Dr. Paley was ardently attached to this amusement; so much so that when
the Bishop of Durham inquired of him when one of his most important
works would be finished, he said, with great simplicity and good humour,
'My Lord, I shall work steadily at it when the fly-fishing season is
over.'--SIR HUMPHRY DAVY: Salmonia.
The boundary line between the Province of Quebec and New Brunswick, for
a considerable part of its course, resembles the name of the poet
Keats; it is "writ in water." But like his fame, it is water that never
fails,--the limpid current of the river Ristigouche.
The railway crawls over it on a long bridge at Metapedia, and you are
dropped in the darkness somewhere between midnight and dawn. When you
open your window-shutters the next morning, you see that the village
is a disconsolate hamlet, scattered along the track as if it had been
shaken by chance from an open freight-car; it consists of twenty houses,
three shops, and a discouraged church perched upon a little hillock
like a solitary mourner on the anxious seat. The one comfortable and
prosperous feature in the countenance of Metapedia is the house of the
Ristigouche Salmon Club--an old-fashioned mansion, with broad, white
piazza, looking over rich meadow-lands. Here it was that I found my
friend Favonius, president of solemn societies, pillar of church and
state, ingenuously arrayed in gray knickerbockers, a flannel shirt, and
a soft hat, waiting to take me on his horse-yacht for a voyage up the
river.
Have you ever seen a horse-yacht? Sometimes it is called a scow; but
that sounds common. Sometimes it is called a house-boat; but that is too
English. What does it profit a man to have a whole dictionary full of
language at his service, unless he can invent a new and suggestive name
for his friend's pleasure-craft? The foundation of the horse-yacht--if
a thing that floats may be called fundamental--is a flat-bottomed boat,
some fifty feet long and ten feet wide, with a draft of about eight
inches. The deck is open for fifteen feet aft of the place where the
bowsprit ought to be; behind that it is completely covered by a house,
cabin, cottage, or whatever you choose to call it, with straight sides
and a peaked roof of a very early Gothic pattern. Looking in at the door
you see, first of all, two cots, one on either side of the passage; then
an open space with a dining-table, a stove, and some chairs; beyond that
a pantry with shelves, and a great chest for provisions. A door at the
back opens into the kitchen, and from that another door opens into a
sleeping-room for the boatmen. A huge wooden tiller curves over the
stern of the boat, and the helmsman stands upon the kitchen-roof. Two
canoes are floating behind, holding back, at the end of their long
tow-ropes, as if reluctant to follow so clumsy a leader. This is an
accurate description of the horse-yacht. If necessary it could be sworn
to before a notary public. But I am perfectly sure that you might read
this page through without skipping a word, and if you had never seen the
creature with your own eyes, you would have no idea how absurd it looks
and how comfortable it is.
While we were stowing away our trunks and bags under the cots, and
making an equitable division of the hooks upon the walls, the motive
power of the yacht stood patiently upon the shore, stamping a hoof, now
and then, or shaking a shaggy head in mild protest against the flies.
Three more pessimistic-looking horses I never saw. They were harnessed
abreast, and fastened by a prodigious tow-rope to a short post in the
middle of the forward deck. Their driver was a truculent, brigandish,
bearded old fellow in long boots, a blue flannel shirt, and a black
sombrero. He sat upon the middle horse, and some wild instinct of colour
had made him tie a big red handkerchief around his shoulders, so that
the eye of the beholder took delight in him. He posed like a bold, bad
robber-chief. But in point of fact I believe he was the mildest and
most inoffensive of men. We never heard him say anything except at a
distance, to his horses, and we did not inquire what that was.
Well, as I have said, we were haggling courteously over those hooks
in the cabin, when the boat gave a lurch. The bow swung out into the
stream. There was a scrambling and clattering of iron horse-shoes on the
rough shingle of the bank; and when we looked out of doors, our house
was moving up the river with the boat under it.
The Ristigouche is a noble stream, stately and swift and strong. It
rises among the dense forests in the northern part of New Brunswick--a
moist upland region, of never-failing springs and innumerous lakes--and
pours a flood of clear, cold water one hundred and fifty miles northward
and eastward through the hills into the head of the Bay of Chaleurs.
