500 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 26, 1910. 
and short skirt. Of course, if the trip is over 
three days long, Wife must tote the inevitable 
•extra shirtwaist, but generally our trips are 
Jess than three days long. 
The first time we started out with the car¬ 
riage we had three bags strapped to the rear 
of the buggy, and they were full, too. I re¬ 
member we each took a complete change of 
clothing. We remained over a Sunday that 
time and went to a little church that stood hard- 
by the banks of one of the best trout streams 
in the Badger State. We naturally expected a 
great sermon fro.m a preacher so pleasantly 
situated, but what we heard was a discourse de¬ 
livered in the Welsh language and an hour and 
forty-five minutes long. 
Our rig is an ordinary piano-box top buggy. 
I have used nearly every kind of a rig for camp¬ 
ing, but the most convenient and satisfactory 
■one that I ever used was a one-horse buck- 
board. With such a rig a friend and I made a 
rather lengthy trek and negotiated some of the 
worst roads in Northern Wisconsin. The horse 
should be steady and dependable. Our “Pete” 
is not. He is forever getting himself and us 
into a world of trouble. A light harness is 
heavy enough, but should be supplied with 
hames and collar. In addition to the ordinary 
fly-net, it is a good idea to use one of the 
many good fly dopes for stock. I know of 
nothing that will add more to the horse s com¬ 
fort and the camper’s peace of mind. 
The question of horse feed is important. We 
always carry oats unless we know that we can 
secure them of farmers near where we are 
to camp. Some years ago we drove into a new 
section of country, expecting to buy oats of the 
settlers; but I drove to nine farms before I 
found feed of any kind, and then was compelled 
to take barley. We count the number of feeds 
needed and measure the grain into the sack 
and out again. The sack, placed in front of the 
seat, becomes a seat for the little girl. If we 
are to be gone only two or three days we ordi¬ 
narily carry two or three layers of pressed hay 
'Strapped to the buggy; one layer, or “shive,” as 
it is called with 11s, will feed a horse one day. 
In camping near a farm we have hired the 
ifarmer to care for the horse, and his charges 
lhave always been reasonable. We never turn 
our horse loose in a settled country, neither do 
we picket him out with a long rope, for that is 
to court disaster in the guise of a “rope-burn.” 
When entangled, a horse will struggle until he 
throws himself or the rope breaks. When I 
tie a horse to a tree for the night, I tie him 
short, so that it will be difficult for him to step 
over the rope, but not so short that he cannot 
feed. I always prop poles against the tree in 
such a manner that the horse will be unable to 
run around and wind himself up; make a rude 
stall in fact. It is always wise to make the 
horse safe and comfortable, otherwise one is 
apt to be called out in the dark to struggle with 
a frightened horse. When going into wild 
■country for a lengthy stay, we carry a scythe 
■with which to cut grass along the creeks, the 
■only place where grass is to be found in our 
•sandy barrens. 
We were up and on the road long before the 
Break of day that hot August morning. Just 
as the stores were opening for the day we 
entered the town of Suring, located just below 
the junction of the north and south branches 
of the Oconto, and paused only long enough to 
purchase a few supplies. When we had left the 
last settler’s home behind, we threw dignity and 
decorum to the winds. We just yelled, indulged 
in a saturnalia of noise, it was so good to be free. 
At eleven o’clock we descried two or three 
log shanties in the distance and stopped to dis¬ 
cuss the situation. “If we go on,” I said, “we 
may strike a rough country and the road may 
leave the river; here the ground is level and 
well shaded, a good place to get dinner. 
Furthermore, perhaps I can secure a few trout 
from among those rocks; I like the look of the 
water.” 
“All right,” laughed Wife, “I am tired of rid¬ 
ing.” “And I am ready to eat,” added Girl, 
clambering down with alacrity. 
We found a place where we were screened 
from the road by trees and underbrush. We 
have been taken for gypsies and roving horse- 
traders so often that the novelty of the thing 
has worn off, and we seek to escape notice. I 
out-spanned the horse and gave him half a 
shive of hay, then began collecting fire wood. 
“Leave the culinary department to me,” di¬ 
rected Wife, looking up from the wannagan; 
“get into your fishing togs and catch our din¬ 
ner; Girl and I are fish hungry.” 
Never was command more in line with in¬ 
clination. Pausing only long enough to change 
my shoes, I assembled my rod and stepped 
into the water. I found the stream literally 
alive with chubs, and they were very annoying, 
seizing the fly whenever opportunity offered. 
