470 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 16, 1911. 
coves on our way, and saw afar off across the 
troubled water the deep bay, where the outlet 
lay at the northwest corner. Fifth Lake, while 
not in its best mood the day we saw it, is un¬ 
questionably a superb body of water. It is 
three or four miles long, and in many places 
over a mile wide; the many indentations along 
its shore line and the close forest which sur¬ 
rounds it, create a charming coup d’oeil. 
At the western end of the lake we crossed a 
small cove and ran out of the wind into Sport¬ 
ing Lake stream. A placid Stillwater, which 
wound and wound through reed-growing shal¬ 
lows—an ideal home for the many ducks which 
frequent it—was followed by a stretch of stream 
with higher wooded banks, and presently, pre¬ 
saged by the foam-flecked current, we reached 
a short, rocky falls, and the first carry on this 
stream. Here we camped on the top of a steep 
embankment. 
It was getting close to the stage in the trip 
when we should know whether we were astray 
and obliged to ignominiously turn back to get 
out as best we might, or whether we would be 
able to find Oakland Lake and accomplish our 
full purpose. We knew there still was a day’s 
journey ahead of us before the crucial test, but 
we could not help wondering what the fates 
had in store. 
We were up at 5 o’clock, and two hours later 
started upstream again. Scarcely a quarter of a 
mile had been covered before a carry of two or 
three hundred yards became necessary, but 
after that the going was fairly good for a couple 
of miles through stillwaters and easy little 
rapids. The weather was as near perfection as 
Nova Scotian weather can be—somewhat over¬ 
cast during the morning, but clearing later in 
the day, with a light, soft breeze from the 
southwest, and the temperature of the air 
pleasantly warm. 
Incidentally it happened to be one of those 
rare days when the trout rise freely and strike 
with that vehement certainty which gladdens the 
heart of the angler. When we reached the head 
of a long, peaceful deadwater, we struck such 
fishing as is seldom seen. With plenty of room 
to cast, with more than ample space for the 
three canoes, and with no wind, conditions were 
ideal. As for the trout, they seemed to be 
everywhere. They did not waste time over 
rising to the floating insects; they wanted flies, 
and the gaudier the better. And they got ex¬ 
actly what they wanted. Within fifteen minutes 
we took twenty-four, the majority ranging from 
10 to 12 inches. At one time two rods were 
busily engaged with doubles and the other had 
on a single. 
After so many trout had been captured and 
released that Charlie said we were catching the 
same ones over and over again, we were ready 
to move on. Through the woods for a short 
distance the guides carried one load apiece, and 
returned to pole and pull the lightened canoes 
up the shallow, winding rapid, while we walked 
ahead and discussed delightedly the details of 
that fishing. 
Just a little beyond and on the right bank of 
the stream was a curious embankment, called 
the Turnpike, which ran back from the water¬ 
way for over a mile. We climbed to the top 
and strolled along it for more than half its 
length. Had it been made for a railroad track 
by trained engineers the curves could not have 
been more graceful and easy. In many places 
it was over one hundred feet high, and across 
its level top it averaged about thirty feet. Its 
slopes were steep as though artificial, and 
throughout all the portion we saw there was not 
a visible rock or boulder, whereas as far as the 
eye could see on either side the usual rocky 
boulder-studded scenery obtained. Its contour 
and symmetry and conformation strongly sug¬ 
gested some gigantic working of the mound 
builders. 
A couple of miles of paddling and pushing 
brought us to a meadow Stillwater, which was 
the scene of the most remarkable fishing that 
any of us had ever seen. Horace’s sharp eyes 
had noted a little brook coming in on one side 
and had suggested the deeper water below its 
mouth as a likely place for trout. Sure enough, 
and for half an hour we experienced a blissful 
realization of fishing dreams. Almost every 
cast, no matter how carelessly made, meant a 
strike. With a trout on and fighting gamely, 
others would rise again and again to strike at 
the free fly until almost within paddle reach. 
