SHOOTING AND FISHING
Now Newfoundland is becoming better known, the living treasures of her
forests, moors, and waters are attracting an annually increasing number
of sportsmen from Great Britain, the United States, and Canada. “Far
from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,” the sportsman may return for
a season to the simpler life lived by races of men in the days when
modern commercial methods were undreamed of, when the starry sky was
the hunter’s jewelled roof, when the spongelike moss was his pillow,
when time was not divided into sections, and he was not forced to
calculate
“How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.”
Except where the snort of the engine is heard, or the song of the
fisherman repairing his nets comes through the ravine, or the whistle
of the woodman accompanies the clang of his axe, the country is as wild
and natural and silent as when it first drank in the showers of heaven,
and laughed in the sunshine of a summer day.
Among the larger game are the caribou and bears; foxes, lynxes and
wolves are also plentiful, as are the otter, mink, Arctic hare, and
the rabbit. The caribou is most graceful in appearance, usually weighs
about 500 pounds, and its antlers are a treasure much coveted by
sportsmen all the world over. The caribou is a most sensitive animal,
and unless the huntsman has made a study of its movements, he may have
some difficulty in bringing his prey to earth. Many of the huntsmen
take a supply of provisions into the caribou regions, and, with the aid
of a guide, move from place to place, spending the night in the open
or in a small tent. Of course, if they wait until the season when the
animals migrate from the north to the south of the island, they are
more certain of good sport; but sometimes that season is too cold to be
thoroughly enjoyed by the huntsman, who likes to take his sport under
as comfortable conditions as possible.
Ptarmigan-shooting is another favourite sport among the tourists, and
is enjoyed no less by the inhabitants. The ptarmigan very closely
resembles the red grouse of Scotland, and in the months of October and
November hundreds of these birds are shot and forwarded to St. John’s,
where they are readily purchased by the residents, who consider them
unsurpassed as a table delicacy. The wild berries that ripen in August
and September make a palatable food for the ptarmigan, and the effect
of this diet is registered in their plump, rich, and tender flesh.
If you were sitting under the shade of a tree by a secluded pond in
the months of June and July, you would doubtless see a fine large bird
moving gracefully along the edge of the water, followed by a procession
of smaller birds. This is the wild-goose leading her children towards
the brooks, and if the sportsman is wise enough to avoid suspicion on
the part of the leader, he may rely upon bagging one or two remarkably
fine birds.
The plover and the curlew are more abundant than other birds. They
usually come in flocks from their breeding quarters in Labrador, and
their rather awkward flight is perhaps attributable to the weight of
the fat stomachs they have to carry along with them. They are not
sought assiduously by sportsmen, but they supply the woodmen, farmers,
and fishermen with a very acceptable dish.
More than one-quarter of Newfoundland is covered by water, and all the
lakes and fiords are stocked with fish, thus making them an angler’s
paradise. Some anglers prefer travelling from 50 to 200 miles from St.
John’s in order to whip the rivers and streams that are known to yield
excellent salmon. Nevertheless, good salmon-fishing can be procured
within a few hours from the capital.
One of the most popular angling resorts is Log Cabin, on the west
coast. The hotel is situated in the heart of some of Newfoundland’s
most bewitching scenery. It is kept by two Englishmen, and was built
in accordance with their own designs. High mountains slope down to
the pretty English garden, which is stocked with native flowers; but
the most surprising flower of all is the foxglove, the sight of which
transports one to the lanes and meadows of old England. Harry’s Brook,
which is really a river, rolls along at the foot of the mountain
through a tangle of ferns and flowers, and through bright blue eyes the
iris looks up at the scarlet cheeks of the wild raspberries. Here, when
the day’s sport is ended, the angler sits in his easy-chair under the
wide veranda of the Log Cabin, watching the sunset over that panorama
of beauty the Bay of Islands.
[Illustration: A HUNTER’S CAMP]
Angling in the lakes for trout is also a delightful sport. Within
ten miles of St. John’s there are large expanses of water that are
alive with Loch Leven and Californian rainbow trout. On a charming
June morning you decide to leave the city and spend the day with rod
and line upon the lakes in your little canvas boat. You see that your
conveyance contains a kettle, a teapot, and a good supply of food, for
when you reach the side of the lake you will find it almost impossible
to satisfy your hunger. Away you start at a rattling pace, and in a
short time you find yourself in the heart of primitive scenery. What
does it matter if the trout refuse to bite? The air has given you a
new lease of life, the blue sky has got into your soul, the odour of
the avenues of spruce-trees makes you smack your lips, and at every
turn in the road you are greeted by some stream that babbles through a
cluster of ferns and flowers. Then your horse creeps panting up a steep
hill, whose summit introduces you to a glimpse of the great Atlantic,
or a quaint little fishing village sleeping in a cuplike hollow near
the seashore. At last you reach the lake, unharness the horse, prepare
your rod and line, fix your boat on the water, and lure your fish to
the surface of the lake by the aid of your “Silver Doctor,” for that is
the fly that seems best to tempt the palate of the “rainbow,” and “Loch
Leven.” When you have whipped the water for a few hours, you suddenly
get a telegraphic message from your stomach that it is time to dine.
You pull up to the edge of the water, make an extempore fire-grate
out of the boulders, snap off some dry spruce-twigs, and in a short
time the mouth of your kettle is belching forth boiling water. The
only sounds to be heard are the crackling of the burning twigs and the
song of your kettle. One member of the party spreads the cloth upon
the velvet moss, one makes the tea, one opens the tinned peaches, and
another goes into the wood with a dish to gather wild raspberries, to
add lusciousness to the pot of cream.
When the meal is over, you take to your boat again, and “swish, swish”
go the lines once more. A few more fish are gathered in. You take
another meal, and then fish on until you are satisfied with the day’s
sport. Satisfied! Was any angler ever satisfied? No! You decide to fish
on until darkness covers the face of the water.
At last a mist comes over the lake, the moon begins to show her face
above the hills, and you pull reluctantly to the side. The horse
looks at you, as much as to say, “I thought you fellows were going to
stay all night.” Your goods and chattels are packed up, the horse is
harnessed, and off you scamper for St. John’s and home.
The moonbeams streak the water, and you look back upon the lake with
a feeling akin to that with which you look from the deck of a steamer
upon the friends you are leaving behind.
As you wend your way home, the scenery, under the influence of the
moon, seems more bewitching than ever. The Northern Lights cast a halo
over the hills and waters and forests, and you wish that the ten miles’
drive were fifty.
“Glorious day’s sport, boys!” says one of the party, as we see the
tower on Signal Hill silhouetted against the dark blue sky. “Grand!
grand!” is the unanimous reply.