AFTER GOAT ON THE MAINLAND
Having still a few days to spare, I decided to try for a Rocky Mountain
goat on the Mainland.
Lansdown had lived for some years at the head of Kingcome Inlet, one of
the great inlets running in to the Mainland, just behind the island on
which the town of Alert Bay is situated.
He stated that goats were plentiful but that one would have to climb
up to the tops of the mountains at this season of the year. He also
pretended to an intimate knowledge of every turn and bend of the
inlet, and the best campgrounds. I accordingly engaged him and his
sixteen-feet rowing and sailing boat for the trip.
September 17th. We started early for Alert Bay and were fortunate
in getting a tow across from the timber company's steam launch, and
arrived at Alert Bay in the early forenoon. We laid in ample supplies
of provisions at Mr. Chambers' store and with some difficulty I got
the men to start at 3 p.m.
My two bottles of rum had long since been exhausted though only taken
in homoeopathic doses. The difficulty was to get more. No spirits were
allowed to be sold in Alert Bay, a passing steamer was the only chance,
and fortunately one was due before we started.
My friend Mr. Halliday saved the situation. He as a magistrate gave me
a certificate that the rum was required on medical grounds, without
which the Captain of the steamer would have refused to part with any.
I was the envy of the entire Indian population as I left the steamer's
side with a bottle of rum sticking out of each of my coat pockets.
It was a lovely evening and though Mr. Chambers had offered us a tow
with his steam launch, which runs to the head of the inlet once a
fortnight, if we would wait two days, I preferred to get away rather
than kick my heels about Alert Bay.
Rowing up to the mouth of the inlet with a flowing tide we made about
seven miles, and camped at 6 o'clock on a rocky islet where we found
an ideal camping ground, near which some Siwash Indians had settled
for the summer fishing. The scenery was superb. A background of the
snow-covered mountains of the Mainland, in the middle distance many
islands clad with wood down to the foreshore, a sea like glass in which
mountains, islands and forests were reflected and the surface only
broken by the eddies of the flowing tide. The sunset was glorious and
the colouring indescribable.
That evening, we saw a remarkable sight. Pilot whales in schools were
common at the Campbell River, but here came a great whale all alone
ploughing his way up the inlet and coming up every few minutes to
blow--once he threw his entire body many feet out of the water and came
down with a crash which echoed through the surrounding islands.
September 18th. After a hearty breakfast we got away about 9 a.m., but
by 12.45 the appetites of the men called for a halt. Noon never passed
without a spell for food being proposed.
Trolling with a spoon and a hand line, for I had left my rod at Alert
Bay, I got a nice cohoe of about ten pounds, and strange to say quite
good eating.
At 4 o'clock a halt for the night was suggested, but I would not have
it, and as Lansdown said there was a good camping ground some four
miles away, we pushed on.
The sides of the inlet were so steep that it was only in certain places
that ground where a tent could be pitched was to be found.
Lansdown had lived twelve years on the inlet, but his bump of locality
was sadly deficient, for it took us three and a half hours to cover
that four miles which must have been nearer nine, and I had to take the
oar for the last two hours.
At last we reached the cove with a shelving sandy beach, but it was
pitch dark and the rain was coming down, so I fear I was rather short
with poor Lansdown, who had kept promising the camping ground a few
yards round every point we passed.
September 19th. The camping ground as seen in the daylight was an ideal
one. There was no undergrowth, and a grassy glade in the shelter of
the great trees was a perfect site for the tents. A head wind had got
up and the rain was still pouring down, so the prospects were not very
encouraging, but still by tacking and rowing we made about seven miles
when we were picked up by Mr. Chambers' launch and taken on to the
head of the inlet where the Kingcome River falls into the sea. The
scenery all up the inlet was very fine. The hills got more and more
perpendicular as the head of the inlet was approached, and were clothed
with dense forest down to the water's edge. Down the ravines from the
hill-tops 3,000 feet high poured great waterfalls, and rain-clouds
and mist swept over the tops of the hills, giving from time to time a
glimpse of distant snow-covered peaks some 6,000 feet high.
The evening was fine and by 6 o'clock we were anchored in the river
opposite a few settlers' houses.
We found Lansdown's old house, somewhat dilapidated but habitable.
There was abundance of sweet hay and it was a luxury to spread my
blanket on a hay-strewn dry wooden floor with a rainproof roof over my
head.
Most of the settlers, including Lansdown's strapping brother, came
round to have a chat and to hear the news from the outside world. They
seem to have a fairly easy time chiefly raising cattle, for the delta
formed by the washed-down detritus from the hills was a rich white soil
on which a fine crop of grass was raised. There were a good number of
wild duck about, and the settlers were a sporting lot, so they amused
themselves with the evening flighting and with occasional trips up
Mount Kingcome, which overshadowed the valley, after goat, deer and
bear.
September 20th. It was a fine morning and the snow-covered peaks of
Mount Kingcome about 6,000 feet above us, where we hoped to find our
goats, were glistening in the morning sun.
Smith was _hors de combat_--I had offered to send him home from Alert
Bay, but he said he was quite fit to go on. I think he was a bit
nervous when he saw the climb before him, for carrying a pack up the
steep mountain was no joke.
I was fortunate enough to secure the services of Harry Kirby, one of
the settlers who knew the country well and he was willing to take
Smith's place; a better man after goat I could not wish to have. He was
very deaf and somewhat outspoken. Looking me over he said, "You are
too stout for goat," which I rather felt to be true, though the trip
after wapiti had fined me down considerably. I was, however, in hard
condition by this time, and half-way up when we stopped for a midday
meal, he quietly remarked, "I think after all you will do," and so my
character as a prospective goat-hunter was restored.
[Illustration: MORNING MISTS ON MOUNT KINGCOME
[_To face page 138._]
Quite a good track was blazed and cleared for about half-way up the
hill, and the path though very steep was not bad, only hard on the men
carrying the packs, so spells for rest were fairly frequent. The last
half where the track had not been cleared was real bad going. A great
torrent swept down the bottom of the steep ravine we were ascending,
and it had to be crossed many times, which meant a wetting.
The undergrowth was a dense tangle, fallen trees blocked the path and
never had we met the accursed devil-club in such abundance.
All things must come to an end, and by 5 o'clock we were clear of the
forest and entered a fairly open valley, shut in on all sides by steep
cliffs. At the end of the valley rose the snow-covered summit of Mount
Kingcome about three miles away.
We had been marching since 9.30 and had ascended about 4,000 feet. We
pitched camp in the last clump of wood in the valley, and on the side
of the hill.
Though the forest ceased, there were dense masses of impenetrable
cover, consisting of salmon-berry, wine-berry and devil-club, for about
a mile up the valley, after which the ground was quite open.
Large patches of snow were lying on the bare hills just above the
cover--and while selecting our camping ground, I suddenly saw a black
object moving across a snow patch about half-a-mile across the valley.
Leaving Kirby and Lansdown to pitch the camp I took Thomson with me,
and getting within about 500 yards of the snow patch, saw what looked
like a small bear, but as Thomson said, "I never saw a bear with a long
tail." The animal was moving quickly over the snow and getting closer
every minute to a patch of dense cover. No doubt it was a wolverine. I
had a long shot at about 400 yards and knocked up the snow under his
belly. In a moment he was in the cover and we never saw him again.
