ing backward and edging to one side— 
then plunging forward. I never wished 
to be out of it. A glorious abandon 
seizes you, thrills you through and 
through until your eyes gleam, your 
breath comes short, but strong—you 
swear, and dare the rocks to get you— 
and love them for their efforts. 
A white plume of spray screams up- 
ward at you, a slash of the paddle 
sends the canoe leaping to the left, 
passes it by inches and on the instant, 
a powerful backwater stroke pulls it 
sharply to the right and you slip past 
a huge round boulder which obstinately 
stands its ground against the straining 
current and grumbles and froths at the 
thin sheet of spray it throws over its 
shoulder. Grim white fangs threaten 
to rip a hole in you and grumbling 
boulders mumble a curse, and vow to 
break your back. 
And then as the last pitch drops to 
the stern and the churning, boiling wa- 
ters circle and swing in defeated eddies, 
your face cracks into a smile of exul- 
tation and victory and the triumphant 
scream of your “low-browed ancestors” 
rises to your lips. I’ve never known it 
to fail. It’s the all-pervading thrill of 
the conqueror —the thrill that. con- 
sumes the runner on the race track— 
the thrill that convention will not allow 
him to voice. 
Late in the afternoon we came to a 
rapid which we learned at Nottawa was 
called the “Snake.” Here the channel 
started from the left bank, swung cross- 
river to the right bank and there went 
over a seven foot falls while the rest of 
the water bent double and swung back 
to the middle where it twisted on down 
the rapids. 
At this sharp bend it was very diffi- 
cult to turn quickly enough to catch the 
current out into the middle. The mo- 
mentum carried the canoe towards the 
falls. The only way to make the turn 
is to swing the canoe broadside to the 
current before you hit the turn—then 
you are ready for a quick jump away 
from the falls. 
Schmidty was the last to come 
through. He started the turn too late 
and rode straight over the falls. A 
crash, and then a rolling rumble as the 
canoe bumped from rock to rock. The 
rocks tore both bow and stern bang 
irons off, stove in three ribs and broke 
one gun’ale. Schmidty said little, shook 


The canoeists in serious conference, poring over devious waterways. - 
the water out of his ears, scowled, and 
went back up to look ’em over again. 
While we collected his paddles, pack 
and seat out of the bay he packed my 
canoe up the portage and came down 
like an old timer. A mile, below, we 
made camp while Schmidty busied him- 
self straightening the kinks in his 
canoe and nursing his own bumps. 
It was a peaceful camp. Tomorrow 
we would reach Nottawa, the boom 
town where the Canadian National 
R. R. had crossed the Bell. Now we 
went through the well learned routine 
of making a comfortable camp with the 
feeling that we had made the first 
jump of the trip. 
Bill looked up from stirring a pot of 
stew: “Say, we ain’t had fish for two 
days,” he suggested. ‘“Where’s the 
‘Rope’?” He pulled our fishing outfit 
from one of the packs, moved down to 
the canoes and paddled slowly around 
the bend upriver. 
Three weeks ago upon our arrival at 
Kipawa, our jumping-off place, I had 
proudly pulled a new steel rod from its 
case and, lining up the “silk” and a 
pearl spinner, whipped it tentatively 
through a long clean cast out at the 
edge of a patch of lily pads in front of 
camp. There was immediate response 
in a slashing strike that tore a gurgling 
hole in the lake. That was the first 
and last strike to which my new rod 
ever thrilled. 
It bent beautifully in a clear, strong 
curve as the reel hummed and the line 
burned through the guides. The musky 
behaved nicely—he was of fair size and 
a good fighter but like most fish, was 
nice enough to change his mind before 
he reached the end of the line and turned 
off on another tack that allowed me to 
recover a few feet of silk. 
It was a rather pretty fight; he 
dodged, doubled, leaped. and sulked by 
turns., His dashes were strong, the line 
cut through the water like a bow string 
and his leaps shook the spinner like a 
dinner ‘bell. . 
One danger constantly threatened— -; 
numerous logs from the last boom were 
floating aimlessly about the lake. Two 
of these were floating placidly on my 
battle grounds. It took careful calcu- 
lation, some lively stepping and the 
devil’s own luck to keep that cutting, 
looping line away from these wan- 
derers. 
The bank here was cluttered with 
bleached barkless logs from former 
booms. Over these I was hopping like 
a maniac. I had never seen a “muskie” 
more reluctant to leave home for a “pan 
party.” 
Then it happened—no, I didn’t lose 
him—he didn’t get away (I wish he 
had). He was tiring—sulked repeat- 
edly and tore out only when he got so 
close that he could see I needed a shave. 
About this time I began to worry 
about landing him. I spotted a strip of 
open sand some fifty feet below camp 
where we had drawn up the canoes. I 
got him headed right and began a but- 
terfly progress over the logs. In my 
hurry to meet him half way I stepped 
too quickly on a green backed log that 
must have had a lease on its location 
for the last century—my feet took to 
the air and I came down scattered all 
over the place and sitting on the rod. 
The “muskie” must have thought I 
was trying to pull his teeth. The rod 
was broken in two places—making the 
reel control useless. I made a grab at 
the line at the tip—broke it and wrap- 
ped it around my finger. The “muskie” 
(Continued on page 426) 
