ome twenty-five miles up stream to the 
ery headwaters. This sounded very 
greeable for we wished to see the river 
trom “stem to stern.” So that very 
night we collected our meal, salt and 
oepper, bacon, tea and a few delicacies, 
such as butter and a piece of cheese and 
stowing them in our pack with my lean- 
to tent and blankets, headed for bed 
so that we could save energy for a 
tough day’s work on the morrow. 
It was a tough day’s work, too. The 
rocks seemed exceptionally slimy, so 
we all had the pleasure of a couple of 
spills at least, per person. The gran- 
deur of the mountains with the massive 
rock formations far made up for any 
such minor inconveniences as little wet- 
tings, but nevertheless there was a cer- 
tain sigh of relief when our tent was 
pitched and a generous deep bed of 
balsam was laid. A beautiful moon 
was appearing so we sat for a while 
outside by the fire swapping yarns until 
eleven, when Mac got up and said, 
guess he'd go a fishing. We had both 
heard of night fishing but had never 
bad much luck, but Mac reassured us 
that the big boys are the night feeders. 
But he proved himself wrong this night. 
So using the moon as his alibi he 
crawled into bed to think things over. 


















HE next day was, to a certain ex- 
tent, more or less of a fishing fizzle 
as I saw it, although it was true that 
we caught some good trout, among the 
catch being a couple of beauties of 3 
pounds each but we were not after 
trout as the main objective. 
Instead of the salmon being keener 
to strike in the much colder water, the 
inaccessibility and clearness of the 
pools seemed to more than offset this 
other advantage. We fished our heads 
off all the morning, Mac getting the 
only fish, which was little more than a 
grilse, but at least kept off the curse of 
being skunked. 
As there were some rather threaten- 
ing clouds appearing out of the east 
we held a director’s meeting and came 
to the conclusion we would be in a de- 
cided mess if we were in for a long rain. 
The rain itself meant little except for 
the fact that the old Margaree would 
start tearing and there we would be 
trapped for a number of days until the 
water went down. This program was 
not particularly appealing so we once 
more loaded on our packs and made a 
second breaking trip down the river, ar- 
riving at Jim Joe’s about 9 P. M., tired 
but with the satisfaction of having been 
to the headwaters. 
Alex had bad news next morning. He 
had to go home at once to attend to 
some deal or other. I did about every- 
thing I could possibly think of to make 
him stay over a few days more, but un- 
fortunately or fortunately, as the case 
may be, I could not deter him, so that 
the very next afternoon I bid him fare- 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream, 
well with the promise to write about all 
the record fish that were caught. 
Three weeks had elapsed or rather 
flown by—three weeks which I never 
shall forget. I had daily increased my 
wealth of knowledge by mistakes and 
here it was my very last day on the dear 
old river. My ambition was as usual to 
take a fish home. So I went early to 
the Garden Pool to try a final fling. 
Smith was to pick me up there at one 
o’clock to drive me to Orangedale, where 
I was to take the train. 
HE time was nearly on hand for 
Smith to appear when I spied a 
beautiful fresh run fish in the middle 
of the current just a good cast from 
where I stood. I had fished that same 
current for fully an hour, so put on a 
cinnamon sedge dry fly with the result 
that I missed a mighty good strike from 
him. This was encouraging, for I had 
the feeling that that fish was to be 
my traveling companion back to Boston. 
Having waited 10 minutes I carefully 
dried my fly and fanning it out, dropped 
it from directly overhead so that he 
certainly came half way out of water 
in his eagerness to make sure this time 
that it did not get away from him. 
Such a thrashing of water I had 
never before seen as my captive tried 
all his tricks to tear himself loose. 
Twenty-one times he threw himself in 
the air, each time apparently as strong 
as though he were freshly hooked, but 
proving to me I had him evidently in 
the tough part of the mouth. Friend 
Smith was beginning to say things 
about losing the train, but what did 
that amount to compared with losing a 
salmon. I was hanged if I would take 
any chances, so it was a half hour later, 
just 2.30 in fact, when I reached him 
with my gaff and hauled him ashore. 
T did not take long to open and dry 
him with towels and put some 
pepper and salt along the back bone and 
where the gills had been, then wrap 
him with layer after layer of brown 
paper. But it was enough that I nearly 
lost my train. I made it, however, by a 
few minutes and bag and baggage, fish 
included, was on my way back to the 
city with a list of memos of flies to 
take the next year—and guess where I 
put the salmon that night on the train? 
I lashed it to the ventilator above my 
berth, and it was fresh and hard when 
I arrived home. 
Someone wants me on the phone? Ch, 
alright, I’ll be right with you, but be- 
fore I leave, I’ll leave it to Alex, if 
Cape Breton isn’t the nearest thing to 
the Happy Hunting Ground on this old 
earth of ours. 


2311 North 8th Street 










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