about 1½ lb. each, so the day's bag was two deer and eight trout. The
licence only allows the shooting of three stags, but to shoot meat for
food is, I think, an unwritten law of the island, and I feel sure the
authorities themselves would not insist on a too strict application
of the licence. It is simply impossible to carry enough tinned meat
to keep four men going, and with meat at the door when it is urgently
needed it is not human nature to resist the temptation. On the entire
trip we shot only what was absolutely necessary for food, but with no
meat in camp I used to send Steve out with the small rifle to shoot a
barren doe for the pot, and not a pound of meat was wasted.
Our camp was pitched in a dense wood, for after the great forests of
Vancouver the Newfoundland timber looks insignificant and only worthy
of the name of wood. A good clearing had already been made by Steve on
his trapping expeditions, and poles for pitching the fly were lying
ready. We soon had a most comfortable camp pitched, and with plenty of
food and a tot of rum to mark the occasion of arriving in our permanent
camp, we passed a happy evening, smoking our pipes in front of a
glorious camp fire and discussing the plans and the prospects for the
future.
We decided to make this our main camp, leaving here most of our stores,
and to make flying trips, at first west into the thickly wooded country
where the stags were most likely to be found at this time of year, and
later north-east up to the barrens and Shoe Hill Ridge.
This was Steve's advice and I naturally decided to follow it. I had
originally thought of working north by Mount Sylvester, striking the
higher waters of the Terra Nova River and so down to the railway at
Terra Nova, which would have been a shorter way back to St. John's; but
Steve told me that last season he had been with a party of Americans
who came in from Terra Nova, and that the country had been shot out,
as they never saw a decent stag till they came on to the barrens hear
Shoe Hill Ridge, where they could only stay for two days, during which
they secured two good stags.
The morning of September 2nd was exquisite, all the clouds of yesterday
had cleared away and a bright sun was shining in a cloudless sky. I had
passed rather a bad night coughing, owing to the chill caught the day
before, but in the climate of Newfoundland one never felt ill.
After an early breakfast we started off in the big canoe to explore
the shores of the lake and look for signs. Stags we could not expect
to see, for they were bound to be in the woods, and the whole of the
northern shore of Sandy Pond is densely wooded. About a mile west of
the camp was the brook connecting Sandy Pond with the large lake of
Kaegudeck to the north. Here, I thought, must be the ideal spot for
trout, but though I fished for an hour I never got a rise. The brook is
only about ten yards wide and quite unnavigable for canoes.
We found plenty of fresh marks of deer on the sandy beaches of the
lake, but saw nothing.
Returning to camp we pottered around getting the camp
shipshape--including the making of my patent bed, which was a
tremendous success. Poles for hanging clothes, rests for rifles and
fishing-rods, shelves in my tent, and even tables were run up by the
men, and the camp was soon all that could be desired in the way of
comfort.
About 4 o'clock we took the canoe and went east about a mile, passing
another brook quite as big as that running from Kaegudeck and which
takes its rise in Shoe Hill Lake. Landing, we went up to a look-out
hill about half-a-mile away, from which we had a splendid view of the
country to the east.
The ground, rugged and intersected with small watercourses, rose
gradually to a ridge about three miles away, beyond which, Steve said,
lay an open plain leading on to Shoe Hill Ridge. The hills looked about
400 feet high and from our look-out we could spy the entire face for
some miles; to the south-east lay Square Box Hill crowning the ridge.
There were many clumps of timber lining the sides of the watercourses
and numerous small ponds lay in the hollows.
It looked an ideal caribou country, over which later on in the season
all the caribou from the south and west cross to gain the barrens.
Many well-worn caribou tracks led upwards. It was a lovely evening.
We could look over Sandy Pond with its wooded islands and its
forest-clothed shores standing out dark against the setting sun and
reflected in the placid waters of the lake. Just as the sun went down
in a blaze of colour we saw five deer come out of different patches of
wood, but only one was a stag, and the head being poor we left him,
though to get a shot would have been a very easy stalk.
In the short row home I picked up five trout, two being over a pound. I
found that just half-an-hour before and half-an-hour after sunset was
the best time for trolling, and I could always pick up enough fish for
the camp coming home in the canoe after a day's stalking.
Next morning, September 3rd, we were up for an early breakfast and
got away at 7 a.m. Here I first used the rucksack, which was most
convenient, as in it we carried our midday meal, an oilskin, if it
looked like rain, and a kettle for tea. The lake was dead calm and the
morning mists were clearing away as we started. Our plan was to work up
to the top of the ridge we had seen the evening before, hunt the face
of the hill and see if there were any signs of stags on the barrens.
Unfortunately our chances of deer on the way up were spoiled by a
south-west wind which got up about eight o'clock, and blew steadily
from behind us the whole way up. We saw four does on one of the islands
in the lake, but the whole face of the ridge was devoid of stags.
It was only about three miles to the crest of the ridge, and the
country being dry the going was good. There were many small swamps and
ponds along the side of the hill with small drokes in the hollows,
altogether ideal ground for stags. There were not many fresh tracks,
though the deep ruts cut by the hoofs of innumerable herds of deer
showed what numbers must pass later on in the season.
On reaching the top of the ridge we looked over a vast undulating tract
of country, the true barrens. There were only three drokes in sight.
One about four miles away, which Steve pointed out to me as Shoe Hill
Droke, where Millais camped and from which he got such fine heads in
October; nearer still another droke where Captain Legge had camped two
years before and from which he got a forty-pointer; in fact, I was
looking over historic ground from a sporting point of view, and there
seemed no reasons why I should not be as successful as those who had
gone before me.
There were neither stags nor does in sight, and no fresh tracks. Steve
said they would not move up to the barrens before the 15th or 20th of
September. It made me bitterly regret I was so cramped for time, and
that I had to be back to catch the _Glencoe_ at Belleoram on September
26th. It is the greatest mistake being tied down to time on any
hunting trip; a week extra might have made all the difference in my
sport, but steamers did not fit in, and I was bound to be in New York
to sail for home on October 8th.
We had a splendid view of the entire country from the look-out hill
on the top of the ridge. To the north lay Mount Sylvester about four
hours' march away; to the north-west Lake Kaegudeck, buried in dense
woods; behind Kaegudeck lay the hills over the Gander. To the east
the view was bounded by Shoe Hill Ridge with its droke standing up
against the clear sky. To the west was the country we had just come
through sloping down to Sandy Pond, while far behind to the west lay
Kepskaig Hill, which we were to visit later on. After spending some
time spying the entire country, we boiled the kettle, had lunch and
strolled leisurely down to the lake. Meanwhile the placid lake of the
morning had changed and the south-west wind, now blowing half a gale,
was rolling up big breakers on the shore. We had sent the canoe home in
the morning and it was too rough for Joe to fetch us, so we went back
to the look-out of the first evening and spied the whole country till
dark. We saw two stags up on the sky-line near Square Box Hill, but it
was too late to go after them; one looked a heavy beast. The wind went
down with the setting sun and Joe was able to come across for us, but
the lake was still too rough for fishing.
On September 4th the glass had fallen badly, a gale was blowing and
heavy rain clouds were coming up from the south-west. Notwithstanding
the prospect of bad weather we decided to go up to Square Box Hill and
have a look for the stag we had seen the previous evening. It was a
five miles' walk, up hill the whole way, but the ascent was gradual.
