66o 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[Oct. 24, 1908. 
stretch in undulating uniformity as far as the 
eye can reach, flecked with little ponds of water, 
which are a sign of its universal saturation. 
These little ponds are connected by little rivu¬ 
lets which cut through the yellowish-green 
moss, far into the black muck, the decayed moss 
of earlier times. All these half-hidden little 
streams form the feeders of the bigger lakes 
and rivers, all flowing in the same general di¬ 
rections, which is toward the line of trees— 
balsams, tamaracks, birches and black alders— 
which frame in the rivers of Newfoundland. 
Here and there a bare outcrop of isolated 
rock shines in the sunlight, or the mass of a 
mountain chain covered with scrub spruce or 
other conifers, heaves up on a horizon, blue in 
the distance, appearing afar off, with its emerald 
green color, like a well-kept lawn. But beware! 
This is a case where “distance lends enchant¬ 
ment.” Woe to the misguided sportsman who 
attempts to cross these alluring well-kept lawns, 
especially if such a crossing happens to be in 
the direction opposite to the prevailing winter 
gales. He might as well walk into a chevaux 
de frise. Unless he is wearing leather, or heavy 
canvas clothing, he will blaze his passage with 
the rags which he leaves behind him and arrive 
on the other side hardly clothed or even in his 
right mind. The wintry gales have pointed the 
half dried and broken spruce twigs so that they 
stand out against him as did the Austrian 
spears against the breast of Arnold Winkelried. 
They fight his progress and jump back to 
thwart a forward movement with a recoil like 
a steel spring. Meanwhile the light batteries of 
black flies, charging into eyes and ears, goad 
the disturber of their sylvan solitudes into 
madness. There is but slight relief in pro¬ 
fanity—it is too weak—just grit your teeth and 
press forward; get out of iff as soon as you 
possibly can. 
Nor is the barren a fit place for a pleasure 
promenade. It is beautiful to look at, with its 
golden green moss, spread out under a bright 
sun viewed from any point of vantage where 
you have firm ground under your feet. One 
cannot but compare it to a boundless green 
ocean which rolls away toward the sunset in 
symmetrical billows, with crests of whitish-gray 
reindeer moss. Wherever the caribou trails 
have marked it, the green of the surface is 
broken by the red of its under and older 
growth. Myriads of pitcher plants filled to the 
brim with water, - nestle in its verdant bosom, 
and many varieties of delicate orchids bedeck 
the feathery surges. 
But this is a land of deception. Step on it, 
and down you go! This is the quaking bog of 
our grandfathers. This is the home of the wild 
cranberry, whose leaves form the shelter and 
resting place for untold billions of the terrible 
black fly. God help the man who has to travel 
these caribou trails on a ho't summer’s evening 
with the wind at his back. Then the black fly 
floats along with him, and dope or no dope, 
hood or no hood, they will make him wish he 
had never been born. Into eyes, ears and 
nostrils, down your neck, everywhere. You 
look up for an instant to find yourself traveling 
in a haze of black flies, and every individual 
fly is seeking some vulnerable place in your 
armor—and generally he finds it, too. 
Hurry? You cannot hurry! The under¬ 
ground devils in whom the Chinaman believes 
live here! They have got you by the foot; at 
least one thinks as much, as that member is 
drawn from a half-knee-deep socket in the 
beautiful moss, with a suck that stretches every 
sinew in your leg. Feelings are too deep, your 
breath too valuable to be wasted on such 
traveling, but the bog talks right along at every 
stride, and he says suck, suck, suck, until he 
convinces you that you are a “sucker” sure 
enough, to have ever been beguiled into com¬ 
ing out on the barren. 
Under such conditions, even a small pack 
seems to weigh half a ton at the end of a few 
miles, and distance is not to be calculated in 
statute miles, but in the real Newfoundland way, 
of hour miles. That is to say, when so many 
hours have been consumed in going from one 
point to another, it is called in that country so 
many “miles.” Until one knows of this crude 
manner of calculation of distances, he is apt to 
be left in the lurch a good many times. 
The summer of 1907 was, as everywhere else 
in the North Temperate Zone—so called be¬ 
cause it is so intemperate—a late one. Heavy 
rains, and rather cold weather had been the 
rule. The barrens were soggy with water—the 
upper ones, those on the mountain plateau es¬ 
pecially so—yet with a firmness which was al¬ 
most Spartan, we decided to take our chances in 
scrub and on barren. So on a “clear up” to the 
northwest, with half a gale of wind in our faces, 
which promised to relieve us of the flies for 
at least a time, our party of five 1 —there were 
two guides—left our comfortable camp, where 
we could strike a salmon at any time in the 
pool near our tent, leaving the river just above 
the twelve-foot fall. 
