At the Head of the Tide. 
The first time you hook a sea trout you will 
develop a sneaking belief in New Year’s reso¬ 
lutions. No more will you say the optimist 
trust is a close corporation. Watered stock 
it may possess, but dividends it surely pays. 
In truth this tartar of the gorges is the viking 
of the seas, in whose galley you are ever con¬ 
tent to row. 
There are several rivers in New Brunswick 
which offer this sport. The best of these is 
the Tabusintac, leased by John Connell, of 
Chatham, N. B. His hunting grounds are lo¬ 
cated on the upper waters of this stream. 
Here are numerous camps, erected for sports¬ 
men, some of them along the shores of the 
pool in question, but had my best sport on the 
smaller river. In this case we drove down 
to the tidal waters. When camping on the 
larger stream, it is usual to keep a horse and 
scow. There are numerous excellent pools, 
but here and there a rip will demand hauling. 
Should the pools near camp not contain fish, 
John will hitch up and drive down to meet 
them as they run. This also applies to the 
early salmon fishing. 
Chatham is on the south shore of the main 
Southwest Miramichi. The ancient ferry which 
coughs its way across this broad stretch of 
water is as consistent as it is crude. As you 
drive along the north bank and swing off to¬ 
ward the Bartibogue you are conscious of that 
exhilaration which is associated with all things 
of your rod is bowed down as never before. 
Of course, he rushes as an ordinary trout 
would, then, as if remembering that he is no 
ordinary fish, he unreels that line just for luck. 
For a moment his silver side, again his black 
nose show above the surface, and your reel 
whirrs. 
We have all been christened in the beliefs 
of such wonderful moments, the memories of 
which are ever fresh. We know the rush less 
vicious, the grind as the reel regains its own, 
the grating of stones as we feel our way to 
the shore. Then John comes into focus and 
“Three pounds and a quarter,” sounds above 
the roar of the waters. 
Of course all the fish are not big but all 
are game. There are miles of fishing, and it is 
BEACHING A SALMON. 
Escodlick, a branch of the main river. At the 
junction is a wonderful pool, above and below 
there is sport for the trying. 
Chatham is a little over twenty-four hours 
from Boston, and about fifteen hours from 
Montreal. Should you leave Boston on a 
Monday or Thursday, you can take the direct 
steamer to St. John. 
Connell has two rivers, the Bartibogue and 
the one mentioned. As a rule, the fish do not 
run till the first of July, and the best months 
are July and August. The record of the Bar¬ 
tibogue is seventy-five trout in one day, av¬ 
erage weight 2pounds. Occasionally salmon 
run up both these streams, and toward the end 
of the season I have known one man to land 
eleven fish from the pool where the Tabusin¬ 
tac branches. The average weight of these fish 
was twelve pounds, and the largest 27^ 
pounds. They were all landed on an ordinary 
rod and killed without any assistance on the 
part of the guide; in fact, every decent morn¬ 
ing during that trip, while John was cooking 
breakfast, the angler landed a salmon or two. 
There are several ways of procuring sea 
trout, dependent entirely on the season and 
water. I visited this country in June of last 
year, and was too early for the run on the 
Tabusintac. I landed several fish from the 
From photographs by D. W. Clinch. 
hardy, especially in the North. Waders one must 
have, and as they crackle over the knee-caps 
you feel at home once more. Then you set up 
• the rod and dampen casts and are conscious 
of a gratifying anticipation. As you step out 
into the stream itself the waters gurgle over 
your ankles, the murmur of your reel is 
audible above that of the stream itself, and 
your cherished rod becomes a vital living 
thing. 
Of course, you ford rapids, traverse 
meadows, and at times it seems that another 
step will put the water over your waders. 
Flies you change, upstream you travel, and 
out behind a rock you cast. The fly is swept 
down, and for a moment something shows 
above the surface, the gut straightens and the 
rod tip rises in unison. 
Ah! but it is difficult to chronicle the thrills 
which vibrate through you. “Mon, he’s 
fresh from the sea.” For many summers has 
he ascended this river, whose every current, 
eddy, and backwater is familiar to him. In 
turn he carries that cast from the shadows into 
the sunshine and back again into the pool, 
where he rests and devises other schemes to 
cut the gut on some jagged stone. At times 
you lose all recollection of Connell, the glori¬ 
ous sunshine, of everything save that the tip 
SEA TROUT WATER. 
hard to keep track of the runs. Hungry! of 
course you are, and down to the place where 
John is boiling the kettle you slowly whip the 
stream. 
Such is a morning by such a stream, and the 
afternoon seems a day by itself. Meadows and 
dales are crossed, fences challenged, soft earth 
buries your heels, and down to the shore you 
slide. Many turns are cut off by such a de¬ 
tour. Therein lies the variety for down stream 
now you tread with an ever-heavier basket. 
Again the morning performance will be re¬ 
peated and this time “Three pounds and a half. 
What will the fellows say to that?”—and you 
turn into another gorge. 
These are wonderful gorges whose pools 
are deep and clear, and on every side you en¬ 
counter that delightful uncertainty so distinct 
in all new water. Even the ravines seem to 
have developed more gullies, for the sun has 
dipped behind the ridges, and the river is slowly 
assuming that restful, oil-like appearance which 
comes at evening. You note all this as fly-book 
in hand, cast in mouth, and rod against shoulder, 
you change flies. 
On you go, hurrying a little as you note the 
smoke of the camp-fire. The scene which 
earlier in the day seemed verily alive with sun¬ 
light now impresses you with its calm. Be- 