We had just reached the top of the ridge within about half-a-mile of
the hill when the rain came down in sheets. Spying was impossible, so
we took shelter in a droke, lit a good fire, boiled the kettle and
had lunch. We waited till about two o'clock, but there was no sign of
clearing, so we plodded back to camp, getting well soaked through. Just
as we got to camp the rain cleared off, and after a change of clothing
we started to fish about five o'clock. We picked up five nice fish,
all on the minnow--one about 2 lb. Just at dusk a doe came swimming
out from one of the islands as if to have a look at us. Meat was not
over abundant in camp, so I gave Steve permission to shoot her with the
rook rifle. Steve rather prided himself on being a good shot, but he
was shooting from a wobbly canoe and missed clean with the first shot,
but hit her with the second, and landing, killed her stone dead. By the
time the doe was gralloched and in the canoe a heavy fog had come up
and it was dark before we reached camp.
On this trip I was introduced to two great delicacies. One roast doe's
head, and the other roast breast-bone of stag. John was an adept at
these dishes, and anything more delicious and tender I have never
tasted. The head was only skinned, put in the baker and roasted whole
for about six hours, the great advantage of the baker being that the
heat can be regulated by the distance it is kept from the fire.
In the evening we had a long discussion as to what we had better do.
There were no stags to speak of in the country we were in. So a move
was necessary, and Steve decided we would take all the outfit to the
west end of Sandy Pond, there make our main camp, and with a small camp
work down to Kepskaig, all through a wooded country where he maintained
the stags were now to be found. So we decided to make a start the
following morning.
Our camp was simply infested with grey jays, generally known as
robber-birds; there were at least a dozen who made the camp their home.
No sooner was a bit of meat hung up in the open than they descended on
it and began picking it to pieces.
It was very interesting watching them, for they were so tame that Joe
caught one with his hand. They appeared to be ravenous, and stuffed
themselves with meat and then flew away, but Steve explained they only
went a short distance to store the meat for the bad winter days to
come, hiding it in crevices in the bark of the surrounding trees. They
worked hard from morning to night and must have laid by a good store,
for I left a good lump of venison hanging in the open for their special
benefit, the rest of the meat being protected from the flies and the
jays by my mosquito net, which I had turned into a meat safe.
TO KOSK[=A]CODDE
[Illustration: STEVE SPYING, SANDY POND]
[Illustration: CAMP, WEST END SANDY POND
[_To face page 217._]
CHAPTER V
TO KOSK[=A]CODDE
September 5th was a lovely morning, not a breath of wind and a
cloudless sky, so different from yesterday. Getting away at 9.30 we
made a good four miles an hour, reaching our camping ground at the
west end of the lake at 11.30. Steve, Joe and I were in the big canoe
and John, a fine boatman, in the small canoe which skirted the shores
of the lake. We disturbed a small stag which was feeding along the
shore and which at once disappeared in the woods. The camp was simply
perfect, fairly open yet with sufficient shelter from the surrounding
woods. Behind it rose a hill about 100 feet high, a fine look-out over
the entire country. The tents were pitched on a spur of land just where
the Baie du Nord River, or rather its head-waters, left the lake in a
tumbling torrent with intervening deep pools, an ideal salmon river to
look at, but unfortunately no salmon can pass Smoky Falls, many miles
away to the south of Lake Meddonagonax.
I had caught two trout crossing the lake, but could not resist the
first really good fly-fishing water I had come to, so a few minutes
after arrival I was on the bank of the river fishing an ideal pool.
There was about a quarter of a mile of fishing water, after which was a
small lake and then more rapids below. In an hour I had landed twelve
trout and char, weighing 10½ lb. The trout were all onannaniche and
played like sea trout--more often out of the water than in. The largest
was 2¼ lb., and the two largest char weighed 2¾ lb. In the heavy rapid
water they gave grand sport. What an ideal camp it was! The best of
fishing at the door of the tent, a glorious view over the lake, with
its many wood-clad islands to the south, while across the lake the
ground was open and sloped gradually upwards, and here Steve said he
had more than once seen good stags. The whole ground could be spied
from the rocky hill behind the camp, from which, too, we could look
over all the woodland marshes to north and west and could see the river
winding away to distant Kosk[=a]codde, and in the further distance
Kepskaig Hill and the country we were to hunt later on.
After lunch, about 3 o'clock, Steve and I started for the look-outs.
There were three in all, behind and to the north of our camp. We
decided to go straight to the one farthest north, a mile away, and
from which we could command all the open ground near the lake and the
numerous glades and marshes lying around us. Our only chance was to see
a stag coming out to feed about sunset.
The country was undulating, and on the north side of the lake gradually
rose to hills about 200 feet high. Dense woods clothed the ravines
running up to the higher ground, while between the woods and the
surrounding numerous small ponds were fairly open glades interspersed
with marshes. The track worn by the feet of many caribou and cleared
in parts by Steve, who trapped this country in the winter, was quite
good going and we were on the top of our hill long before sunset. The
view was a fine one; as we looked right over the entire lake and away
to the south we could see the river winding down through the woods
to Lake Kosk[=a]codde, only about four miles away as the crow flies.
Kosk[=a]codde is the Indian for the Mackle bird, or Little Gull Pond.
On our way up we saw the first sign of a stag cleaning his antlers, and
the fresh rubbing showed that he had been on the ground quite recently.
Having spied the entire country on both sides and nothing being in
sight, we decided to return to camp. About half-a-mile from camp we
suddenly saw a big stag come out of the woods and feed along a ridge
just above the shores of the lake. He was not more than 400 yards
away and was walking rapidly as he fed up wind and towards the camp.
Waiting until he had crossed the ridge and was out of sight, we pushed
on across a small dip between us and the ridge, and so to the top of
the ridge where he had disappeared. It could hardly be dignified by
the name of a stalk, for on looking over there he was standing about
a hundred yards away, feeding quietly. On the side towards me the
frontals and middles were good, the tops poor, but stags were scarce,
and hoping for the best I dropped him with one shot. It was the usual
story, the two sides were not alike and the horn next to me was the
best one. This is one of the great difficulties of judging heads; on
one side may be a fine frontal of seven or eight points concealing the
other frontal, which may be a single spike. He was a very heavy stag,
in good condition and quite clean, but I should say the head was going
back. In one respect it was remarkable--there were three distinct
horns, the third with two points growing out of the orbital ridge and
completely separated from the horn on the same side. Steve said he had
never seen one like it.
The next morning I sent Steve out early to spy the country. He came
back having seen only one very small stag and three does. Joe was
dispatched to cut up yesterday's stag, and bring in the head and meat,
while I decided to fish the river down and go out again in the evening
on the chance of another stag.
Taking Steve with me, I fished down for about two miles. There was some
lovely water, but all the fish were lying in the pools and none in the
streams.
In the lowest pool I reached I got a fine fish of 3 lb. and five other
good ones. By lunch I had twenty-one trout and five char, weighing
19 lb.; a number of small ones I had put back. The trout were all
onannaniche and as game a fish for its size as I ever want to catch;
in the heavy water they gave grand sport. Coming back to camp we saw
two old geese and a fine lot of young ones feeding in a marsh across a
small lake. Seeing us they kept cackling and moving higher up into the
reeds. We both went back to camp to fetch the rook rifle, so making a
great mistake, for had one of us remained where we were we certainly
would have got a shot, for they would not have left the marsh so long
as some one was in sight, guarding the narrow mouth of the river by
which they were bound to pass. When we got back with the rifle they had
disappeared.
