250 
FOREST AND STREAM 
JUNE, 1917 
FISHING FOR THE KINGLY OUANANICHE 
THE LEAPING SALMON OF THE GRANDE DECHARGE DEMAND 
PERHAPS THE UTMOST OF CONCENTRATED ENERGY IN ANGLING 
By LOUIS RHEAD 
Here let me chant thy praise, thou noblest and most high-minded fish, the cleanest feeder, the merriest liver, the loftiest 
leaper, and the bravest warrior of all creatures that swim! Thy cousin, the trout, in his purple and gold with crimson 
spots wears a more splendid armor than thy russet and silver mottled with black, but. thine is the kingher natime. 
His courage and skill compared with thine—“Are as moonaght unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.” 
—Henry Van Dyke, Sign of the Balsam-Bough. 
B EFORE time brings on him stiff or 
lazy limbs, every strong and vigorous 
fisherman in this broad land who de¬ 
sires to experience palpitating heart throbs 
and real supreme joy, apd to witness the 
utmost of concentrated energy in fishing, 
must once, at least, in his life try fly-fishing 
for the leaping salmon of the Grande De¬ 
charge. The experience he will find to be 
remarkable, sufficient indeed to mark an 
epoch in his life. All the big fish he may 
capture anywhere, in fresh-water or marine, 
will not obliterate the fond memories of an 
electric combat with this acrobatic fighter in 
the swirling flood of the Sagueney. 
It is several years since my last visit there. 
At that time every luxury was provided for 
the pampered tourist of wealth, whose goal 
was the lonely yet magnificent hotel Rober- 
val, which was reached by Lake St. John 
railway. It was one hundred and ninety 
miles north of Quebec, and the whole route 
lay through real wilderness of vast pines 
and surging sienna-colored rivers. At the 
present time conditions are different; you 
do it another way. In addition to enjoy¬ 
ing the splendid fishing you must be able 
and willing to camp out with real Indian 
guides, who speak French and very little 
English. You must be satisfied to live (the 
period determined by your own choice, and 
pocket) in close proximity to the real wild; 
to be, as it were, brother to the bear, the 
caribou and the wandering moose. You 
will enjoy it, with all its drawbacks and dif¬ 
ficulties, which after all are not many and 
are easily overcome. 
But I will leave instructons how to get 
there and the approximate cost, until the 
last, and jump now to the Decharge itself— 
right on to the big island rock surrounded by 
fierce swirling currents and the continuous 
roar of the falls above. With our tent 
set up in a familiar spot tramped by thou¬ 
sands of happy sportsmen before us, our 
birch-bark canoes drawn up far above water 
line and our supplies unloaded, we sit down 
to our first midday meal, sometime toward 
the end of June or early in July. The 
table is set in the open warm fresh air, 
and you are moved to inquire: 
“What is this rich, deliciously flavored 
pink fish-steak you are highly enjoying, 
now the long portage is done?” 
“Ah! Monsieur; mon frere Pierre 
caught it but ten minutes ago.” 
“The devjl,” you say. “Do I pay you to 
do the fishing?” But patience, dear 
brother. The guides wisely know best. 
After a long journey, it’s better to begin 
sport on a full stomach. Your sport will be 
so grand it will be hard to pull you 
from it when lunch is called, even if the 
afternoon and long twilight is yours. 
This rocky island upon which you stand 
is situated about half a mile below the 
mighty falls, the outlet of four great rivers 
which run some miles above into Lake St. 
John, the cradle of the solemn Sagueney. 
Round about you is a vast basin of cross 
currents surging swiftly into each other, 
so wild as to be just within the ability of two 
strong Indian guides to grapple and to 
guide safely through it one angler only in 
your bark canoe. As you stand above on the 
rocks, with rod and tackle ready, the guide 
will call your attention to a great sheet of 
white foam, moving slowly back and forth, 
forced by the currents and undertow from 
place to place, sometimes near the very 
edge of the rocks. In this circular bed of 
foam, fifty to a hundred feet across, 
myriads of insects are snared and drowned. 
Underneath that foam the fish are feeding: 
you see their black snouts pop through the 
white time and again. There is no special 
time allotted for fishing, no off-feeding; 
they are there from morn ’til night. And 
it’s for you to take chances. With luck, 
maybe you can land your flies right on 
that white blanket and test your skill. 
I shall purposely refrain from naming 
this gamy fish the land-locked salmon.. Be- 
