Camping on the Gambo. 
“The ouananiche and sea trout, and the brook trout 
gambol there, 
And song birds fill with melody the glades; 
Dark dells aglow with fragrant bloom, perfume the 
vibrant air, 
While the westering sun limns in the light and 
shades.” 
The Gambo is a deep inlet in the bottom 
of Bonavista Bay, Newfoundland. It has several 
streams flowing into it or in the near neighbor¬ 
hood. It is a way station on the railway. There 
is a well kept comfortable little hotel there and 
the train draws up at the veranda so that one 
may step off the cars into the hotel, thus it is 
one of the most convenient places for travelers 
along the whole railway line. The hotel is con¬ 
ducted by Joseph Curran, and a more obliging 
landlord, a keener woodsman or a better com¬ 
panion on an outing it would be difficult to 
find. 
A large brook flows into the bay near the 
hotel. At different times during the season ex¬ 
cellent fishing may be had here early. When the 
fish are taking to the rivers one may get first 
class sport at the railway bridge about a gun 
shot from the hotel. Later, it is better up the 
river and at the outlet of the lake, and still 
later ouananiche, sea trout and salmon may be 
had twenty miles up at Triton Brook. 
There are two lakes that extend from Gambo 
to Triton Brook, and I know of no greater 
pleasure on a bright sunny summer day than to 
lie back in the stern of the boat with pipe in 
full blast and drink in the beauty of one’s sur¬ 
roundings while rowing or sailing up to Triton 
Brook. 
From local anglers I had often heard graphic 
descriptions of the fishing at Gambo and only 
awaited a favorable opportunity to test those 
travelers’ tales. Last summer official business 
brought me to Gambo, and while there the hotel 
was invaded by a party of anglers consisting of 
a doctor of divinity, a local parish priest and 
a well-known captain from Conception Bay. 
They were friends of mine and of mine host, 
Joe Curran, who had had everything ready— 
boats, camps, provender and guides—awaiting 
the party. They were bound for the Gambo 
headwaters, and as they were all right jolly 
good fellows and eager that I should go, you 
may be sure that it took very little coaxing to 
induce me to pack my kit and join the expe¬ 
dition. 
Everything being in readiness, next morning 
with our guides Jack and Esau at the oars, we 
made an early start. It was a delightful day. 
A balmy westerly breeze rippled the shining 
waters with just force enough to scatter the 
flies, while not sufficient to impede the boat’s 
progress. 
At noon we landed on a point about midway 
and “biled the kettle.” About 4 o’clock p. m. 
we arrived at our destination, the Grassy Place 
at the mouth of Triton Brook. This is a charm¬ 
ing spot to camp—level, surrounded by trees on 
three sides, while on the remaining side mur¬ 
murs musically the Triton Brook as it rests it¬ 
self in the lake before taking its last lap into 
the Atlantic a score of miles further on. Jack 
and Esau had the duffle ashore in a hurry, the 
camps were pitched, the fire started and in a 
short time dinner was served on an improvised 
table on the site of a deserted lumber camp. 
That was a merry meal and the forerunner of 
many merry meals in that beautiful spot. The 
two clerics were like boys out of school and 
the captain, who was only "sixty-two years 
young,” kept the table in a continuous roar with 
his quips and jokes. 
After dinner we divided up, and while a 
couple took the boat, the others took a couple 
of rafts, quickly knocked together by the guides, 
and we all started out and moored our craft 
over the waterfall in the lake for the evening's 
fishing. 
It is curious that ouananiche are more plenti¬ 
ful here than in any other waters on the island. 
Although we were a little early for the best fish¬ 
ing, we fared very well. The sea trout were 
heavy and took the fly well, while the ouana¬ 
niche were very gamy and gave great sport. In 
the midst of the fishing a loud "halloa” from 
the doctor’s boat gave {he signal that he had 
fastened the first salmon. We fished till dark 
and as it was a beautifully calm evening we 
drew near together and had some music. The 
padre sings with a clear tenor voice, and as it 
rang out bell-like and sweet over the listening 
waters, while the whole company swelled the 
chorus, the distant hills flung back the echoes 
so clearly and distinctly as to almost convince 
the listeners that a rival glee club in the depths 
of the forest was mimicking the minstrels out 
on the unruffled lake. 