This, of course, meant double after double. 
They averaged about eleven inches long, say 
three-quarters of a pound. Montreal and brown 
hackle seemed the best flies, but doubtless they 
would have taken any feathered fraud that day. 
If any reader questions the splendid gameness 
of the broad-backed, hard-muscled Nova Scotian 
trout he had better hunt up that place and dis¬ 
solve all doubts in a battle royal. Gurney 
buckled his rod completely at the middle joint, 
while my sterling rod commenced to show a 
suspicious kink near the tip. They were coming 
so strong that it was a temptation to push the 
fight a bit too hard and land the fish in order 
to get the flies back on the water. It was mag¬ 
nificent sport and the second experience ex¬ 
ceeded the earlier one in size and numbers of 
trout, but could not approach it in idyllic sur¬ 
roundings. Somehow that day the ordinary 
fishing elsewhere palled, so that the day’s 
record of no practically represented the results 
from these two places. Of these we only kept 
eight. 
Shortly afterward the kettle was boiled over 
a fire of tiny sticks. After a hot contest, 
Horace finally succeeded in filling us up with 
buckwheat cakes. Then followed a brief snooze 
on the springy heather under the gratefully 
warm sun. Much of the going during the after¬ 
noon was difficult. Above the Pine Lake branch 
the stream was small, shallow, tortuous, in 
places overgrown with trees and bushes and 
bore on its face clear evidence of not having 
been traveled. At times we were all out of the 
canoes lifting, or cutting away some dead tree 
which obstructed the passage. In one place it 
was impassable and we made a quarter-mile 
carry through the tangled underbrush. 
About four o’clock we came out on a small 
shallow lake filled from shore to shore with 
reeds and other water plants. It was called 
Russia Lake—probably a corruption of Rush or 
Rushy—and it was a great place for ducks. We 
saw several old ladies with young, and Lawrence 
and I tried to capture one of the pretty downy 
ducklings, but gave it up when tired and blown. 
On a large boulder was a gull’s nest with the 
customary two eggs in it. Pushing the canoes 
through the reeds, we entered a sandy, shallow 
stream. A quarter of a mile of this brought us 
Y OU know mallards -wisest and wariest of all 
ducks- Solomons of the air. You can’t knock 
down mallards with a paddle nor can you get them 
with a gun that plasters its shots all over the face 
of creation. 
A mallard shot is generally a long shot, and long 
shots require a hard-shooting, close-shooting gun. 
That’s why the long-headed man who goes to a 
mallard country takes a Lefevrer. When he swings 
it on a towering pair of mallards he does not ques¬ 
tion the result. He know it— 
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to the trail to Sporting Lake. The three- 
quarter-mile portage took an hour and a half, 
and we were on the shores of a large lake, the 
most beautiful of all the smaller lakes we had 
seen. Near the end of the carry was a trail at 
right angles to ours running off to the east, but 
where it went no one knew. 
We should have paddled three miles south¬ 
west to the deepest cove on the south shore, but 
Charles, who was a trifle hazy on Sporting 
Lake, steered us too far to the west and we 
landed on the carry to Pine Lake. A search 
along the south shore was then instituted. Mr. 
Thomas had written down the directions for 
our trip at the dictation of Louis, the Indian, 
but these were none too accurate at many 
places, and here, where we needed precise in¬ 
formation most, they were particularly vague. 
However, by dividing the south side of the lake 
into sections, we covered the shore line me¬ 
thodically, with Charles showing by his activity 
that he felt the responsibility which rested on 
him. While on this search Gurney discovered 
another gull’s nest, of which there were ap¬ 
parently many on the lake, and while the old 
birds circled high over head, uttering their 
raucous cries, he and I climbed a huge granite 
block rising from the water and found two baby 
gulls. With their down-covered bodies, grayish 
in color with dark spots, and their bright black 
eyes, they made a pretty picture of bird life as 