There are no falls in its course, but rapids everywhere. It is steadfast
but not impetuous, quick but not turbulent, resolute and eager in its
desire to get to the sea, like the life of a man who has a purpose
"Too great for haste, too high for rivalry."
The wonder is where all the water comes from. But the river is fed by
more than six thousand square miles of territory. From both sides the
little brooks come dashing in with their supply. At intervals a larger
stream, reaching away back among the mountains like a hand with many
fingers to gather
"The filtered tribute of the rough woodland,"
delivers its generous offering to the main current.
The names of the chief tributaries of the Ristigouche are curious.
There is the headstrong Metapedia, and the crooked Upsalquitch, and the
Patapedia, and the Quatawamkedgwick. These are words at which the
tongue balks at first, but you soon grow used to them and learn to take
anything of five syllables with a rush, as a hunter takes a five-barred
gate, trusting to fortune that you will come down with the accent in the
right place.
For six or seven miles above Metapedia the river has a breadth of about
two hundred yards, and the valley slopes back rather gently to the
mountains on either side. There is a good deal of cultivated land, and
scattered farm-houses appear. The soil is excellent. But it is like a
pearl cast before an obstinate, unfriendly climate. Late frosts prolong
the winter. Early frosts curtail the summer. The only safe crops are
grass, oats, and potatoes. And for half the year all the cattle must
be housed and fed to keep them alive. This lends a melancholy aspect to
agriculture. Most of the farmers look as if they had never seen better
days. With few exceptions they are what a New Englander would call
"slack-twisted and shiftless." Their barns are pervious to the weather,
and their fences fail to connect. Sleds and ploughs rust together beside
the house, and chickens scratch up the front-door yard. In truth, the
people have been somewhat demoralised by the conflicting claims of
different occupations; hunting in the fall, lumbering in the winter
and spring, and working for the American sportsmen in the brief angling
season, are so much more attractive and offer so much larger returns of
ready money, that the tedious toil of farming is neglected. But for all
that, in the bright days of midsummer, these green fields sloping down
to the water, and pastures high up among the trees on the hillsides,
look pleasant from a distance, and give an inhabited air to the
landscape.
At the mouth of the Upsalquitch we passed the first of the
fishing-lodges. It belongs to a sage angler from Albany who saw the
beauty of the situation, years ago, and built a habitation to match it.
Since that time a number of gentlemen have bought land fronting on good
pools, and put up little cottages of a less classical style than Charles
Cotton's "Fisherman's Retreat" on the banks of the river Dove, but
better suited to this wild scenery, and more convenient to live in. The
prevailing pattern is a very simple one; it consists of a broad piazza
with a small house in the middle of it. The house bears about the same
proportion to the piazza that the crown of a Gainsborough hat does to
the brim. And the cost of the edifice is to the cost of the land as the
first price of a share in a bankrupt railway is to the assessments which
follow the reorganisation. All the best points have been sold, and real
estate on the Ristigouche has been bid up to an absurd figure. In fact,
the river is over-populated and probably over-fished. But we could
hardly find it in our hearts to regret this, for it made the upward trip
a very sociable one. At every lodge that was open, Favonius (who knows
everybody) had a friend, and we must slip ashore in a canoe to leave the
mail and refresh the inner man.
An angler, like an Arab, regards hospitality as a religious duty. There
seems to be something in the craft which inclines the heart to kindness
and good-fellowship. Few anglers have I seen who were not pleasant to
meet, and ready to do a good turn to a fellow-fisherman with the gift
of a killing fly or the loan of a rod. Not their own particular and
well-proved favourite, of course, for that is a treasure which no decent
man would borrow; but with that exception the best in their store is at
the service of an accredited brother. One of the Ristigouche proprietors
I remember, whose name bespoke him a descendant of Caledonia's patron
saint. He was fishing in front of his own door when we came up, with our
splashing horses, through the pool; but nothing would do but he must up
anchor and have us away with him into the house to taste his good cheer.
