Back across Tupper Lake and down Sand Brook to the Shelburne. Eddie left
the further wilderness with a sigh, for he felt that his chance of
getting a moose calf for those museum people was getting slim. A
distance--I have forgotten the number of miles--down the Shelburne would
bring us to country known to the guides and not remote enough for moose
at this season. As Eddie is no longer in this country, I may confess,
now, that I was glad.
It was beautiful going, down Sand Brook. There was plenty of water and
the day was perfect. There is nothing lovelier in the world than that
little limpid stream with its pebbly riffles and its sunlit pools.
Sometimes when I think of it now I am afraid that it is no longer there
in that far still Arcady, or that it may vanish through some enchantment
before I can ever reach it again. Indeed as I am writing here to-day I
am wondering if it is really there--hidden away in that quiet unvisited
place, when no one is there to see it, and to hear it sing and
whisper--if anything is anywhere, unless some one is there to see and
hear. But these are deep waters. I am prone to stumble, as we have
seen, and somehow my tallest waders never take me through.
I have already said, and repeated, I think, that there is no better
trout fishing than in the Shelburne. The fish now were not quite so
heavy as they had been higher up, but they were very many. The last half
of the miracle of the loaves and fishes would not have been necessary
here had the multitudes been given some tackle and a few cans of bait.
When we were a little above Kempton Dam, Del pointed out the first place
familiar to him. The woods were precisely the same--the waters just as
fair and fruitful--the locality just as wild; but somehow as we rounded
that bend a certain breath of charm vanished. The spell of perfect
isolation was gone. I had the feeling that we had emerged from the
enchanted borders of No Man's Land--that we were entering a land of real
places, with the haunts and habitations of men.
Kempton Dam itself had been used to catch logs, not so long ago, and
Eddie had visited it on a previous occasion. He still had a fond memory
of a very large trout--opinions differed a trifle as to its exact
size--which he had taken there in a certain pool of golden water, and it
was evident from his talk that he expected to take that trout again, or
some member of its family, or its ghost, maybe, immediately upon
arrival.
It certainly proved an attractive place, and there were any number of
fish. They were not especially large, however. Even the golden water was
fruitful only as to numbers. We waded among the rocks or stood on the
logs, and cast and reeled and netted and returned fish to the water
until we were fairly surfeited. By that time the guides had the camp
ready, and as it was still early we gave them the rods and watched the
sport.
Now a fly-casting tournament at home is a tame entertainment when one
has watched the fishing of Nova Scotia guides. To see a professional
send a fly sailing out a hundred feet or so in Madison Square Garden is
well enough, and it is a meritorious achievement, no doubt, but there is
no return except the record and the applause. To see Del the Stout and
Charles the Strong doing the same thing from that old log dam was a
poem, a picture, an inspiration. Above and below, the rushing water;
overhead, the blue sky; on either side, the green of June--the treetops
full of the setting sun. Out over the foaming current, skimming just
above the surface, the flies would go sailing, sailing--you thought they
would never light. They did not go with a swish and a jump, but seemed
noiselessly to drift away, as if the lightly swinging rod had little to
do with the matter, as if they were alive, in fact, looking for a place
to settle in some cozy nook of water where a trout would be sure to be.
And the trout were there. It was not the empty tub-fishing of a
sportsman's show. The gleam and splash in the pool that seemed
remote--that was perhaps thirty yards away in fact--marked the casting
limit, and the sharp curve of the rod, and the play to land were more
inspiring than any measure of distance or clapping of hands.
Charles himself became so inspired at length with his handsome fishing
that he made a rash statement. He declared that he could take five trout
in fifteen minutes. He offered to bet a dollar that he could do it. I
rather thought he could myself, for the fish were there, and they were
not running over large. Still, it was no easy matter to land them in
that swift water, and it would be close work. The show would be worth a
dollar, even if I lost. Wherefore, I scoffed at his boast and took the
bet.
No stipulations were made as to the size of the trout, nor the manner in
which they should be taken, nor as to any special locality. It was
evident from our guide's preparation that he had evolved certain ideas
of his own in the matter. Previously he had been trying to hook a big
fish, but it was pretty evident that he did not want any big fish now.
There was a little brook--a run-around, as it were--that left the main
water just below the dam and came in again at the big pool several
hundred yards below. We had none of us touched this tumbling bit of
water. It was his idea that it would be full of little trout. He wanted
something he could lift out with no unnecessary delay, for time that is
likely to be worth over six cents a minute is too expensive to waste in
fancy sportsmanship. He selected a short rod and put on some tiny flies.
Then he took his position; we got out our watches and called time.
Now, of course, one of the most uncertain things in life to gamble on is
fishing. You may pick your place, your day and your time of day. The
combination may seem perfect. Yet the fact remains that you can never
count with certainty on the result. One might suppose that our guide had
everything in his favor. Up to the very moment of his wager he had been
taking trout about as rapidly as he could handle them, and from water
that had been fished more or less all the afternoon. He knew the
particular fly that had been most attractive on this particular day and
he had selected a place hitherto unfished--just the sort of a place
where small trout seemed likely to abound. With his skill as an angler
it would not have surprised me if he had taken his five trout and had
more than half the time to spare.
I think he expected to do that himself. I think he did, for he went at
it with that smiling _sang froid_ with which one does a sleight of hand
trick after long practice. He did not show any appearance of haste in
making his first cast, but let the flies go gently out over a little
eddying pool and lightly skim the surface of the water, as if he were
merely amusing himself by tantalizing those eager little trout. Yet for
some reason nothing happened. Perhaps the little trout were attending a
party in the next pool. There came no lively snap at those twitching
flies--there was not even a silver break on the surface of the water.