In the afternoon we went out to the second look-out, and waited till
sunset. It was a wonderful evening, not a breath of wind, and the
mosquitoes and flies were out in force even on the top of our little
hill. In a small pond below us half-a-dozen black duck were swimming
about through the reeds, while the hundreds of rings on the water
showed that the pond was well stocked with trout, but Steve said they
were all very small and not worth catching; the pond must have been
simply alive with them judging from the number of rises.
Presently we saw a barren doe come out of the woods and feed towards
where we had shot yesterday's stag. The sound of chopping wood in camp
was quite distinct in the still air, and whether it was hearing this or
whether she had winded where the dead stag had lain, she turned back
and swam straight out into the lake for about 300 yards, then turned
north and swam at least a mile to a jutting out wooded point where she
landed, shook herself like a dog and disappeared in the woods. She
swam very high in the water with her scut straight up. It was a pretty
sight, as I could watch her all the way with my glasses.
I was not very satisfied with the system of hunting we were obliged
to follow. Sitting waiting on the top of a look-out on the chance of
something turning up did not appeal to me, but Steve assured me it was
much too early to go up to the barrens and that our only chance was in
the woods, and I have no doubt he was right. The stags do not move up
to the high ground much before September 20th, though I believe the
Shoe Hill country and right away east holds stags permanently, but the
big stags who have summered in the woods do not begin to move much
before the 20th. The season closing on October 1st, there is not much
time for good stags. The close time is from October 1st to 20th, when
shooting is again allowed. I have a shrewd suspicion that men who go in
about October 5th, to be in time for the second season, are not very
particular about dates. I feel I should be sadly tempted myself were
I to see a forty-five pointer, say October 16th. But when the rutting
season is on, between October 1st and 20th, the stags are easily
approachable and the sport cannot be good.
We discussed our plans at length--there were not many big stags
about, and though the camp was an ideal one I decided, on Steve's
recommendation, to move down south to Lake Kosk[=a]codde and Kepskaig,
where, though the country was fairly wooded, Steve said we should have
a chance of a good stag.
On September 7th the weather looked like breaking. Steve was out at
daybreak and spied two stags down the river where we proposed to go. We
decided to leave Joe in camp and take a light camp and provisions for
a week in the big canoe and explore the country to the south. Joe was
rather sad at being left behind, but though he had a good tent, lots of
meat and provisions, the enforced solitude did not appeal to him.
While Steve and John were packing the canoe I went down to the river
and soon had ten trout and char, 8½ lb., the two biggest being over
2 lb. each. The canoe was let down the rapids with a rope, the kit
being portaged to the bottom of the rapids, only about 400 yards,
where the river fell into a small lake or Podopsk, a generic term for
all the small ponds in the course of a river. After crossing this
we had a navigable stream with occasional rapids, all of which we
were able to negotiate without unloading. Having started at 9 a.m.
we reached a rapid at the entrance to Kosk[=a]codde about 1.15. Here
we had to portage about fifty yards. I slipped on the rocks and took
an involuntary bath, which was rather annoying. However, a change of
clothes was at hand and I was none the worse for my dip. Just as we got
into the new lake I saw a deer make off on the far side, having seen
us. I could not make out whether it was a stag or a hind, as I only
saw its rump disappearing in the trees. At the same moment John saw a
stag feeding quietly away on our side of the lake. We soon got close
enough to see that the head was a poor one. I tried to take a snapshot
with the camera, but when I got within fifty yards he saw me and was
off. He was a fine big-bodied beast, and may have been one of the stags
Steve had seen in the morning. We pushed on about one mile, and camped
on a promontory stretching out into the lake. There was a nice sandy
shelving beach and a perfect camping ground all ready, as it had been
cleared by some other party the previous year, and only the undergrowth
had to be cut away.
[Illustration: THE THREE-HORNED STAG]
[Illustration: "BAD WATER"
[_To face page 225._]
In the afternoon, taking the canoe, we paddled quietly along the shore,
and after about two miles landed on a sandy beach to look for signs.
A fringe of wood clothed the south shore of the lake, beyond which
was a fairly open country. There were plenty of signs, and we were
strolling quietly along the beach when Steve seized me by the arm and
whispered, "Deer coming through wood." I confess I could hear nothing,
but Steve's hearing was marvellously acute. Sitting down on a big rock,
I got the rifle ready and laid it across my knees. Presently I heard a
crackling and breaking of branches quite close by, when a noble-looking
stag walked out into the open and without looking round or ahead
crossed the sandy beach down to the edge of the lake not thirty yards
away. We were both in full view, but alas, though his body looked
enormous his head was a very poor one, not more than twenty points. He
never saw me but bent his head, had a long drink, then looked round for
a couple of minutes and walked quietly back into the wood. What would
I not have given for my camera!--a more perfect picture could not be
imagined. Though a gentle breeze was blowing, fortunately in the right
direction, there was not a ripple on the waters of the sandy bay, which
was sheltered by the wood, and as he stood with his head up and every
line of his body reflected in the water below, it was a noble sight,
such as one could but rarely hope to see.
[Illustration: STEVE JOE DRIES HIMSELF.]
[Illustration: STEVE BERNARD IN CAMP.
[_To face page 226._]
Allowing some ten minutes to elapse we followed him through the wood,
more out of curiosity than anything else. Coming out on to an open
grassy plain, there he was feeding quietly about 200 yards away.
Looking round to my left I suddenly saw a second stag not 150 yards
away. The horns of the first stag were clean. The second stag had a
better head, but the velvet was peeling off and the frontal tines, and
indeed most of the horn, were crimson with blood. It was difficult to
determine the points, owing to the bits of velvet hanging all about,
but getting the glass on to him I saw that though the frontals were
good the rest of the head was very indifferent, so he had too to be
passed.
We whistled to move the second stag but he took not the slightest
notice of us, and it was not until we gave him, and incidentally the
first stag, our wind that they both went away over the plain at a
slinging trot.
Coming home in the gloaming we saw another stag come out of the wood
and walk along the shore. We got within fifty yards of him, but the
head was, if possible, inferior to the other two. This was bad luck! We
had seen four stags in one day and not one worth shooting.
September 8th. We got away at 6 a.m., crossed the lake in the canoe and
made for the top of a small hill about a mile away. The country was
undulating. Numerous ponds lay in the hollows. Clumps of wood (drokes),
in which the stags rested during the day, were scattered over the
plain; altogether a likely looking ground. We soon saw a big stag about
two miles away feeding across a swamp. The head looked a good one but
it was impossible to make out the points at such a distance, so we
decided to get nearer. As we moved on we saw another stag coming out of
a hollow on our left, but the head was a poor one. Within four minutes
we saw a third stag on our right, but the glass soon showed that he
too was not of the right sort. All these were big-bodied animals, but
carrying poor heads. Following on after the first stag, we saw him
enter a small wood. As soon as we got close outside the wood I decided
to send Steve round and give the stag his wind. I took a position
commanding both sides of the wood, on one of which, if Steve's drive
were successful, the stag must come out. After about half-an-hour's
wait a crash in the wood just in front of me told me that our plan had
succeeded, and out burst a fine stag and stood looking back into the
wood and within twenty yards of me. Alas, his horns were in velvet, and
although the tops were good he had only one indifferent frontal and a
spike for the other. So he too had to go unharmed. Again I reproached
myself for not having brought the camera. I had missed yesterday and
to-day two chances of snapshots such as seldom occur. On getting back
to camp John reported having seen a small stag crossing the end of the
lake, so at least there were plenty of caribou in the country, though
unfortunately no big heads.
