Nov. 28, 1908.] 
they are highly prized and are always sleek and 
cleanly. 
Now that I had returned to Dibulla, the day 
on which I was to leave this beautiful country 
soon came. In the river just below the village 
a great canoe was waiting, packed with my speci¬ 
mens and baggage. A few hours were passed 
consulting with my men and receiving visits 
from the neighbors. Late in the afternoon the 
wind went down, the bogaros or boatmen were 
ready, my friends had gathered to see me off 
and stood in groups on the sand bar, while the 
T HE fishermen and others who use Three 
Mile Harbor- had stuck stakes adorned 
with branches of cedar to mark the nar¬ 
row, twisted channel through the “gut-ways” 
out into Gardiner’s Bay. Even with these guides 
and the colors, from yellow to blue-green, on 
the clear water I had to- keep my wits about 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
great canoe was forced out through the inlet. 
Then as the waves came breaking about us my 
men threw off their clothes, and splashing into 
the surf, forced the canoe beyond the breakers. 
Farewells were shouted from the bar, oars were 
adjusted, and steadily working, the men went 
rowing along the coast and the Sierra Nevada 
de Santa Marta were being left behind me. I 
was going away from one of the most beautiful 
places I have ever visited in my wanderings 
among the regions bordering on the Caribbean 
Sea. 
north, over nine miles of silver blue, was the 
Orient Point or Plum Gut Light. 
Around Hog Creek Point and Lion Head 
Rock, past pretty Acabomock, Ram Island, 
Promised Land, urged by the ebb, we rocked 
along over shoals and eel grass, heading for 
the channel buoy off Napeague. We put over 
8 IQ 
bluefish were being caught, the bluefishermen 
having given up in disgust, we re-embarked. 
The shore, as we sped along close to the bank, 
was hilly and covered with bay, wild grapes and 
beach plums. The fish traps were thicker there, 
if possible, than further down. The tide being 
against us, it was an hour before the breakers 
off Montauk and the high tower of the light¬ 
house came in sight. We headed boldly out into 
the Atlantic, trailing oiir squids, but in vain. The 
boat joyously climbed the hill like waves until 
we were near the great eastern black can buoy, 
around which the flood tide was rushing, and 
we could look down the great Long Island beach 
that stretched away, an unbroken belt of surf, 
sand and dunes from here to Fire Island; then 
we turned back. No bluefish or bonito; not a 
strike! One other boat was out, a professional 
bluefisherman who fared no better than we. 
Sadly we headed toward the low-hung sun and 
blue hills, changing our bluefish squids for snap¬ 
pers. Off Shagwong Point I got a snapper, then 
another. The water was alive with them. Then 
the engine stopped—not only stopped, but froze 
up. While Mr. Fyler kicked, tugged and strained 
on the crank we threw our squids, often bring¬ 
ing half a dozen snappers right up to the boat. 
How I wished for my fly-rod and trolling spoon! 
At last, by use of main strength and oil, the 
To Montauk Point in a Power Boat 
By JULIAN BURROUGHS 
COMING OUT OF THE WOODS. 
A New Brunswick Scene. 
me to go out with the swift running ebb tide. 
I had scarcely a chance to see the fleet of 
“scollopers,” the wheeling gulls, the wooded, 
hilly shores and drink deep of the sea air and 
warm sunshine. 
For years I had heard wonderful stories of 
Montauk and now I was to see it for myself 
and try its fishing. I shoved the long tiller first 
hard a-port and then hard a-starboard, rushing 
the big surf boat back and forth as the whirling 
tide followed the channel first close under one 
grassy bank and then the other. At last—it was 
really but a few minutes—we were clear of the 
bar and headed down Gardiner’s Bay, and I 
could lean back in full enjoyment. Every one 
of the incessant cracks, sharp and metallic, of 
the motor sent us nearer Montauk, the buoyant 
cedar boat literally dancing over the waves. 
Close on our starboard side were the long fish 
traps reaching from the shore out into the bay, 
their stake tops adorned with gulls and sneak¬ 
ing cormorants; back of them was the yellow 
strip of beach and then the reddish-yellow gravel 
banks, often fifty feet high, of the shore proper. 
Before us was Gardiner’s Island and dim in the 
snapper squids, but only eel grass rewarded us. 
Flocks of coots hurried away. The noise of 
the motor made talking laborious, to move 
about was to roll the boat alarmingly, so we 
sat still and watched the ever-changing shore 
and water unfold before us. 
Before noon we headed into Fort Pond Bay, 
threading the maze of lobster pot buoys and fish 
traps right up to “Cap’n” Tuttel’s wharf. It 
was here, a few hundred yards further down 
the bay, the wounded of the Spanish war were 
landed. Also there has been talk of landing the 
big trans-Atlantic liners here, saving a day there¬ 
by for the passengers and mails. 
All the natives are very proud of the depth 
of water in this bay and tell you how sixty feet 
of water can be carried right up to the wharf. 
Since our boat drew but eighteen inches, we 
were not so much interested in that as we were 
in the fact that Fort Pond Bay, though pro¬ 
tected from all others, opens directly to all north 
and northwest gales. Were it not for this it 
would be an ideal harbor, being only six miles 
from Montauk. 
After eating our dinner and learning that no 
engine was started. We had to head for Fort 
Pond now; the sun was setting and the tide 
turning. Again we spun down the beach past 
the curious broken hills, past Great Pond, a 
wooded island where Mr. Fyler said that once 
he saw twenty-five thousand (estimated) geese 
in this pond and that before the gut that con¬ 
nected it with the ocean closed, it was alive with 
snappers and even bluefish. 
We saw many boats anchored near the beach 
for the night, the weather being perfect, and at 
others fishermen were throwing the skates out 
of their' traps with pitchforks. Here was six 
miles of wild, interesting shore, not a house or 
sign of habitation, unlimited fishing, wild grapes 
and beach plums to gather. I resolved to revisit 
it when I had time to explore and enjoy. 
There were barrels on barrels of fish being 
thrown away at Fort Pond—a great windrow 
down the gravelly beach. They were lafayettes. 
Did not pay to ship them they told us, only fifty 
cents a bushel. So it is in this country, on one 
hand people complaining of cost of produce and 
on the other in many places all over the land 
produce is going to waste. I wish I had a barrel 
