Ouananiche and Grand Lake Stream. 
Grand Lake Stream, in Washington county, 
Maine, is east of the East Branch of the 
Penobscot River, west of New Brunswick, is 
about three miles long, and is the outlet of 
Grand Lake, which is formed, in part, by the 
waters of Junior, Compass, Dobsis, Upper 
Dobsis and other lakes. Grand Lake, whose 
area is 152 square miles, is the original home 
of the ouananiche. The September fishing 
invites anglers. The waters are free to all; in 
the language of the guides, “They are a-com- 
ing good on the stream now.” 
Although a recent convert to dry-fly fishing 
for this member of the salmon family, I tried 
wet-fly fishing one day at the pool at the head 
of the Great Falls. It was windy; temperature 
55 at 8 o’clock, and our canoe was kept side- 
wise against two rocks projecting above the 
swift current. I had on a flannel lined suit of 
corduroy. I perched myself on the flattest of 
the rocks and tried to light my pipe. I had no 
blazing fusee wind-matches, and Stephen Henry 
Sprague, my guide, had none. The wind 
veered, nearly capsizing the empty canoe. My 
black cotton umbrella and the folding camp 
stool had also been left behind. There arc- 
certain things a man must do for himself. One 
is to light his own pipe, so I lay down on the 
rock on the lee side of the canoe, wetting my 
feet in the effort to get into position in the re¬ 
stricted space; used half a box of safety matches 
in futile effort ’ere getting a light. The breeze 
ruffled the water so much that we could not 
see ouananiche any more than they could see us. 
I had almost forgotten there was such a thing 
as wet-fly fishing until Stephen Henry tied a 
long white morning-glory on my heaviest rod. 
The loss of a ouananiche that rose twice for 
it—a rgrity—a lowered tip, straight rod and a 
broken leader brought me back to my senses. 
Then I was mad and tried to persuade myself 
that it was all the guide’s fault. The straggly 
morning-glory looked like a feather bed empty¬ 
ing itself in the stream, but a two-pounder took 
it. When he found himself hooked, he feigned 
death and seemed willing to leave his native 
element and be welcomed by eager hands to 
a meshy grave, but after a fruitless scoop, he 
went off like a racer. A couple of seconds later 
he darted out of the water seventy-five feet 
away as suddenly as an arrow shot from bow, 
and turned three somersaults in the air. The 
leaps were made in quick succession at a height 
of two or three feet above the surface of the 
water. Fortunately, there was no undue check¬ 
ing. Violent treatment, at that juncture, would 
have meant a lost fish. Then the fighter turned 
diplomat and went to the bottom, where he 
tried to rub off the fly. He shook it as a bull 
dog does a bone, or as a cat shakes a rat. 
When he showed exhaustion, the reel began 
to take in the line, stopping whenever the fish 
felt heavy. Then his water pyrotechnics were 
resumed. He curved the rod into a semi¬ 
circle, then made a dash, under water, toward 
the rod tip and tried to slap the leader with 
his tail. He posed, nose downward, for a series 
of quick, hard pulls. He was indulgently treated, 
merely kept under a light strain. Again he 
made a vigorous descent toward the rapids 
where sunken tree bark from spruce, hemlock 
and pine logs would afford him a lair, but the 
tackle held. Ambush failing, up into the' air he 
went, tugging and thrashing. His muscles 
were like pliant steel, his form superb, his 
courage indomitable. The fish seemed, at one 
time, as much in the air as in the water. He 
raced to and fro as much as the line would 
permit. Even when he came to the surface and 
showed his white side—after sending up the 
bubbles of no surrender—the sight of the land¬ 
ing-net nerved him to a game finish. 
Out of appreciation of his services in re¬ 
storing my good humor, and because of his 
finesse and gallantry, he was released. His 
length was twenty inches. He never stopped 
to thank 11s or say good-bye. May he grow 
in strength, beauty and grace! I seem, now, 
to see again his broad tail. 
Late in August the ouananiche of Grand 
Lake make up their minds to migrate from the 
lake to the stream to spawn. It is said they 
descend in schools, like mackerel, males first, 
and dally above the dam for a while, moving 
en masse only at night. Guide “Abe” Surgeon 
McArthur, who is also a barber, sailor and 
mason, says the male salmon act as scouts, 
reconnoitering in advance of the females. Ac¬ 
cording to Abe, the fish commissioners draw 
a barrier net across, above the dam, about the 
middle of September, to prevent the wholesale 
exodus of ouananiche from the lake; further, 
that as many as 500 males to ten females have 
been impounded, at once, early in the spawning 
season; these are the scouts. 
