Forest and Stream 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1912. 
VOL. LXX1X.—No 26. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
Up the Opeongo 
W E paddled into McDougall Lake, Don and 
I, having left Scott and Comstock, our 
companions, at the outlet where a stretch 
of rapids so strongly suggested brook trout that 
they could not break away from the charm of 
rushing waters without casting a line among the 
boulders. While waiting for them, we dropped 
out the deep trolling spoon and leisurely circled 
the lower bay, and when our companions over¬ 
took us, three fine salmon-trout were ready as a 
surprise for our fishless friends. 
McDougall is a remarkably attractive little 
lake about four miles long and a mile wide. It 
has several deep bays, and the picturesque shores 
are bold, rising to high elevations in many places 
and all well wooded to the water’s edge. Skirt¬ 
ing the right shore to about midway of the lake 
we found a fine shelter hut diagonally opposite 
the mouth of the Opeongo River. It was well 
up from the shore, with a primitive breakwater 
in front, which the Government rangers had 
made by felling a big pine tree at the water’s 
edge. This enormous pine, extending well out 
upon the lake, its butt resting securely on the 
bank, and its top branches gripping the bottom 
like stays, will serve for many years breaking 
the waves kicked up by a northwest wind, and 
for making a snug harbor and safe landing for 
canoes. 
The cabin, clean, bright and inviting with 
spacious bunks, cushioned with balsam boughs, 
had an atmosphere of quiet welcome, and we 
gladly accepted the hospitality. Nearby, under 
the shadow of some rocks, was a splendid spring 
of cold water from which a little stream babbled 
merrily to the lake. During our many outings 
in Algonquin Park, this McDougall spring was 
the clearest, coldest and best of any we found. 
It was a hungry crowd that gathered around 
the pine table that evening, and made away with 
two frying-pans of salmon-trout, well browned 
with corn meal, a lot of hot biscuit and some 
fragrant black tea. 
We passed a few delightful days at this 
place, catching salmon-trout aplenty, enjoying the 
comfortable quarters, the restful seclusion of the 
wilderness, and the picturesque scenery. A flock 
of Canadian jays, or moose birds, noiselessly 
fluttered into our “front yard’’ one morning, with 
the rising sun, in a surprisingly fearless and 
friendly manner, to gather up food scraps. These 
hardy birds are quite common in that region. 
Fire rangers and guides speak of the bird as 
“Whiskey John,” which is said to be a corrup¬ 
tion of the Indian name “Wis-ka-tjon.” It is 
By T. M. TOBIN 
Photographs by the Author. 
a handsome bird, larger than the robin, a silent 
graceful flyer, and the way they circled over 
our heads and then glided to the ground for 
crumbs almost at our feet was a pleasing revela¬ 
tion to us. The upper parts of the bird are gray, 
darkest on the wings and tail. Back of the head 
and nape of the neck almost black; forehead, 
throat and neck white with a few white tips on 
wings and tail; underneath lighter gray; tail long 
and plumage fluffy. 
Just before sundown Don and I paddled 
across the lake and into the west bay in search 
of the mouth of Opeongo River, in order that 
there might be no delay in an early start next 
morning on our journey up the river to bigger 
waters. The lake was like a mirror and flooded 
with a brilliant sunset that streamed over the 
distant hilltops. When well in the bay we saw 
a big eight-pronged buck on a stretch of sand 
beach, the fringe of thick foliage in the back¬ 
ground making a rare picture, a striking repro¬ 
duction of a print I had often admired. Noise¬ 
lessly, with never a word, we drove the canoe 
straight for him, and he stood there, not scent¬ 
ing us, head high in air, with curiosity manifest 
in poise and look. Quietly we drew nearer and 
nearer, and when a few rods away, the buck 
turned without the least show of fear and with 
the greatest deliberation walked back into the 
scrub brush. Then the canoe floated while we 
discussed the picture we had seen, and all about 
a dandy camera we had left in camp. Soon we 
noticed a slight agitation of the foliage and the 
tips of a pair of eight-pronged antlers appeared 
among the leaves, and we knew unsatisfied curi¬ 
osity had drawn the owner back. Loath to break 
the charm of confidence, we silently passed on, 
but as long as we could see the spot, the antlers 
appeared fixed in the foliage. 
At seven in the morning our canoes headed 
sharply for Opeongo. Our outfit, after several 
seasons of roughing it, had narrowed down to 
just three packages for each canoe while travel¬ 
ing, with not a single loose thing except the pad¬ 
dles. In this way portages were made with no 
loss of time, and we never missed an article. 
We have followed others, however, over trails 
blazed with carelessness, picking up fishing rods, 
an axe and all sorts of useful and necessary 
things, even to a tump line. Here is our method : 
A waterproof duffle bag holds a small miners’ 
tent and two sleeping bags, and the whole se¬ 
cured with a tump line. Then a second package 
consists of an Adirondack pack basket. Ours are 
THE AUTHOR ON THE BREAKWATER. 
