Forest and Stream 
Terms, |3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
[ NEW YORK, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1912. 
, VOL. LXXVIII.—No. 8. 
I No. 127 Franklin St., New York. 
An Unpremeditated Canoe Trip 
By O. W. SMITH 
•‘»Ti ING-A-LING, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ling!” 
I jangled my telephone one cold April 
morning last year, and before I could 
take down the receiver, it was ringing away 
more insistently than at first. 
“Hello,” I called, “who is this?” 
“It’s me,” came the ungrammatical and highly 
illuminating answer from a town miles away. 
“Well, what does ‘me’ want this time? It is 
too early for trout, and spring shooting is 
not allowed in Wisconsin.” 
“Say, old man, the Pensaukee River is on 
the rampage, bank full, 
just right for a canoe 
trip. You know where 
the Milwaukee road 
crosses the river. Well, 
come down on the 8 
o’clock train to-mor¬ 
row morning and get 
off at the bridge—I’ve 
fixed it with the con¬ 
ductor so that there 
will be no trouble—and 
I will be there with a 
boat. Bring your gun, 
for we may see a 
goose.” The receiver 
was hung up with a 
bang, the bell tinkled 
gently, and I knew that 
my friend had gone to 
prepare for the trip. 
I glanced at my study 
table, littered with a 
mass of unfinished 
work, then out of the 
window at the cold 
April sunshine and 
reeking soil. I thought of my companion serene¬ 
ly getting ready for the trip, certain that I would 
step from the train next day if it arrived at the 
l^ridge. I hesitated. Such faith should not go 
unrewarded, I told myself, and plunged .into 
the most pressing of my correspondence. Hav¬ 
ing answered those letters which I did not dare 
put off, I threw a few necessary things into my 
war-bag, and caught the train for my all-night 
ride. So it fell out that the eight o’clock train 
slowed up for an instant at the well-known 
bridge the next morning, and I swung down 
to grasp the out-stretched hand of one of the 
best fellows that God ever let hunt and fish. 
“Thought that telephone would fetch you,” 
he grinned after we had shaken hands for a 
full minute. 
“But, you miserable- old sinner,” I began, for 
we always like to blame any one but ourselves 
for our own shortcomings, “I have no business 
being here to-day; why, man, I left important 
work just because of your fool message. Now, 
if you had given me a chance to”- 
“The canoe is just below the bridge,” he 
broke in with another grin, “so you better get 
into your boots and we will start.” 
Meekly, silently, I followed down the bank 
to where a light canoe balanced saucily, 
anxious to be off. At sight of her trim lines. 
the madly rushing river teasing just beyond, all 
thought of work vanished to return no more 
for a long day of delight. I surrendered un¬ 
conditionally. When a man plays he should 
play with all his might. The hearty players 
make the best workers. 
Ordinarily the Pensaukee River does not de¬ 
serve to be called a river at all; only in flood 
time is there water enough to float anything 
but a paper boat; but during the spring freshet, 
or after long continued heavy rains, it is a 
torrent. One reason given for the usual lack 
of water is the angle of the river bed—“so 
steep, that the water all runs off,” and there is 
a modicum of truth in the saying. Where cows 
ordinarily stand amid the rocks and slap the 
flies with tails that do not even reach the water, 
the river rushes along in flood time, snarling 
and growling ominously. Obviously it is an 
ideal stream for a level-headed canoeist. Cer¬ 
tainly there are long stretches of water where 
the stream wanders between verdant banks, or 
through some farmer’s woodlot; but such places 
are to rest one for - the next struggle with 
rushing water or jam of driftwood. But 
worse than driftwood jam or boiling rapid are 
the wire fences stretched by ambitious farmers 
to keep the cows within bounds. They spell 
disaster swift and certain if the canoeist is so 
unfortunate as to run 
into them. I know 
from sad, or rather, 
wet experiences. 
The Pensaukee, like 
nearly all streams flow- 
ink through a thickly 
settled country, is pos¬ 
sessed of legends, and 
nearly every bend, 
rapid and pool has a 
name; names, too, that 
savor of the days 
when the Indian hunt¬ 
ers and log drivers fol¬ 
lowed well-worn paths 
up and down its ser¬ 
pentine length, and 
deer fed ' upon the 
grassy banks. When 
the Pensaukee first 
came to the notice of 
white men, it was a 
trout stream, but that 
was before the river- 
men had blasted out 
its rocks or the raven¬ 
ous pickerel had made its home in the deeper 
pools. Trout may still be taken from its upper 
reaches, but they are small and few, and to be 
taken only by those who know how to angle and 
know the location of the feed springs as well. No, 
Pensaukee is no longer on the map. Most 
people love it for what it has been, but we who 
have run it in flood love it for what it some¬ 
times is. There are scores of streams just like 
it in this thickly settled country of ours, streams 
that when in flood the canoeist might well at¬ 
tempt to negotiate for pleasure as well as 
practice. 
My companion, the butcher, held the boat 
steady while I climbed in; then he, with skill 
born of long experience, took his place in the 
stern and we were off. Oh the joy of being 
