Aug. io, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
169 
all right, for back came a prompt reply: “To¬ 
morrow is the English translation of the Indian 
word Waupaca, and around here is always ap¬ 
plied to the Waupaca River.” Then I kicked 
myself. 
It seems, that is if one is to believe a cur¬ 
rent legend, in an early day, when the Indians 
traveling down the Wisconsin River on their 
way to Green Bay reached the spot now occu¬ 
pied by the city of Steven’s Point, would make 
a portage from that point to what is now called 
the Waupaca River, a distance of some four¬ 
teen miles, thence down the Waupaca, Wolf and 
Fox to Green Bay. When met by traders on the 
portage, to the natural question of the white 
men, “How far are you going?” the Indians 
would reply, “Waupaca” (to-morrow) meaning 
that on the next day they would have their 
canoes in water once more. So the stream be¬ 
came known as the Waupaca, though to-day the 
north branch of the river is locally called To¬ 
morrow almost exclusively. 
I think it true that if one desires anything 
with sufficient longing, in time it comes to him. 
At any rate, there came a day recently when I 
found that I could spend a few hours on the 
To-morrow, a privilege of which I was quickly 
to avail myself. So, late one evening, I got 
down from a Green Bay & Western train, for 
Amherst Junction is where that road crosses the 
Soo Line, the old Wisconsin Central. I found 
the people of the Junction, as it is locally called 
to differentiate it from Amherst proper, a town 
some two miles south on the Soo, very friendly 
and free with information, something not always 
true in a good fishing locality. I was informed 
that the best fishing was to be secured at Nel- 
sonville, a town six or seven miles distant, but 
as my time was limited, I decided to stay at 
Amherst Junction, leaving Nelsonville for an¬ 
other day. 
The next day I was astir betimes, and with 
an old acquaintance whom I found living on 
a farm not a great ways from the river, was 
whipping the stream before the sun smiled down 
upon us. Early spring in Wisconsin was excep¬ 
tionally rainy, and while the To-morrow was 
not much affected by the superabundance of 
water, a peculiarity of the stream, I was in¬ 
formed, the fish were not rising. The lower 
reaches of the To-morrow, that is from Nelson¬ 
ville to near the city of Waupaca, is rainbow 
water, more of those fish being caught than 
native trout, though now and then a monster 
speckled beauty rises to the fly. The stream is 
an ideal one. for the fly-fisherman, being broad 
with many deep pools. While in places it finds 
its way through woodland, for the most part it 
is a meadow stream, so that the back cast is sel¬ 
dom a matter of anxiety. I should imagine that 
one could wade the stream, the upper reaches at 
any rate, but as I was unprovided with waders 
I followed the bank. The boulders which lifted 
their shiny heads above the many rapids, invited 
the fly, but from the shore reaching the ideal 
spots was often an impossibility. Yes, to fish 
the stream right the angler should wear waders. 
But it was the beauty of the stream that 
most impressed me. In the woods, where one 
could see but the narrow streak of twinkling, 
tinkling silver, the tall trees reaching up and 
up upon either side, all but shutting out a view 
of “that inverted bowl we call sky,” and shut¬ 
ting in the fisherman with himself, the birds and 
the companionable water. Out in the open, when 
the stream made its way through green pasture 
lands where meek-eyed cattle stood knee deep 
in the cool water, or when flowing through 
meadows where the uncut grass stood knee high, 
the stream was always beautiful. Always it 
seemed to me great red boulders were to be 
seen in mid stream, 
or piled up in fantas¬ 
tic heaps along the 
shore. Of course 
there were places 
whese those bould¬ 
ers caused the cur¬ 
rent to fret and 
foam, but often there 
would be a single 
great rock around 
which the stream 
would slip with 
scarcely a perceptible 
ripple. The trout 
fisher does not need 
to be told what lay 
below those boulders. 
I found myself at a 
loss to account for 
the presence of so 
much volcanic rock, 
and some day I hope 
to have a learned 
man read me the geologic history of the To¬ 
morrow. Until I possess the true scientific his¬ 
tory I am going to believe that there was a day, 
long since passed of course, when Titans played 
at football in the valley of the To-morrow. If 
there were no trout in the stream the superlative 
beauty of the place would amply repay one for 
a visit. 
Perhaps some impatient reader is saying: 
“But what about the fishing; how many fish did 
you catch?” Peace, my dear fellow, peace! 
Still the question is a fair one and deserves an 
answer, so I will tell the honest truth—not one. 
Rainbow I saw in plenty, but they rose “short.” 
Perhaps it was an off day, perhaps I lacked requi¬ 
site skill, perhaps whatever you please, not a 
fish did I hook. Still I was not dissatisfied with 
my between train trip. I had seen the To-mor¬ 
row, had secured some fair pictures, and knew 
where to hit the water “next time.” Is there a 
more talismanic word in the lexicon than “next 
time” ? 
The days and weeks sped by, as weeks and 
days have a habit of 
doing, when I found 
myself getting down 
from an early morn¬ 
ing Soo train. Just 
how it came about I 
am not altogether 
clear, but “where 
there’s a will there’s 
a way” you know 
they say, and the fact 
that I found an after¬ 
noon for the To¬ 
morrow proves the 
truthfulness of the 
saying. Quickly I se¬ 
cured a team and in 
due course of time 
found myself on the 
banks of the To¬ 
morrow just below the Forks, or near Nelson¬ 
ville. History did not repeat itself. The trout 
were willing to rise to anything almost and kept 
me busy. The fish were of average size and 
numerous, while now and then a large two- 
pound or so rainbow would make trouble, the 
sort of trouble a fellow likes to overtake. I 
RAINBOW APLENTY HERE. 
prefer our native trout to the rainbow as a pan 
fish and as a creek fish, but when the stream is 
large, forever commend me to the acrobatic 
Westerner; he knows how to fight. 
Just below a large rock, about which the 
water curled with a hint of depth, I hooked my 
largest fish. That I was going to hook a fish 
I was positive even before I drew back my fly 
for the cast. You know the feeling, seventh 
sense or whatever it is. I dropped my fly above 
the rock first, for sometimes a rainbow will be 
found on the upper side of a stone, something 
never true of the brook trout. Not securing a 
fish there, I cast again, letting my fly whirl 
around the rock with the current. There was 
a flash in the water and a slight twitch upon the 
line. The fish had missed or I had failed to 
turn my wrist at the psychological moment. 
Reeling in my line I stood perfectly still for two 
or three minutes, admiring the view down 
stream. (In rapid water I fish with the current.) 
Then I cast to right and left until I had out 
the requisite amount of line, and my fly slid 
CAUGHT IN THE EVENING. 
