We looked for moose again on Sand Lake, but found only signs. On the
whole, I thought this more satisfactory. One does not have to go
galloping up and down among the bushes and rocks to get a glimpse of
signs, but may examine them leisurely and discuss the number, character
and probable age of these records, preserving meanwhile a measure of
repose, not to say dignity.
Below Sand Lake a brook was said to enter. Descending from the upper
interior country, it would lead us back into regions more remote than
any heretofore traveled. So far as I could learn, neither of our guides
had ever met any one who even claimed in know this region, always
excepting the imaginative Indian previously mentioned. Somewhere in
these uncharted wilds this Indian person had taken trout "the size of
one's leg."
Regardless of the dimensions of this story, it had a fascination for us.
We wished to see those trout, even if they had been overrated. We had
been hurrying, at least in spirit, to reach the little water gateway
that opened to a deeper unknown where lay a chain of lakes, vaguely set
down on our map as the Tobeatic[4] waters. At some time in the past the
region had been lumbered, but most of the men who cut the timber were
probably dead now, leaving only a little drift of hearsay testimony
behind.
It was not easy to find the entrance to the hidden land. The foliage was
heavy and close along the swampy shore, and from such an ambush a still
small current might flow unnoticed, especially in the mist that hung
about us. More than once we were deceived by some fancied ripple or the
configuration of the shore. Del at length announced that just ahead was
a growth of a kind of maple likely to indicate a brook entrance. The
shore really divided there and a sandy waterway led back somewhere into
a mystery of vines and trees.
We halted near the mouth of the little stream for lunch and
consultation. It was not a desirable place to camp. The ground was low
and oozy and full of large-leaved greenhousy-looking plants. The recent
rains had not improved the character of the place. There was poison ivy
there, too, and a delegation of mosquitoes. We might just as well have
gone up the brook a hundred yards or so, to higher and healthier ground,
but this would not have been in accord with Eddie's ideas of
exploration. Explorers, he said, always stopped at the mouth of rivers
to debate, and to consult maps and feed themselves in preparation for
unknown hardships to come. So we stopped and sat around in the mud, and
looked at some marks on a paper--made by the imaginative Indian, I
think--and speculated as to whether it would be possible to push and
drag the canoes up the brook, or whether everything would have to go
overland.
Personally, the prospect of either did not fill me with enthusiasm. The
size of the brook did not promise much in the way of important waters
above or fish even the size of one's arm. However, Tobeatic exploration
was down on the cards. Our trip thus far had furnished only a hint of
such mystery and sport as was supposed to lie concealed somewhere beyond
the green, from which only this little brooklet crept out to whisper the
secret. Besides, I had learned to keep still when Eddie had set his
heart on a thing. I left the others poring over the hieroglyphic map,
and waded out into the clean water of the brook. As I looked back at Del
and Charlie, squatting there amid the rank weeds, under the dark,
dripping boughs, with Eddie looking over their shoulders and pointing at
the crumpled paper, spread before them, they formed a picturesque
group--such a one as Livingstone or Stanley and their followers might
have made in the African jungles. When I told Eddie of this he grew
visibly prouder and gave me two new leaders and some special tobacco.
We proceeded up the stream, Eddie and I ahead, the guides pushing the
loaded canoes behind. It was the brook of our forefathers--such a stream
as might flow through the valley meadows of New England, with trout of
about the New England size, and plentiful. Lively fellows, from seven to
nine inches in length, rose two and three at almost every cast. We put
on small flies and light leaders and forgot there were such things as
big trout in Nova Scotia. It was joyous, old-fashioned fishing--a real
treat for a change.
We had not much idea how far we were to climb this water stairway, and
as the climb became steeper, and the water more swift, the guides pushed
and puffed and we gave them a lift over the hard places--that is, Eddie
did. I was too tired to do anything but fish.
As a rule, the water was shallow, but there were deep holes. I found one
of them presently, by mistake. It was my habit to find holes that
way--places deeper than my waders, though the latter came to my
shoulders. It seemed necessary that several times daily I should get my
boots full of water. When I couldn't do it in any other way I would fall
over something and let the river run into them for a while. I called to
Eddie from where I was wallowing around, trying to get up, with my usual
ballast.
"Don't get in here!" I said.
He was helping the boys over a hard place just then, tugging and
sweating, but he paused long enough to be rude and discourteous.
"I don't have to catch my trout in my boots," he jeered, and the guides
were disrespectful enough to laugh. I decided that I would never try to
do any of them a good turn again. Then suddenly everything was
forgotten, for a gate of light opened out ahead, and presently we pushed
through and had reached the shores of as lovely a sheet of water as lies
in the great north woods. It was Tupper Lake, by our calculation, and it
was on the opposite side that Tobeatic Brook was said to enter. There,
if anywhere, we might expect to find the traditional trout. So far as we
knew, no one had looked on these waters since the old lumbering days.
Except for exploration there was no reason why any one should come. Of
fish and game there were plenty in localities more accessible. To me, I
believe the greatest joy there, as everywhere in the wilderness--and it
was a joy that did not grow old--was the feeling that we were in a
region so far removed from clanging bells and grinding wheels and all
the useful, ugly attributes of mankind.
We put out across the lake. The land rose rather sharply beyond, and
from among the trees there tumbled out a white foaming torrent that made
a wide swirling green pool where it entered. We swept in below this
aquarium, Eddie taking one side and I the other. We had on our big flies
now and our heavy leaders. They were necessary. Scarcely had a cast gone
sailing out over the twisting water when a big black and gold shape
leaped into the air and Eddie had his work cut out for him. A moment
later my own reel was singing, and I knew by the power and savage rushes
that I had something unusual at the other end.
"Trout as big as your leg!" we called across to each other, and if they
were not really as big as that, they were, at all events, bigger than
anything so far taken--as big as one's arm perhaps--one's forearm, at
least, from the hollow of the elbow to the fingertips. You see how
impossible it is to tell the truth about a trout the first time. I never
knew a fisherman who could do it. There is something about a fish that
does not affiliate with fact. Even at the market I have known a fish to
weigh more than he did when I got him home. We considered the
imaginative Indian justified, and blessed him accordingly.