740 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 7, 1910. 
Soon we were off, Fred to the lumber camp 
and Bob and I down stream. We found the 
water still high and the fishing was very poor. 
All the morning we worked faithfully, catching 
only three or four trout. The stream poured 
through a rocky gorge filled with huge boulders 
and the roar of the water was so loud that we 
had to shout to make ourselves heard. Here I 
saw visible proofs of Bob’s carelessness. He had 
on a pair of slippery shoepacs, whereas I wore 
hob-nailed shoes. This gave me a decided ad¬ 
vantage, but even so I did not see why he should 
tumble about so much. To be sure he took big 
chances in leaping parts of the torrent and twice 
he fell clean into the drink as a penalty. But 
there were countless other tumbles. He ex¬ 
plained them by saying that he got so interested 
in casting that he forgot to look where he was 
stepping. Again and again I marveled that he 
did not break a leg. 
Finally we gave it up, mounted to the driver’s 
trail at the top of the cliffs and returned to camp 
for lunch. Fred came in shortly after with five 
small trout and a huge loaf of bread. His 
search for trousers had been unsuccessful, as the 
winter’s supplies had not yet been brought in. 
So after lunch there was a mending bee. Bob 
repaired one rip of at least three feet which had 
left the same extent of manly leg exposed to 
view. And yet they still clung to those re¬ 
volvers. “Might see a bear,” said Fred. 
As we were to start for home next day, I de¬ 
termined to go up the East Branch to a dam 
below which there was a large pool where I 
knew there were trout, and good ones, though 
Fred had failed to get any. I hoped to catch 
enough so that we could take a few home. In 
this I was disappointed on account of the boys’ 
appetites, but I got some nice ones nevertheless. 
Unfortunately I fooled away a good deal of time 
on the way up, catching a number of fish, but 
nothing large, so that when I reached the pool 
I had less than an hour to fish. It was late in 
the afternoon and the trout were rising all over 
that pool. In the short time that I had left I 
took six—two sixteen-inch fellows—and all of 
them good ones. Out in the middle of the pool 
two were rising that would have dwarfed any 
that I landed. One of these patriarchs I hooked, 
just turning him a bit, but it was getting late 
and I had promised another corncake. Reluc¬ 
tantly I reeled in my line and returned to camp. 
After all, those fellows will be larger next year. 
The,bovs had had fair luck and we had twenty- 
four trout, including several that would go a 
pound, a piece. Here were surely more than 
those boys could eat, but no, with some little 
assistance from me they got away with them all. 
It was a hard job, however, even for them, and 
the last ones went pretty slowly. “You’re no 
good,” said Bob, surveying a mass of 'fish on 
Fred’s plate. “Why don’t you eat something?” 
“Huh. What’s the matter with you?” re¬ 
torted Fred? “You aren’t keeping up your end 
at all.” 
Thus they jollied each other into renewed 
effort. I had already given up the contest, but 
none of those fish were wasted and none were 
carried home—outside the boys. 
The night passed with little rain and com¬ 
paratively little flopping on Fred’s part, and in 
the morning we reluctantly took the back trail, 
since Bob had already stayed a day longer than 
he could. .. The first stage was just a straight 
tramp of nine miles back over the tote road. 
Then we came to one of the chief lumber camps 
from which we could either retrace our steps 
over the mountain or cross a small lake and 
take a trail through a low pass which would lead 
us down through a brook valley by a longer 
route to the river. We held a council of war. 
It soon appeared that none of us was eager to 
go back over that mountain on the blind side 
where we had strayed in the swamp. The other 
trail was well known to me. Suddenly a bright 
idea struck Fred. “There’s a telephone you say 
in this camp? We’ll call up my brother and 
have him come up the river in the launch and 
meet us where the brook trail hits the river. 
We can make it by 4 or 5 o’clock.” The motion 
was carried. But as we approached the lumber¬ 
man’s shack in which the telephone was, Bob 
stopped suddenly. “Gee, there are women in 
that shack!” So there were. I had forgotten 
it. He threw off his pack and Fred followed 
suit. 
“What’s up?” said I. 
“I’m going to put on my poncho,” said Bob. 
They both needed one. In spite of repairs 
with needle and safety pins, there were still 
sundry gaping orifices plainly visible. 
“You’ll have to do the telephoning.” said Fred. 
“We’ll stay down here on the dock.” And they 
were as good as their word. Fortunately for 
the success of the imposture a shower had just 
passed over and we were about to cross the 
lake so that their attire seemed natural enough. 