And there were his daughters with their books and needlework, and the
photographs which they had taken pinned up on the wooden walls, among
Japanese fans and bits of bright-coloured stuff in which the soul of
woman delights, and, in a passive, silent way, the soul of man also.
Then, after we had discussed the year's fishing, and the mysteries of
the camera, and the deep question of what makes some negatives too thin
and others too thick, we must go out to see the big salmon which one of
the ladies had caught a few days before, and the large trout swimming
about in their cold spring. It seemed to me, as we went on our way,
that there could hardly be a more wholesome and pleasant summer-life
for well-bred young women than this, or two amusements more innocent and
sensible than photography and fly-fishing.
It must be confessed that the horse-yacht as a vehicle of travel is not
remarkable in point of speed. Three miles an hour is not a very rapid
rate of motion. But then, if you are not in a hurry, why should you care
to make haste?
The wild desire to be forever racing against old Father Time is one of
the kill-joys of modern life. That ancient traveller is sure to beat
you in the long run, and as long as you are trying to rival him, he
will make your life a burden. But if you will only acknowledge his
superiority and profess that you do not approve of racing after all,
he will settle down quietly beside you and jog along like the most
companionable of creatures. That is a pleasant pilgrimage in which the
journey itself is part of the destination.
As soon as one learns to regard the horse-yacht as a sort of moving
house, it appears admirable. There is no dust or smoke, no rumble of
wheels, or shriek of whistles. You are gliding along steadily through
an ever-green world; skirting the silent hills; passing from one side of
the river to the other when the horses have to swim the current to find
a good foothold on the bank. You are on the water, but not at its mercy,
for your craft is not disturbed by the heaving of rude waves, and the
serene inhabitants do not say "I am sick." There is room enough to move
about without falling overboard. You may sleep, or read, or write in
your cabin, or sit upon the floating piazza in an arm-chair and smoke
the pipe of peace, while the cool breeze blows in your face and the
musical waves go singing down to the sea.
There was one feature about the boat, which commended itself very
strongly to my mind. It was possible to stand upon the forward deck and
do a little trout-fishing in motion. By watching your chance, when the
corner of a good pool was within easy reach, you could send out a hasty
line and cajole a sea-trout from his hiding-place. It is true that the
tow-ropes and the post made the back cast a little awkward; and the wind
sometimes blew the flies up on the roof of the cabin; but then, with
patience and a short line the thing could be done. I remember a pair of
good trout that rose together just as we were going through a boiling
rapid; and it tried the strength of my split-bamboo rod to bring those
fish to the net against the current and the motion of the boat.
When nightfall approached we let go the anchor (to wit, a rope tied to a
large stone on the shore), ate our dinner "with gladness and singleness
of heart" like the early Christians, and slept the sleep of the just,
lulled by the murmuring of the waters, and defended from the insidious
attacks of the mosquito by the breeze blowing down the river and the
impregnable curtains over our beds. At daybreak, long before Favonius
and I had finished our dreams, we were under way again; and when the
trampling of the horses on some rocky shore wakened us, we could see the
steep hills gliding past the windows and hear the rapids dashing against
the side of the boat, and it seemed as if we were still dreaming.
At Cross Point, where the river makes a long loop around a narrow
mountain, thin as a saw and crowned on its jagged edge by a rude wooden
cross, we stopped for an hour to try the fishing. It was here that I
hooked two mysterious creatures, each of which took the fly when it was
below the surface, pulled for a few moments in a sullen way and then
apparently melted into nothingness. It will always be a source of regret
to me that the nature of these fish must remain unknown. While they were
on the line it was the general opinion that they were heavy trout;
but no sooner had they departed, than I became firmly convinced, in
accordance with a psychological law which holds good all over the world,
that they were both enormous salmon. Even the Turks have a proverb which
says, "Every fish that escapes appears larger than it is." No one can
alter that conviction, because no one can logically refute it. Our best
blessings, like our largest fish, always depart before we have time to
measure them.
