G 58 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 23, 1909. 
excellent, the trout are small, rarely exceed¬ 
ing a pound, generally much less, but very 
gamy. Half or three-quarters of an hour fish¬ 
ing late in the afternoon, will usually supply 
a liberal mess for supper and breakfast. It is 
not always safe to count upon that, because 
one might be surprised by an uninvited guest. 
Just before daybreak, while semi-conscious, 
I heard some footfalls near the cabin. At 
first I wondered, too lazy to stir, what the 
guide could be doing around so early. Soon 
collecting my wits, I concluded it must be 
somebody who didn’t belong to the outfit; 
just who it was was not difficult to guess. 
Quietly picking up my rifle and slipping a few 
cartridges into the magazine, I went to the cabin 
door and there waited and listened. There was 
perfect silence, and further vigilance revealed 
nothing to eye or ear. 
When one of the guides came over from 
their cabin in the morning he held up a pole, 
to which several trout heads still hung by a 
string. “M’sieur Tours a mange les truites 
pour son dejeuner. II n’y a que du jambon.” 
(Mr. Bear has eaten the trout for his break¬ 
fast. There is nothing left but ham.) If the 
bear had left his hide in payment I would 
have considered the account square. In true 
spirit of hospitality I assembled another break¬ 
fast for the bear. Like Hamlet, I had a 
sneaking impression that the mysterious noc¬ 
turnal visitor might walk again, but no such 
luck. The hour of twelve passed and nothing 
appeared. A well trained ghost would have 
promptly become visible at that time, but a 
bear ignores all rules of etiquette, and is not 
punctual in his habits. 
Despairing of having any luck with a bear, 
I decided to move the outfit to Lake Long, a 
beautiful lake, forming an extended and pic¬ 
turesque sheet of water between densely 
wooded hills. While the guides were getting 
the packs in readiness, I beguiled the time 
with a .22 rifle. Looking around for an object 
to exercise my skill, I saw a loon placidly 
swimming out in the lake. The range was 
considerable and the bird was an expert in 
dodging the slow bullets that splashed in the 
water. He seemed to enjoy the sport as much 
as I did. The guides assured me that the loon 
would not fly if we took a canoe. I readily 
assented to the proposed change of pro¬ 
gramme. The loon knew something about 
moving around in his natural element, and 
had a way of shoving his big web paddles 
through the water to some purpose, varying 
the operation by submarine excursions, which 
enhanced the interest of the pastime, although 
they tried the patience. 
Next to shooting a jumping trout, a loon is 
about the most uncertain mark one can select. 
The best plan is to shoot just before the loon 
rises to the surface if the spot can be located. 
Next to putting salt on his tail, this is the 
most practical advice I think I can give. After 
a number of attempts had been foiled “M’sieu” 
lingered a trifle too long before making his 
plunge. At the snap of the .22, he dove, but 
came up again almost immediately near the 
same place. Before I realized what had hap¬ 
pened the guides were all excitement and 
twisted the canoe about in a way that made 
me dizzy. Huard grasped the neck of the 
loon and held it up. “Huard!” he exclaimed. 
“Que’st ce que c’est?” (What is that?) I re¬ 
plied. “Le meme nom que moi.” (The same 
name as mine) “Huard” is the Canadian- 
French term for loon. That helped me to re¬ 
member the loon, because I had only to think 
of the guide. The adventure with the loon 
and the subsequent task of skinning the bird 
delayed us a couple of hours, but we cheer¬ 
fully accepted the delay. I arrived at Lake 
Long ahead of the guides, who were retarded 
by their burdens. 
Late in the afternoon Remi Dion and myself 
paddled to the head of the lake, which the 
big trout frequent and are often in evidence, 
jumping out of the water and falling back 
again like a big stick of wood. One is con¬ 
sidered in luck when a big trout catches the 
fly before a small one. I was disappointed if 
a half-pound trout got my fly; a pound trout 
made me complaisant, and the interest in¬ 
creased from that up to five pounds, which I 
never caught, but know that they are there. 
We remained one day at Lake Long, then 
struck the trail for Lake Brule, about six 
miles distant. In some places the trail is quite 
steep, but compared to my Western experience 
it was passable. 
I was surprised with the beauty of the lake 
and admired the mountain on the other side, 
known as Mountain Brule, from which the 
lake derives its name. This rises about one 
thousand feet, quite abruptly, above the water, 
exposing long stretches of bare surface of 
rock, down which, in several places, moun¬ 
tain rills frolic in their tortuous course to their 
destination. 