Here big salmon were showing their dorsal 
fins, as they sculled around in the shallow rock 
pool just at its foot, waiting for a chance to 
take the big final jump to the very crest of the 
cataract and then off and away, up rapid and 
fall, and slide for thirty-five miles of winding, 
roaring, dashing river to their spawning ground. 
This was also our destination, but we were to 
strike “across lots” and reach the goal by a 
more direct route of but twenty or twenty-two 
miles to travel. In our way lay two ranges of 
mountains, with their scrub spruces, the barren 
and countless billions of hostile insects. 
The hasty gathering and packing of clothing 
and supplies. The folding of a small silk shelter 
tent, then the careful culling out of every un¬ 
necessary article—for every one was to carry 
his own duffle and every ounce of extra weight 
becomes such a huge factor in the success or 
failure of such a trip—took but a couple of 
hours, and then we were off. 
We had already forded the stream, and were 
properly wet, and as we worked and zig-zagged 
our way through the fringe of woods, the water 
was squirting from our foot gear, and dripping 
from our clothing. There was in this the sort 
of satisfaction which creeps over the boy’s 
mind after he has fallen into the frog pond on 
a rainy day, that now being as wet as he can 
be, he may as well go on and get out of the 
situation all the fun he can. 
Then the barren opened up to us, through the 
thinning trees, and selecting the proper cari¬ 
bou trail, we were pegging away across the 
moss in single file, toward an angle of the plain 
where a dead tree marked the finish of the first 
lap of the journey. 
Our packs, which weighed from thirty to forty 
pounds, at the start, began to quadruple in 
weight long before we had covered four miles. 
Stumping along with an earth devil pulling your 
leg at every step is not what might be termed 
fine going, but we pegged away, and after a 
couple of short rests, crossed a strip of woods 
to the next barren. From this point we had the 
Lookout Hill in plain view. From its summit 
the Newfoundlander spies out the herds of deer 
and plans an attack which he hopes will provide 
fresh meat. Sometimes there are hundreds of 
caribou in full view, though this was not the 
time of the year to see them. Now they were 
still further north, summering on the straits 
of Belle Isle. 
The trail at this point led along the edge of 
the woods, then down into a mossy dell to the 
edge of a beaver pond. On every side these 
busy little fellows had been cutting the alders 
and willows with which to build their dams, 
and also for winter food. The roofs of several 
houses protruded from the water, but though 
we passed very near, not one of the inhabitants 
was visible. Lack of time and swarms of black 
flies forbade our awaiting their appearance. 
The pond and the streamlets feeding it fairly 
teemed with trout, but we had no present need 
for them, either, so we sloshed through the 
marsh, gained the higher bank and negotiated 
the remaining lap before stopping for lunch, 
which we ate on one of the lookouts, where the 
wind nearly blew the morsels out of our mouths. 
Anything was better than the flies! 
We were a tired lot as we finished the last 
mile which lay between ourselves and a trapper’s 
hut. Once or twice it seemed as if we would 
never be able to drag our feet out of the muck 
again. It is like walking up a stairway of a 
million steps, as one of us remarked. 
C. J. R. 
[to be concluded.] 
The Cincinnati Casting Club. 
Cincinnati, Ohio, Oct. 12.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The scores made at the club contest 
on Saturday are as follows: 
^-ounce. %-ounce. 
Telford Groesbeck . 96 6-15 98 5-15 
Glen Groesbeck . 94 9-15 96 12-15 
Lampe . 97 14-15 96 5-15 
Sheldon . 97 8-15 97 8-15 
James . 97 10-15 97 9-15 
Latham . 98 2-15 98 2-15 
Murphy . 91 9-15 
Liston . 96 13-15 
Hutchins . 97 3-15 
The contest for the Groesbeck cup will be 
held on the 17th inst. with quarter-ounce and 
half-ounce weights. The gentlemen who have 
qualified by their season’s work to compete are 
Messrs. Telford, Groesbeck, Wm. Lampe, Will 
C. James, Harry Walter Hutchins and Le Roy 
Latham. The contest promises to be a very 
close one. 
Harry Walter Hutchins, Sec’y-Treas. 
Fishing in the Sound. 
Greenwich, Conn., Oct. 10. —Editor Forest 
and Stream: Snappers have been biting splen¬ 
didly this fall at Greenwich and nearby points, 
better than for several years past, some catches 
of the young bluefish being as high as 200 fish 
to a rod for four hours’ actual fishing time. 
The fish are now rich and fat and of delightful 
flavor. John E. White. 