In the afternoon the light breeze dropped to a dead calm, so starting
at 2.30 we made for the far west end of the lake, about five miles
away, where a long steady ran up for about three miles, and which
Steve said was a good country for deer. Landing a few hundred yards
up the steady, we made for the top of a ridge about a hundred feet
high, up which led one of the deepest deer tracks I had yet seen. It
was at least two feet deep, cut right into the side of the hill, and
there were fresh signs everywhere. Unfortunately it was one of those
dead calm evenings when the stags come out very late, and as we were
a good way from camp we could only wait till just after sunset, and
saw nothing. On our way home just at the mouth of the steady we saw
a barren hind standing in the water. As we wanted meat I sent Steve
ashore with the rook rifle to get her, which he did after bungling one
or two shots. As we were getting the carcass into the canoe, out came
another hind, and just behind her a small stag, on the point we had
just left, but the head was no good. We got to camp well after dark,
but it was a lovely, calm night without a ripple on the lake.
September 9th. We were up at daybreak and across the lake to spy the
ground where we had seen the three stags yesterday. Nothing was in
sight, but we saw for a moment one stag behind our camp on the high
open ground; he was just disappearing into a small droke, so we could
not make out the head. However, we went after him, but when we had
crossed the pond and got up to where he had disappeared, there was
nothing in sight, so we decided to get back to camp and move on if
possible. Just as we reached the camp, looking back for a moment I saw
him on the sky-line about a quarter of a mile away, but, getting the
glass on, I found the head was no good. As we were making for camp we
saw another stag on the shore where we had landed in the morning, but
he was like all the rest, unshootable. He both got our wind and saw us
and went off at a real gallop instead of the ordinary long slinging
trot.
We certainly had seen plenty of stags, but as luck would have it not
one good head. All the country round Kosk[=a]codde was very good for
deer. We had been extraordinarily lucky so far in our weather, the
"mishes" were all dry but rather fatiguing going, just like walking
over a thick bed of dry sponges. The fine weather could not be expected
to last for ever, and the chances were that when we most wanted it, on
the Shoe Hill Ridge, it would break.
SPORT ON KEPSKAIG
CHAPTER VI
SPORT ON KEPSKAIG
Though the wind was almost blowing a gale against us we decided to
start, and crept along under the shelter of the shore. Heavy seas were
breaking over the numerous sunken rocks and we shipped a good deal of
water. I was not sorry to reach a point about three miles off, where
the lake turned round to the north and where we had a following wind,
and though the waves were still high they were behind us, and we soon
reached a short rapid leading into Kepskaig Lake. We had covered the
distance from our last camp in three and a half hours.
Unloading the canoe, we got her over the rapid and camped immediately
below. In front of the camp, at the bottom of the short rapid, was a
nice pool, and while the men were pitching camp and cooking dinner I
fished the pool, and in one and a half hours I got twenty-one trout and
char; the biggest about 1½ lb.
Although the gale was a strong one the rain had so far kept off, but
the clouds were now piling up for heavy rain, and the glass was
falling rapidly. We were lucky to have got across, for the wind was
now too high to have attempted the lake. We were in a good, dry camp,
plenty of fish assured, and we could afford to ignore the weather.
Kepskaig was a short and somewhat narrow lake, not more than one and a
half miles long; from it two steadies led out into Meddonagonax Lake.
The shores were thickly wooded, but at the far end were some fairly
open marshes with two good look-out hills, from which we could spy the
entire country.
We started about 4.30 for the far end of the lake, but landed half-way
to spy the shores for any feeding stag that might come out. We soon
saw a stag with a good-looking head feeding on the shore opposite to
us, and were just about to start after him when Steve saw another stag
feeding across one of the marshes at the far end of the lake. The tops
of the horns looked very good, so we decided to go after him first.
Pushing on in the canoe to the end of the lake, we were soon on the top
of one of the small hills, and could see him feeding on towards us and
moving very quickly. The glass showed that though he had good tops,
both middles and frontals were very poor, so we decided to leave him
and go back to the first stag. It was nearly dark when we got to the
place we had last seen him, but fortunately he was there still feeding
amongst some big boulders on the shore of the lake. A high wind was
blowing and he was not more than eighty yards away, so hidden by the
rocks and long grass I could not make out his frontals, but tops and
middles were good, and waiting, what seemed an indefinite time, to get
a broadside shot, at last he began feeding away with his rump straight
on to me. I could now hardly see the telescope sight, but fortunately
he gave a half turn and as I fired I heard the bullet go home. He
galloped madly right into the lake, and stood some 150 yards away
among some big rocks from which I could hardly distinguish him. Taking
the best sight I could I fired again and he dropped stone dead in the
water. Getting him ashore, we found he was a nice thirty-four pointer,
the best head we had yet seen, and as it happened the best head we saw
the whole trip. He was in poor condition, having been badly wounded in
the body at some time. Abscesses had formed round the wounds and Steve
pronounced his flesh uneatable. It was too dark to do more than pull
him out of the water and gralloch him, and we had a hard paddle back to
camp in the dark. The rain was now falling heavily and a roaring fire
and cosy camp were more than welcome.
The following morning it was still raining, but more like a thick
Scotch mist. We went over to fetch the head, and found that the first
bullet had gone in just behind the ribs and raked him through lungs
and heart, so the second shot was unnecessary. We saw a hind and calf
swimming in the lake, and tried to overtake them to get a snapshot, but
hard as we both paddled I only succeeded in getting within about thirty
yards, too far for a good photo--the light too was bad, and the result
was not a success. I spent the morning sketching and photoing the head,
and then Steve set to work to skin and clean it. After breakfast there
was great excitement, as four otters came swimming up to the rapid,
possibly with the idea of going up into the lake above. Regardless of
season and game laws, Steve had a shot with the small rifle and missed,
but turned them back. Going out to fish I could not get a rise, the
otters had evidently scared all the fish out of the pool.
The clouds now cleared away and a brilliant sun came out, while hardly
a ripple stirred the surface of the lake. In the afternoon we went down
again to the end of the lake, climbed the highest look-out hill and
stayed there till sunset. The views on all sides were very beautiful
and we looked right over Meddonagonax with its numerous wooded islands,
but saw no stags. We paddled down one of the steadies leading into
Meddonagonax and so into the lake, hoping to see some feeding stag on
its shores, but without success.
[Illustration: A THIRTY-FOUR POINT CARIBOU]
[Illustration: STEVE SKINNING THE HEAD OF THE THIRTY-FOUR POINTER
[_To face page 238._]
It was a wonderful night, the moonlight made it almost as bright as day.
The following morning was bright and cold and the mists hanging over
the lake were soon dispelled by the morning sun. We got away about
6.30 a.m. and went down to the far end of the lake, but only saw one
unshootable stag. Coming back for breakfast we decided to take a trip
to the far end of Meddonagonax, where Steve said there was good fishing
just where the river left the lake. It only took us one and a half
hours of a steady row and paddle to get to the end of the lake where
the Baie du Nord River leaves it. We ran down a few hundred yards of
rapids and hauled up the canoe, leaving John to prepare lunch. It
was an ideal-looking river and Steve said he had caught many large
trout in it. The pools were perfect to look at, but somehow fish were
comparatively few and not in very good condition. I fished down about
a mile to where the river fell into a small lake, and caught eighteen
trout weighing about nine pounds. Steve said it was only a good day's
march from where we were to where the river runs into the sea. About
half-way down there is a big fall called Smoky Falls, above which
salmon cannot run, but he said salmon were numerous below the falls.