Further up towards the head of the valley we saw a bear moving across a
patch of snow, but he, too, disappeared in the cover. Evening was now
closing in, so we turned towards camp. About a mile away, just opposite
the camp and on some almost precipitous rocks a goat suddenly came into
view round a corner of the rock. He must have been lying down all the
time out of sight, and it was bad luck not having seen him before, for
though to climb the face of the cliff was impossible, we might have got
a long shot from below; as it was, by the time we had got up to the
foot of the cliff, it was too dark to shoot, so we decide to leave him
till next day.
[Illustration: CAMP ON MOUNT KINGCOME.
[_To face page 140._]
[Illustration: A ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT]
[Illustration: THE GOAT COUNTRY
[_To face page 141._]
At last I had reached a game country, having seen a wolverine, a bear
and goat in one afternoon.
September 21st. It had rained all night but cleared up in the morning.
Before I had turned out, Kirby reported the wolverine crossing the same
patch of snow opposite the camp about half-a-mile away. Slipping on a
pair of boots, I rushed out in my sleeping clothes. Getting the glass
on to the beast, I found that this time it was a bear making tracks for
the valley we had come up, and no doubt after the salmon which were
rotting in thousands on the bank of the river below.
He was into the cover before anything could be done in the way of a
stalk, and did not appear again.
Examining the ground, I found the valley extended up to the base
of Mount Kingcome for about one and a half miles. The sides were
precipitous cliffs quite impossible to climb. The slope up to their
base was clothed with dense undergrowth, while a creek fed by the
melting snow and the rain from the surrounding hills was tumbling
noisily down below our camp.
The head of the valley narrowed rapidly until completely shut in by the
mountains, the tops of which were covered with snow. Large patches of
snow lay in the hollows of the hills all round, never melting even in
the summer months.
The air was cold, but bracing, just the day for a stalk. Spying the
valley carefully, I soon found a goat high up on the cliff to the
right. I think it must have been our friend of last evening, who had
fed along the side of the hill to his present position up in the
valley. The ground did not look impossible, but Kirby pronounced
against it as too dangerous.
Higher up on a hill-top at the far end and just on the edge of the
snow, I picked up with the glass two more goats and we decided to go
for them. It was easy going to the foot of the hill where the valley
ended, but a really stiff climb of about one and a half hours to get up
to the patch of snow close to which we had seen them, above the line of
cover; the hill-side was covered with a sort of heather growing between
the rocks and it was very slippery going.
As we arrived at the spot and were looking everywhere for the goats, I
saw two goats, a nanny and a kid, moving away about 400 yards off and
climbing steadily up the face of the cliff. We both thought they were
the two we were after, who had seen us or got our wind.
We were now 6,000 feet up and it was quite cold enough without a
blizzard which suddenly set in with a bitter wind, which drove the snow
and sleet almost through one.
We were huddled under a sloping rock, trying to get a little shelter,
when it struck me to send Kirby up and see if by any chance the goats
were still where we had seen them first, as possibly the two we saw
moving away were another lot. It was lucky I did so, for he was back in
a few minutes with the good news that our goats were feeding quietly in
a hollow behind a ridge not a hundred yards above us.
I never was so cold in my life, but leaving Kirby behind, I crawled
up to the top of the ridge, and looking over saw to my delight a good
billy and two nannies feeding a hundred yards away.
Getting into position for a careful shot, I proceeded to remove the
caps of my telescope sight, which I had kept on up to the last moment
on account of the rain and the snow.
At the critical moment the front cap jammed, and with my half-frozen
hands it took me a couple of minutes, which seemed hours, to get it
off. Peering over I saw the goats moving off, they may have got our
wind, for heavy gales were eddying round the top of the hill.
The two nannies fortunately went first, the billy was moving on pretty
quickly behind. I had just time to get a shot, another moment and he
would have disappeared behind some rocks, and I heard the welcome thud
of the bullet; he stood for a moment, and as the extraordinary vitality
of the mountain goat had been impressed on me by Kirby, I gave him a
second shot, and he came rolling down the hill like a rabbit, stone
dead.
Had it not been for the jamming of the cap I would certainly have got
one of the nannies as well. He was a fine beast, much heavier and
bigger than I had expected.
The snow was still falling and we were both shivering with cold. While
still undecided what to do a momentary break showed us two more goats,
one a fine billy right across the valley and a little higher up, and as
the day was young we decided to have a try for them. Climbing about 500
feet up, we arrived practically at the summit and were spying as to the
best way to try a stalk, for the valley was now disturbed and the goats
were on the alert and looking about in every direction.
Unfortunately, the snow set in worse than ever and blotted out any
view of the hill. To attempt a stalk on such dangerous ground would
have been madness, so we turned back and went down to where we had left
the dead goat. The cold was now so intense we could not remain to skin
the goat, so made straight for camp. The going on the way down was as
bad as it could be. The newly-fallen snow lying on the heather had made
it very slippery and almost dangerous. I had many a slip but generally
landed sitting down, and arrived at the foot of the hill bruised but
thankful, for after all I had got my goat. This was real sport: to find
your game, mark him down and then an honest stalk, ending in a kill;
but it was stiff work and a little too much for a man of my age.
We had come down about 2,000 feet, and the snow had turned into
rain, which felt quite warm and comforting after the blizzard on the
hill-top. Kirby was so cold, he asked leave to go ahead, and I soon saw
him running down the valley and skipping like a goat from rock to rock.
Taking it easier, I got to camp about 5 o'clock, fairly tired out.
September 22nd. It rained and snowed all night, and for the first time
the little tent was not waterproof. The weather cleared about 8 a.m.,
and the morning sun broke through the rain clouds and mists which were
sweeping away from the hill-tops; the effect was most beautiful.
The hills where we had been stalking yesterday were entirely covered
with snow, and patches were lying far down in the valley. I sent Kirby
and Lansdown up to skin the goat and bring in the head and skin, while
I made preparations for striking the camp and going down the mountain
on their return.
They returned about noon, and we were just preparing to start when I
saw a bear--probably the same one we had seen before, moving rapidly
up the valley at the foot of the cliff and across one of the numerous
patches of snow. Seizing the rifle I dashed down, followed by Thomson,
to try and get a shot. I left my coat, in which I always carried spare
cartridges, behind.
By the time I had crossed the creek, the bear was well ahead and looked
about 300 yards away. Putting up the 300 yards sight, I knelt down,
rather breathless and shaky from my run, and fired. The bullet knocked
up the snow in a good line but short. This started him off at a run
and he was getting farther and farther away as I fired two more shots,
which also struck low. My last chance was another shot before he
reached the thick cover, and, aiming right over his back, I hit him,
where I could not say. He must have been 400 yards away when I fired.
On being hit, he stumbled forward and turned right down hill into some
dense undergrowth which extended right down to the creek.
Having only one cartridge left, I sent Thomson back to camp for
cartridges, and sat down behind the rock from which I had fired to
await events. My impression was that he was badly hit and that we would
have to follow him up in the cover. To my surprise, I suddenly saw him
come out of the cover and come down to the creek. He was not more than
150 yards away and passing between a lot of big boulders, and it looked
as if he were heading up the valley.
Thinking it was my last chance, I fired and saw the bullet hit a rock
just over his back. To my horror, I then realized I had left the
telescope sight screwed up to 300 yards. Worse luck was to follow, for
the shot turned him and he came down the creek towards me, very slowly
and looking very sick. There was I without a cartridge and a wounded
bear apparently walking on top of me. I lay quite quietly behind my
rock, and had the pleasure of seeing him come within thirty yards, when
he turned slowly and, crossing the creek, entered the dense undergrowth
on the other side just as Thomson came up with the cartridges. It was
as bad a moment as I have ever experienced in my sporting life. At
first we could trace his movements by the shaking of the bushes, and at
one time, this ceasing, he apparently lay down.
