The Bitier Moment. 
A Hard Luck Story. 
Every sportsman during his career has one 
bitter moment. Sometimes there are many, but 
there is always one moment when past achieve¬ 
ments are gall and wormwood to the memory 
and the present is very black. Sometimes that 
moment comes when the unknown three-year- 
old, of whose powers you have had private in¬ 
formation and upon whom you have staked much 
worldly wealth, is nosed out by the favorite in 
a driving finish, and sometimes it is when dark¬ 
ness rolls down upon the mountain ridge and 
the sheep you have followed all day disappears, 
and sometimes it is-oh, read this record of 
a sad and painful tragedy. 
Far up on the west coast of Newfoundland 
there is a river, and like the rivers mentioned 
by Fluellen, “there is salmons” in it, and it is 
with one particular salmon that this tale has to 
do. 
Imagine a long steady pool, with the usual 
rapids at the head, that steadily broaden^ and 
deepens for some 300 yards until the tail is 
reached, where begins the most dangerous rapid 
of the river. For nearly a quarter of a mile 
this rapid rushes wildly along on its way to the 
sea, and the force of the water, to say nothing 
of the great, ugly rocks in its course, renders 
the stream at this point impassable for canoe 
or river skiff. 
Below these rapids the river widens into a 
shallow fast-running stream which is interrupted 
in places by long jagged ledges of sharp shale 
that spell destruction to the fisherman so un¬ 
lucky as to be fast to a fish in this dangerous 
water. 
But the God who watches over all anglers has 
so decreed that in all this rushing turmoil of 
foaming water, from the start of the rapids to 
the ledges of shale, there is one spot, just one, 
where a determined rod can hold a fish. For 
midway in the torrent, twenty yards below the 
beginning of the rough water, stands an islet, 
and off its north bank some caprice of nature 
has formed a small deep pool where, if the 
Fates so will, a salmon can be fought and killed. 
Now, on a certain late summer afternoon, 
when the sun had set and all the northwestern 
sky was aglow with carmine and crimson, the 
teller of this tale found himself in a serious 
predicament. For a week at early morn and 
late evening I had been conscientiously fishing 
the tail of this big pool above the rapids, where 
the water was still and green and very deep; 
too deep for the fish to rise to the fly on ordi¬ 
nary occasions, and so still that the water had 
to be fished with a long line, but on this evening 
the conditions were ideal. A recent spate had 
rushed down stream, stirring up the pools and 
bringing new life and energy to the fish; the 
water slightly discolored and every salmon in 
the river was lively and ready. 
Using a long line and a 2/0 silver gray, I had 
coaxed a leviathan from that deep water, and 
now I was fast to him. But it was an unen¬ 
viable situation. If the fish stayed in the pool 
I could kill him without much trouble, but if he 
chose to take the rapid water, no boat made by 
man could follow him in his mad career. The 
islet below us was the only chance. 
After two ugly shakes of his big head the fish 
started. First he dashed across the foot of the 
pool for thirty or forty yards and ended his 
rush in one magnificent leap that made my rod 
quiver; a great, black fish of perhaps forty 
pounds, a heavy salmon for Newfoundland 
waters. Then he turned, and forsaking the quiet 
of the pool, sought the rapids, an action that the 
ordinary salmon seldom does, but a deed that 
filled me with admiration, for it was a nasty 
bit of water. 
The instant he took the current we were after 
him. It was a reckless thing to do in the fast 
falling darkness, but we took the chance. Abe, 
my boatman, shot our skiff across that quiet 
water. I raised my rod in a frantic endeavor 
to clear the line from the threatening rocks; the 
light boat rushed through a flurry of white water 
and foam; Abe uttered terrible oaths'—and we 
reached the islet. 
I was out of the skiff and skurrying along the 
stone-strewed shore before our cranky little 
craft came to a stop, and there in the middle of 
the torrent forty yards away swept the salmon. 