I made connection with Fred’s brother and got 
one of the lumbermen’s boys to row us across 
the lake. There we lunched and started on our 
long tramp to the river. 
Now the first two miles of that trail are about 
the worst bit of going that I know. It is very 
seldom used and so has become choked with 
brush and weeds which conceal the ancient and 
rotten corduroys underneath, for there was a 
tote road here twenty or thirty years ago, and 
the whole distance is swampy. Add to this the 
effect of the recent rains and you can imagine 
that it was no holiday stroll. You could not 
have disturbed Bob’s even temperament with a 
club, but the difficulties soon began to wear on 
Fred. As he stumbled for the twentieth time 
over some concealed root, at the same time get¬ 
ting a sounding slap across the face from a 
water-soaked weed, he began to mutter things 
under his breath. Nevertheless he bore up fairly 
well until we were about half across the bad 
piece. Then a sudden shower drove us to the 
shelter of a clump of balsams where we got 
out the ponchos once more. The shower was 
bad enough, but when Fred broke through a 
rotten corduroy bridge and sank to his shoul¬ 
ders, skinning his shins as he went down, it was 
the last straw. There were no more mutterings 
but good hearty cuss words for the trail, the 
rain, the weeds and everything else that added 
to our misery. Bob and I trailed along after 
him with appreciative grins on our faces. We 
said nothing; it was not necessary. Fred was 
amply expressing the sentiments of the whole 
party. 
But all things have an end. In something over 
an hour we were out of that slough of despond 
in a clearing at the head of the brook. The sun 
came out bright and warm. We unshipped our 
packs, spread the steaming ponchos in the sun 
and called a halt for ten minutes. From this 
point on we knew that the trail was excellent 
and practically all of the way down hill. Fred 
rapidly regained his lost poise. 
“That was the worst ever,” said he, reminis¬ 
cently sucking on his pipe. “I’ll never try that 
again. It’s me for the mountain route. But 
say, it’s half-past two and if we don’t hit the 
river by four I'm afraid that kid brother of 
mine won’t wait for us. Think we can do it?” 
We had five or six good miles to go and I ex¬ 
pressed my determination to take it easy, launch 
or no launch. I am not out for any pedestrian 
records when I am in the woods. 
“Well, suppose I go ahead and hold that kid?” 
Bob and I made no objection to this, so off he 
went singing: 
Row your boat, row your boat, row it up the stream; 
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily-—life is but a dream! 
Thus did Fred rise from the slough of despond 
to the mountain of hope. 
When we had smoked out our pipes, Bob and 
I followed in leisurely fashion. We reached the 
landing about a half hour after Fred and found 
the launch waiting for us. I shall never forget 
that trip down the river. The sky was clear and 
we saw the mountain tops for the first time 
since we had started out. The two young ele¬ 
phants—scratched, muddy and in rags—sprawled 
one on each side of the little launch singing and 
whistling. Whenever we passed another launch 
Fred would whisper, “Now!” 'and they would 
elevate those long, blue guns and fire a simul¬ 
taneous salvo of shots into the air to the no 
small wonder of those who were passing us. 
If they were boisterous I was inwardly thank¬ 
ing my' lucky stars that we were getting safely 
home with no broken limbs. As we neared the 
village, ponchos again became necessary for them 
in spite of the sunshine. Thus we avoided open 
scandal, for ponchos cover a multitude of sins. 
Arthur L. Wheeler. 
New Orleans Anglers. 
New Orleans, April 29.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The fishing season opened only fairly 
well in this section of the State. The recent 
cool spell and high winds have made fishing 
especially bad in the salt waters. Several parties 
have gone over to the Rigolets, Lake Catherine, 
Chef Menteur, Bay St. Louis, Waveland,. Pass 
Christian and also to the Barataria sections dur¬ 
ing the last two weeks. The fishermen report 
bad luck and feel somewhat discouraged. A few 
speckled trout, sheepshead, bass and redfish have 
been landed, but not in sufficient numbers to 
make the effort worth the while. Fishermen in 
the inland or fresh water streams report a little 
better luck. It is expected that when the weather 
becomes settled and the days and nights are 
warmer, this sport will improve perceptibly. A 
large number of sportsmen are preparing to 
leave for their summer homes on the Louisville 
and Nashville road on Lake Bergne, Mississippi 
Sound and other waters and returning daily to 
New Orleans. A number of them will spend 
a few days in each week fishing. Shrimp are 
very scarce on account of the near approach to 
the spawning season. F. G. G. 
All the fish laws of the United States and 
Canada, revised to date and now in force, are 
given in the Game Lazvs in Brief. See adv. 
