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A Sea Trout River of Newfoundland 
Philadelphia, Pa., June 6 . —Editor Forest 
and Stream: On the west coast of Newfound¬ 
land, some ten miles north of the narrow, sandy 
isthmus that separates Bay St. George from 
Port-au-Port Bay, a most remarkable river 
flows into the ocean. Its correct name is 
Benoit’s River, but it is always known as Fox 
Island River, taking this name from an island 
that lies off its mouth a mile or so in the ocean. 
In the dark ages a fox was killed on this islet, 
hence its name. 
Silver Mitchell and I arrived off the mouth 
of the river on a windy July day a few years 
ago, after many perils by sea and land. Every¬ 
thing had gone wrong. We left Bay of Islands 
on the coastal boat in a wild endeavor to reach 
a certain river some sixteen miles to the south 
of the bay, known as Serpentine or Cold Har¬ 
bor River, concerning which we had heard great 
things. We had a large dory, a canoe, and 
three able-bodied men to take us down the 
coast, but as will be seen, we had not reckoned 
on head winds. 
The steamer dropped us near the entrance of 
the bay at a little cove called York Harbor, in 
a pouring rain close to nine o’clock in the even¬ 
ing. York Harbor is not a cheery place at any 
time, and on this particular evening I con¬ 
sidered it the most peculiarly disagreeable place 
I had ever seen. The settlement consists of two 
rows of ramshackle houses separated by a 
passage way, the floor of which is composed of 
stones, shells, and the bones of defunct fish. 
The place fairly reeks of codfish and the atmos¬ 
phere and surroundings are far from hygienic. 
We passed a most unpleasant night. 
In the morning we discovered a schooner ly¬ 
ing at anchor in the harbor, apparently doing 
nothing, and we promptly chartered her to take 
us to the mouth of the Serpentine. A crew of 
three men were hastily collected, our stuff put 
on board and we started. We rounded the en¬ 
trance to the bay in a highly satisfactory man¬ 
ner, but when we started south our troubles 
began. There was a ,strong wind from the 
south, with a heavy current setting up the coast, 
and our gallant craft being practically without 
ballast, started on a wild career back and forth 
across the Gulf of St. Lawrence. All day long 
we tacked and tacked with the wind gradually 
increasing, and by six in the evening we had 
made exactly three miles. Further progress 
being impossible, we took the schooner into a 
cove known as Little Harbor and dropped 
anchor for the night. 
Silver Mitchell and I ran up a hasty camp on 
shore, and there we spent the night and the 
whole of the next day, as the breeze grew 
stronger and stronger, rendering it impossible 
for the miserable craft to make headway. Early 
the following morning, or thirty-six hours after 
we had entered the beastly place, we towed 
the schooner out and started afresh. 
And now mark the perversity of fate. On our 
first attempt a small-sized gale had blown; now 
it was dead calm. Instead of progressing south, 
the tide carried us cheerfully north, and the 
language on the schooner was not refined. At 
last we lost patience and determined to row 
for the river. We loaded the dory with all our 
provisions and paraphernalia, got into her and 
started, towing the canoe behind us. Five good 
sized men and some five hundred pounds of 
provisions, etc., can sink a dory pretty low in 
the water, and when we said good’bye to the 
schooner there were only a few inches between 
the gunwale and the salt water. As there was 
a big swell on from the previous day’s wind, and 
as the dory leaked considerably, it behooved us 
to be careful, and careful we were. It was a 
long row. We were some three miles off land 
and probably fifteen from the Serpentine, but 
the men stuck at it, and eventually we reached 
the mouth of the river. 
Of course, it proved a disappointment. The 
Serpentine flows into the ocean through a 
narrow gut with a bar outside that is dangerous 
at low water, while above the gut the stream 
broadens into a deep, steady current that runs 
for perhaps a quarter of a mile. The tide runs 
up as far as the end of this steady water, and 
then the river proper begins. 
We fished the river for four or five miles, but 
it was poor sport. Pools were few, broad and 
shallow water frequent, and few fish. My 
friend killed three or four salmon, none of them 
over ten pounds, and got some good-sized sea 
trout at the mouth, but that was the sum total 
of over a week’s fishing, so we determined to 
make for Fox Island River, about which we had 
'heard varying reports. 