The fishing is good, as to quantity, yet the 
trout are small, seldom weighing above half 
to three-quarters of a pound. I am puzzled 
to know why the trout should vary so in 
the different lakes, but can arrive at no satis¬ 
factory explanation. My principal object in 
traveling to Lake Brule was to see the coun¬ 
try, with the possible chance of getting a shot 
at big game. 
The day after my arrival at Lake Brule, I 
had a somewhat odd experience. Just before 
lunch one of the guides called my attention 
to the approach of another party. The new 
arrival turned out to be an Englishman with 
his wife, and he had enough guides to popu¬ 
late the Canadian wilderness. I was not es¬ 
pecially rejoiced to observe this intrusion 
upon my solitude, but it was club property, 
and one member has as much right as another. 
My presence was evidently no more welcome 
to him. I tried to make the best of the situ¬ 
ation, and saluted pleasantly, the courtesy was 
reluctantly noticed. Upon his approach to the 
cabin, I asked in an amiable voice if he had 
had any luck. “Oh, no,” he replied shortly 
and with' a peculiar affected accent, and then 
turned away with a bored expression to con¬ 
template the scenery. 
Further conversation was out of the ques¬ 
tion. I retired into the cabin and pondered a 
few moments in silence. An understanding 
was presently established between Antoine, 
Huard and myself. I stepped out on the little 
platform in front of the cabin where the 
stranger and his wife were sitting and poured 
out a liberal drink of whiskey from a bottle 
into a cup half filled with water. Before 
touching the cup, I asked Huard, “Combien de 
bouteilles de whisky avons nous?” (How many 
bottles of whiskey have we?) 
“Vingt-cinq.” (Twenty-five.) 
“Bien.” (Good) I replied with satisfaction, 
and emptied the contents of the cup. The 
looks of blank astonishment which I observed 
out of the corner of my eye amused me. De¬ 
scending to the lake, Dion and myself pad- 
died off in a canoe. After several hours we 
returned, Huard informed me that the English¬ 
man and his wife had taken their departure. 
Huard said slowly in broken English, “The 
Englishman, he say to me, ‘I leaf you wiss 
your twenty-five bottle of whiskee.’ ” I was 
sorry on the lady’s account that they struck 
the trail to Lake Long, a distance of about 
five miles. I hardly expected that the ruse 
would work out that way. 
I amused myself for a couple of days at 
Lake Brule, fishing, taking photographs and 
climbing up the rocky side of Mt. Brule, fol¬ 
lowing the course of a mountain rill, which 
looked very attractive as it tumbled down 
the stony declivity. 
After a short rest, we packed up and started 
for Lake Long, resolved that if the other party 
occupied the cabin at Lake Long we would 
push on further to Lake Seymour. Arriving 
at Lake Long, Huard uttered an exclamation 
of satisfaction because the canoes of the other 
party were not visible at the cabin, when 
we reached the spot; however, one of the 
guides of our lukewarm friend informed us! 
that his party had pitched a tent but a short 
ways off because a pole cat had taken up its 
residence in the cabin. Matters were not im-j 
proved by the destruction of the pest in the 
cabin, which was reached by tearing up the 
floor. 
My heart being set upon stopping at Lake 
Long, I concluded to sleep out doors and 
take my chances. In about an hour’s time 
fishing I secured several trout, varying from 
a pound and a half to about three pounds. 
During the absence, Huard had prepared a 
shelter for me—a canoe tipped on end against 
a tree, the bottom serving as a roof. All the 
guides slept in the guide house, as a feeling 
of exclusiveness existed among them; they 
displayed their friendship for both parties by 
impartially borrowing whatever they happened 
to need from either. 
During the night the rain commenced fall¬ 
ing. The constant patter on the bottom of the 
canoe indicated a considerable downpour. The 
shelter appeared sufficient until, becoming rest¬ 
less, I endeavored to shift the position, where¬ 
upon a cold stream meandered down my back. 
The water ran in rivulets upon the ground and 
had an insidious way of discovering an un¬ 
protected spot. However, after a while I 
managed to dam it out completely, not verb¬ 
ally, but scientifically. 
The morning broke clear and beautiful, a 
light breeze which developed into something 
of a blow, dispelled the clouds and also im¬ 
parted life to the climate. We stopped long 
enough at Lake Seymour, our next destina¬ 
tion, to dry out everything, and then struck 
the trail for the main club house. 
E. F. Randolph. 
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