Twice by raising the tip of my rod I avoided 
boulders, and once good old Abe had to rush 
hip deep in the water and clear the line with 
his gaff handle. At each obstruction I expected 
the fish to go free, but the Providence that had 
brought us in safety to the islet looked after 
us still and my line stayed taut. Down the cur¬ 
rent went the salmon and down the shore I 
floundered, but the strain was still on the rod 
and occasionally the reel uttered its whine of 
protest. 
I reached the extreme end of that thrice 
blessed island and just abreast me was the little 
pool, that haven for the last hope. As I took 
my last step the fish reached the border line of 
the current and the quieter waters of that 
blessed pool. 
“Swing him in,” shouted Abe, his voice rising 
to a shrill falsetto. 
My tackle was light and it was a bad place to 
put a heavy strain on such a big fish, but below 
us the water foamed over the ledges of shale. 
It was now or never; unless I got the salmon 
into steady water, and at once, I would be 
broken. Holding the fourteen-foot split cane 
rod horizontally over the water, I put on it 
every ounce of strain I could. There was one 
sickening moment of doubt and fear, one hor¬ 
rible second of suspense, and then the tired fish 
answered to the pressure, swept out of the rough 
water and slipped into the quiet of the little 
pool. I looked at Abe and Abe looked at me. 
I think he invoked the Deity, but I am not sure, 
for I was very much excited. 
But there was no rest for me even then. I 
must kill quickly or not at all. for though the 
salmon was slightly wearied from his rush 
through the rough water, a little rest, and he 
would be off once more. Heretofore the odds 
had been against me, now I had a chance if I 
used common sense. And my captive, realizing 
that he was still a prisoner, began a strong and 
determined fight. Three times he circled that 
little bit of water and three times I held him 
in its confines, for the strain I used and his own 
disinclination to seek again that rapid water told 
against him, and for the present he was safe. 
But the strength and determination of the fish 
was not my only embarrassment. I was getting 
very tired and the light was decidedly bad and 
growing worse as the minutes passed. 
The exact location of the fish was a matter 
of guess work. I could see a few yards of my 
line as it ran from the tip of the rod and note 
its general direction, but that was the extent of 
my knowledge, and every time the salmon moved 
away, my heart sank. For-a good fifteen minutes 
I stood there, knee deep in water, never giving 
an inch of slack and letting the rod and reel 
play in perfect harmony. After the fish was 
checked in his third cruise around the waters 
that held him, Abe kicked some driftwood to¬ 
gether and lighted a fire. This was more cheer¬ 
ful, though it did not lessen my fatigue, and an 
astonished owl hooted in derision from the far 
bank. The birchbark and dead wood burned 
brightly and my prisoner started another majes¬ 
tic voyage, but this time he was tired, and bit 
by bit I brought him to the surface. At last he 
came within the glare cast by the fire and I got 
a good look at him. He was a short, thick fish, 
dark in color, with a well developed hook on the 
lower jaw, and though tired, he was still master 
of the situation. 
If his spirit woke within him and he headed 
determinedly for the threatening rough water, I 
could never hold him, but if he stayed in the 
pool my chances were good, and just now he 
seemed content witli his surroundings. 
A hail from the bank came across the water. 
I looked and saw an astonished cook from our 
camp who had evidently followed the fight. 
“Want any supper?” yelled this individual; “it’s 
most 10 o’clock.” 
“Bring over some tea, bacon—anything you 
have,” replied Abe. “Take the camp boat; you 
can get across if you’re careful.” 
The cook person departed, the owl hooted once 
more and the salmon adopted a new method of 
procedure. He began to sulk, the most annoy¬ 
ing of all actions that an angler has to meet. 
Down he sank to the bottom and there he stayed. 
Now, there are two ways of dealing with a 
sulky fish. The first and the best way is to get 
below him and put on a very heavy strain. Then 
if you are lucky and your tackle is strong, the 
force of your strain aided by the current will 
turn the head of the fish and start him moving, 
and the battle begins once more. The other way 
is to stir the fish up by dropping stones in the 
water near where he lies or have your gillie 
work with the gaff handle as a prod, a risky 
resource and only permissible when the case is 
desperate and the water shallow. 