I knew it was hopeless following him in such undergrowth, for not only
was there the danger of being charged, but if even I could have made my
way through the tangle, it would have been impossible to put the rifle
to my shoulder. Thomson would not give him up, but begged I would lend
him my rifle and he would follow him up.
I returned to camp utterly disgusted, and in about one hour Thomson
returned, saying he had crawled through the cover, found lots of blood,
saw the bear once in the distance, but could not get a shot. The worst
of it was, it was now too late to start, and to make matters more
depressing, rain and sleet fell all the afternoon and night.
September 23rd. The rain had now turned to snow, which was lying as low
down as the level of the camp. Everything was sodden, and a wet march
was before us.
We got away by 9 o'clock, and had a hard march as the creek was now a
roaring torrent, which we had to cross and recross several times. Going
on the rough boulders, over and round which the flood was pouring, was
as bad as it well could be, and we were all wet through by the time
we reached the cleared track. Our last view of the valley, before we
entered the forest, was superb. The rain had cleared away, a bright sun
was breaking through the heavy clouds, which were being swept away from
the summits of the snow-clad hills and from the slopes of the valley,
now dazzling white in the morning sun, while looking back through the
forest we were just entering the trees stood out in black silhouette
against a background of snow. It was with deep regret I turned my back
on the Goat Valley, where I had seen more game in two days than in all
the rest of my trip.
By 3 o'clock we reached the Kingcome River, but it was too late to make
a start that night.
September 24th. We got away at 8.15. The morning was fine, and the
inlet and snow-covered peaks behind looked very beautiful. The current
always runs down this inlet irrespective of the tide, though it is, of
course, stronger with the ebb. We made only one halt for lunch, and
by 7.15 p.m. reached Quiesden--a deserted Indian village thirty miles
from the head of the inlet; not a bad performance, as we had to row the
whole way.
Here we found an empty mission house, and Lansdown somewhat
burglariously effected an entrance through a window and opened the
door from inside. We soon had a fire going in the dilapidated stove,
and settled down comfortably for the night on the bare boards. They
were at least dry and we had a roof over our heads. The walls of
the sitting-room were mostly decorated with texts, but a coloured
illustration representing a young naval officer making violent love to
an extremely pretty girl showed that even missionaries have a human
side to their nature.
The village was entirely deserted, all the inhabitants being away
fishing. There were some fine totem poles, and the woods all round
were the cemetery of the neighbourhood--the bodies of many departed
Siwashes, packed in boxes or bundles, being slung up in the forks of
the trees--the Siwash method of burial.
September 25th. Leaving Quiesden at 8.15, we had a fine sailing breeze
which before night had increased to half a gale, and on arrival
at Alert Bay, about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Chambers most
hospitably put me up till my old friend the _Queen City_, due at 1
a.m., should arrive.
September 26th. The _Queen City_ did not arrive till noon, and bidding
good-bye to my kind friends at Alert Bay and to Lansdown, who was
returning to his farm on the Nimquish, we were soon on our way to
Vancouver.
Accounts had to be made up and good-bye said to Smith and Thomson and
my dear friends "Dick" and "Nigger," for they were all to be landed at
some unearthly hour in the morning at Quatiaski Cove. All the roughing
was over, and the comforts of civilization were before me, yet it was
with sincere regret that I saw the last of my friends and companions.
The discomforts were forgotten, the sodden forest, the rain, the
indifferent food, and the poor sport, but the impressive scenery of
the vast Vancouver forest, the still lakes and rushing creeks, and
the beauty of the Kingcome inlet, with its setting of snow-covered
mountains, will remain indelibly impressed on my memory, and as the
prospect of future trips becomes more remote, the recollections of
those days will always be with me. The call of the wild may be as
strong as ever, but the capacity to respond to it must diminish as
years roll on. The man who has not a love for the solitudes of nature
and the simple life in camp, misses experiences which to me at least
have been amongst the keenest enjoyments of my life.
September 27th. We arrived at Vancouver about 5 p.m. That day I saw
Mr. Williams, just returned from inspection and sport in the Kootenay
district. He reported game plentiful and brought back two fine sheep
heads which he had secured after hard work and stiff climbing.
I left Vancouver on the 29th and, changing trains at Winnipeg, arrived
at Toronto on October 3rd--four hours late from Winnipeg.
Leaving Toronto the next morning, I spent that evening and the
following day at Niagara Falls, arriving in New York in the early
morning of the 6th. Through the kindness of Mr. Griswold, I had been
made an honorary member of the Knickerbocker and Union Clubs. More
luxurious and better-managed clubs could not be found in any capital of
Europe.
At 10 a.m. I was once more steaming out of New York on the _Blücher_,
one of the slower steamers of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, and after a
most comfortable voyage, with charming fellow-passengers, I disembarked
at Southampton on the 17th--just three months and seven days from
leaving England.
NEWFOUNDLAND, 1910
TO NEWFOUNDLAND
[Illustration: NEWFOUNDLAND]
[Illustration: SKETCH-MAP OF NEWFOUNDLAND
[_To face page 159._]
[Illustration: NOT GOOD ENOUGH.
[_To face page 159._]
CHAPTER I
TO NEWFOUNDLAND
Notwithstanding my resolve that the Vancouver trip should be my last
one, the call of the wild was once more too strong, and the summer of
1910 found me planning an expedition to Newfoundland.
I think J. G. Millais' charming book _Newfoundland and its Untrodden
Ways_, as well as the description he personally gave me of the country,
were largely responsible for my decision.
I sailed from Southampton on August 5th by the _Cincinnati_, of the
Hamburg-Amerika Line, bound for St. John's, Newfoundland, via New York.
The ship was crowded and the voyage as monotonous as all Atlantic
voyages are, while being a slow boat we only arrived at New York on
the morning of the 14th. The heat of New York was intense, and I was
not sorry to leave it at midnight for Boston, and straight on via St.
John's, New Brunswick, to Sydney, where I took the _Bruce_, which runs
between Sydney and Port aux Basques, Newfoundland, a distance of a
hundred miles.
I would recommend any one who is taking this route, and is not a total
abstainer, to provide himself with a bottle of whisky, for Maine,
through which a good portion of the journey lies, is a teetotal state,
and even on board the _Bruce_ not a drop of any form of liquor, even
beer, was allowed to be served until the steamer was under way.
Getting away at eleven o'clock, and after a rather rough passage, for
the _Bruce_ is only about 800 tons, we arrived at Port aux Basques at 7
a.m. on the 17th.
It was a lovely morning, and the rocky shores of Newfoundland looked
particularly wild and attractive in the bright sunshine. Port aux
Basques is a small settlement, and so far as I could ascertain does
not contain an hotel, but no doubt some form of lodging-house exists,
where, as throughout the island, the visitor would be given a warm
welcome and whatever was going, be it little or much.
The train was waiting for the steamer. The line is a narrow-gauge one,
but the cars were quite comfortable, and the prospect of seeing a new
country is always attractive. But how we did bump over that line;
whether it was the fault of the laying of the permanent way or the
driving I cannot say, but in a long experience of railway travelling
I never have been so jolted, the driver seeming to take a special
pleasure in pulling up with a jerk sufficient to knock over any one
standing up, and then to start, if possible, in a rougher manner.