The Slide Pool is in the wildest and most picturesque part of the river,
about thirty-five miles above Metapedia. The stream, flowing swiftly
down a stretch of rapids between forest-clad hills, runs straight toward
the base of an eminence so precipitous that the trees can hardly find a
foothold upon it, and seem to be climbing up in haste on either side
of the long slide which leads to the summit. The current, barred by the
wall of rock, takes a great sweep to the right, dashing up at first in
angry waves, then falling away in oily curves and eddies, until at last
it sleeps in a black deep, apparently almost motionless, at the foot of
the hill. It was here, on the upper edge of the stream, opposite to the
slide, that we brought our floating camp to anchor for some days. What
does one do in such a watering-place?
Let us take a "specimen day." It is early morning, or to be more
precise, about eight of the clock, and the white fog is just beginning
to curl and drift away from the surface of the river. Sooner than this
it would be idle to go out. The preternaturally early bird in his greedy
haste may catch the worm; but the salmon never take the fly until the
fog has lifted; and in this the scientific angler sees, with gratitude,
a remarkable adaptation of the laws of nature to the tastes of man. The
canoes are waiting at the front door. We step into them and push off,
Favonius going up the stream a couple of miles to the mouth of the
Patapedia, and I down, a little shorter distance, to the famous Indian
House Pool. The slim boat glides easily on the current, with a smooth
buoyant motion, quickened by the strokes of the paddles in the bow and
the stern. We pass around two curves in the river and find ourselves at
the head of the pool. Here the man in the stern drops the anchor, just
on the edge of the bar where the rapid breaks over into the deeper
water. The long rod is lifted; the fly unhooked from the reel; a few
feet of line pulled through the rings, and the fishing begins.
First cast,--to the right, straight across the stream, about twenty
feet: the current carries the fly down with a semicircular sweep, until
it comes in line with the bow of the canoe. Second cast,--to the left,
straight across the stream, with the same motion: the semicircle is
completed, and the fly hangs quivering for a few seconds at the lowest
point of the arc. Three or four feet of line are drawn from the reel.
Third cast to the right; fourth cast to the left. Then a little
more line. And so, with widening half-circles, the water is covered,
gradually and very carefully, until at length the angler has as much
line out as his two-handed rod can lift and swing. Then the first "drop"
is finished; the man in the stern quietly pulls up the anchor and lets
the boat drift down a few yards; the same process is repeated on the
second drop; and so on, until the end of the run is reached and the fly
has passed over all the good water. This seems like a very regular
and somewhat mechanical proceeding as one describes it, but in the
performance it is rendered intensely interesting by the knowledge that
at any moment it is liable to be interrupted.
This morning the interruption comes early. At the first cast of the
second drop, before the fly has fairly lit, a great flash of silver
darts from the waves close by the boat. Usually a salmon takes the fly
rather slowly, carrying it under water before he seizes it in his mouth.
But this one is in no mood for deliberation. He has hooked himself with
a rush, and the line goes whirring madly from the reel as he races down
the pool. Keep the point of the rod low; he must have his own way now.
Up with the anchor quickly, and send the canoe after him, bowman and
sternman paddling with swift strokes. He has reached the deepest water;
he stops to think what has happened to him; we have passed around and
below him; and now, with the current to help us, we can begin to reel
in. Lift the point of the rod, with a strong, steady pull. Put the force
of both arms into it. The tough wood will stand the strain. The fish
must be moved; he must come to the boat if he is ever to be landed. He
gives a little and yields slowly to the pressure. Then suddenly he
gives too much, and runs straight toward us. Reel in now as swiftly as
possible, or else he will get a slack on the line and escape. Now he
stops, shakes his head from side to side, and darts away again across
the pool, leaping high out of water. Don't touch the reel! Drop the
point of the rod quickly, for if he falls on the leader he will surely
break it. Another leap, and another! Truly he is "a merry one," and it
will go hard with us to hold him. But those great leaps have exhausted
his strength, and now he follows the rod more easily. The men push the
boat back to the shallow side of the pool until it touches lightly on
the shore. The fish comes slowly in, fighting a little and making a few
short runs; he is tired and turns slightly on his side; but even yet he
is a heavy weight on the line, and it seems a wonder that so slight a
thing as the leader can guide and draw him. Now he is close to the boat.