In the water we had fished he had caught many big trout in July, so
possibly we were too late.
Leaving at 5 o'clock I trolled all the way home but never got a pull
nor did we see a stag.
As we had apparently exhausted the ground, we decided to start back
in the morning of the 12th and camp in a steady at the west end of
Kosk[=a]codde. While John was packing up we had an early morning prowl
round the shores in the canoe, but saw nothing. While the packing was
being finished I fished the pool at the camp and got thirteen trout
weighing 7½ lb.--the largest about 1½ lb. It was a blazing hot day, we
got to our new camping ground shortly after midday, and only caught one
trout on the way.
Going out in the evening we crossed some ideal-looking caribou ground,
but saw only one stag with a poor head and a couple of hinds.
All our hopes were now centred on the Shoe Hill Ridge country, for
though we had seen many stags we were most unfortunate as regards
heads. This was the seventh day away from the main camp, and we had
seen fourteen stags. I cannot help thinking it was a bad year for
heads, or surely we should have seen something better.
I sent Steve out early on the morning of the 13th to spy, but he came
back and reported nothing in sight.
We got away about 9.30, and with a favourable wind were soon passing
our old camp on Kosk[=a]codde.
Joe had been uneasy about us, or lonely, and we met him tramping down
the river, and, incidentally, disturbing the whole country. He reported
a stag (of course a colossal one) which had passed quite close to our
old camp. It was lucky no gun was left behind, for he most certainly
would have had a shot.
About dinner-time we reached a small lake from which the river ran out
in a sluggish stream. Steve said it was a favourite spot for trout and
suggested I should try it while lunch was being got ready. There was
a deep hole just above the stream and a light wind was rippling the
water. The trout was there in numbers and greedy for the fly. At every
cast I rose one or two, and in an hour and a half I had forty trout
weighing 19½ lb., the biggest about 2 lb. I lost one which must have
been at least 3 lb., and put back at least a dozen small ones. I never
saw trout in such numbers or so eager to take the fly.
It was nice to get back to the cheery camp on Sandy Grove Pond, and
to my comfortable camp bed, but Joe had spoiled all chance of stags.
We saw a good covey of grouse close to the camp, but they were very
wild. I thought Joe would never go to sleep he had so much to say to
his pals, and his stag grew bigger and bigger as the evening wore on,
perhaps due to a tot of rum which was served out to celebrate our
meeting.
The morning of the 14th broke grey with a light rain, and the glass was
falling, but there was no wind. I went down to fish the river for the
last time while the men were packing up. In my favourite pool I took
eleven fine trout, weighing 14 lb., four others in the smaller streams,
2 lb., and seven in crossing the lake, 5 lb.--a total for the day of
twenty-two trout, 21 lb. I lost a fly in a good trout in the big pool.
I fished the streams down till Steve came to say that all was ready
for a start. As we passed the pool I chaffingly said, "I must get that
trout which broke me." At the first cast I hooked a 2-lb. fish, and on
landing him Steve quietly remarked, "Quite right, here is your fly,"
and sure enough there it was! Crossing the lake we saw two stags and
landed to look at them, but again the heads were no good. The wind was
rising and the rain coming down ere we reached our main camp on Sandy
Grove Pond about 2.30 p.m. Time was now getting short, so we decided
to push on to the Shoe Hill Ridge and there hope for a big stag as the
deer began moving out of the woods. The evening was wild and wet, so we
stayed in camp making arrangements for the morrow's march inland.
TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY
[Illustration: THE CLEARING OF THE STORM, SHOE HILL RIDGE
[_To face page 247._]
CHAPTER VII
TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY
The morning of the 15th was grey, and though the glass was falling,
the weather looked like clearing. The men dawdled about and it was 11
before we all got away. Our plans were to take three good packs up to
Shoe Hill Ridge and then send Joe back for what we wanted from time to
time.
We had kippered all the big trout and very excellent they were later
on, for no fish were to be had on the barrens.
We reached the top of the ridge about 1 o'clock, when heavy rain set
in. As I could not walk in an oilskin, there was nothing for it but
to get wet through, and very soon I was literally wet to the skin. We
were all shivering with cold as a bitter wind was blowing over the open
barrens, so at 2 o'clock we halted to boil the kettle under the shelter
of a big rock. Though wet through, the men were as cheery as ever, and
Steve challenged Joe to race him to the top of a small hill which was
Millais' look-out when he was camped in the Shoe Hill Droke. They
came back having seen nothing. We plodded along, a sorry crew, in the
pouring rain, but somewhat refreshed by the hot tea.
As we came in sight of a big lake lying south of the Shoe Hill Droke
for which we were bound, we saw a good stag lying on the far side of
the lake. The head certainly looked the biggest I had seen, but it was
hard to use the telescope in the rain and I could not make out the
points. However, both Steve and I saw that he had very big frontals,
though I could only make out two points on the tops.
The wind was all wrong and to get a stalk meant going right round the
lake, about three miles. The other two men would have had to wait in
the rain, and as we were all feeling pretty wretched, we decided to
leave him and push on to camp. The decision was mine and I shall always
regret it, for I believe he carried the best head we saw on the trip,
but I thought as we were to hunt for a week on the Shoe Hill Ridge we
had a fair chance of coming on him again, so we passed on to camp. He
got our wind at least a mile away and cleared out over a ridge and
never was seen again. We got to camp about 5 o'clock and were soon
warming and drying ourselves before a roaring fire.
We were now in the Shoe Hill Droke, and in the centre of what Millais
described as the finest caribou country he had seen in Newfoundland.
There was, however, one great difference. He had been there the end
of October, when all the stags had moved up. It was now only the 15th
September, and it remained to be seen what our luck would be.
While getting everything shipshape I found my telescope sight was
missing. Steve always carried it slung over his shoulder and must have
left it behind at one of our halts. He assured me it would be "all
right" and that he would go out at daybreak and bring it in, which he
did. This was the first really uncomfortable day we had had--but our
troubles were soon forgotten, and over a roaring camp fire and with a
tot of rum each, we looked forward hopefully to our prospects for the
next few days. The morning of the 16th was fine, the sun was shining
brightly, the glass was rising, a fresh north-east wind was blowing,
altogether a perfect stalking day.
The Shoe Hill Droke lay on a slight rise above the Shoe Hill Lake. The
droke was a general camping ground for shooting and trapping parties,
and the remains of many camps were scattered through the wood. To the
north lay Mount Sylvester, some seven miles away, with a fine open
country between; to the south the view was bounded by a ridge about
three miles away. A similar ridge lay about the same distance to the
east, while to the west lay the country we had crossed the day before.
The whole country was undulating and there were scattered clumps of
wood affording nice shelter for stags. We could hunt in every direction
and could not possibly have been in a better centre. The ground was
hard and dry, and it was certainly the best walking in the island.
We started north about 9 a.m., and covered a lot of ground, walking
continuously until 6 p.m., with an hour's rest for a midday meal. We
saw four stags that day, and though two looked shootable, yet after a
long tramp in each case we found the horns no good, which was a great
disappointment, for we had worked really hard.
We also saw for the first time two bands of hinds, one of six with
two small very young stags and one of four. We came on the spot where
Millais had shot his forty-nine pointer and Steve pointed with pride
to the bones still lying about, also to the scene of Captain Lumsden's
thirty-seven pointer, but it was a poor satisfaction to me to know my
predecessors on the ground had got such fine trophies if I could not
find a shootable beast.
