[July 17, 1909- 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
brown paper that lay withm reach, whereof he 
made unto himself a mask by punctunngho 
for nose and eyes. “This is fine, we heard hm 
mutter “I can see the moon!” If any aborigine 
or other woods loafer had happened along that 
trail just then, it is safe to say that one glance 
at this representative of the Ku-Klux-Klan 
would have sent him careering through the 
woods to safer regions. But the mosquitoes 
were not thick enough to keep us awake long 
and we were soon, Ku-Klux and all, wrapped 
in slumber. .. 
Next day the real trip began. An epitome 
of our trials at the start is contained in the fol¬ 
lowing extract from my note book: 
“Sunday, 12th July. Trail to the pond; con¬ 
tours; circling; the Tyro and I have a fall, 
corduroys and bumblebees; ‘all in ; the pon , 
a boat; Taradise Bay.’’ 
Rut this, though indicating our trials and ulti¬ 
mate felicity, is hardly explicit enough. We 
rose gaily and packed up in the assumption that 
in an hour or two we should have passed over 
the divide to the pond which was to be: our 
next camping place. Vain assumption! None 
of us had ever been over the so-called trail, 
but w r e knew where it left the brook an t ic 
plan seemed easy. For twenty minutes all went 
well, but at a blind clearing the old hands were 
too cocksure to put off their packs and circle 
a bit Hence a series of ancient tote roads, 
rotten corduroys, tangles of raspberry vines, 
and lo! we were clearly off the trail. It was 
hot and those forty pounds certainly absorbed 
weight from some source, perhaps from our 
dripping bodies. The Tyro broke thiough a 
rotten log into the brook and spilled the camera, 
which floated merrily down stream and was 
rescued with its roll of films dampened. A 
council of war brought out the maps and com¬ 
passes. 
“Well, Guide,” queried the Engineer, impos¬ 
ing on me a title which I had all too confidently 
assumed, “what now?” I am afraid there was 
irony in his tone. 
“We are going in the right direction,” said 
f, inspecting a compass. “But this is clearly no 
trail.” 
Then up spoke the Tyro, who had been quietly 
inspecting the map. “We are going up over 
too many contours. I think we are up here 
somewhere,” placing a sweaty finger on a little 
brook away up on the mountain side. The 
map shows that the right trail is nearly flat. 
We looked and we had to admit the point. 
It was a case of going back to the clearing, 
and so. we recrossed those same contours about 
a mile of them—downward this time. Once 
more the blind clearing, and this time three 
minutes of scouting set us right. Blessed be 
the man who invented contours 1 But my repu¬ 
tation as guide had been blasted—and yet for 
just that reason the title stuck like that of 
Colonel to a Kentuckian. 
“I told you the trail was nearly flat,” re¬ 
marked the Tyro, concealing his exultation, as 
we wended our way over two miles of ancient 
corduroy choked with brush and tall weeds that 
exuded heat like a greenhouse and emitted 
clouds of huge bumblebees. It was in one of 
the small clearings that I lost still more of my 
dignity as guide. A rock concealed in the long 
grass was my undoing. Over this I stumbled 
and as I fell forward, my pack turned turtle 
and literally stood me on my head. It required 
the combined efforts of the other two, when 
they had sufficiently controlled their unseemly 
laughter, to set me on my feet again. And so 
it was earlv afternoon before we reached the 
Pond. We had been five hours doing the work 
of two. But we had learned our lesson—beware 
of contours! Never again did we go astray- 
on that trip. 
The Pond—why demean it by such a name?— 
was the most beautiful lakelet that I had ever 
seen, and even the far-traveled Engineer had 
seen nothing lovelier. As we sat at lunch, im¬ 
bibing huge quantities of hot tea, we gazed out 
upon its perfect beauty and debated how best 
to strike the trail which we knew to be at its 
further end. Just then the advantages of lum¬ 
bermen became apparent. A boat hove in sight 
—we had not known that there was a boat on 
the pond, much less that there was an inhabited 
log camp at the outlet. We whistled, the boat 
turned our wav, and our problem was solved. 
The boating lumbermen kindly transported us, 
packs and all, to a beautiful bay where we 
found an ideal camping spot. If it had not been 
Sunday our friend would not have been out 
in his boat, and if we had not been delayed 
so long we should not have caught sight of 
him. In short, it was the psychological moment 
and we were in luck. 
