Virgin Fishing. 
Concluded from page 660. 
Rather late in the afternoon we approached 
a bend of the stream. We sent the guides on 
to the camping place, and we took to the river 
bed. This was with the two-fold purpose of 
getting firm footing and catching a salmon for 
supper. The wind was still blowing so hard 
that we could not keep our lines in the water 
long enough for a salmon to take the fly. We 
had several rises, but every time the fly touched 
the water we hauled, much to our chagrin, only 
trout. Trout were everywhere by the thousand! 
The most beautifully marked specimens of 
fontinalis that I have ever seen. Firm in flesh, 
as they naturally would be in water of 45 de¬ 
grees F., sweet, pink-fleshed, and varying from 
one-half to three-quarters of a pound. Almost 
anywhere on this stream one could stand in 
one place, and putting on as many small flies as 
convenient, catch enough trout to fill a corn 
basket in a morning’s fishing. But what a 
pest they are to the man seeking salmon. 
I had my eye on a nine or ten-pounder ! ying 
in the deeper water at the foot of a cliff. Oc¬ 
casionally between the puffs of the gale, as I 
succeeded in dropping my fly just above him, 
he would move slowly forward two or three 
feet, and as the water smoothed out, I could 
see that he was preparing to strike—nerves all 
in tension like a violin string—when, bang! 
was it my fish? No, a miserable trout! Some¬ 
times, under such provocation, the boys would 
say things that made me feel profoundly grate¬ 
ful that there was at least some one present who 
could express my sentiments. Go for him 
again, and again it would be the same old 
story—a trout! There is little use of fishing 
for salmon where trout are as plentiful as they 
are in the rapid water of a stream like this 
one. You must fish in the deep pools if you 
expect to get salmon. 
We waded up stream, crossing and recrossing 
to find salmon water, until we were opposite 
our camping place. Here we parted company. 
My two companions going still a little further 
on, discovered a pool, and in a few minutes 
first one and the other had struck a ten- 
pounder. I had been carrying the gaff, but the 
high wind prevented their shouts from being 
heard, so an interesting time was in prospect. 
What luck! Two rampant fish on at the same 
time in a small pool, and nobody there to give 
the coup de grace! Up and down the stream they 
worked snubbing them, where they ordinarily 
would have let them run, risking rod and tackle 
at every jump. No doubt each hoped that the 
other fellow would lose his fish, so that he 
would stand a better chance of getting his own. 
Luckily they were not heavy fish and were 
skilfully handled. After a furious fight of a 
half hour, when the fish began to get tired 
out, ope man attempted, while his fish was lying 
quiet, to stab the other’s fish with his hunting 
knife—and marvelous to relate, succeeded, not 
only in slashing the fish, which of course made 
a big jump, but in cutting his friend’s nine-foot 
leader. Away went the salmon. 
By this time the other fish was getting lively 
again, so they both concentrated their efforts on 
and finally landed him also by stabbing. After 
reeling in their lines, they started back for 
camp. Looking down into the water where the 
previous fight had taken place, they saw the 
body of the first victim. They fished him out 
and found that the knife blade had completely 
traversed his body opposite the dorsal fin. 
That night before curling up on our blankets, 
tired but happy, we dubbed that water Stab 
Pool. 
Next morning looked like a bad day for black 
flies. The wind had gone down, the lower 
valleys were outlined by mist, and on the 
mountain ranges near us there were occasional 
showers. After passing a new beaver colony 
of only two houses, our pleasures were varied 
by our guide’s losing the trail—a very easy 
thing to do where there is so much uniformity 
in the landscape. This caused some delay, but 
after beating about in the scrub, Henry found 
that a big tree had fallen at the edge of a ridge 
of woods and so obscured the entrance of the 
trail into the wood. Now we began to climb 
and kept it up all day, slashing through the 
upper barrens almost knee-deep. If by chance 
one made a step out of the path, he would find 
his pack flying over his head, and would plunge 
to the hip into black muck. 