Millais, Captain Lumsden, Captain Legge and Mr. Littledale had all
shot this country with Steve, who certainly knew every inch of it,
but October is the month for the Shoe Hill Ridge, when the sport must
be grand, for all the stags from the north as well as those from the
wooded country all round come up to these barrens in the late autumn.
The country was cut up with deep trails, showing where the stags passed
on their annual migration south.
For pleasure I should choose the early season, up to October 1st; the
weather is finer and some fishing is to be had, but for good heads the
late season is certainly the best, for all the stags are out in the
open during and after the rut. In the end of October the weather is
sometimes fine, but sometimes very broken, and Steve told me that he
had more than once hunted in heavy snow in that month.
On our return to camp everything was most comfortable--benches, tables,
shelves in the tent, rests for the rifles; only the big stag was wanted
to make the Shoe Hill Droke a hunter's earthly paradise.
On the morning of the 17th we struck east and crossed two ridges till
we got to a valley between Shoe Hill Ridge and the hill on which was
the Kesoquit Droke, where Millais had camped on his way up from the
Long Harbour River.
Looking down into the valley, we saw a good stag as regards body and
two smaller ones. The head was a pretty open one, but the middles and
frontals were poor, so we left him alone. I picked up a single horn
with eighteen good points close by. We saw two more stags a long way
off and went after them, but the distance was much greater than I
thought. On our way we saw another small stag come out of a droke and
walk quietly up a slight rise, where he was joined by a still smaller
one from the far side of the ridge. Neither had shootable heads. They
both went in for what Steve called their "standing sleep," stuck their
legs out and remained perfectly motionless with the head drooping till
it almost touched the ground; occasionally they woke up with a start,
but were soon sound asleep again. It was a most comical sight and
lasted for about a quarter of an hour. I crawled up within about sixty
yards without any difficulty and could easily have shot them both. The
little stag woke up first, but it was not till we showed ourselves that
the bigger stag moved away in a most dignified manner, giving two or
three most beautiful chances before he went out of sight.
While Steve was boiling the kettle I went on to a little hillock to spy
the ground, and saw the two stags we were first after, but again the
heads were no good.
I heard a rustle behind me and, thinking it was Steve coming up to call
me to dinner, turned round and saw a hind feeding beside me, not five
yards away. She started when she saw me, but moved away quite quietly.
While eating our midday meal two more hinds fed quietly up to within a
few yards and passed by without showing any signs of fear. This country
was certainly full of deer, but none of the right sort. When we stopped
for dinner we were within one and a half miles of the Kesoquit Droke,
which is only about four miles from the head-waters of the Long Harbour
River. From a small hillock we could see the entire country and the
hills over Long Harbour, while away to the east was the conical hill
known as the "Tolt." The ground looked very much the same as far as
the eye could reach and should be a grand hunting country in October.
We could also see the waters of the Maelpeg Lake, about three miles
away. Returning to camp, we saw a black fox in the distance, which
made Steve's mouth water, as he said he could sell a good skin for two
hundred and forty dollars.
Altogether the day had been a very interesting one. We had seen seven
stags and a number of does, but unfortunately no good heads.
On the 18th the weather broke badly, the glass fell 7/10ths, a gale of
wind and heavy driving rain made stalking impossible and kept us in
camp all day. Towards evening the wind went round and the rain stopped,
and then we saw a wonderful sunset, the heavy rain clouds drifting away
across a golden red setting sun. We saw a stag on the sky-line about
two miles away, but too late to go after him.
On the 19th the wind had come round to the north, and it was a bright,
lovely morning. We took the ground to the north-west, working round by
where we had seen the stag the previous evening. We covered a lot of
ground and altogether stalked four separate stags, only to find, on
getting up to them, that the heads were no good. We must have walked
over fifteen miles, but in the bracing air of the barrens fatigue was
unknown. We saw another black fox to-day a long way off, and Steve said
he would be back trapping in three weeks and hoped to get the two black
foxes. I picked up a single horn with twenty-two points, very short and
thick. There were eight points on the top just like a frontal tine.
The morning of the 20th was very cold and grey, but we hoped it
would clear up, so started away over the ridge to the south-west.
On topping the ridge, we looked down on a great marshy plain with a
few scattered drokes. Nothing was in sight, so we walked quietly on
towards one of the drokes, from behind which suddenly burst out five
hinds pursued by what looked like a good stag, who was grunting as he
followed the hinds--the first rutting stag we had seen. They paid so
little attention to us that they were almost on top of us before they
saw us. Unfortunately, the head was poor, as he gave an easy shot.
Almost immediately after two herds of hinds passed us, while in the
distance two more stags were seen feeding about three miles away. We
went on towards them, when the rain set in and we had to find shelter
for lunch. There was no sign of the weather clearing and stalking was
impossible in the heavy rain and mist, so we plodded wearily back to
camp, which we reached after dark, wet to the skin. This valley was
full of grouse; we saw seven good coveys and I shot three birds for the
pot with the small rifle.
The rain continued all night, but stopped about 7 a.m. on the morning
of the 21st.
We had come up to Shoe Hill Ridge on the 15th in heavy rain. It had
rained on the 18th and again on the 20th, so three days out of six
were spoiled. The whole country was now soaked with the rain, little
rivulets had become torrents, and the marshes were knee deep in water.
It seemed useless to remain on, as it meant my missing my steamer in
New York, so we decided to pack up and get out.
Looking back, I think this was a mistake. I might have spent another
week in this grand country and taken a later boat home. Some big stags
might have come up from the woods. On the other hand, the weather was
broken and even Steve was in favour of moving. All along he regretted
that I had not come in for the October shooting, when, he said, I was
bound to have got good heads. He was just as keen as I was and sorry to
leave.
[Illustration: LUNCH ON THE BAIE DU NORD RIVER]
[Illustration: MY CAMP, SHOE HILL DROKE
[_To face page 256._]
HOMEWARD BOUND
CHAPTER VIII
HOMEWARD BOUND
Just as we had packed up a fearful thunderstorm came on which lasted
over an hour, and we did not get away till 11.45, arriving at Sandy
Pond at 3 o'clock, wet through. The water was pouring down the hill
sides, every deep deer track was a torrent, and it was heavy going
through the marshes. We had a meal and a change of clothes, and,
packing the canoes, reached the portage into Sandy Pond at dusk. The
evening was fine; we pitched camp in a nice droke and over a good hot
supper at 9 o'clock the discomforts of the day were soon forgotten. By
the aneroid the Shoe Hill Droke was 370 feet above the level of Sandy
Grove Pond. There was just a last chance of a stag, as Steve said
there was some good ground in the direction of where I had shot the
first stag. I sent him out at daybreak on the 22nd, and he came back
reporting three stags about half-a-mile away, one of which he thought
was a good one.
We started away and found them feeding in an open marsh without any
cover but three great boulders about 800 yards from where they were.
The biggest stag had a very pretty head, but careful examination
with the glass decided me to let him go. Steve said, "Pity that not
forty-pointer." The position looked so impossible that I told Steve
we never could have got a stalk or a shot. "I drive him," said Steve.
