We got any amount of fly-casting in the Pebbleloggitch stillwater, but
no trout. I kept Del dodging and twice I succeeded in hooking him,
though not in a vital spot. I could have done it, however, if he had sat
still and given me a fair chance. I could land Del even with the treetop
cast, but the trout refused to be allured. As a rule, trout would not
care to live in a place like that. There would not be enough excitement
and activity. A trout prefers a place where the water is busy--where the
very effort of keeping from being smashed and battered against the rocks
insures a good circulation and a constitution like a steel spring. I
have taken trout out of water that would have pulverized a golf ball in
five minutes. The fiercer the current--the greater the tumult--the more
cruel and savage the rocks, the better place it is for trout.
Neither do I remember that we took anything in the Shelburne above
Irving Lake, for it was a good deal like the stillwater, with only a
gentle riffle here and there. Besides, the day had become chill, and a
mist had fallen upon this lonely world--a wet white, drifting mist that
was closely akin to rain. On such a day one does not expect trout to
rise, and is seldom disappointed. Here and there, where the current was
slow-moving and unruffled, Eddie, perhaps, would have tried his dry
flies, but never a trout was seen to break water, and it is one of the
tenets of dry-fly fishing that a cast may only be made where a trout has
been seen to rise--even then, only after a good deal of careful
maneuvering on shore to reach the proper spot on the bank without
breaking the news to the trout. It wasn't a pleasant time to go
wriggling through marsh grass and things along the shore, so it is just
as well that there was no excuse for doing it.
As it was, we paddled rather silently down the still river, considerably
impressed with the thought that we were entering a land to us
unknown--that for far and far in every direction, beyond the white mist
that shut us in and half-obliterated the world, it was likely that there
was no human soul that was not of our party and we were quieted by the
silence and the loneliness on every hand.
Where the river entered the lake there was no dashing, tumbling water.
In fact, we did not realize that we had reached the lake level until the
shores on either hand receded, slowly at first, and then broadly
widening, melted away and were half lost in the mist.
The feeling grew upon me, all at once, that we were very high here.
There were no hills or ridges that we could see, and the outlines of
such timber as grew along the shore seemed low. It was as if we had
reached the top of the world, where there were no more hills--where the
trees had been obliged to struggle up to our altitude, barely to fringe
us round. As for course now, we had none. Our map was of the vaguest
sort. Where the outlet was we could only surmise.
In a general way it was supposed to be at the "other end" of the lake,
where there was said to be an old dam, built when the region was
lumbered, long ago. But as to the shape of the lake, and just where that
"other end" might lie, when every side except the bit of shore nearest
at hand was lost in the wet, chill mist, were matters for conjecture and
experiment. We paddled a little distance and some islands came out of
the gray veil ahead--green Nova Scotia islands, with their ledges of
rock, some underbrush and a few sentinel pines. We ran in close to
these, our guides looking for moose or signs of them.
I may say here that no expedition in Nova Scotia is a success without
having seen at least one moose. Of course, in the hunting season, the
moose is the prime object, but such is the passion for this animal among
Nova Scotia guides, that whatever the season or the purpose of the
expedition, and however triumphant its result, it is accounted a
disappointment and a failure by the natives when it ends without at
least a glimpse of a moose.
We were in wonderful moose country now; the uninvaded wild, where in
trackless bog and swamp, or on the lonely and forgotten islands the
she-moose secludes herself to bear and rear her young. That Charlie and
Del were more absorbed in the possibility of getting a sight of these
great, timid, vanishing visions of animal life--and perhaps a longer
view of a little black, bleating calf--than in any exploration for the
other end of the Shelburne River was evident. They clung and hovered
about those islands, poking the canoes into every nook and corner,
speaking in whispers, and sitting up straight at sight of any
dark-looking stump or bunch of leaves. Eddie, too, seemed a good deal
interested in the moose idea. I discovered presently that he was
ambitious to send a specimen of a moose calf, dead or alive, to the
British Museum, and would improve any opportunity to acquire that asset.
I may say that I was opposed to any such purpose. I am overfond of
Eddie, and I wanted him to have a good standing with the museum people,
but I did not like the idea of slaughtering a little calf moose before
its mother's very eyes, and I did not approve of its capture, either.
