It was possible to put our canoes into one of the lakes near the hotel
and enter the wilderness by water--the Liverpool chain--but it was
decided to load boats and baggage into wagons and drive through the
woods--a distance of some seventeen uneven miles--striking at once for
the true wilderness where the larger trout were said to dwell and the
"over Sunday" fisherman does not penetrate. Then for a day or two we
would follow waters and portages familiar to our guides, after which we
would be on the borders of the unknown, prepared to conquer the
wilderness with an assortment of fishing rods, a supply of mosquito
ointment and a pair of twenty-two caliber rifles, these being our only
guns.
It seems hardly necessary to say that we expected to do little shooting.
In the first place it was out of season for most things, though this did
not matter so much, for Eddie had in some manner armed himself with a
commission from the British Museum to procure specimens dead or alive,
and this amounted to a permit to kill, and skin, and hence to eat,
promiscuously and at will. But I believe as a party, we were averse to
promiscuous killing; besides it is well to be rather nice in the matter
of special permits. Also, we had come, in the main, for trout and
exploration. It was agreed between us that, even if it were possible to
hit anything with our guns, we would not kill without skinning, and we
wouldn't skin without eating, after which resolution the forest things
probably breathed easier, for it was a fairly safe handicap.
I shall not soon forget that morning drive to Jake's Landing, at the
head of Lake Kedgeemakoogee, where we put in our canoes. My trip on the
train along the coast, and the drive through farming country, more or
less fertile, had given me little conception of this sinister
land--rock-strewn and barren, seared by a hundred forest fires. Whatever
of green timber still stands is likely to be little more than brush.
Above it rise the bare, gaunt skeletons of dead forests, bleached with
age, yet blackened by the tongues of flame that burned out the life and
wealth of a land which is now little more than waste and desolation--the
haunt of the moose, the loon and the porcupine, the natural home of the
wild trout.
It is true, that long ago, heavy timber was cut from these woods, but
the wealth thus obtained was as nothing to that which has gone up in
conflagrations, started by the careless lumbermen and prospectors and
hunters of a later day. Such timber as is left barely pays for the
cutting, and old sluices are blocked and old dams falling to decay. No
tiller of the soil can exist in these woods, for the ground is heaped
and drifted and windrowed with slabs and bowlders, suggesting the wreck
of some mighty war of the gods--some titanic missile-flinging combat,
with this as the battle ground. Bleak, unsightly, unproductive, mangled
and distorted out of all shape and form of loveliness, yet with a
fierce, wild fascination in it that amounts almost to beauty--that is
the Nova Scotia woods.
Only the water is not like that. Once on the stream or lake and all is
changed. For the shores are green; the river or brook is clear and
cold--and tarry black in the deep places; the water leaps and dashes in
whirlpools and torrents, and the lakes are fairy lakes, full of green
islands--mere ledges, many of them, with two or three curious sentinel
pines--and everywhere the same clear, black water, and always the trout,
the wonderful, wild, abounding Nova Scotia trout.
To Jake's Landing was a hard, jolting drive over a bad road, with only a
break here and there where there is a house or two, and maybe a sawmill
and a post-office, the last sentinels of civilization. It was at
Maitland, the most important of these way stations, that we met Loon.
Maitland is almost a village, an old settlement, in fact, with a store
or two, some pretty houses and a mill. Loon is a dog of the hound
variety who makes his home there, and a dear and faithful friend of
Eddie's, by the latter's account. Indeed, as we drew near Maitland,
after announcing that he would wish to stop at the Maitland stores to
procure some new things he had thought of, Eddie became really boastful
of an earlier friendship with Loon. He had met Loon on a former visit,
during his (Loon's) puppyhood days, and he had recorded the meeting in
his diary, wherein Loon had been set down as "a most intelligent and
affectionate young dog." He produced the diary now as evidence, and I
could see that our guides were impressed by this method of systematic
and absolute record which no one dare dispute. He proceeded to tell us
all he knew about Loon, and how glad Loon would be to see him again,
until we were all jealous that no intelligent and affectionate hound dog
was waiting for us at Maitland to sound the joy of welcome and to speed
us with his parting bark.