The panorama at this elevation—1,500 feet— 
was becoming more and more extensive. The 
bays, islands and sea coasts gradually opened 
out before us. The whole country was spread 
out like a chart, with the neighboring river 
courses, the lakes, and mountains occasionally 
lightened up by shafts of sunshine, peering out 
from the rifts in this cloud and mist. The air 
was cool and quiet, but the flies were red hot 
and restless. Despite the coolness, we were in 
a lather of perspiration, which made a halt for 
the purpose of “doping up” every few minutes 
an absolute necessity. 
After our lunch began a steady drizzle of 
light rain, which wet us to the skin before 
camping time. We were now climbing our 
second range of mountains. At intervals the 
footing improved, and we hurried up slopes, 
over rocks, and only occasionally were obliged 
to wade through the '“meshes” (marshes). 
There the willow grouse were feeding, and they 
whirred out of the cranberry bushes and settled 
down only a few yards in advance. 
Almost eaten up by the flies, we fought our 
way through the scrub, and finally emerged at 
a point where the whole slope of the mountain 
was made up of masses of limestone broken 
into giant cubes and angular pieces, perched 
one on the other, at every possible angle. Not 
a sprig of vegetation was in view for several 
hundred yards. 
It was still raining when we camped, but we 
were soon snugly bedded in our little tent, with 
a roaring fire crossing the entire front. We 
were too tired to do much fishing that evening. 
The rising sun revealed a charming view. 
We were camped in about the center of an am¬ 
phitheatre of mountains. Out of the side of a 
high cliff of reddish sandstone, shot the waters 
of the river as from a huge nozzle, falling sheer 
into a deep pool a couple of hundred yards in 
diameter some seventy-five or eighty feet be¬ 
low. High above us rose the heads of a still 
more distant range. At its base glittered the 
silver strand of the stream, and fourteen small 
lakes. On the left was a roaring rapid, and 
still further on the river expanded into a beauti¬ 
ful lake. To the left hand also, just at the foot 
of the mountain, and slightly higher than the 
lake, was a beaver dam, hidden in the alders and 
trees, making an island with the dashing rapid 
on one side. On every side little brooks 
tumbled down the sides of this gorge, joining 
their waters to those of the river to fill the 
lakes to the brim. Near the beaver colony 
were growing the yellow water lilies of the 
North, whose roots form part of the beaver’s 
winter food; cut and nibbled willows and alders 
showed where these industrious little chaps had 
been at work, and here, for the first time, we 
witnessed their operations. 
Here then were the breeding beds of the 
salmon and trout—just where the rapids came 
tumbling into the head of the lake, for its 
gravelly and sandy bottom furnished an ideal 
breeding ground. The water was not warmer 
than 40 to 42 degrees F., but the temperature 
of some of the brooks was that of ice melting, 
and it is my belief that the deep crevasses of 
that fractured range are full of ice and snow 
which never entirely melt away in the short 
northern summer. To stoop and drink from one 
of these brooks will make your teeth ache. No 
wonder the salmon and trout are firm-fleshed 
and sweet in flavor! 
In this delightful camp we spent two days. 
The salmon were not up yet, nor had we ex¬ 
pected them to be. The great pool, we were 
assured by a trapper, is alive with them in 
October. Trout, mosquitoes and black flies 
were plentiful. One could sit on a rock a little 
little way out in the lake, put on three or rinore 
red-hackles and bring back a trout for each fly. 
The moment the flies struck, the water all 
around would boil with the efforts of the victims 
to possess them. 
The rest of the party passed much of their 
time opening the fresh-water clams, trying to 
enrich themselves by pearl fishing, but as some 
one had to supply ammunition for the frying 
pan, I assumed that duty. I became a nan- 
fisherman. Not that it was sport! It was not, 
though the trout put up a good fight, what could 
they do on a salmon rod? 
We broke camp one gusty, showery morn¬ 
ing, wading down the bed of the stream, 
scrambling on the edge of the bank, passing 
rapids and falls for about five or six miles. As 
we progressed, the stream increased in volume, 
receiving the waters of many fine brooks and 
streamlets which flow from the barrens on both 
sides. At every curve we were obliged to ford 
