berries near Middle River. Middle 
River itself is famed as a trout stream, 
many admirable strings being caught 
yearly—but we kept right on passed 
the Harvard lakes over the mountain, 
till we rose to the final crest and there 
stretching below us in all its glory lay 
the Margaree valley with the river it- 
self winding in long graceful curves 
down its entire length. 
HE valley itself looks like one big 
farm and certainly better farming 
land would be hard to find if it were not 
for the short season and severity of the 
winters. 
Jim Joe Ross’ house we found was 
to be our headquarters, and Jim Joe 
and his family took us in like old 
friends with true Scottish hospitality, 
and on inquiring the best guide of the 
valley told us Duncan McKenzie was 
without peer. Luck certainly was kind 
to us, for within a few minutes Duncan 
himself happened along, and after care- 
fully checking us up to see if we would 
pass muster as sportsmen up to his 
standard, declared at length that we 
could purchase his services starting 
then and there. 
Duncan’s name is known far and wide 
through Cape Breton as the highest 
type of fisherman with an intimate 
knowledge of fly tying and an equally 
valuable knowledge of making rods and 
reels, not mentioning the dry keen 
humor which brands him the best kind 
of companion. At any rate, if there are 
salmon in the river, Duncan knows just 
what rock or eddy to cast behind, and 
that surely saves an immense amount 
of time experimenting. 
As it was supper time, we decided to 
try a few casts a little later, on a per- 
fect pool back aways from the main 
river. Duncan said we might catch a few 
trout, and he certainly belittled the 
possibilities, it proved as almost every 
cast there would be some lusty speckled 
beauty dart out to find himself either 
hooked or disappointed that such a 
luscious morsel had escaped him. 
So far we were most satisfied, good 
quarters and food, beautiful scenery 
and still greater promises of fishing for 
the morrow. Alex and I both decided 
to tackle his majesty the salmon, with 
our regular state of Maine gear with 
the idea of better sport instead of using 
our 14-ft. Leonards, and having care- 
fully prepared everything for a prompt 
start after breakfast, made for bed to 
dream about Duncan’s almost rash 
promises. 
EDNESDAY morning found us 
out early inspecting the farm be- 
fore breakfast. There certainly is 
something which can’t be beaten in 
those early morning hours. There’s 
‘veal joy in living, Mac or rather Dun- 

A shelter tent in the salmon country. 
can showed up before we were through 
eating and proved himself as eager to 
wet a fly as we were, so harnessed the 
mare and before we knew it we were 
racing over the road to the Forks. 
UNCAN explained that if there 
were salmon to be had at all the 
guarantee lay right in the big pool, and 
it certainly looked the part as on arriv- 
ing we saw some big fellows throwing 
themselves out of water and coming 
down like barrels, making us so excited 
we could scarcely set our rods up, for 
like all fishermen it seemed as though 
that special fish was just waiting to 
take our fly above all others. By this 
time we had also caught sight of a great 
school of probably fifty to seventy-five 
magnificent salmon at the upper end 
just off the swift water, and started 
casting across and slightly above them. 
Duncan started the jig going, for with 
a hearty smash, a twenty pound fish 
struck his Jock Scott and in an instant 
had the reel screaming and screeching 
as 20, 40, 70 and finally the seventy-five 
yard mark were passed. The big fel- 
low then started his leaps, first tum- 
bling around like an acrobat in the air, 
then trying short series of jumps until 
it seemed that the hook must become 
loosened. Finding this did not avail 
him he started burrowing and rubbing 
his nose along the bottom. Tapping the 
line or going back of the fish seemed 
to do mighty little good, and feeling 
that he was taking things a trifle too 
easy, I dropped a couple of fairly good- 
sized rocks near his tail. This had the 
desired effect of starting him off on an- 
other wild rampage which repeated it- 
self for another hour. 
By this time we saw the first sign of 
weakening, for a broad tail appeared 
above the surface and Mr. Salmon was 
announcing himself as all in. Mace 
pointed out where he left the gaff on 
shore and at the next turn I had the 
opportunity and satisfaction of gaffing 
the first Margaree salmon of our trip. 
Soon after this I began discovering 
my mistakes which I promptly tried to 
rectify. It seemed to start with the ex- 
citement and expectation of too early 
results. I was skipping over lots of ex- 
cellent water which should have time 
spent on it as it proved in lots, or rather 
most cases, that the fish that were really 
feeding did not as a general thing stay 
in the center of the school. In fact 
they were more inclined to be away a 
bit as though they felt there would not 
be as much keen competition if a really 
enviable morsel dropped down stream. 
My second mistake was very apparent 
and one which any salmon angler will 
notice at once. 
| oa a the apparent slowness in 
catching the fly in comparison with 
their fresh water cousins, I lost my first 
rise through striking too quickly, liter- 
ally taking the fly off the water before 
the fish even touched it—but these two 
discoveries early in the game helped me 
before the morning was over. 
(Continued on page 506) 
A481 