Then all at once we were at Maitland and before Loon's home, and sure
enough there in the front yard, wagging both body and tail, stood Loon.
It took but one glance for Eddie to recognize him. Perhaps it took no
more than that for Loon to recognize Eddie. I don't know; but what he
did was this: He lifted up his voice as one mourning for a lost soul and
uttered such a series of wails and lamentations as only a hound dog in
the deepest sorrow can make manifest.
"Wow-ow-oo-ow-wow-oo-oo-o."
The loon bird sends a fairly unhappy note floating down the wet, chill
loneliness of a far, rainy lake, but never can the most forlorn of loons
hope to approach his canine namesake of Maitland. Once more he broke
out into a burst of long-drawn misery, then suddenly took off under the
house as if he had that moment remembered an appointment there, and
feared he would be late. But presently he looked out, fearfully enough,
and with his eyes fixed straight on Eddie, set up still another of those
heart-breaking protests.
As for Eddie, I could see that he was hurt. He climbed miserably down
from the wagon and crept gently toward the sorrowing hound.
"Nice Loon--nice, good Loon. Don't you remember me?"
"Wow-ow-oo-ow-wow-oo-oo-o," followed by another disappearance under the
house.
"Come, Loon, come out and see your old friend--that's a good dog!"
It was no use. Loon's sorrow would not be allayed, and far beyond
Maitland we still heard him wailing it down the wind.
Of course it was but natural that we should discuss the matter with
Eddie. He had assured us that dogs never forget, and we pressed him now
to confess what extreme cruelty or deceit he had practiced upon Loon in
his puppyhood, that the grown hound dog had remembered, and reproached
him for to-day. But for the most part Eddie remained silent and seemed
depressed. Neither did he again produce his diary, though we urged him
to do so, in order that he might once more read to us what he had
recorded of Loon. Perhaps something had been overlooked, something that
would make Loon's lamentations clear. I think we were all glad when at
last there came a gleam through the trees and we were at Jake's Landing,
where our boats would first touch the water, where we would break our
bread in the wilderness for the first time.
[Illustration: "Eddie produced his jug of fly mixture and we anointed
ourselves for the first time, putting on a pungent fragrance."]
It was not much of a place to camp. There was little shade, a good deal
of mud, and the sun was burning hot. There was a remnant of black flies,
too, and an advance guard of mosquitoes. Eddie produced his jug of fly
mixture and we anointed ourselves for the first time, putting on a
pungent fragrance which was to continue a part of us, body and bone, so
long as the wilderness remained our shelter. It was greasy and sticky
and I could not muster an instant liking for the combined fragrance of
camphor, pennyroyal and tar. But Eddie assured me that I would learn to
love it, and I was willing to try.
I was more interested in the loading of the canoes. Del, stout of muscle
and figure--not to say fat, at least not over fat--and Charlie, light of
weight and heart--sometimes known as Charles the Strong--were packing
and fitting our plunder into place, condensing it into a tight and solid
compass in the center of our canoes in a way that commanded my respect
and even awe. I could see, however, that when our craft was loaded the
water line and the gunwale were not so far apart, and I realized that
one would want to sit decently still in a craft like that, especially in
rough water.
Meantime, Eddie had coupled up a rod and standing on a projecting log
was making a few casts. I assumed that he was merely giving us an
exhibition of his skill in throwing a fly, with no expectation of really
getting a rise in this open, disturbed place. It was fine, though, to
see his deft handling of the rod and I confess I watched him with
something of envy. I may confess, too, that my own experience with fly
casting had been confined to tumbling brooks with small pools and
overhanging boughs, where to throw a fly means merely to drop it on a
riffle, or at most to swing it out over a swirling current below a fall.
I wondered as I watched Eddie if I ever should be able to send a fly
sailing backward and then shoot it out forward a matter of twenty yards
or so with that almost imperceptible effort of the wrist; and even if I
did learn the movement, if I could manage to make the fly look real
enough in such smooth, open water as this to fool even the blindest and
silliest of trout.