Even if the mother moose could be convinced that our intentions were
good, and was willing to have her offspring civilized and in the British
Museum, or Zoo, or some other distinguished place, I still opposed the
general scheme. It did not seem to me that a calf moose tied either
outside or inside of our tent for a period of weeks, to bleat and tear
around, and to kick over and muss up things generally, would be a proper
feature to add to a well-ordered camp, especially if it kept on raining
and we had to bring him inside. I knew that eventually he would own that
tent, and probably demand a sleeping bag. I knew that I should have to
give him mine, or at least share it with him.
I stated and emphasized these views and insisted that we go over toward
the half-obscured shore, where there appeared to be an opening which
might be the river. We did go over there, at length, and there was, in
fact, an opening, but it was made by a brook entering the lake instead
of leaving it. Our memorandum of information declared that a stream
called the Susketch emptied into the lake somewhere, and we decided to
identify this as the place. We went up a little way to a good looking
pool, but there were no trout--at least, they refused to rise, though
probably the oldest and mossiest inhabitant of that place had never had
such an opportunity before. Back to the lake again, we were pretty soon
hovering about the enchanted islands, which seemed to rise on every
hand.
It was just the sort of a day to see moose, Del said, and there was no
other matter that would stand in importance against a proposition like
that. I became interested myself, presently, and dropped my voice to a
whisper and sat up at every black spot among the leaves. We had just
about given it up at length, when all at once Del gave the canoe a great
shove inshore, at the same time calling softly to the other canoe,
which had already sheared off into the lake.
They were with us in an instant and we were clambering out. I hadn't
seen a thing, but Del swore that he had caught a glimpse of something
black that moved and disappeared.
Of course we were clad in our wet-weather armor. I had on my oilskins,
and what was more, those high, heavy wading boots that came up under my
arms. It is no easy matter to get over even level ground rapidly with a
rig like that, and when it comes to scaling an island, full of ledges
and holes and underbrush and vines, the problem becomes complex. Del and
Charlie, with their shoepacks, distanced me as easily as if I had been
sitting still, while that grasshopper, Eddie, with only the lightest
sort of waders, skipped and scampered away and left me plunging and
floundering about in the brush, with scarcely the possibility of seeing
anything, even if it were directly in front of my nose.
As a matter of fact, I didn't care anything about seeing moose, and was
only running and making a donkey of myself because the others were doing
it, and I had caught a touch of their disease.
Suddenly, I heard Charlie call, "There they are! There they go!" and
with a wild redoubled effort I went headlong into a deep pit,
half-filled with leaves and brush, and muck of various sorts. This, of
course, would seem to assassinate any hope I might have of seeing the
moose, but just then, by some occult process, Charles, the Strong,
discovered my disaster, and with that prowess which has made him famous
yanked me out of the mess, stood me on my feet and had me running again,
wallowing through the bushes toward the other side of the little island
whence the moose had fled.
"There they go--they are swimming!" I heard Del call, and then Eddie:
"I see em! I see em!" and then Charles's voice, a little ahead of me:
[Illustration: "Hurry! Hurry! They've got over to the shore!"]
"Hurry! Hurry! They've got over to the shore!"
I reached the shore myself just then--our shore, I mean--on all fours
and full of scratches and bruises, but not too late, for beyond a wide
neck of water, on the mainland, two dark phantoms drifted a little way
through the mist and vanished into the dark foliage behind.
It was only a glimpse I had and I was battered up and still disordered,
more or less, with the ivy poison. But somehow I was satisfied. For one
thing, I had become infected with a tinge of the native enthusiasm about
seeing the great game of the woods, and then down in my soul I rejoiced
that Eddie had failed to capture the little calf. Furthermore, it was
comforting to reflect that even from the guides' point of view, our
expedition, whatever else might come, must be considered a success.
We now got down to business. It was well along toward evening, and
though these days were long days, this one, with its somber skies and
heavy mist, would close in early. We felt that it was desirable to find
the lake's outlet before pitching our tents, for the islands make rather
poor camping places and lake fishing is apt to be slow work. We wanted
to get settled in camp on the lower Shelburne before night and be ready
for the next day's sport.
We therefore separated, agreeing upon a signal of two shots from
whichever of us had the skill or fortune to discover the outlet. The
other canoe faded into the mist below the islands while we paddled
slowly toward the gray green shores opposite. When presently we were all
alone, I was filled, somehow, with the feeling that must have come over
those old Canadian voyageurs who were first to make their way through
the northlands, threading the network of unknown waters. I could not get
rid of the idea that we were pioneers in this desolate spot, and so far
as sportsmen were concerned, it may be that we were.