However, I caught a few small trout and was 
content. I dressed my fish and returned to the 
camp to find Wife just putting the potatoes on 
to boil. “Well?” she interrogated, looking up 
from her work. 
I silently opened my creel. What she said 
wounded my pride, but I had done the best I 
could; anyway, we had trout for dinner. My 
impression that noon was that whatever the 
lower South Branch may be early in the sea¬ 
son, in August it is disappointing. Of course, 
there is always a chance of taking a record- 
breaking trout from one of the deep pools, and 
I never saw a more attractive looking stream. 
Once I hooked a rainbow below a long rapid. 
I see no reason why the South Branch of the 
Oconto should not become as good a rainbow 
stream as is the Peshtigo River; it has wild 
rapids and deep pools, just such water as the 
rainbow likes. The springs along the lower 
reaches of the river are drying up, owing to 
the cultivation of the land, and the temperature 
of the water is rising; consequently the speckled 
trout seek the colder waters of the upper river. 
The rainbow, however, can endure the rise in 
temperature as the water is well aerated. The 
generation to come will bless the man of to-day 
who stocks such streams with the broncho of 
the Rockies. 
From the Dells to the head of the South 
Branch there is good trout fishing, though the 
opinion which I formed eighteen years ago 
when I went in from Keshena, that the trout 
run small, the trip last August did not change. 
Three-pound trout are scarce. One reason is 
that the stream heads in the Menomonie Indian 
Reservation, where it is fished in season and 
out by palefaces as well as Indians. The whites 
firmly believe that on the reservation there is 
no game law, that the State has no jurisdiction 
over them when there. The consequence is that 
among the Indians the average white forgets 
not only law, but the ethics of true sport as 
well. 
While we were eating we were disturbed 
several times by distant thunder. Girl finished 
her meal first and waded out into the river, 
where she could see the western sky, and she 
called in great excitement, “Oh, papa, it’s going 
to rain sure, the sky is just awful black!” 
We had had no rain for weeks, and the earth 
was fairly parched; it “was too dry to rain,” and 
I found it difficult to believe her; but a hasty 
glance at the heavens convinced me that she 
was right. There was but one thing to do, and 
we set about making camp with haste. What 
is more grand and awe-inspiring than a mid¬ 
summer thunder storm, especially when one has 
only a single thickness of thin cloth between 
himself and the elements? We could not have 
found a more ideal camping spot had we 
searched for hours. The tent was close to the 
stream’s edge, and we left it open toward the 
water—we wanted to see all that was going on. 
I said before we left home that I wanted to 
catch trout, but I found, as always, I did not. 
What I wanted was to get back to simple, 
primal, natural life. We lay there in the open 
tent all that long afternoon and watched the 
play of the raindrops on the river, and as 
Girl said, “It is just as much fun as catching 
fish.” Rain fell all afternoon, pausing only long 
enough at sunset to let us get supper, and then 
it began again. We fell asleep listening to the 
merry tattoo of the drops, and next day the sun 
was shining brightly upon freshly washed nature. 
After 1a hasty breakfast of coffee, flapjacks 
and maple syrup, we were soon on the road. 
The country grew rougher as we advanced. In 
and out among the hills wound the road, ever 
keeping near the river, probably following some 
ancient Indian trail, as many backwoods roads 
do. Romance still lingers about those Indian 
trails, even though machine-made shoes press 
them more often than do buckskin moccasins. 
At last we reached the Dells and went into 
camp just below the dam. The Dells were not 
imposing, hardly more than rapids when one 
contrasted them with those of the Wisconsin 
and Wolf rivers, but it was a pretty place, the 
fishing was good, and we were satisfied. I am 
told that the Indian who has charge of the dam 
has the rather nasty habit of opening the gates 
when he discovers a party of fishermen busy- 
below, just to spoil their sport. It is his way 
of conserving the trout. But the afternoon we 
were there he did not interfere with us, and we 
caught trout and wandered back and forth with¬ 
out let or hindrance. I was up with the lark 
next day, resolved to have a last try for trout 
before the others were out of bed; and though 
I fished all prepossessing pools assiduously, no 
good trout rose to my lures. From the stand¬ 
point of the fisherman the trip was a failure. 
We ate our mid-day meal on the site of our 
first camp, and it seemed like getting home 
again. How our hearts cling to a camp site. 
We remember the exact location of every rock 
and tree, and just where we had our fire; we 
have only to close our eyes to hear the murmur 
of the water. It does not matter who owns the 
ground, the spot belongs to 11s for all time. 
O. W. Smith. 