The boatman steps out on a rock with his gaff. Steadily now and slowly,
lift the rod, bending it backward. A quick sure stroke of the steel! a
great splash! and the salmon is lifted upon the shore. How he flounces
about on the stones. Give him the coup de grace at once, for his own
sake as well as for ours. And now look at him, as he lies there on the
green leaves. Broad back; small head tapering to a point; clean, shining
sides with a few black spots on them; it is a fish fresh-run from the
sea, in perfect condition, and that is the reason why he has given such
good sport.
We must try for another before we go back. Again fortune favours us, and
at eleven o'clock we pole up the river to the camp with two good
salmon in the canoe. Hardly have we laid them away in the ice-box, when
Favonius comes dropping down from Patapedia with three fish, one of them
a twenty-four pounder. And so the morning's work is done.
In the evening, after dinner, it was our custom to sit out on the
deck, watching the moonlight as it fell softly over the black hills
and changed the river into a pale flood of rolling gold. The fragrant
wreaths of smoke floated lazily away on the faint breeze of night. There
was no sound save the rushing of the water and the crackling of the
camp-fire on the shore. We talked of many things in the heavens above,
and the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth; touching lightly
here and there as the spirit of vagrant converse led us. Favonius has
the good sense to talk about himself occasionally and tell his
own experience. The man who will not do that must always be a dull
companion. Modest egoism is the salt of conversation: you do not want
too much of it; but if it is altogether omitted, everything tastes flat.
I remember well the evening when he told me the story of the Sheep of
the Wilderness.
"I was ill that summer," said he, "and the doctor had ordered me to go
into the woods, but on no account to go without plenty of fresh meat,
which was essential to my recovery. So we set out into the wild country
north of Georgian Bay, taking a live sheep with us in order to be sure
that the doctor's prescription might be faithfully followed. It was a
young and innocent little beast, curling itself up at my feet in the
canoe, and following me about on shore like a dog. I gathered grass
every day to feed it, and carried it in my arms over the rough portages.
It ate out of my hand and rubbed its woolly head against my leggings. To
my dismay, I found that I was beginning to love it for its own sake
and without any ulterior motives. The thought of killing and eating
it became more and more painful to me, until at length the fatal
fascination was complete, and my trip became practically an exercise of
devotion to that sheep. I carried it everywhere and ministered fondly
to its wants. Not for the world would I have alluded to mutton in
its presence. And when we returned to civilisation I parted from the
creature with sincere regret and the consciousness that I had humoured
my affections at the expense of my digestion. The sheep did not give me
so much as a look of farewell, but fell to feeding on the grass beside
the farm-house with an air of placid triumph."
After hearing this touching tale, I was glad that no great intimacy had
sprung up between Favonius and the chickens which we carried in a coop
on the forecastle head, for there is no telling what restrictions
his tender-heartedness might have laid upon our larder. But perhaps a
chicken would not have given such an opening for misplaced affection
as a sheep. There is a great difference in animals in this respect. I
certainly never heard of any one falling in love with a salmon in such a
way as to regard it as a fond companion. And this may be one reason why
no sensible person who has tried fishing has ever been able to see any
cruelty in it.
Suppose the fish is not caught by an angler, what is his alternative
fate? He will either perish miserably in the struggles of the crowded
net, or die of old age and starvation like the long, lean stragglers
which are sometimes found in the shallow pools, or be devoured by a
larger fish, or torn to pieces by a seal or an otter. Compared with any
of these miserable deaths, the fate of a salmon who is hooked in a clear
stream and after a glorious fight receives the happy despatch at the
moment when he touches the shore, is a sort of euthanasia. And, since
the fish was made to be man's food, the angler who brings him to the
table of destiny in the cleanest, quickest, kindest way is, in fact, his
benefactor.
There were some days, however, when our benevolent intentions toward the
salmon were frustrated; mornings when they refused to rise, and evenings
when they escaped even the skilful endeavours of Favonius. In vain did
he try every fly in his book, from the smallest "Silver Doctor" to
the largest "Golden Eagle." The "Black Dose" would not move them. The
"Durham Ranger" covered the pool in vain. On days like this, if a stray
fish rose, it was hard to land him, for he was usually but slightly
hooked.