However, no one seemed to mind, and after all passengers should be
grateful for having a line at all. My mouth watered at accounts I
heard of sea trout fishing, about three hours by launch from Port aux
Basques. I was told that a few days previously three rods got 110 sea
trout, averaging three pounds, in the Garia River, in a few hours.
Getting away at 8.15 we passed all along the west coast, through a most
beautiful country, teeming with salmon rivers, most of them I fear much
over-fished, for the west coast rivers are the favourite haunts of the
American angler, being easily reached from New York and Boston.
Thompson's Hotel, prettily situated on the Little Codroy River, looked
particularly attractive, and two American anglers got off there. I was
told there was a late run of big fish in August, an exception, for as a
rule all the Newfoundland rivers are early ones.
At Crabbes a local guide, on the look-out for a job, deeply deplored
the fact that Crabbes should be neglected for the better-known Little
and Big Codroy Rivers. He assured me there were two rivers, the one ten
minutes, the other about two minutes, from the station, "crawling" of
course with fish, and that a thirty-five pound salmon had been caught
by a local angler a few days before. No doubt he was crying up his own
wares. There was neither hotel nor boarding-house at Crabbes--camping
out was necessary, but the country is a lovely one, and what could be
more enjoyable than a comfortable camp on the banks of the river if
only the fish were there and the water in fishing trim. Black flies and
mosquitoes must not, however, be lightly put aside, for they are the
curse of the island in the summer months.
As we slowly bumped our way north, the scenery became more and more
beautiful, until it culminated in the views as the train skirted
the Humber River, then along Deer Lake, gradually rising towards
the barrens of the centre of the island. All along the sides of the
railway the ground was carpeted with wild flowers, a perfect blaze of
colour. Nightfall found us at the north end of the Grand Lake, where is
situated "The Bungalow," a sporting hotel recently established, which
from the train looked most comfortable.
The food in the dining-car was quite good, but by no means cheap. Why
one should pay 40 cents, about 1_s._ 8_d._, for a slice of fried cod in
the very home of the cod, when a whole fish can be purchased for half
the money, I could not understand, and although Newfoundland abounds in
fish neither trout nor salmon were once served in the restaurant car.
On Thursday the 18th I arrived at St. John's at 12.30, having travelled
without a stop from the previous Sunday at midnight. It is much to be
regretted that the direct Allan Line from Liverpool to St. John's,
which only takes seven days, should not have larger and more up-to-date
steamers. The largest boat is under 5,000 tons; not very comfortable
for crossing the Atlantic. As the Allan Line run excellent boats to
Quebec, there must be some good reason for the local service to St.
John's not being better served.
Leaving England on August 5th, and travelling continuously, I did not
reach St. John's till the 18th. It is true I took a slow boat and
came by New York. A better route would have been by one of the larger
steamers to Quebec or Rimouski, and then back by rail to Sydney, and so
on to Port aux Basques.
If the large steamers which pass so close to Newfoundland would only
make a call at St. John's, to disembark passengers, I feel sure many
more tourists would be tempted to visit the island.
I was met at the station by Mr. Blair, Jr., whose firm were to provide
all my outfit except camp equipment, which I had sent ahead from
England. I was much indebted to him for valuable information and advice.
I was, I must confess, very disappointed with St. John's, which is not
worthy to be the capital of England's oldest colony, and the less said
about hotel accommodation the better. The best hotel was really only an
indifferent boarding-house, and could not compare in comfort with the
hotel of any small provincial town at home.
St. John's possessing few attractions for me, I decided to get away
as soon as possible. When I left England the steamer _Glencoe_, which
sails from Placentia to Port aux Basques, all along the south coast,
was timed to leave every Saturday, but the sailing had been altered to
Wednesday, leaving me with some idle days, which I could not face in
St. John's.
I had heard of sea trout fishing and possible salmon in the south-east
arm of Placentia, where good accommodation was to be had at a fishing
inn, known as Fulford's. Wiring to Mr. Fulford to know if the sea trout
were running, the answer came back that they were all in the ponds,
which I did not quite understand at the time, but anything was better
than five days in St. John's, so on Saturday, August 20th, I started by
the morning train for Placentia and Fulford's.
The rain came down in torrents as we left St. John's at 8.45 a.m. and
lasted till we arrived at Placentia at 1.45--eighty miles in five
hours. These Newfoundland trains are certainly not flyers.
Placentia is very beautifully situated at the junction of the two arms
of the sea, known as the south-east and the north-east arms. The main
town is on a spit of land which extends out into the sea, making the
one entrance to either arm a very narrow channel, and through this
the full force of the tide races, causing whirlpools and eddies which
looked anything but safe. The foreshore was composed of large round
stones, not pebbles, and the roar of these as they washed up and down
the beach by the waves is one of the characteristics of Placentia. They
say the people of Placentia talk louder than any one else in the island
on account of this.
I was met at the station by George Kelly from Fulford's, who told me
he had a buggy waiting for me across the ferry; but food was first
necessary, and I got a mess of meat at the local hotel for 35 cents. On
asking for a glass of beer or a whisky-and-soda, I was told they only
kept "sober drinks," an expression which I heard for the first time.
The traveller in Newfoundland must reconcile himself to teetotalism
and tea, unless he can carry his own liquor along. Even at the hotel
in St. John's only very indifferent beer was obtainable with meals;
for anything else one had to go round the corner to a second-rate
public-house. Now all this seems very unnecessary, for it would appear
to me that there is much greater chance of a man getting drunk if he
finds himself set down in a public-house after dinner than if he could
obtain what he reasonably required in his hotel. But all Newfoundland
drinks tea, and the sensible traveller will adapt himself to the local
customs, as well as to the midday dinner and the light early tea or
supper.
The ferry was only a couple of hundred yards across, and George and I
were soon on our way to Fulford's.
The drive was a lovely one, the road winding high up over the
south-east arm. The weather had cleared up, the sun was shining
brightly, the hills were glistening in the sunshine after the heavy
rain, and every little stream had become a roaring torrent, which
George said promised well for the fishing.
After a five-mile drive we arrived at Fulford's and I was warmly
welcomed by Mr. Fulford and his wife, really charming people. The house
was scrupulously clean. Fortunately for me, I was the only guest, and I
can only say Mrs. Fulford gave me the best food I had in Newfoundland,
while her terms were even more than moderate. The situation of the
house was very beautiful, overlooking the mouth of the river, which was
about a mile away.
I naturally inquired first about the fishing.
It seemed I was too late for the sea trout in the river itself, at
least in its lower reaches. The sea trout run about July 14th, in great
numbers, but only for a short time. The salmon run earlier.
In the season Fulford's is crammed, anglers sleeping anywhere all over
the house, and struggling with each other for the best water.
The river, after a run of about four miles, falls out of what are
locally termed ponds--what we would call lochs--and at this season of
the year all the fish were in these lochs. At certain distances they
are connected one with the other by short runs of a few yards, and here
the fish lie. These are known as the four-mile, five-mile, six-mile and
seven-mile pools.
Starting off about 4 o'clock, I drove up to the four-mile pool. The
road was fairly good, winding along above the river through the wood,
and the drive was most enjoyable. As we gradually ascended, the view,
looking back over the south-east arm, was very beautiful, reminding me
very much of Scotch scenery in Sutherland.