The two streams were about twelve miles 
apart, and with any kind of luck we could have 
done it easily in the dory in a day. But once 
more we were fooled. We started at daybreak, 
got over the bar successfully and rowed along 
the coast three miles, when the wind got up and 
blew a gale. We had to run for the shore, 
beach the dory and make a temporary camp in 
the woods that fringed a high bluff that ran for 
miles along shore. How it blew that day! 
Silver Mitchell and I walked south on the beach 
for a few miles, but it was anything but pleas¬ 
ant. The wind blew in such gusts that time 
and time again we had to turn our backs to it, 
and the sand from the beach stung our hands 
and faces like so many needles. We only did a 
couple of miles and then went back to camp. 
Bar the wind, it was a glorious day, clear, sunny, 
with only a few light, fleecy clouds driving across 
the sky before the heavy wind. From our 
camp on the bluff we could see for miles over 
the ocean, but the sea was destitute of craft, the 
fishing fleet being either far up the Newfound¬ 
land coast or over on the Labrador. 
That night we passed very comfortably, and 
bright and early next morning started again. 
It was still blowing, but not so hard as on the 
preceding day, and we did a couple of miles in 
the dory before my friend and I decided it was 
too hard work for the men to pull extra weight. 
So we left the dory and took to the beach, the 
men following, rowing hard against the wind 
and a choppy sea, with the canoe bobbing and 
swinging behind. It was not a bad walk, and 
by one o’clock we reached Fox Island River. 
This stream flows into the Atlantic in an entirely 
different way from the other rivers I have seen 
in Newfoundland. Instead of rushing into the 
sea through a narrow gut, it has a broad en¬ 
trance several hundred yards across, with a 
small islet a few hundred yards off shore that 
causes two well-defined channels from the river. 
At high water there is no trouble rowing to the 
actual mouth of the river; at low water one of 
the channels must be followed. We took the 
boat a little way up stream and then went 
ashore and had lunch. After the meal we started 
up stream to explore. For about a quarter of a 
mile Fox Island River is split up into two 
or three small streams, owing to the presence of 
several small islands, but at that distance the 
river becomes unobstructed and it is as pretty 
a stream as you would wish to see. 
That afternoon Silver Mitchell killed two fish 
of fair size, I promptly lost one, and altogether 
it looked as if the river promised good sport. 
But—how many times that word comes up in 
fishing—the promise was not fulfilled, at least as 
far as salmon went. 
For three or four days we fished the river 
with no idea of what was in store for us. We, 
of course, killed a number of sea trout, some 
of fair size, and we were greatly bothered in cer¬ 
tain pools by the numbers of small trout that 
time and time again would spoil the finish of a 
cast when working out a pool, but until that 
fateful afternoon came we had no idea of the 
leviathans that visited this river. I think it 
was our fourth day on the stream when it was 
proved to me beyond peradventure of a doubt 
that there were trout that went over five pounds 
in weight. Ever since childhood’s happy hours 
had I heard of big trout—of the monsters of the 
Rangeley Lakes of six, seven, eight pounds; of 
the big fish that inhabit the Nepigon River coun¬ 
try, and the equally huge ones in the waters of 
the Triton Club preserve, but I had never seen 
one, nor had I ever talked to any one who had 
killed a trout over five pounds in weight. Hence 
was I sceptical. Now came the proof. 
That day had been a very pleasant one. We 
had started early from our camp near the mouth, 
and making our way up stream, fished several 
of the most promising pools, but left a number 
for our return. 
Two pools particularly struck my eye, one 
about a mile and a half above our camp, the 
second a half mile further on. The two were 
very similar in appearance, a swift rapid at the 
head, broadening out into deep water, and each 
pool having on its south bank a rocky cliff 
twenty-five feet in height that overhung the 
water. We fished these pools rather carelessly 
and without success, and continued up stream. 
In one pool I hooked and lost a grilse, and in 
a pool beside which we had our lunch I was 
lucky enough to kill a fine fish of eleven pounds. 
Shortly after two o’clock we started on our ( 