I remember one of these shy creatures which led me a pretty dance at the
mouth of Patapedia. He came to the fly just at dusk, rising very softly
and quietly, as if he did not really care for it but only wanted to see
what it was like. He went down at once into deep water, and began the
most dangerous and exasperating of all salmon-tactics, moving around
in slow circles and shaking his head from side to side, with sullen
pertinacity. This is called "jigging," and unless it can be stopped, the
result is fatal.
I could not stop it. That salmon was determined to jig. He knew more
than I did.
The canoe followed him down the pool. He jigged away past all three
of the inlets of the Patapedia, and at last, in the still, deep water
below, after we had laboured with him for half an hour, and brought him
near enough to see that he was immense, he calmly opened his mouth and
the fly came back to me void. That was a sad evening, in which all the
consolations of philosophy were needed.
Sunday was a very peaceful day in our camp. In the Dominion of Canada,
the question "to fish or not to fish" on the first day of the week is
not left to the frailty of the individual conscience. The law on the
subject is quite explicit, and says that between six o'clock on Saturday
evening and six o'clock on Monday morning all nets shall be taken up and
no one shall wet a line. The Ristigouche Salmon Club has its guardians
stationed all along the river, and they are quite as inflexible in
seeing that their employers keep this law as the famous sentinel was
in refusing to let Napoleon pass without the countersign. But I do not
think that these keen sportsmen regard it as a hardship; they are quite
willing that the fish should have "an off day" in every week, and only
grumble because some of the net-owners down at the mouth of the river
have brought political influence to bear in their favour and obtained
exemption from the rule. For our part, we were nothing loath to hang up
our rods, and make the day different from other days.
In the morning we had a service in the cabin of the boat, gathering a
little congregation of guardians and boatmen, and people from a solitary
farm-house by the river. They came in pirogues--long, narrow boats
hollowed from the trunk of a tree; the black-eyed, brown-faced girls
sitting back to back in the middle of the boat, and the men standing
up bending to their poles. It seemed a picturesque way of travelling,
although none too safe.
In the afternoon we sat on deck and looked at the water. What a charm
there is in watching a swift stream! The eye never wearies of following
its curls and eddies, the shadow of the waves dancing over the stones,
the strange, crinkling lines of sunlight in the shallows. There is a
sort of fascination in it, lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude
which is even pleasanter than sleep, and making it almost possible to
do that of which we so often speak, but which we never quite
accomplish--"think about nothing." Out on the edge of the pool, we could
see five or six huge salmon, moving slowly from side to side, or lying
motionless like gray shadows. There was nothing to break the silence
except the thin clear whistle of the white-throated sparrow far back
in the woods. This is almost the only bird-song that one hears on the
river, unless you count the metallic "chr-r-r-r" of the kingfisher as a
song.
Every now and then one of the salmon in the pool would lazily roll out
of water, or spring high into the air and fall back with a heavy splash.
What is it that makes salmon leap? Is it pain or pleasure? Do they do
it to escape the attack of another fish, or to shake off a parasite that
clings to them, or to practise jumping so that they can ascend the falls
when they reach them, or simply and solely out of exuberant gladness and
joy of living? Any one of these reasons would be enough to account for
it on week-days. On Sunday I am quite sure they do it for the trial of
the fisherman's faith.
But how should I tell all the little incidents which made that lazy
voyage so delightful? Favonius was the ideal host, for on water, as well
as on land, he knows how to provide for the liberty as well as for the
wants of his guests. He understands also the fine art of conversation,
which consists of silence as well as speech. And when it comes to
angling, Izaak Walton himself could not have been a more profitable
teacher by precept or example. Indeed, it is a curious thought, and one
full of sadness to a well-constituted mind, that on the Ristigouche
"I. W." would have been at sea, for the beloved father of all fishermen
passed through this world without ever catching a salmon. So ill does
fortune match with merit here below.