The entire country was saturated from the morning rain, and we started
in our waders, as George said we had swampy ground to pass through
before reaching the pool. Hitching up the horse where a pathway
branched off, we plunged through a very wet swamp for a few hundred
yards down to the pool.
The water was pouring down from the upper loch, the pool was full of
fish all on the move for the run up to the higher waters, the evening
was closing in--the black flies and mosquitoes were troublesome. Though
I cast over many fish I never got a rise. Getting home at dusk I found
an excellent dinner of roast fowl and wild raspberries and cream
awaiting me.
The next morning we started early for the seven-mile pool. The going
was pretty rough but the scenery very beautiful. We gradually emerged
from the woods on to the higher and more open ground. A half-mile walk
through a very wet marsh brought us to the bank of the stream between
the two lochs, which was in perfect order. It was only a few yards
wide and I could cover the entire fishable water with my fourteen-foot
Castleconnell rod. I rose several fish, killed three who gave good
sport, and lost a fly in another. As the water was about fished out we
went down to the six-mile pool, where I killed one and lost another,
but the fish were all small, 5½, 4½, 4, 3½ lb.
The following day we again tried the seven-mile pool, but the water
had run down and there was little or no stream between the two lochs.
I got one fish of 4 lb., and never saw another. As there was little
chance of more salmon I asked my host if there were any trout in the
neighbourhood. He strongly advised me trying a loch nine miles up the
road, where he and a friend had got twenty-seven dozen mud trout (?
char) in one day's fishing the previous year. After a rough drive over
a very bad road for the last three miles we found the loch, but it was
so overgrown with water-lilies that there was not a square yard of
water on which to cast a fly. Whether they had grown up since his visit
and whether they died down later on in the season I cannot say, but we
had wasted our day. I could not understand the river; thousands of sea
trout run up but I never saw or rose one. It was hardly a river, but
a series of lochs with connecting streams. There were no boats on the
lochs, but I had hoped to find sea trout in the tail of the streams.
Not one, however, did I even see rise. There are a number of lochs
about nine miles up. Whether they contained fish or not I cannot say.
I think it would well repay Mr. Fulford, who is the fish warden of the
district, to investigate the habits of the sea trout and find out where
they eventually lie, presumably in the upper lochs, and put boats on.
The salmon I got were in good condition and excellent eating. Driving
home in the evening about sunset, we generally saw quite a number of
Nova Scotia hares, locally called rabbits, sitting out on the road.
I saw no other game of any description, though there are plenty of
partridges (ruffled grouse) in the neighbourhood.
The steamer was due to sail from Placentia on the 24th inst., at 3
p.m., so I left Fulford's with much regret at 10.30 a.m. and drove into
Placentia, where I found she would not sail till midnight owing to the
amount of cargo.
Going into the Post Office to inquire for letters, I was told I must
see the Communion Plate of the Protestant Church, which was kept in
the Post Office. It was a very handsome service of plate presented by
Prince William Henry, who as a young naval officer passed a winter in
Placentia, then I believe the capital of the island. It was weary work
getting through the day till the steamer sailed. Every berth was taken,
so I had a shakedown in the corridor, which was much more airy than any
cabin.
TO LONG HARBOUR
CHAPTER II
TO LONG HARBOUR
In planning my trip I had the benefit of J. G. Millais' advice. He
first recommended me to try the country at the head of the La Poile
River on the south coast near Port aux Basques. On inquiry I found out
that canoes could not be used. Everything would have to be packed, and
it would take six men to pack to the hunting grounds. With the memory
of my Vancouver trip before me, I decided against the La Poile country
and packing, and chose the ground Millais had hunted with such success
in 1906. He had gone in by the Long Harbour River, struck off to the
north-west to Kesoquit and Shoe Hill Ridge and the Mount Sylvester
region. But the Long Harbour River was very rough, and his canoes
being at Hungry Grove Pond, where a series of ponds led up to Sandy
Pond or Jubilee Lake, its more modern name, I finally decided on this
route, which would bring me quite close to Shoe Hill Ridge and Mount
Sylvester.
Millais himself had not travelled over this ground, so the map
published in his book only gave an approximate idea of the country and
its waterways. I had secured the services of Steve Bernard, Millais'
head man, and he was to meet me with two other Indians at the head of
Long Harbour when I would send a wire.
My route was to be Placentia to Belleoram by the _Glencoe_. At
Belleoram Mr. Ryan, who is in charge of the telegraph station at the
head of Long Harbour, was to meet me in his sailing schooner the
_Caribou_, and from Long Harbour we were to pack in to Hungry Grove
Pond, where the canoes were to be ready.
We did not get away from Placentia till 1 a.m., and crossing Placentia
Bay arrived at Burin the following morning in a thick fog, which
occasionally lifted, showing a fine, wild coast with rocky headlands on
all sides. Burin was a pretty spot, and I saw it better on my return
when there was no fog. We arrived at Grand Bank, a big fishing town, in
the evening, but the fog outside was so thick that the Captain decided
to anchor till 2 a.m. and then cross Fortune Bay to Belleoram.
Grand Bank was responsible for the change in the sailing date of the
_Glencoe_. Leaving Placentia on Saturday she was due at Grand Bank on
Sunday. The inhabitants being very religious objected to loading and
unloading on Sunday, so the sailing was changed to Wednesday, and their
consciences were satisfied. They forgot, however, that they made some
smaller port of call further west break the Sabbath, but being one of
the most important shipping centres in the cod season their views had
to be met.
We arrived at Belleoram at 6 a.m. on the 26th, feeling our way along
the coast with our foghorn.
I and my belongings were turned out on the pier and I felt my trip had
at last begun.
The _Caribou_ was in harbour and a boat put off with Steve Bernard, who
had come down to meet me and help Mr. Ryan, who was laid up on board
with a bad leg. I at once went out to call on Mr. Ryan, as I wanted to
get away as soon as possible. I found a sturdy Irishman of about sixty,
full of go and energy, and in the cheeriest spirits, only extremely
annoyed at the bad leg, which made him pretend to lie up, for lie up he
never did, his restless nature would not allow it, and he was always on
the move.
His illness began with a boil, but he _would_ go off into the woods
after caribou and so irritated it, that the boil had developed into a
large sloughing ulcer with considerable inflammation. He did not seem
to mind it much and insisted on hobbling about the deck.
There was only one place at which I was recommended to put up in case
I had to stay in Belleoram, so I went up to call on Mrs. Cluett and
incidentally forage for breakfast. I received a courteous welcome and
had plenty of eggs, bread and butter, and tea. Getting back to the
_Caribou_ I persuaded Ryan to make a start. There was a thick fog and
it was blowing hard; however, away we went in grand style, steering for
the different points which loomed through the fog. As soon as we got
into the open and had to cross some twelve or fourteen miles of open
sea, an ancient and dilapidated compass was produced from the confusion
of below, for the _Caribou_ was not altogether a tidy boat; the compass
gave a certain moral support, but the needle refused to point in any
direction steadily for more than five minutes. Ryan would give it a
smack, "Sure I think she's only about five points out now," and in a
few minutes, "She's gone all wrong again."
I was entrusted with the steering, which may account for our sighting
land about four miles north of the entrance to Long Harbour. It was
a pretty rough crossing, but the old _Caribou_ was a seaworthy and
dry boat. The weather was what one expects of Newfoundland, wild and
foggy, and the mountains looming up out of the fog looked bigger and
grander than they really were.
