Oct. 7, 1911.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
547 
From Rossignol to Tusket—VI 
By M. B. MILLER 
Illustrated from photographs by J. Gurney Taylor 
T HE morning dawned on one of those rare 
clear, crisp days which we had learned to 
highly value on a trip beset by so much 
rain. There was no great incentive to make an 
early start, since we had traveled eighteen miles 
the day before and that much more would easily 
take us into Tusket, but the usual program was 
followed and we were again moving by eight 
o’clock. 
At Tusket Forks the Southeast branch pours 
into the main stream considerable water, so that 
our little river was materially increased in size 
and volume below this point. Present y we 
turned to the westward, then resumed the south¬ 
erly trend of our journey. 
The first lake of the day was Wilson's Lake, 
a long irregularly shaped body of water, the 
upper portions of which we could not see. We 
passed under a bridge just before we reached it, 
through a short rapid, and across the lake not 
far from the lower end. Then followed a series 
of rapids and Bennett’s Lake. This we aiso 
crossed near its lower end. A short run brought 
us to a long pitching falls where we came upon 
the rear drive of two and a half million feet of 
logs which were being worked down the river 
from the Barrio branch to the mill at Tusket. 
We had a fine opportunity to see a large drive 
in actual operation and to watch the clever, 
strenuous work of the lumberjacks. When we 
came up the men were pushing and pulling scat¬ 
tered logs into the boom which held the tail 
of the drive. As soon as they saw us, two men 
quickly made a way for us, and by stepping 
on one of the chained logs of the boom, sunk 
it enough for us to slip over. We then ran 
down the rapids a short distance to where the 
drive boss and several men were awaiting the 
starting of the logs from above. The costumes 
were picturesque in the extreme—heavy low 
shoes with the soles thickly studded with long, 
sharp, spine-like hobnails, thick woolen stock¬ 
ings, knee breeches, flannel shirts, and big hats. 
The contrast in physiognomy between the drive 
boss, a tall sandy Scot, the swarthy French- 
IRON FALLS. 
Canadians, and the copper-luied Indians was 
striking. Each man was armed with a strong 
steel-shod pole or heavy peavy. They were an 
alert and well set-up lot—forsooth a log drive 
is no place for dullards or weaklings. Their 
quiet manner, their genial greeting, their in¬ 
stant, cheerful aid in helping us through the 
logs, all rather gave the lie to the generally ac¬ 
cepted idea of the evil character of lumberjacks, 
at least as applied to this section. 
We had hardly gotten off before the logs cam.' 
tumbling down the rapids after us. Heavy logs 
in white water are not pleasant competitors in 
a canoe race, but we made it safely and slipped 
aside at the foot into a little cove just above 
where the collected logs were held by booms 
until a favorable wind permitted them to be 
warped across the lakes below. There were sev¬ 
eral acres of these logs ahead, completely filling 
the river and with no appreciable passageway in 
sight, while the moving logs were shooting in 
fast upon them. A young fellow named Arm¬ 
strong, one of two brothers who had the con¬ 
tract to deliver this drive at Tusket and whom 
we had seen part way up the rapid working with 
his men to prevent the moving logs from lodg¬ 
ing, noticing our predicament, jumped on a 
passing log, and with nothing to balance him 
but his setting pole, rode down the rapids to 
our aid. That feat of standing erect on a 
tumbling, rolling stick of timber running through 
the falls was no mean one, but lie followed it 
up by a splendid exhibition of agility and dex¬ 
terity, as he made a channel for us to follow, 
which was a perfect revelation. Running over 
the bobbing logs with sureness of step and re¬ 
markable quickness he would strike the right 
log with the pole and push it away, or walking 
a log with his rough shod shoes, he would move 
it and those adjacent far enough back to let us 
by. Back and forth at full speed, never missing 
foothold, never wasting an effort, he graduallj 
worked a passageway, and finally when the con¬ 
fining boom was reached he stood upon one end 
of a chained log until we had slipped over it, 
and then, wishing us a good day, turned back 
to his work. With his superbly developed 
figure, pink cheeks, blue eyes, and curly hair, 
he made a fine upstanding picture of a man. 
Even our guides, all of whom had worked upon 
the drives, admitted that he was “a mighty 
clever man” and went into a long discussion as 
to whether they had ever seen a better one. 
Lunch disposed of, we wandered out upon 
Gavell Lake, a long, cloverleaf-shaped lake di¬ 
vided by capes of land on either side, one of 
which was occupied by the camp of the log 
drivers. At the foot of this lake we came to 
the little hamlet of Gavellton, where an iron 
bridge crosses the river. Here we went ashore, 
at is was a warm, lazy afternoon and we were 
in no hurry, and loafed a bit while Charlie went 
off with his paddle under his arm—he never 
went ashore without carrying that precious 
paddle—to find out whether the log drive which 
we were approaching in the next lake was quiet 
or moving. Presently we started again, passed 
under the bridge and into the stretch of rapid 
water which runs several hundred yards and 
finally dumps into a particularly swift, precipi¬ 
tous, and rather ugly fall. At the worse part 
of this fall the water curls and tumbles in heavy, 
roaring volume, and the proper, craftsman-like 
way to take it was to give the paddle a sudden 
and strong twist just as the crest was reached, 
thereby missing a treacherous rock which was 
covered by enough water not to show but which 
constituted a very real danger to canoes. 
Charlie ran it beautifully, as did Lawrence, and 
neither canoe took in more than a cupful of 
water, but in some way Horace went too 
straight. In an instant the canoe was nearly 
half full, but the speed was so great that it 
staggered on through the swirls and foam and 
came out on Vaughan Lake without sinking. 
Vaughan Lake is a fine large lake shaped 
somewhat like a Maltese cross. At its north¬ 
west corner comes in the Carleton branch of the 
Tusket. Across the lake near its outlet we 
found a quiescent drive of logs, held above and 
below by long booms; through this tangle of 
timber we were obliged to work our own chan¬ 
nel unaided. Just below a pretty cabin was the 
small Tusket Lake, and across it we paddled 
to run ashore at the head of Tusket Falls. 
Our attention was soon directed to the gas- 
pereau fisherman, two of whom were close by, 
SHOOTING GRID 
