Forest and Stream 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1912. 
VOL. LXX1X.—No. 13. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
OWN the artery of a continent! 
There was no mistaking our senses. 
After years of planning we were on the 
way and chugging along the waterfront of St. 
Paul, supplies aboard, gas enough to carry us 
to St. Louis, and good spirits to accompany the 
weakest body on the 2,000-mile journey. 
We were amateur navigators. If we had not 
been amateurs, we would have left undone some 
of the things we did. But we meant well and 
generally this got us through. Before we left 
St. Paul a Government official told us we would 
not need a license for the craft which was 30 x 9 
by an average of three feet draft. This gave 
us an eight-ton boat, but when we got to Rock 
Island, Ill., we had to take out a license for her, 
as she was over five tons. 
The first license a navigator can get is an 
operator’s license for boats under five tons. The 
good character of the operator and two witnesses 
to that effect got this one. The second one is 
for vessels of fifteen gross tons or less, and one 
takes a license through examination ; I refer to 
an engineer’s license. The skipper secured these 
before he started the trip. 
Down the swift current past the noted 
Mounds Park, through the savory or unsavory 
odors of South St. Paul and her porcine traffic 
we headed. All along the route friends waved 
us farewells. Though there are hundreds of 
craft at the head of navigation of the Father 
of Waters, it is curious that but one to three 
each year make the trip southward from this 
point. Generally the fall rains begin in Septem¬ 
ber and swell the river until it is easily navigable. 
But we were anxious to get down where the 
fishing and hunting commenced, and before we 
knew it, were at the palisades of the upper Mis¬ 
sissippi, known as Robinson Rocks, where we 
swung about bow up-stream and entered between 
two wing dams, out of the main channel and 
current. Fishing was the first thing we all de¬ 
manded. Something to make the skillet smell 
in good form was the desideratum. 
Across the river from where we were moored 
opened a little bayou at the further end of which 
was a dam to prevent the current changing the 
channel during high water. It looked deep, was 
deep, had plenty of reedy places for big-mouth 
bass, and a lot of mud turtles among the lily- 
pads. Coaxers and flies and other baits, how¬ 
ever, refused to dislodge a fish, though late that 
evening we saw many jumping and playing on 
the surface. 
A set line from the sjern of the boat with 
a couple of hooks on it got a five-pound catfish 
that was relished for breakfast. The September 
morning was beautiful. We knew a big steamer 
was due along near us that morning and made 
ready to drop down to Prescott, Wis., the seat 
of the best small-mouth bass fishing on the St. 
Croix or the upper river. Casting off we soon 
passed a shanty-boater we had seen sail through 
St. Paul a week before, but who could get no 
further on account of the wind, and came upon 
the Government work just above the town of 
Hastings, Minn. At Hastings we halted a while, 
then followed the little gasolene ferry-boat across 
and down the river to Prescott as we did not 
know the channel. 
Prescott lies at the foot of Lac St. Croix, 
named after Father St. Croix, one of the earliest 
missionaries in the Northwest, a remnant, some 
say, of the Catholic missionaries who paddled 
up the river from New Orleans. Very little can 
be seen of the pretty town from the river. As 
you swing down the Big Wet across the mouth 
of Lac St. Croix, you get a wonderful glimpse 
of the lake that makes you port the helm and 
circle and take a turn up the lake, going under 
the Burlington bridge and through the great 
brails of logs that are being made ready to float 
down the Mississippi to the mills south. The 
sight, for the first time one beholds it, is beauti¬ 
ful and sublime. We could not get enough of it. 
Friends at Prescott were watching for us. 
Hardly had we arrived until they were aboard. 
Charley Stapf, with his motor-equipped fishing 
boats, insisted that we try the evening fishing. 
Up the lake we struck, making for the sun-kissed 
rockv shores where the warmer waters beckoned 
ALONG THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI. 