We had a rattling following breeze, and notwithstanding Ryan's
assertion that there would be no fog at his house, we ran up the
fourteen miles of Long Harbour and arrived there about 4 o'clock in
the afternoon in a dense fog, having left Belleoram at 10 a.m. Here I
found waiting my two other Indians, John Denny Jeddore and Steve Joe.
My party consisted then of Steve Bernard, head man and hunter, John
Denny Jeddore, generally known as John Denny, and Steve Joe, who had to
become Joe.
John Denny at once told me he had signed on as cook, but added
quaintly: "I have never cooked for gentles." All the same he was an
excellent plain cook, ready to learn anything, scrupulously clean in
all his cooking, and a first-rate fellow. Joe was general utility
man and always cheery. Steve Bernard was a pure bred Micmac, his
father having been chief of the Micmac tribe, and the other two were
half-breeds. John Denny's mother was a Frenchwoman, which perhaps
accounted for his extraordinarily nice manners. My men were somewhat
shy and reserved at first, but we soon became great friends, and I
can only say I never wish for better men or comrades on a hunting
expedition. We never had a word of difference. They were always bright
and willing, and under the most uncomfortable circumstances never
uttered a word of complaint. I think I may say we parted with mutual
regret. They all spoke English, but Steve Bernard was the most fluent.
Amongst themselves they chattered in their own soft Micmac language,
and they never seemed to stop talking. All Newfoundlanders have a
specially charming accent, which is neither Irish nor Canadian, and
certainly not American. It is very soft and mellifluous. "All right,"
pronounced as if it were "aal," is the most common expression, and
seems to be used on every possible occasion.
All my men, instead of dropping their "h's" in the Cockney fashion,
seemed to aspirate almost every word beginning with a vowel, for
instance they always spoke of h'oil, h'oar, h'eat, and h'arm, and so
with many other words.
The Micmacs are Catholics, and their headquarters in Canada are at
Restigouche. Their settlement in Newfoundland is on the Conne River.
A priest from Restigouche visits Conne River from time to time and
preaches in Micmac. At Restigouche are published the Bible, Catechism
and other books in Micmac, which has the same character as English but
only sixteen letters. A Micmac paper is also published at Restigouche
and received once a month at Conne River. Steve was very amusing over
the raising of funds for the construction of a new church at Conne
River. Apparently a sort of bazaar was held at which the chief feature
was a "Wheel of Fortune." Steve felt rather sore that he had gambled
fifteen dollars and won nothing. All the Micmac colony, however, seemed
to have enjoyed themselves hugely, gambling, dancing, and eating; they
provided the food and afterwards paid for each meal--good for the
church!
Ryan's niece kept house for him at Long Harbour--a lonely spot with
only one other settler within twelve miles, and I received from uncle
and niece the warm welcome which every traveller in Newfoundland is
sure to meet with. The morning of the 27th was exquisite, the fog had
cleared away, the sun was shining brightly, and the placid head-waters
of Long Harbour lay without a ripple at our feet. The hills were not
high but beautiful in colour and outline, and I might easily have
imagined myself in a Scotch deer forest. Cases of stores had to be
unpacked, tent and camp equipment looked out, and the morning was spent
in making up the loads.
I had brought an 11-feet square fly for the three men, two tents for
myself, both of the lean-to pattern, one heavier and stronger tent of
green canvas 7 feet × 7 feet, the other the 6 feet × 7 feet silk tent
I had used in Vancouver, and which weighed only 5 lb, my idea being
to use it for short trips from the main camp. One pair of Hudson Bay
blankets made into a sleeping bag, a pillow, the usual cooking tins in
nests, and the folding baker completed my outfit. This latter is simply
invaluable; I purchased one locally in St. John's.
Camp furniture I had none, but as experience had taught me that the
comfort of a bed of balsam on the ground was somewhat overrated, I
had brought a sheet of strong canvas 7 feet × 2 feet 9 inches, with
gussets on either side, and eyelet holes at the top and bottom. Into
the gussets were slipped strong poles and these laid on two logs at the
head and foot in which notches were cut to receive them, and then the
poles were nailed down with one 3-inch nail at each end, and the canvas
at the head and foot laced round the logs.
A more comfortable camp bed it was impossible to have and it took about
ten minutes to construct. With men such as I had, skilful with their
axes, to bring camp furniture was unnecessary: tables, benches, poles
for hanging clothes, rifle and gun rests, can easily be made, and one
day in a permanent camp is sufficient to have all a hunter can want. My
men were as good as, if not better than the French Canadians I employed
when hunting moose in Canada some nine years before. They introduced me
to a bench or camp seat I had never seen before. A suitable tree with
outstanding branches is cut down, a short section chosen, on which, on
one side at least, there are four branches to form the legs; this is
split in two and an excellent camp stool is the result.
I found we had eight loads, which meant double journeys as far as
Hungry Grove Pond, so I started off Joe and John Denny with two packs,
while Steve and I took a light camp up to Mitchell's Point, where
the river ran into the head of the Long Harbour and from which I was
assured I could get some good sea trout fishing. We had camp pitched
and our midday meal over by 3 o'clock, so started up the river for
the sea trout on which we depended for dinner. It was a rough journey
along the river bank or in its bed, and although all the water looked
tempting it was 5 o'clock before we reached the pool in which the fish
were supposed to be.
Long Harbour River is one of the biggest rivers in the south and in
the early summer a large number of salmon and sea trout run up, but
like most Newfoundland rivers that I saw, the pools alternated with
long shallow runs, where no fish would lie. There were certainly some
beautiful pools, so it was a disappointment, more especially as regards
dinner, that I only rose one fish and hooked another which broke away.
Steve unfortunately cut his foot with the small axe in making camp. It
looked nothing, but on his way up the river the wound opened and bled
rather freely. I fixed him up with a pad and a bandage, and dressed it
on our return to camp with 1/1000 corrosive sublimate solution made
from tabloids, without which I never travel.
We had only about half-an-hour to fish if we would get back to camp,
some four miles away, before dark, so we really did not give the
water a fair chance. We did not get into camp till about 8.30. Steve
declared he was first-rate at slapjacks, so while I prepared a square
of Lazenby's soup he set to work on the slapjacks. After using half a
tin of butter he produced a sodden mass of dough, on which and the soup
we made a poor meal.
The flies and mosquitoes were very troublesome, but Farlow's "dope" was
fairly successful.
Our camping ground was too near the river and on rather low ground. A
very heavy dew fell during the night and everything was soaking in the
morning. As the fishing was not likely to prove a success we decided
to return to Ryan's and push on after our men. Getting away about 12
o'clock, for I had sent Steve back to Ryan's on foot to borrow their
dory which brought our camp up, we stopped to boil the kettle and have
lunch near a settler's place just beyond the mouth of the river. He
was a hardy old man, by name Joe Riggs, and though he had recently
undergone several operations in the hospital at St. John's to remove
some diseased ribs, he was working away all alone getting in his hay.
He was very lonely and sad for he had only recently lost his wife, and
the way he spoke about her was very touching. In winter, however, he
went down to Anderson's Cove, a small settlement at the mouth of Long
Harbour, where a married daughter lived. Among the solitary settlers
I met, of whom Joe Riggs was a type, it was remarkable how the spot
they had selected for settling on was the very finest to be found, and
to poor old Joe, Long Harbour was a sort of earthly Paradise which he
would not exchange for any other part of Newfoundland.