But, suddenly, where Eddie's fly--it was a Silver Doctor, I think--fell
lightly on the water, there was a quick swirl, a flash and then a
widening circle of rings.
"You got him comin'," commented Charlie, who, it seems, had been
noticing.
The fly went skimming out over the water again and softly as thistle
seed settled exactly in the center of the circling rings. But before it
touched, almost, there came the flash and break again, and this time
there followed the quick stiffening of the rod, a sudden tightening of
the line, and a sharp, keen singing of the reel.
"That's the time," commented Charlie and reached for a landing net.
To him it was as nothing--a thing to be done a hundred times a day. But
to me the world heaved and reeled with excitement. It was the first
trout of the expedition, the first trout I had ever seen taken in such
water, probably the largest trout I had ever seen taken in any water. In
the tension of the moment I held my breath, or uttered involuntary
comments.
It was beautiful to see Eddie handle that trout. The water was open and
smooth and there is no gainsaying Eddie's skill. Had he been giving an
exhibition performance it could not have been more perfect. There was no
eagerness, no driving and dragging, no wild fear of the fish getting
away. The curved rod, the taut swaying line, and the sensitive hand and
wrist did the work. Now and again there was a rush, and the reel sang as
it gave line, but there was never the least bit of slack in the recover.
Nearer and nearer came the still unseen captive, and then presently our
fisherman took the net from his guide, there was a little dipping
movement in the water at his feet and the first trout of the expedition
was a visible fact--his golden belly and scarlet markings the subject of
admiration and comment.
It was not a very big fish by Nova Scotia standards--about
three-quarters of a pound, I believe; but it was the largest trout I had
ever seen alive, at that time, and I was consumed with envy. I was also
rash. A little more, and I had a rod up, was out on a log engaged in a
faithful effort to swing that rod exactly like Eddie's and to land the
fly precisely in the same place.
But for some reason the gear wouldn't work. In front of me, the fly fell
everywhere but in the desired spot, and back of me the guides dodged and
got behind bushes. You see, a number three steel hook sailing about
promiscuously in the air, even when partially concealed in a fancy bunch
of feathers, is a thing to be avoided. I had a clear field in no time,
but perhaps Eddie had caught the only fish in the pool, for even he
could get no more rises. Still I persisted and got hot and fierce, and
when I looked at Eddie I hated him because he didn't cut his hair, and
reflected bitterly that it was no wonder a half-savage creature like
that could fish. Finally I hooked a tree top behind me and in jerking
the fly loose made a misstep and went up to my waist in water. The
tension broke then--I helped to break it--and the fishing trip had
properly begun.
The wagons had left us now, and we were alone with our canoes and our
guides. Del, the stout, who was to have my especial fortunes in hand,
knelt in the stern of the larger canoe and I gingerly entered the bow.
Then Eddie and his guide found their respective places in the lighter
craft and we were ready to move. A moment more and we would drop down
the stream to the lake, and so set out on our long journey.
I recall now that I was hot and wet and still a little cross. I had
never had any especial enthusiasm about the expedition and more than
once had regretted my pledge made across the table at the end of the old
year. Even the bustle of preparation and the journey into a strange land
had only mildly stirred me, and I felt now that for me, at least, things
were likely to drag. There were many duties at home that required
attention. These woods were full of mosquitoes, probably malaria. It was
possible that I should take cold, be very ill and catch no fish
whatever. But then suddenly we dropped out into the lake Kedgeemakoogee,
the lake of the fairies--a broad expanse of black water, dotted with
green islands, and billowing white in the afternoon wind, and just as we
rounded I felt a sudden tug at the end of my line which was trailing out
behind the canoe.
In an instant I was alive. Del cautioned me softly from the stern, for
there is no guide who does not wish his charge to acquit himself well.
"Easy now--easy," he said. "That's a good one--don't hurry him."
But every nerve in me began to tingle--every drop of blood to move
faster. I was eaten with a wild desire to drag my prize into the boat
before he could escape. Then all at once it seemed to me that my line
must be fast, the pull was so strong and fixed. But looking out behind,
Del saw the water break just then--a sort of double flash.