It is during September that the best fly¬ 
fishing is to be had on the stream. Experi¬ 
enced anglers then use small flies. Mr. Mills, 
of Boston, is quoted as an exception. Scotch 
by descent and angling habit, he is partial to 
the Popham fly. 
Salmon or ouananiche—which? That fish in 
large numbers leave the lake for the stream, 
commencing in September, is conceded. Guides 
and others differ as to whether they voluntarily 
, return to the lake. It is both affirmed and 
denied. The object for which the fish migrate 
from the deep, cool bottom waters of the lake 
is'' for spawning. Some call these fish salmon 
without any qualifying prefix; some call them 
landlocked salmon. I adhere to the Indian- 
French original name of ouananiche, or 
winanis, or whon-a-nish, or wananeesh. E. 
S. Wheeler says: 
“The landlocked salmon or ouananiche (pro¬ 
nounced wananeesh) is identical fin for fin aq,d 
bone for bone with the sea salmon, except that 
he does not go to the sea and return. He is 
the same fish; being in fresh water for so long 
a time has naturally changed his appearance. 
At Sebago Lake, Me., he has reached thirty- 
three pounds in weight. At Clearwater Lake, 
sixteen pounds is the record (1908). He does 
not always take the fly; in fact, there are very 
few places where fly-fishing may be practiced 
successfully, Lake St. John in Canada and 
Grand Lake in Maine being the best places. 
Many of the lakes in Maine are stocked with 
ouananiche, and the fish are usually taken by 
trolling with live bait. June and September 
are the best months for fly-fishing. In June 
the Tomah-Jo is the best fly; in September the 
very small English dry-flies—badger, alder, the 
duns, etc.—are successful on the stream. When 
dry-flies are used the line should not be kepr 
taut. Fine drawn gut is necessary for this style 
of fishing, and a taut line when the fish jumps 
would mean a broken leader every time; in 
fact, when a landlocker leaps on any kind of 
tackle, the line cannot be too slack. The ouan¬ 
aniche is of the nobility, of which the sea 
salmon is king, and is the most brilliant fighter 
of all the fresh-water fishes.” 
The Maine fish commissioners guardedly re¬ 
port, as the result of observations conducted 
under their auspices, that no considerable num¬ 
ber of the Grand Lake fish go down the chain 
of Washington county lakes into the St. Croix 
River and thence into the Atlantic. Sea sal¬ 
mon have been caught in pools near Calais, a 
seaport town; but these were taken at low tide, 
after the recession of the high tides of Passama- 
quoddy Bay. 
Some say the sea salmon differs in appear¬ 
ance—not anatomy—from the so-called land¬ 
locked salmon of Grand Lake Stream, in that 
its color is more silvery, its tail sharper and 
longer. It is no use talking to the guides about 
dorsal, adipose, caudal, anal, pectoral or ventral 
fin. These men usually describe fish by their color¬ 
ings, weight, etc., but cannot explain distinc¬ 
tions. Tell them that the salmon of the Pa¬ 
cific are of five species, but the Atlantic of only 
one, which invariably go to sea after spawning, 
without feeding in fresh water, whereas the 
ouananiche of Grand Lake Stream are not 
landlocked. As a rule, they do not descend to 
the sea either after spawning or at any other 
time, but are born, live and die in fresh water 
and attain stunted sizes—six pounds is a rarity. 
Tell the guides this and they stare, uncon¬ 
vinced, and will refer to a fish said, from its 
size—twelve pounds, or so—to have been a sea 
salmon, taken from the old canal of the Shaw 
Grand Lake Tannery prior to its conflagration 
in 1886. “ ’Twas too big for a ouananiche. 
hence must have been a sea salmon,” they say. 
The best authorities, including Frank M. 
Johnson, say the Salmonidce family consists of 
fourteen genera and sub-genera and seventy 
species and sub-species. All have the char¬ 
acteristic fatty or adipose small second dorsal 
fin situated on their backs near the tail fin. 
1'he salt-water kind increases rapidly in weigh# 
in the sea, and lose the velvety glow of their 
skins and, somewhat, red spots—in the case of 
trout. 
“When Mr. Munson was in charge of the fish 
hatchery at Grand Lake Stream, about twelve 