On reaching Ryan's, where I was ashamed to trespass once more on his
hospitality for the night, I found John Denny and Joe had taken two
packs on about eleven miles, to a spot about three miles from Hungry
Grove Pond and returned for more loads.
I took another Indian, Micky John by name, to help and the three men
started off about 3 o'clock. Two were to return the next day, while
John Denny was to make a double trip down to Hungry Grove Pond.
TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS
CHAPTER III
TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS
The following day, the 29th, I had to wait for the men to come back,
so did not start till 10.30. The track led up the steep hill behind
Ryan's house. It was rough going, but nothing in daylight, and the
air that morning made one feel glad to be alive. After a steady rise
of about two miles we came on to a great wild plateau with hardly a
tree to be seen, and I had my first experience of the great barrens
of Newfoundland. The colouring was exquisite, and though desolate in
the extreme the scenery had a great charm of its own, chiefly due to
effects of light and shade.
Deep shadows thrown by the fleecy clouds overhead fell on ridges far
away and gave an idea of immensity and distance without which the view
might have been monotonous. The air was extraordinarily clear: a ridge
which looked a couple of miles away was pointed out to me as six-mile
ridge, the head of the divide, from which the ground sloped away to our
destination, Hungry Grove Pond. It took us till 3 o'clock to reach
the top of the ridge, which at first sight looked so near. The rise
the whole way was very gradual, in fact hardly perceptible. The whole
country was undulating, low ridges alternating with little valleys, and
in each bottom was a small pond from which issued a noisy stream. Dwarf
balsam was scattered in patches. A bright yellow grass showed where
the marshes, locally called "mishes," which we had to cross, lay, and
though there had been a spell of dry weather, very wet and boggy some
of these "mishes" were.
When we reached the six-mile ridge we caught our first glimpse of the
top of Mount Sylvester, just showing a pale blue on the sky-line, while
far down below in a valley lay Hungry Grove Pond.
I calculated we had come eight miles, for the six-mile ridge had been
measured from the old Telegraph Office instead of the new.
Dark clouds were now coming up from the coast, and it looked as if
we were in for a bad night. I asked Steve if he were certain he had
brought the pack with my blankets and waterproof sheet. On examining
the packs we found that this, the most important to me at least, had
been left behind. Here was a pleasant position. Heavy rain coming up
with a cold driving wind and no bedding for the night. But Steve was
equal to the occasion and showed me what a first-rate man he was. Our
camp was three miles ahead, Ryan's house eight miles behind, and it was
3 o'clock in the afternoon. Steve quietly said, "My fault, I go back
and fetch up the pack." None of the others offered to go in his place,
so laying down his own pack, for which I was to send back from camp,
away went Steve at a trot.
We pushed on to camp, which John had pitched in a small droke, and just
as we got in, down came the rain in torrents.
Getting a tent pitched in heavy rain is poor fun, but camp was soon
comfortable and a roaring fire going. I had shot three grouse with my
little rook rifle on the march, out of season I may say, but when it is
a question of food I fear game laws are apt to be disregarded in the
wilds. I soon had a good stew of grouse, potatoes and onions cooking,
which was pronounced excellent later on. John was shy of showing
his own abilities as a chef and sat humbly at my feet as a learner.
After dinner we were talking of poor Steve's bad luck and how wet and
uncomfortable he must be, and discussing when we should send one of
the men back with a lantern to meet him. It was then quite dark, about
7.30 p.m., when Steve walked quietly into the camp with his pack and
simply remarked: "Don't think I made bad time." I should think not. He
had covered nineteen miles, eleven of them carrying a pack, in four and
a half hours--a fine performance. He well deserved the tot of rum which
I served out to him. I heard afterwards that in June he had left Ryan's
house at 4 a.m. with a light pack and arrived at Conne River, his home,
a distance of forty-eight miles, at 8 o'clock the same evening.
I had gathered from Millais' book that Steve was rather addicted to
rum, which was confirmed by a letter from him to Mr. Blair, saying,
"Don't forget some rum, for you know how fond I am of it." I rather
chaffed him about this letter and he assured me that it was a
mistake--he could not write himself and some girl in his settlement had
written for him and put the passage in without his knowledge. I can
only say that I had no difficulty with Steve or any of the others over
the question of liquor. I kept the whisky and rum locked up in a box,
but I think I might have left it open. I had only six bottles of whisky
and three of rum, and on opening the box one of the latter was found
broken. I spread this amount over our entire trip till I got back to
St. John's. John told me he did not care for rum. Joe acknowledged he
liked it, but Steve more than once refused a tot, even after a hard day.
It was a cold camp that night, the ground was saturated, the balsam
bedding dripping, and the cold and damp struck up through the thick
waterproof sheet and two blankets.
The following morning was perfect, a bright sun shining and a cold nip
in the air.
John had packed two loads down to the Pond the previous day, so we
started together carrying four loads. Track down to the Pond there was
none, and the ground after last night's rain was soaking. The swamps
were full of water and the going very hard, but we had only three
miles to cover. On the way I stalked a lot of geese, but only got a
shot with the rook rifle at about 150 yards and the bullet fell short.
Once at the lake all troubles were over and I had to look forward
to a comfortable trip in the two Peterborough canoes lying ready.
Micky John was sent home. We had seen a doe caribou on the way and
he announced his intention of having a try for venison. Joe was sent
back to Ryan's for the last light load, and Steve and John to bring up
the two remaining loads from last night's camp. I pitched my tent and
made things generally shipshape till the men came back. The camp was
an ideal one, situated on a wooded spit of land which separated the
main pond from the smaller arm. The ground was sandy and dry, firewood
abundant, and a brilliant sun was shining over the glassy lake, the
shores of which were densely wooded. Packing was done with for the
time, two canoes, which enabled us to travel in comfort, were lying
pulled up on the sandy beach, and the caribou grounds were a couple of
days ahead. What more could a hunter's heart desire. No more letters
would be received, no news from the outside world for at least a month,
only the joy of solitude in communion with nature, a joy which once
experienced can never be forgotten. In the rush and turmoil of life
which was to come, when my holiday was over, I could at least have the
memories of the happy time now before me to look back on.
The men all turned up in good time in the afternoon, so I tried the
lake and got three trout about half-a-pound each on the minnow. After
an excellent dinner we were soon sleeping the sleep of the just, with
roaring fires in front of my tent and the men's fly.
HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND
[Illustration: JOHN DENNY AND STEVE BERNARD]
[Illustration: A NEWFOUNDLAND POND
[_To face page 197._]
CHAPTER IV
HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND
The morning of the 31st was bright and cold, though rain had fallen in
the night, and we got away about 9 o'clock. One hour's steady paddling
and rowing, for the larger canoe had oars, took us to the north end of
Hungry Grove Pond, about three miles I should say, from which issued a
brook communicating with Red Hill Pond. The water was very low and the
men spent most of their time in the water dragging the canoes over the
rocky shallows. I strolled along the bank and saw many old tracks of
caribou, but nothing fresh. We had one portage of about half-a-mile, to
pass some bad rapids. The brook was about two miles long and owing to
the bad water and portage it took us some two hours to get down to Red
Hill Pond. We named the brook the Two Mile Brook. Millais had shown a
communication between Hungry Grove Pond and Red Hill Pond in his map of
the district, but never having travelled over the line we were taking
he could not show details.
Red Hill Pond takes its name from a rocky reddish bluff, which rises
a couple of hundred feet on the east side of the pond. The country is
said to be a good one for bear, but we did not even see fresh tracks.
