September, 1918 
FOREST 
AND STREAM 
541 
TROUT FISHING IN NOVA SCOTIAN LAKES 
THE SECOND PART OF A STORY OF IDEAL ANGLING CONDITIONS AMID UNWHIPPED 
LAKES AND UNKNOWN ICY STREAMS IN THE PLEASANT LAND OF EVANGELINE 
By W. M. BROWN 
N EXT morning we made preparations to 
visit a little lake high up in the hills, 
on the east side of Lake Malcolm. 
For lack of a better name, this has been 
dubbed “Frog Pond” on account of the 
small size. We discovered this little patch 
of water the previous year in rather an in¬ 
teresting way. Bob, my guide on that trip, 
was then a partner of Ned’s, but has since 
(unfortunately) severed his connection and 
taken permanent employment with my Eng¬ 
lish friend who drove me up from Yar¬ 
mouth. I say “unfortunately” because a 
better guide, man and friend, could not be 
desired by anyone in the woods. The pre¬ 
vious year Bob and I were fishing at the 
head of Lake Malcolm, and concluded to 
investigate further up the brook that is the 
main feeder. We found some still water 
just above the rapids which gave us some 
good sport, but it being very limited, we 
soon came to the end of it. Flere we found 
a fork in the stream, the right hand branch 
tumbling down from the high hills in a 
most riotous way, the other very still. As 
a canoe could not go up the right branch, 
we decided to follow the still water, but did 
not get far, as the undergrowth closed in 
so tight we found great difficulty in pro¬ 
ceeding. Whilst pushing under some limbs, 
the side of the canoe slipped upon a shelv¬ 
ing rock, and before we could right her, 
tipped over, depositing us in about three 
feet of VERY COLD water. As nothing 
but a cold ducking was the result, Bob 
suggested abandoning the canoe and climb¬ 
ing the high hill, not only to warm our¬ 
selves up, but to see what was to be seen. 
It was quite a stiff climb after we got out 
of the swamp, in some places almost pre¬ 
cipitous. But we were fully rewarded by 
the magnificent view we got. As far as 
we could see the sun was sparkling in nu¬ 
merous lakes and streams, and away to the 
East the high hills along the main Clyde 
River were beautiful to look at. The top 
on which we stood forms part of a long 
ridge, extending to the North, and is a spur 
of the Blue Mountains which form the 
water shed between the Atlantic and the 
Bay of Fundy. 
Moving a little along the ridge, we came 
to a point where the land fell away as ab¬ 
ruptly as on the side we had just climbed, 
and nestling at the foot was a beautiful 
little pond, apparently not over ten or fif¬ 
teen acres in extent. We soon figured out 
that this was the source of the turbulent 
right fork w T e had passed, so we climbed 
down to investigate at closer range. We 
found the water clear, and the bottom cov¬ 
ered with small pebbles, between the large 
gigantic boulders. As I had brought my 
rod along (I always took it along), and as 
I was wet anyhow, I dropped into the water 
and made a cast. Great Scott! I nearly 
lost my balance from astonishment at the 
result. Trout rose in every direction around 
my flies, and I was fast to a pair at once. 
While fighting these, a third took hold, and 
I really believe that if I had had a dozen 
flies on my cast they would all have been 
The river ran for miles through dense 
hemlock forests 
taken. Well, it was “some lively” for a little 
while, but as one broke loose, I soon had 
the other two. The pond seemed to be 
stuffed full of them, and good sized ones 
at that, but the water was cold, and so was 
I, so as Bob had busied himself over a little 
brush fire, and announced that he had made 
tea, I soon came ashore. On comparing 
notes, Bob concluded that I was probably 
the first man to-cast a fly on this pond, and 
from the way the trout acted, I was in¬ 
clined to believe him. 
After our tea we followed the bank round 
on a good, hard, open bog, which bounded 
the northern side, to the inlet, which we 
found to be narrow and rapid, the bottom 
here being full of enormous granite boul¬ 
ders. Every cast in the little estuary raised 
a fine fish, and I fished till I was tired. We 
promised ourselves to revisit this place the 
next day with the canoe. This we did, 
though with much hard work, as a trail 
had to be chopped out through the swamp, 
and carrying the canoe up the face of that 
precipitous hill was “some job.” However, 
we got there, and in comfort fished that 
pond, and had such a day’s catch as I have 
never experienced in my many years of 
fishing. Ned later on carried my good 
friend, Dr. Street of Brooklyn, New York, 
up there, and he had just such luck as I 
had, and it is to him I am indebted for the 
only photos of the pond we have, showing 
Ned and him in the canoe. 
But to return to our own trip: we ^ar¬ 
ranged to make an early start for “Frog 
Pond” next morning, which we did, and 
had as good luck as on my last visit, only 
instead of finding the fish mostly at the' 
inlet and outlet, they were all over the 
pond, and as a good stiff breeze was blow¬ 
ing, the fishing conditions were perfect. 
From what has already been related, it 
would be tiresome to repeat the story of 
our luck. We lifted the canoe over the 
shallows at the inlet, and came on a nice 
piece of still water that yielded us some 
good sport, though the trout were much 
smaller. At the head of this still water, 
navigation came to an abrupt stop amongst 
some large granite boulders. We had lunch 
here, and after eating, Ned said he was 
going to explore further up the stream, as 
he had heard the Frenchmen say that there 
were more ponds above. Bert and I ac¬ 
companied him for a little way, but as the 
hills got steeper and rougher, I concluded 
to stop and rest for a moment. 
I HAVE mentioned earlier in this story 
the marked resemblance of some of 
this scenery to that of Old Scotland, 
but I was never more impressed with this 
than from where I sat. Breaking abruptly 
from my feet, a wild, rocky glen lay before 
me, through which the stream rushed and 
rested in alternate rapids and pools. The 
weather-worn fir trees in the gorge were 
also strikingly similar, and on the further 
side of the gorge a steep, ragged hill cov¬ 
ered with the purple blossom of the “Lamb 
Kill,” reminded one so much of the purple 
heather. To add to this, the hill opposite 
was literally covered with thousands of 
great white bleached granite boulders, rang¬ 
ing from the size of a flour barrel to the 
size of a house. I had noticed this hill 
from a great distance on our way down the 
first day out, and it had all the appearance 
of a city of white houses, perched on a 
hill. To our left, nestling under the high 
ridge, was our little “Frog Pond,” for all 
the world like one of those mountain tarns 
one so often runs across on the Moors of 
Scotland. Of course one misses the lofty 
violet mountain peaks which form such a 
grand background to Scottish scenery, but 
with what one had here, it was easy to 
conjure up the rest. I am fond of fishing, 
but I am also an enthusiast over scenery, 
and as my good friend the Doctor says, “It 
is not so much what you catch or kill, as it 
is the sight, smell and voice of the woods 
that has such a charm.” 
After a while we sighted Ned, .a tiny 
moving object away up the hill side, and 
when he joined us he reported a new small 
lake about two miles up stream, which we 
concluded we would save for another year 
and trip, as our plans were full. 
We had been having the choicest of 
weather, and I was getting on a fine tan, 
but that afternoon little innocent streaks 
of vapor began to show across the sky, 
which Ned immediately pronounced “weath¬ 
er.” And the next two days we had one 
of those North-easters which Nova Scotia 
can “hand out” to you to perfection in 
June. However, our pleasure since we 
started had been so complete that we were 
(continued on page 554) 
