FOREST AND STREAM 
1037 
WHY SIT WE HERE IDLY WORKING? 
Emerson Hough, Well-Beloved Outdoor Writer, Answers His Own Question-Here He Is, Busily 
Idling at Pyramid Lake, in Jasper Park, Alberta, Canada. 
Little Joe Lake. Passing through Little Joe, we 
come to a stream long and winding, thick with 
rushes and water vegetation. Sometimes it 
broadens out into river-like proportions; in other 
places it narrows until there is barely room for 
a canoe to pass through. Ducks in large num¬ 
bers are a common sight in this region. 
After following the stream for a mile and a 
half, and making three portages, all short ones, 
we come to Baby Joe Lake. This we traverse for 
a mile, and then, after a portage of 150 yards, 
enter Island Lake through a picturesque gap join¬ 
ing a small pond with the main sheet of water. 
From Island Lake to Little Otter Slide Lake, 
there is a real portage of three-quarters of a 
mile, but the trail is good and well blazed, and 
there is a shelter hut at its Island Lake end. The 
forest through which it leads is composed of 
heavy timber, pine, hemlock and birch predom¬ 
inating. After about a mile paddle through Lit¬ 
tle Otter Slide Lake, we enter a stream a quar¬ 
ter of a mile in length and pass into Otter Slide 
Lake. Crossing the western end of this sheet of 
water, we come to a section of the Petewawa 
River, which connects Otter Slide and White 
Trout Lakes. On the stream there are five por¬ 
tages, ranging from one hundred yards to half a 
mile. But they are not difficult, and the route is 
through a diversity of scenery, with something 
of interest at every step. 
White Trout Lake, next in the chain after the 
Petewawa River, is quite a large body of water, 
about five miles long. Its scenery Js picturesque 
and its fishing good. In places it is three and 
sometimes as much as four miles across. At the 
north end, a lift over a dam brings us into Longer 
Lake, which connects White Trout Lake and 
Red Pine. Longer Lake is more of a stream than 
a lake, and there is good fishing near its outlet 
into Red Pine Lake. Its water rushes over a 
rocky bed, and speckled trout are there in such 
abundance that a skillful angler can actually pull 
them in two at a time.. 
A sight of Burnt Lake is one that should not 
be missed by anyone who gets in its locality. Its 
waters are dotted with islands clothed with tall 
cathedral pines, like the shores surrounding them, 
and these forest monarchs stand out strikingly 
against virgin growths of pine, balsam, cedar and 
birch. At the upper end of Burnt Lake, near 
where the clear waters break and tumble over 
rocky shoals in their descent toward Perley Lake, 
is a fine camp-ground, ideally located for trout 
fishing. 
From Burnt Lake, the canoeist may continue 
on down through other series of lakes and 
streams. Or he may return to White Trout Lake 
and, striking a portage on the eastern shore, pro¬ 
ceed through a series of other lakes, noted for 
their clear water and large trout, to Great Ope- 
ongo Lake, a favorite spot for anglers. From 
Red Pine Lake, one easy route brings the tour¬ 
ist into Longer and Hogan’s Lakes, thence 
through Crow Lake and Crow River into Lake 
Lavielle, celebrated for large and gamey salmon 
trout. At the south of this lake there is an easy 
route to the railway. 
One of the chief attractions of this country, 
of course, is the ease with which one can travel 
through it and be one’s own pathfinder, simply 
by following routes outlined on the maps secured 
at Algonquin Park Station. Those who know 
something about a canoe, and are willing to do 
the carrying that usually devolves on the guide, 
if there is one, can find their way through the 
park without any trouble. The cost of such a 
trip, without guides, apart from railway fare and 
the cost of canoes and camp equipment, need not 
exceed ten dollars a week for each person. 
FLY-FISHING FOR A FROG. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Apropos of your editorial in last month’s issue, 
“Do Fish Feel Pain?” I cannot resist the tempta¬ 
tion to scribble the following, an episode of long 
ago. 
Fish are not bullfrogs, but sometimes frogs are 
fish,—I’ve seen it. I was fishing a trout stream 
in Westchester County when I stopped to eat 
my lunch beside a fascinating spring which 
gushed out between some rocks on the hillside. 
The spring formed quite a pool immediately 
where it flowed from the rocks before meander¬ 
ing down through some swampy meadows to the 
brook. This miniature pond was only about 
three feet wide, clear as crystal and cold as ice, 
and as I silently squatted on its brink a large 
frog rose from its soft bottom and lazily swam 
to the other side. He crawled up the grassy 
bank, hopped around and stood there compla¬ 
cently surveying his visitor. His eyes blinked as 
the sun shone full upon his glistening back. He 
seemed warm and comfortable after his cold 
immersion and his gaze shot straight into my 
eyes, as we both sat there wrapped in abstruse 
thoughts of each other. 
At that moment a strange obsession seized me, 
the barbarism of youth flashed into my ardent 
blood. Opening my fly book I abstracted a red 
ibis. Then with slow and furtive movements I 
detached a branch from a bush almost at my 
side, stripped it of leaves and twigs and fastened 
the snell at one end. During this devilish proce¬ 
dure the frog never moved, only continued to 
blink his red eyes, and stare with hypnotic in¬ 
sistence straight into mine. 
The red ibis somehow fluttered in the air just 
two inches this side his nose. A spring,—I was 
fast in a—(frog)—tell it not in Gath. He came 
instantly to shore and I removed the hook from 
his lip while his wet and clammy fore feet pressed 
my hand. I then threw him into the pool and in 
less than five minutes his affable frog-ship was 
again on the bank blinking and winking with 
his former friendliness. 
Will you believe it? Twice more that amazing 
frog grabbed the ibis and was drawn from the 
water. When I left to resume my fishing there 
he sat on the bank basking in the sunshine, with 
three tiny punctures in his lip and a benignant 
smile of farewell in his indolent eyes. 
Herbert Janes. 