The pond is only about a mile long, and we got to the end about
lunch-time.
I had brought rod rings with me, and had rigged up a rough trolling rod
at our first camp, to which I lashed a spare reel. I made it a rule
to have this primitive rod and my twelve-foot trout rod trolling over
every lake and pond we crossed. I generally put a Devon minnow on one
rod, and a blue phantom on the other. I used the fly exclusively when
we came to any streams. I got one trout, a lively fish of 1½ lb., in
crossing Red Hill Pond and two in Hungry Grove Pond. There was a rapid
and a nice pool at the north end of the pond where we halted for lunch,
and putting on a small silver doctor in a few minutes I had six nice
trout, some of 1½ lb., ready for lunch. John Denny said they were all
onannaniche or landlocked salmon. I had never seen them before; they
were just like sea trout, and played in the same way, jumping out of
the water even more frequently than sea trout. They were strong, game
fish, and better still, excellent eating. Here I got my first mud
trout, which I take to be char. They were more flabby and not in such
good condition as the onannaniche; their flesh was a bright red, and
they were good eating.
From Red Hill Pond, after a portage over the short rapid where I had
fished, we entered a long weedy pond where fishing was impossible; then
came shallow streams with just a perceptible current and three more
large ponds, till we reached our camping ground at 4.30 at the head
of a rough brook, over which we had to portage next day. I calculated
we had come about fourteen miles. The steadies required careful
navigation, for there were masses of sharp rocks, some just submerged,
others showing well above the water. The bow paddler had to keep a
sharp look-out, for very little will knock a hole in a Peterborough
canoe. We were now getting rather anxious for meat, for it is simply
impossible to carry tinned provisions in sufficient quantity to satisfy
the appetites of four hungry men.
The wind had been north-east all day, and fell to a dead calm as Steve
and I quietly paddled out, skirting the lake shore, with the hope of
seeing game. We went about a mile and landed on a sandy beach where
there were one or two fresh tracks, and then on about half-a-mile
inland to a rocky knoll from which we could spy the surrounding
country, which was mostly marsh with patches of dense wood scattered
all over the plain and becoming thicker down by the lake's edge.
At this season of the year all the stags spend their days in the woods,
and only come out morning and evening to feed. There was not a breath
of air and the mosquitoes and black fly were out in force; towards
sunset we saw a small stag with a poor head come out of a wood about a
mile away, and feed down towards us. We had visions of caribou steak
and liver and bacon before us, when suddenly the wind veered right
round; at the same time a fox on the shore of the lake, who had seen
us, kept barking persistently. Whether it was the wind or the fox I
can't say, but the stag put up his head, turned right round and walked
straight away--alas, the hopes of meat were gone. It was getting dusk,
so we made for the canoe. On the way we saw a very small doe, but the
wind was again wrong and she was off in a moment. We got back to camp
in the dark.
Steve swore we must have meat and asked for my Rigby Mauser that he
might go out at daybreak and shoot anything eatable. I offered him the
little rook rifle, so it was decided he would be out before daybreak
for meat. I was only hunting heads, but all the Indians had strong
opinions on the subject of meat.
On September 1st Steve was out at daybreak with the small rifle and
came back about seven o'clock triumphant, having shot a young stag in
good condition. He had crawled within about fifty yards and killed the
beast with one shot. I was simply astonished, for I never could have
believed that the little rifle, one of Rigby's rook rifles, could have
killed an animal bigger than an ordinary red deer. Steve had brought in
the liver and kidneys and left the meat to be picked up on our march,
for fortunately it was close to a pond we had to pass through. How we
all revelled in a good breakfast of kidneys and liver and bacon. Every
one was in good humour, for we now had ample meat.
The brook was about three-quarters of a mile long and everything had to
be portaged.
It looked ideal fishing water, and while the men were portaging I
fished every pool. I got two onannaniche and two mud trout above the
first pool, and then never a rise, though the pools looked perfect.
Where the brook fell into the next lake looked the best water, but I
could move nothing. Why, I could not understand, unless it was that the
season was late for these waters.
When the portage was over Steve and John went across the pond for the
meat, and Joe and I pushed on in the big canoe about a mile across the
pond to another rapid, fortunately only about thirty yards long, where
we again had to portage. The day had turned bitterly cold and heavy
rain clouds were coming up. I had got very warm walking and fishing
along the brook, and though I put on a thick jersey the wind seemed
to cut like a knife and I got a bad cold which gave me some trouble
for days after. Poor old Joe had spent most of the day up to his waist
in water getting the empty canoes down the creek and was looking very
miserable. The men wore nothing but their cotton shirts and coats,
cotton trousers and moccasins--they were never dry, but never seemed to
catch cold.
It was just the occasion for a tot of rum. Whether it went to Joe's
head or not I cannot say--he certainly became extra cheerful, and when
the other men returned and all the men were carrying the loads across
the rapid, Joe tumbled twice right into the water and got a thorough
ducking. I only made a gesture of taking a tot, when I thought these
simple folk would never stop laughing. It was a joke which lasted
them the rest of the trip, and in Indian circles no doubt I have the
reputation of being a great wit. Joe laughed if possible more heartily
than the others, and though soaked to the skin was quite happy for the
rest of the day.
Just as we were loading up the canoes John pointed to the sky-line
about half-a-mile away and quietly said, "That good stag, I think."
Sure enough there was a heavy beast, the first big stag I had seen,
quietly feeding along the crest of the ridge. The wind was right, so
we decided to cross the pond, land, and have a closer look at him. His
head looked massive, but I could not make out the points.
I certainly never had an easier stalk, as the ground was perfect for
stalking, and this holds good all over the island. We walked quietly
up in perfect shelter to within about 150 yards of where we had last
seen the stag, and presently saw the tops of his horns sticking up
from behind a low bush. Leaving Steve behind, I crawled up to within
about seventy yards and got my telescope on to count the points. The
horns were in velvet, but just stripping--and as the frontal tines were
interlocked it was difficult to count the exact number. Beckoning Steve
up we spent some time counting the points, for the poor beast was lying
sound asleep with his head nodding. Steve could make out thirty points,
but said we would get many better heads. We had almost determined to
leave him, when I thought after all here was a certainty, so resting my
rifle in the branch of a tree in front of me, I shot him through the
neck. It was rather murder, for no skill either in the stalk or shot
was necessary. However, he knew nothing, but rolled over stone dead.
When we got up to him we could only make out twenty-nine points, but
the head was quite a pretty one. The body was very big, but not in good
condition.
Calling up the men, we soon had the head and meat down to the canoes
and boiled the kettle before starting on. We now had enough meat
for some days, though it is astonishing what a quantity of meat an
Indian can get through; so we could afford to look for that extra good
head--which as it happened we never came across.
We went on through some shallow and very rocky steadies, and after
about a mile came to the last portage into Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake.
We had to carry the canoes over this and were soon crossing to the
north shore of Sandy Pond, where we were to make our permanent camp.
There was a fine following wind which helped us along, and by sunset
we had covered the four miles of lake and arrived at one of Steve's
trapping camps, which was to be our headquarters.
Sandy Pond is a lovely sheet of water studded with innumerable
islands, some densely wooded, some quite bare. In the early mornings
and evenings in fair weather the view was exquisite, and I was never
tired of the changing effects on the lake. One day there would not be a
ripple, another day would come a gale and driving rain, and such a sea
that the canoes could not be launched, but as a rule for three weeks we
had perfect weather.