This was the program for the whole week: 
We fished in the early morning, came ashore to 
our meals, smoked the pipe of peace, read a 
little or indulged in a siesta, fished again com¬ 
ing on evening, and after supper a pipe, a song, 
a chat and then sweet, sound, refreshing sleep. 
While we did not make any records, we caught 
plenty of ouananiche and sea trout and several 
salmon. Fresh fish was one of the staples of 
the menu, and the guides rigged a temporary 
smoke house and preserved the balance of our 
catch for future use. 
One evening in particular impresses itself on 
my memory. We were all out in the boat. It 
was so calm and clear that it was no use to 
fish. The lake was like a mirror, reflecting the 
gorgeous crimson and gold of the westering 
sun as it descended into the soft, fleecy banks 
of summer clouds. Just as twilight fell, the 
doctor called on the padre for a song. The 
padre had a white neckerchief around his neck 
and seemed to have an irresistible attraction 
for a couple of “leather-winged” bats that kept 
flickering and circling around him, so that sev¬ 
eral times he had to duck his head to avoid 
them. He was sitting in the center of the boat 
and I was in the bow. The boat was too 
crowded to fish with any degree of comfort, so 
the lines were reeled up and the rods laid aside 
all except mine; I had my hooks dangling about 
three inches above the surface of the water. 
The padre started to sing Moore’s "Harp that 
Once through Tara’s Halls,” but just as he 
was pouring forth his soul in the most pathetic 
part where its chords are torn asunder, 
a slinky ouananiche about twelve inches long 
hooked himself on to my tail fly. I could not 
resist the temptation of lifting it in, and as the 
padre had his head raised, his eyes fixed on 
the evening star. as it swung into the line of 
vision, with his soul in his voice, and his hands 
resting on his knees, the struggling ouananiche 
brushed his face and then fell on his hands. 
The music ceased of an instant, the padre gave 
a fierce unmusical yell—for he thought a legion 
of leather-wing bats had attacked him—and 
when the rest of the crowd realized what had 
happened, the padre was greeted with uncon¬ 
trollable shouts of laughter. 
I am not yet convinced that I have not an 
action against the padre for attempted man¬ 
slaughter, because when he found that his legions 
of bats had resolved themselves into a slinky 
ouananiche, nothing less would have happened 
me than being forced overboard into the lake 
before I could control my laughter if he could 
have reached me from where he sat. 
On the first day of August caribou shooting 
began, so all except myself started up the brook 
to look for a deer. In the meantime I got my 
raft and poled out to the overfall. I had a 
splendid evening’s fishing, and just at sunset 
the others returned with a noble carcass of 
venison. We had steak for supper, and that 
with fresh sea trout and the other fixings that 
Joe had in his well-stocked larder, made an 
appetizing meal fit for the king, especially as 
every man had his woods appetite along with 
him. I have not found out yet who killed the 
deer. They all claimed to have shot it, but Joe 
afterward confidentially informed me that he 
would have had a second deer, only the doctor 
in his excitement had shot the tail off it and it 
escaped. 
Sometime in the near future Joe and I intend 
fitting out an expedition for the Gambo country 
in quest of that tailless caribou and settle for¬ 
ever a question that then and since has caused 
a good deal of controversy. 
On Sunday morning a beautiful and unique 
ceremony took place, unique at least in that sec¬ 
tion of the country. The doctor had brought 
along his mission outfit containing chalice, altar 
stone, vestments and every requisite to celebrate 
mass. The altar was set on a couple of boxes 
in front of the camp. It was decked with wild 
flowers, ferns, columbine and other beautiful 
shrubs and blooms that abounded in luxuriance. 
Just at sunrise on that still Sabbath morn the 
padre celebrated first mass. Though the small 
congregation were of mixed communions, each 
showed by his demeanor that he was impressed 
with the spirit of the scene. 
After the padre had finished mass, the doctor 
celebrated the second mass. This was what is 
known in the Catholic church as a missa can- 