I thought our guide's smile faded the least trifle, and that he let the
flies go a bit quicker next time. Then when nothing, absolutely nothing,
happened again, his look became one of injured surprise. He abandoned
that pool and stepping a rock or two downstream, sent the flies with a
sharp little flirt into the next--once--twice--it was strange--it was
unaccountable, but nothing--not a single thing happened again. It was
the same with the next pool, and the next.
There were no special marks of self-confidence, or anything that even
resembled deliberation, after this. It was business, strictly business,
with the sole idea of taking five fish out of that run, or getting down
to a place where five fish could be had. It was a pretty desperate
situation, for it was a steep run and there was no going back. To
attempt that would be to waste too much precious time. The thing to do
was to fish it straight through, with no unnecessary delay. There was no
doubt but that this was our guide's programme. The way he deported
himself showed that. Perhaps he was not really in a hurry--I want to be
just--but he acted as if he was. I have never seen a straddle-bug, but
if I ever meet one I shall recognize him, for I am certain he will look
exactly like Charles the Strong going down Tommy Kempton's Run. He was
shod in his shoepacks, and he seemed to me to have one foot always in
the air wildly reaching out for the next rock--the pair of flies,
meanwhile, describing lightning circles over every pool and riffle,
lingering just long enough to prove the futility of the cast, to be
lying an instant later in a new spot, several yards below. If ever there
is a tournament for swift and accurate fly-casting down a flight of
rugged stone stairs I want to enter Charles for first honors against the
world. But I would not bet on any fish--I want that stipulated. I would
not gamble to that extent. I would not gamble even on one fish after
being a witness to our guide's experience.
That was a mad race. The rest of us kept a little to one side, out of
his way, and not even Del and Eddie could keep up with him. And with all
that wild effort not a fish would rise--nor even break water. It was
strange--it was past believing--I suppose it was even funny. It must
have been, for I seem to recall that we fairly whooped our joy at his
acrobatic eagerness. Why, with such gymnastics, Charles did not break
his neck I cannot imagine. With the utmost watchfulness I barely missed
breaking mine as much as a dozen times.
The time was more than half-expired when we reached the foot of the run,
and still no fish, not even a rise. Yet the game was not over. It was
supposable that this might be the place of places for fish. Five fish in
five minutes were still possible, if small. The guide leaped and waded
to a smooth, commanding stone and cast--once--twice, out over the
twisting water. Then, suddenly, almost in front of him, it seemed, a
great wave rolled up from the depths--there was a swish and a quick
curving of the rod--a monstrous commotion, and a struggle in the water.
It was a king of fish, we could all see that, and the rest of us gave a
shout of approval.
But if Charles was happy, he did not look it. In fact, I have never seen
any one act so unappreciative of a big fish, nor handle it in so
unsportsmanlike a manner. If I remember his remark it had damn and hell
mixed up in it, and these words were used in close association with that
beautiful trout. His actions were even worse. He made no effort to play
his catch--to work him gradually to the net, according to the best form.
Nothing of the kind. You'd have supposed our guide had never seen a big
trout before by the way he got hold of that line and yanked him in, hand
over hand, regardless of the danger to line and leader and to those
delicate little flies, to say nothing of the possibility of losing a
fish so handled. Of course the seconds were flying, and landing a fish
of that size is not an especially quick process. A three-pound trout in
swift water has a way of staying there, even when taken by the main
strength and awkwardness system. When only about a yard of line
remained between Charlie and the fish, the latter set up such a
commotion, and cut up such a series of antics, that it was impossible
for one man to hold him and net him, though the wild effort which our
guide made to do so seemed amusing to those who were looking on. In
fact, if I had not been weak with laughing I might have gone to his
rescue sooner. One may be generous to a defeated opponent, and the time
limit was on its last minute now. As it was, I waded over presently and
took the net. A moment later we had him--the single return in the
allotted time, but by all odds the largest trout thus far of the
expedition. You see, as I have said, fish are uncertain things to gamble
on. Trying for five small ones our fisherman captured one large fish,
which at any other moment of the expedition would have been more
welcome. Yet even he was an uncertain quantity, for big, strong and
active as he was, he suddenly gave a great leap out of the net and was
back in the water again. Still, I let him be counted. That was generous.
You might have supposed after that demonstration, Eddie would have been
somewhat reticent about backing his skill as a fisherman. But he wasn't.
He had just as much faith in his angling, and in his ability to pick
good water as if he hadn't seen his guide go down to ignominy and
defeat. He knew a place just above the dam, he said, where he could make
that bet good. Would I give him the same terms? I would--the offer was
open to all comers. I said it was taking candy from children.
[Illustration: "It was worth the dollar to watch the way he sought to
wheedle and coax and fascinate those trout."]
We went up to Eddie's place and got out the watches. Eddie had learned
something from his guide's exhibition. He had learned not to prance
about over a lot of water, and not to seem to be in a hurry. It was such
things that invited mirth. He took his position carefully between two
great bowlders and during the next fifteen minutes gave us the most
charming exhibition of light and delicate fly-casting I have ever
witnessed. It was worth the dollar to watch the way in which he sought
to wheedle and coax and fascinate those trout, and to study the deft
dispatch and grace with which he landed a fish, once hooked. Still he
hadn't learned quite enough. He hadn't learned to take five trout in
fifteen minutes in that particular place and on that particular evening.
Perhaps it was a little late when he began. Perhaps fifteen minutes is a
shorter period than it sometimes seems. Three trout completed his score
at the end of the allotted time--all fairly large.
Yet I must not fail to add here that a few days later, in other water,
both Eddie and his guide made good their wager. Each took his five
trout--small ones--in fifteen minutes, and had time to spare. As I have
remarked once or twice already, one of the most uncertain things in life
to gamble on is fishing.