Wishing to see how he would manage it I told him to go ahead, while I
lay behind the big boulder; meanwhile the stags lay down. He took a
tremendous round and presently I saw him about a mile on the other side
of the stags, who at the moment got his wind, rose and began to trot
away, but not towards me. Suddenly I saw Steve trotting along to turn
them, which he did most successfully, for the three stags came along at
a swinging trot, the big one behind, and passed in the open about 150
yards from me. The shot was such a sporting one I could not resist it,
and as the thud of the bullet came back to me the stag dashed forward
at a gallop and rolled over stone dead, shot through the heart. My last
stalk and shot of the trip. I cannot pretend that stalking caribou is
a high form of sport. If the wind is right and there are not too many
hinds about one can take any liberties. Of all the animals I have shot
the caribou seems to me the most stupid and the easiest to bag under
ordinary circumstances.
[Illustration: UP THE TWO-MILE BROOK, HOMEWARD BOUND]
[Illustration: A BROOK IN FLOOD
[_To face page 261._]
I had a special permit to shoot five stags, but only shot four, not
counting the deer we had to shoot for meat, generally hinds.
We soon had the meat in the canoes. The brooks and shallow steadies
were now full up from the heavy rains, so we poled where we had to
portage coming in. The rain was falling in torrents. We saw our last
stag as we came up to Red Hill Pond, but he had no head to speak of. By
4.30 we reached Red Hill Pond, which was up over two feet. The rain was
so bad we decided to camp, and soon had a fire as big as a house going,
before which we dried ourselves; the men just as cheerful as if it had
been bright sunshine. It was an awful night, a gale tearing through
the tops of the trees, and the rain coming down in sheets; but the
morning of the 23rd was fine, as the wind had come round to the north,
and we made an early start as we hoped to reach Ryan's by nightfall. I
had had bad luck; I had seen and stalked forty-two stags and never saw
one really good head. I think it must have been a bad year for heads,
or Millais, Lumsden, Legge and Littledale had cleared the best stags
off the ground. A party of Americans had come over from the east the
previous year, but spent only two days on the Shoe Hill Ridge and got
two good stags.
Steve now regretted that we had not gone back by the Terra Nova river
and lake. He said we could have shot every rapid without unloading
and would have reached St. John's much quicker than by going back to
Belleoram. With a gale of wind behind us, but no rain, we made good
time. The two-mile brook was in heavy flood and we poled the canoe up
and reached the old camp on Hungry Grove Pond by 11.
Here I left all the provisions that were left over, the fly for the
men and the kit I was giving them as a present, and we started for a
fifteen-mile tramp to Ryan's at 11.45.
The ground was saturated and we only reached the top of the hill above
Ryan's at dark. It was awful going down the hill in the dark, and the
men fell with their packs more than once. We simply waded and stumbled
along till we saw the welcome lights of the house at 7.30 p.m.--a real
hard day's work. I shot five grouse on the way. By the aneroid the top
of the six-mile hill was 800 feet above the sea-level at Ryan's.
Ryan was away, but I received a hearty welcome from his niece. The
question now was what was to be done? There was no schooner or sailing
boat of any kind; however, as usual, Steve and John were not to be
defeated, but said they would row me down to Anderson's Cove in the
fishing dory.
[Illustration: A VIEW IN LONG HARBOUR.
[_To face page 263._]
The morning of the 24th was lovely and calm, but a wind sprang up just
as we got away and it was soon blowing a gale in our teeth and we were
shipping heavy seas. Steve and John struggled gallantly on, but at 2
o'clock we had to halt, as we could make no way. After about two hours,
when we were considering how we could pass the night, the wind dropped
as suddenly as it rose and we reached John Saunders' house just at
dark. Anderson's Cove was two miles farther on. Saunders was a fine
specimen of the old settler, and his house was a picture of cleanliness
and neatness. The sails of his schooner were unbent, so we decided to
go on to the Cove where the leading trader, Mr. Thornhill, lived, and
Steve said he had a sailing boat and could put us across next morning.
There was a slight difficulty about this, as one of the hands wanted a
guarantee of so many dollars a day should he be detained in Belleoram.
I cut matters short by sending a wire to Saunders to bend his sails and
come over as early as he could in the morning. I think my friends at
Anderson's Cove were a bit disappointed when Saunders and his smart
boat came across with a spanking breeze and picked us up about 9 a.m.
We had all slept on the floor at Thornhill's, but had an excellent
supper of a whole cod boiled with potatoes.
We had a lovely sail across to Belleoram--Saunders and a fine strapping
son being the crew. The boat was as smart and clean as a yacht, and
the two Saunders were the best type I had yet met of the Newfoundland
settlers.
Steve and John came for the trip as cheery as ever, though their
badly blistered hands showed the work of yesterday. By 12.30 I was at
Belleoram, and by 1 o'clock the men were on their way back to Long
Harbour. As Steve said good-bye it was really quite touching. "You
treat us very well, you very good man. Come again, and God bless you."
I certainly never parted with men with such regret and never want
better friends or hunting comrades.
Being Sunday, Belleoram was very quiet. Mrs. Cluett gave me an
excellent dinner and a delightful bedroom, for I had to stay the night,
as my steamer was not due till next day. In the evening I went to the
service in the big church on the hill. The congregation were mostly
men who "go down to the sea in ships and occupy their business in
great waters," while the special prayer for their protection against
the perils of cod fishing struck a note that was new to me. There was
quite a nice little organ and the whole congregation joined devoutly in
the hymns; altogether the service was most impressive.
The _Glencoe_ turned up at 1 o'clock on the 26th and the next afternoon
we reached Placentia, where the train was waiting. We got away about
5.30, but did not reach St. John's (80 miles) till 2 a.m. the following
morning, a very poor performance. The engine could not pull us up the
inclines. We made a rush and each time stuck half-way and had to run
back a couple of miles to make a fresh try. However, it seemed a usual
occurrence, for every one on board took it quite philosophically, many
recounting their reminiscences of when they had to stop all night in
the train.
In the train was Mr. Job, just returning from a good grouse shoot. He
told me he had in his office a sixty-four pointer caribou stag shot by
an Indian and bought by his brother. He very kindly allowed me to see
it the next day, and a very remarkable head it was; I could make out at
least sixty points.
I left St. John's at 6 p.m. on the 29th and as we reached Gaff
Topsails, about the highest point of the railway, sleet and light snow
were falling and a bitter wind was blowing across the open barrens.
Descending to the Humber Valley the climate became milder and the
autumn tints made the scenery, if possible, more beautiful than when I
had passed it before. I had to spend Saturday night in Halifax, Nova
Scotia, but got away by the Sunday night express and reached New York
early on Tuesday morning. It was still hot and muggy and I was glad
to leave on the _Deutschland_ on Saturday, October 8th, arriving in
Plymouth early on October 14th.
The route I had chosen involved great loss of time, the weekly sailing
of the _Glencoe_ on the south coast being a great drawback. If one
steamer be missed a week is lost.
I might just as well have gone from Port aux Basques to Belleoram by
steamer and returned from Belleoram to Port aux Basques, thus avoiding
the tiresome railway journey of twenty-nine hours, but I had to outfit
at St. John's and wished also to see the scenery of the island.
The heads I got did not make up for a somewhat expensive trip, but, on
the other hand, I had seen a great deal of very beautiful country in
fair comfort and enjoyed some excellent trout fishing which I would
not have got had I gone in from the railway. I had the Mount Sylvester
country all to myself and it was simply bad luck that I saw no good
heads. I can honestly say, however, that I never enjoyed a hunting
trip more, and only wish I could look forward to another visit to the
island, when with my present experiences I could, I think, make better
arrangements to avoid loss of time in reaching the hunting grounds.