"Good, you've got a pair," he said. "Careful, now, and we'll save 'em
both."
To tell the truth I had no hope of saving either, and if I was careful I
didn't feel so. When I let the line go out, as I was obliged to, now and
then, to keep from breaking it altogether, I had a wild, hopeless
feeling that I could never take it up again and that the prize was just
that much farther away. Whenever there came a sudden slackening I was
sickened with a fear that the fish were gone, and ground the reel handle
feverishly. Fifty yards away the other canoe, with Eddie in the bow, had
struck nothing as yet, and if I could land these two I should be one
ahead on the score. It seems now a puny ambition, but it was vital then.
I was no longer cold, or hot, or afraid of malaria, or mosquitoes, or
anything of the sort. Duties more or less important at home were
forgotten. I was concerned only with those two trout that had fastened
to my flies, the Silver Doctor and the Parmcheenie Belle, out there in
the black, tossing water, and with the proper method of keeping my line
taut, but not too taut, easy, but not too easy, with working the prize
little by little within reach of the net. Eddie, suddenly seeing my
employment, called across congratulations and encouragement. Then,
immediately, he was busy too, with a fish of his own, and the sport, the
great, splendid sport of the far north woods, had really begun.
I brought my catch near the boatside at last, but it is no trifling
matter to get two trout into a net when they are strung out on a
six-foot leader, with the big trout on the top fly. Reason dictates that
the end trout should go in first and at least twice I had him in, when
the big fellow at the top gave a kick that landed both outside. It's a
mercy I did not lose both, but at last with a lucky hitch they were duly
netted, in the canoe, and I was weak and hysterical, but triumphant.
There was one of nearly a pound and a half, and the other a strong
half-pound, not guess weight, but by Eddie's scales, which I confess I
thought niggardly. Never had I taken such fish in the Adirondack or
Berkshire streams I had known, and what was more, these were two at a
time![1]
Eddie had landed a fine trout also, and we drew alongside, now, for
consultation. The wind had freshened, the waves were running higher,
and with our heavy canoes the six-mile paddle across would be a risky
undertaking. Why not pitch our first night's camp nearby, here on Jim
Charles point--a beautiful spot where once long ago a half-civilized
Indian had made his home? In this cove before dark we could do abundant
fishing.
For me there was no other plan. I was all enthusiasm, now. There were
trout here and I could catch them. That was enough. Civilization--the
world, flesh and the devil--mankind and all the duties of life were as
nothing. Here were the woods and the waters. There was the point for the
campfire and the tents. About us were the leaping trout. The spell of
the forest and the chase gripped me body and soul. Only these things
were worth while. Nothing else mattered--nothing else existed.
We landed and in a little while the tents were white on the shore, Del
and Charlie getting them up as if by conjury. Then once more we were out
in the canoes and the curved rod and the taut line and the singing reel
dominated every other force under the wide sky. It was not the truest
sport, maybe, for the fish were chiefly taken with trolling flies. But
to me, then, it did not matter. Suffice it that they were fine and
plentiful, and that I was two ahead of Eddie when at last we drew in for
supper.
That was joy enough, and then such trout--for there are no trout on
earth like those one catches himself--such a campfire, such a cozy tent
(Eddie's it was, from one of the catalogues), with the guides' tent
facing, and the fire between. For us there was no world beyond that
circle of light that on one side glinted among boughs of spruce and
cedar and maple and birch, and on the other, gleamed out on the black
water. Lying back on our beds and smoking, and looking at the fire and
the smoke curling up among the dark branches toward the stars, and
remembering the afternoon's sport and all the other afternoons and
mornings and nights still to come, I was moved with a deep sense of
gratitude in my heart toward Eddie.
"Eddie," I murmured, "I forgive you all those lists, and everything,
even your hair. I begin to understand now something of how you feel
about the woods and the water, and all. Next time----"
Then (for it was the proper moment) I confessed fully--the purchasing
agent, the tin whistle, even the Jock Scott with two hooks.