
The Big Muskie of French River 
How the King of His Tribe Succumbed to the 
T all began with a promise; an In- 
dian promise, and, to make it more 
binding, an Ojibway promise. For 
any fisherman who wets his line in the 
Canadian waters above the Great Lakes 
will tell you that the Ojibway 
always keeps his word. 
We three sat in the canoe; 
husband in the bow, I in the 
middle, leaning luxuriously 
against a bit of board, admiring 
my new rod, and Wilson in the 
stern, paddling swiftly and tire- 
lessly. Wilson Ashawashega was 
his name, chief of his tribe, and 
wise in the lore of forest, lake 
and river. His swarthy face, 
with high cheek bones, was that 
of the noble red man at his best, 
and a war bonnet, gay with 
feathers, would have become him 
better than the shapeless felt 
hat which crowned his dark 
head. But out from under its 
brim peered real Indian eyes, 
beady and black, ever moving as 
they scanned the water and the 
wooded shore. Now his face was 
alight with interest as visions of 
finny monsters leapt before his 
eager gaze. “Yes, we get big 
muskie; maybe today, maybe 
tomorrow, but sometime muskie 
sure. I find him!” Mascalonge, 
he told us, is the Ojibway name 
for the big fish of these northern 
waters, the king of them all, 
who has no favorite haunts but 
goes here and there on his own 
private errands where the waters are 
deep and cold. He loves to feast on the 
small bass which hide in weedy places, 
and if we paddle about silently we may 
be able to catch him on the way to his 
dinner. 
yen? this was a promise indeed, and 
every stroke of the guide’s skillful 
paddle, every glance of those sharp 
eyes, brought us nearer to the joyful 
moment when the line would tighten to 
the sudden strike of “a big one.” For 
this promised fish was to be no puny 
youngling, but the biggest one in the 
river. “I get you biggest fish of all. 
Big preacher! Yes!’ Wilson smiled at 
the thought of the finny congregation 
suddenly robbed of its leader and 
scurrying about in search of a new one. 
“How would you like to lose your priest 
Lure of a Trolling Spoon 
By ETHEL C. PORTER 
from the little church down at the In- 
dian village?” we asked him accusingly. 
He shook his head. “I not Christian,” 
he said. “My wife, she part French. 
She go to mass and take children with 

The forty-seven-pound mascalonge that nearly broke a 
record. The authoress and successful angler stands behind 
the fish. Wilson, the guide, to the right. 
her. But me, I Ojibway. I like sun and 
wind and river and muskie, same as 
my father, same as my grandfather.” 
As we paddled on we understood how 
these forest children might turn for 
their religion to such beauty as lay 
about them every day. For we were 
journeying down French River, one of 
Canada’s noblest streams, whose waters 
rise far up in the trackless wilderness 
toward Hudson Bay and flow through 
the Timagami district into Lake Nipis- 
sing. From here they wander by devi- 
ous ways, then join in one swift stream 
and dash between deep-cut rocky walls 
to Lake Huron and thence to the sea. 
More than three centuries ago the white 
man first ventured down the French 
River in their frail canoes: Champlain, 
looking for a new route to the Northern 
Sea and instead discovering the Great 
Lakes; the Recollet Friars, nine of 
whom came to carry the Cross into the 
wilderness and met their death at the 
foot of the falls which bear their name; 
then hosts of others, some bringing 
the Cross, some the Sword. 
Three hundred years ago they 
came, but they saw almost the 
same sights which meet our eyes 
today; for civilization has touch- 
ed the French River but lightly, 
and an occasional little shack or 
some fisherman’s tent, white 
against the green of the pines, 
are the only things which re- 
mind us that this is the twenti- 
eth century. 
HE dark pine forest still 
runs to the river’s brink, 
but there are more white birches 
and aspens now, and there are 
many little green-bordered coves 
along the shore where, if you 
look carefully, you may see the 
deer come down to drink in the 
late afternoon. Bear are here, 
too, and moose, although you sel- 
dom catch sight of them. The 
blundering porcupine, looking 
like a small and clumsy bear 
himself, sometimes rambles 
along the shore, oblivious to the 
voyagers in the canoe. And in 
the air the maniac laugh of the 
loon rings out and is echoed 
from shore to shore. 
But now fishing is the serious 
provlem of the day. There are 
six other canoes, all from our camp, 
fishing for the selfsame muskie, and 
we must bend our energies to capturing 
the prize of them all. Our light silk 
lines trail behind the canoe, mine to 
the right, husband’s to the left, each 
mounted on a light bamboo casting rod 
and tipped by an artificial bait which 
swims along so wonderfully like a fish 
that it would take a clever creature in- 
deed to tell it from a real one. Wilson 
paddles on and on, with that effortless 
twist of the hand which keeps the boat 
going straight and at just the correct 
speed for trolling. A few pike and a 
bass or two try to make a meal off our 
bait, but Wilson frees them and tosses 
them back into the river where they dis- 
appear in a swirl of water with thank- 
ful flirts of their tails. For we are 
after bigger game than they. 
465 