I must attempt a description of Paradise Bay, 
for such was the apt name of the spot at which 
our friend landed us. Imagine, then, a crescent¬ 
shaped lake something over a mile in length, 
cut half way by a peninsula that juts from the 
base of a mountain wall two thousand feet high, 
and at the very apex of the peninsula a tiny 
bay whose shores form three sides of a square, 
the fourth being the entrance from the lake. 
So perfect in its regularity is this square that 
it seems almost as if the bay had been formed 
by human hands. When I add that the two 
shores extending toward the lake are filled with 
boulders, that the third, which connects these, 
is a fine sand beach, and that all three are 
covered with towering white pines, you may 
have some conception of the beauties of the 
spot in which we now found ourselves. Small 
wonder that we forgot all our troubles—those 
unnecessary contours, the tangle of brush and 
vines, the terrific heat in the swampy clearings, 
the crushing and ever-increasing weight of our 
packs—for we had reached a real goal. 
Thirty feet back from the lake, among the 
huge white pines, we pitched the tent and spread 
our blankets. Then we had a glorious bath in 
the clear water that lapped the smooth beach, 
and then we prepared a “royal gorge” of the 
best that the larder afforded. The dry and 
resinous shell of an old pine lay near at hand 
and no better wood for baking could be desired. 
The corn bread came forth as deliciously light 
and brown as any mother used to make, but 
none was left for breakfast. As darkness drew 
down, we heaped high the fire and stretched on 
the warm sand with a comfortable log at our 
backs and comforting pipes between our teeth 
until the late moon rose and all too soon came 
the time to turn in. 
In the morning as we gazed out upon the 
blue shapes of Seward and Seymour, looming 
six or eight miles away, we were treated to a 
rare sight. Less than half a mile away on 
the opposite shore was a long strip of beach 
backed by unbroken forest. As we were con¬ 
templating the beauties of mountain and lake 
and forest, four deer trooped out upon this 
narrow stage and for half an hour played about, 
splashing in the water and speeding after one 
another up and down the beach. I have seen 
many deer in the woods, but none in so gay a 
mood as these. 
Lovely though it was, Paradise Bay could not 
detain us. The call of the mountains was strong 
upon us and we had to go. Our lumberman 
friend appeared with two boats and regretfully 
we embarked for the tote road at the outlet. 
This road had not entered into our calculations, 
for it had been recently constructed, nor had 
the team which that day was to haul supplies 
in the very direction that we wished to take. 
We were not slow to charter a place in the 
team and for miles we rattled and shook and 
bumped over such a surface as only a new 
corduroy road can offer. Finally, in fear for 
our teeth, we gave it up and walked, carrying 
the rods lest they come to grief between the 
kegs of spikes with which the wagon was 
loaded. 
About one o’clock we parted with our trans¬ 
port, shouldered our packs once more and 
marched a short distance to the confluence of 
two wild streams where we lunched. Just above 
the forks we pitched our tent on a little shelf 
in the edge of the woods, clearing away the 
weeds and ferns which we used for a mattress. 
We did not notice until later that these same 
weeds were swarming with midges which were 
thus, to their great advantage, introduced into 
our tent. 
[to be concluded.] 
Rawhide Line Savers. 
Avalon, Cal., July 6. —Editor Forest and 
Stream: Quite a number of anglers have taken 
up “Jewfish” Murphy’s leather line savers this 
year. These are a strip of rawhide about four 
inches long which is doubled after being passed 
through the swivel on the leader. A hole is 
punched diagonally through the ends of the 
thong which arc brought together; the line is 
passed through the holes and wound two or 
three times around the leather, then finished off 
with a ten turn wrapping and three half-hitches. 
There is no knot; the line cuts into the leather 
until it makes itself a bed. and the friction grad¬ 
ually takes up the strain similar to Rabbeth’s 
line-saving swivel, which is a very good thing, 
too. Indeed, without these devices, six-thread 
line fishing would not be the success that it is. 
the knots decreasing the strenth of a line twenty 
per cent, at least. Murphy’s leathers cost virt¬ 
ually nothing, but when the Rabbeth swivels are 
not to be had they are a good substitute, prob¬ 
ably rendering the line quite as strong as the 
brass device. 
Advices just received, state that C. H. White 
of this city has landed a 37-pound yellowtail on 
Three-Six at the Isthmus. This is the biggest 
so far this season. Edwtn L. HedderlY. 
All the fish laws of the United States and 
Canada, revised to date and now in force, are 
given in the Game Laws in Brief. See adv. 