The game laws of Newfoundland are sufficiently liberal. A licence of
$50 (£10) gives the visitor the right to shoot three caribou stags. The
true sportsman should be content with this limit and will carefully
pick his heads.
The Newfoundlander, whether white man or Indian, is not charged the
$50. The Indian certainly shoots what he wants and is not particular
about a close time. Accustomed as he has been from time immemorial to
range the island and shoot for food and clothing, it is difficult to
get him to understand the principle underlying game laws, and to accept
a game limit to which he has never been accustomed and the necessity
for which he does not understand.
When the fishing laws come to be considered there seems to me great
room for improvement. The Newfoundland Government prides itself on all
the rivers being open to every one. For the first time, in 1910, a
fishing licence of $10 was imposed on the visitor, and this gave him
the right to fish any river in the island. The practical result is,
that many of the best-known rivers, such as the Codroy and Harry's
Brook, are overfished.
All the rivers on the west coast are very accessible to the angler from
the United States, and suffer most from overcrowding. I met an English
angler who had been fishing the Codroy; he said it was one continual
struggle as to who would get on to the water first. I heard the same
story at the south-east arm, Placentia. The Government absolutely
refuses to lease a river or even to limit the number of rods, and I
think this policy is entirely wrong.
In practice one may decide on a season in Newfoundland. Having
carefully selected a somewhat inaccessible river and made all one's
arrangements for camping out, it would certainly be disappointing on
arrival to find two or three other parties settled on the river and
one's trip spoiled, yet this is quite possible. I was told in St.
John's, no Government would dare to change the existing law and the
policy of the open door in fishing. This I cannot understand, for what
has been done in Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia can surely be
done in Newfoundland.
The application of the law is carried to the extreme. An official
of the Fishery Board told me of a case where an American offered a
liberal rent for a remote river on the Labrador Coast. There was but
one settler on the river and the American guaranteed that he would take
him into his service. He proposed to build a fishing lodge and so put
capital into the country. His application was refused.
The Government professes to be most anxious to encourage the tourist
and sportsman to visit the island, but I venture to think they are not
going the right way about it, at least as regards the angler.
They do not seem to recognize the advantage to the country of leasing
any of the many rivers. First the lessee would see that the river
was carefully preserved, he would give employment to watchers, he
would probably build a house and in any case would spend money in the
country, while at the same time his rent goes to increase the revenue.
A double object is thus attained--the preservation of fish and game,
and an increase in revenue.
If, however, such a policy be impossible the least the Government can
do is to limit the number of rods on each river and to have some means
of knowing which rivers are being fished and by how many rods. In this
way the angler contemplating a trip to Newfoundland could apply for
all information to the existing Fishery Board, who would advise him
where to go with the least chance of being crowded out.
Given some such organization, Newfoundland should become the favourite
resort of the British angler.
A hunting trip may be cheap or expensive, chiefly depending on the
route selected, the number of Indians employed and the means of
transport in the island. The cheapest route is by the direct steamers
to St. John's. Two Indians are sufficient, but a third adds greatly
to one's comfort. Their pay is--Headman, 2½ to 3 dollars a day; other
men, 2 dollars. If a waterway into the interior be selected, two canoes
are a luxury, one large one a necessity; with two canoes all the
necessaries and many of the luxuries of life can be enjoyed; the same
cannot be said of packing, as my Vancouver experiences have shown. It
is to say the least a nuisance to have the necessaries cut down; the
luxuries, by which I mean preserved milk, butter, jam, oatmeal, and
a small amount of whisky or rum, one can do without, but why not be
comfortable, if comfort can be found, by the better mode of transport
which canoes afford.
They can be ordered from Canada through Mr. Blair and sold on leaving
the island.
I give in an appendix my list of stores, but I had far too much. One
and a half stone of flour is ample for four men for one week, the
amount taken will then depend on the length of the trip. The cost
as paid in St. John's is given. I had many stores over, for we had
abundance of venison and fish.
Fish need never be wasted; the trout split, salted and hung up over or
near the camp fire make excellent kippers, and when up on the Shoe Hill
Ridge, where no fresh fish were obtainable, I thoroughly enjoyed the
kippered trout from Sandy Grove Pond.
NEWFOUNDLAND
LIST OF STORES TAKEN
APPENDIX I
cents. $
7 stones Flour 65 4.55
50 lb. Bacon 35 17.50
2 3-lb. tins Lard 70 1.40
7 lb. Tea 60 4.20
2 lb. Coffee 48 .96
40 lb. Sugar 8 3.20
15 tins St. Charles Cream 15 2.25
8 gals. Potatoes 25 2.00
7 lb. Patna Rice 8 .56
15 lb. Lima Beans 8 1.20
6 bags Salt 3 .18
3 lb. Dried Apples 20 .60
4 lb. Peaches 25 1.00
3 lb. Apricots 25 .75
16 ¼-lb. tins Baking Powder 16 2.56
3 1-lb. tins Marmalade 24 .72
3 1-lb. tins Apricot Jam 28 .84
3 lb. Cooking Butter 38 1.14
9 lb. Eating Butter 48 4.05
15 lb. Onions 6 .90
2 tins White Pepper 8 .16
6 tins Corned Beef 22 1.32
1 5-lb. tin Alum 15 .75
7 yards Grey Calico 12 .84
1 Nest tin boxes for Stores .90
4 lb. Scotch Oatmeal 8 .32
2 bottles Worcester Sauce 25 .50
1 bottle Vinegar .25
2 tins Mustard 10 .20
6 tins Potted Meat 15 .90
1 Dutch Oven 4.00
2 tins Dubbin 15 .30
1 Frying Pan made to order 1.20
2 American Axes 1.10 2.20
1 Hatchet .75
1 ball Twine .18
6 fathom Bank Line .25
3 Sail Needles 2 .06
1 slip Sail Twine .25
6 yards 12-oz. Duck 25 1.50
½ lb. ½" Copper Tacks 50 .25
1 2-lb. tin Grey Paint .80
2 doz. ½" Brass Screws 6 .12
1 lb. 3" Iron Nails .06
6 lb. Smoking Tobacco 80 4.80
3 bottles Rum 90 2.70
8 bottles Whisky 1.30 10.40
1 packet Toilet Paper .10
6 cakes Soap 8 .48
1 doz. Sea Dog Matches .10
2 doz. Wax Matches 20 .40
1 packet Sulphur Matches .20
3 lb. Price's Candles 20 .60
1 Candle Lantern .75
1 Oil Stove .35
1 small bottle Oil .25
2 tin Basins 15 .30
1 iron Spoon .15
1 tin Flash .20
2 tins Sardines 20 .40
2 1-lb. tins Lunch Tongue 45 .90
1 tin Apricots .30
1 tin Cocoa and Milk .25
3 sets Knives and Forks 17 .51
14 lb. Hard Bread 6 .84
1 Can Opener .20
3 tin Camp Cups 20 .60
1 Enamel Mug 20 .20
4 tin Plates 8 .32
1 iron Fork .20
1 iron Spoon .18
5 Boxes and Packing 4.00
Freight to Belleoram 2.71
8 Grey Calico Bags 2.00
1 Gridiron .30
1 Lock for Box .15
1 set Hinges .10
1 Hasp and Staple .10
-------
Total $104.66
=======
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
In "Kosk[=a]codde", the symbols "[=a]" represent an "a" with a macron
diacritic.
p. 220: the horn next me -> the horn next to me.
p. 266: Belleroram -> Belleoram.
End of Project Gutenberg's Sport in Vancouver and Newfoundland, by John Rogers