. It 
was only about half a mile to the river over 
a hardwood ridge, and I with the canoe and 
part of the grub, and the boy with the rest of 
our duffle, were soon unloading our burdens, 
both mental and physical, near the stream. 
Having trimmed our canoe and taken our seats 
therein, the Kid in the bow and myself in the 
stern, we pushed through the overflow and the 
fringe of the hard hacks that lined the water’s 
edge, and were afloat on my river. Plenty of 
water prevailed, and paddling with the stream 
was easy work, until a rapids boomed and 
hissed ahead. We landed and walked along 
the bank to see if it would be safe to run the 
rapids or more prudent to portage through the 
heavy undergrowth to quiet water below. We 
decided to stick to our canoe and run through. 
So settling ourselves in the bottom of our 
good little craft, pushed out to the middle of 
the river and soon were racing through the 
“white” water. We made a mess of it, for 
our canoe got aslant, and round she spun. 
However, to our utter astonishment, we did not 
