A TRULY GLORIOUS FOURTH AND SOME VERY REAL FISHING
Dr. Grenfell’s staff were down at the dock to welcome us, and they soon
made us realize that American hospitality is the same the world around.
Although Labrador is English territory, the hospital is manned and,
to improvise an expression, “womanned” by Americans. A doctor, three
nurses and three college men, all of whom had volunteered to serve for
the summer, made up the staff of the hospital. In every way possible
they strove to make our stay in Battle Harbor an enjoyable one, and
they certainly succeeded.
While in this port we celebrated the glorious Fourth of July. The day
previous we had remembered with a start that the following day was the
Fourth! Dick Salmon suggested that we inaugurate the festivities with
a snowball fight, since there was a large deposit on the opposite side
of the tickle, so-called by the Newfoundlanders in speaking of a narrow
channel which indicates ticklish navigating. Dick’s cool suggestion
did not meet with a warm reception for obvious reasons, and we turned
in with our plans for the observance of the day somewhat nebulous.
The next morning at an early hour I was awakened from a sound sleep by
the explosion of a firecracker uncomfortably close to my ear. I made a
nose dive for the floor muttering imprecations against the authors of
the outrage. Then realizing that the great day had come, I hurriedly
dressed and made my way to the deck where the celebrants greeted me
with such a penitent air that I did not engage in the retaliations I
had determined to employ.
After clearing away the breakfast wreckage, the cook began making
the pots fly in a business-like manner, and soon savory odors
ascending from the galleys gave notice that a culinary masterpiece
was in the process of preparation. To the accompaniment of these
welcome sounds and odors, we swabbed down the deck and coiled down
the lines with despatch, and then sat back in the crisp sunlight in
languid anticipation of the approaching feast. At twelve-thirty the
cook’s warcry resounded through the vessel, and we tumbled down the
companionway to make the first table. Since there was not room for
us all at one sitting, our meals were served in two shifts. As “first
come, first served” was the order of the day, the competition was keen
indeed for the coveted places. I was fortunate enough to slide into the
last remaining seat much to the disgust of Melkon who had been keeping
his eye on the food all morning. Then came on the grub, and what
grub it was! Fish chowder flavored with onions, a magnificent roast
of beef--the last domestic meat we were to taste until our return--a
profusion of vegetables, plum duff and candy, with coffee and fruit
punch to wash it all down. Then there were cigars for those who desired
them; a pleasure in which several of us did not indulge.
After this repast we repaired to the deck where we basked in the
mellow sunlight like a herd of well-fed walrus. At last one of our
more ambitious shipmates suggested that we have an outboard motor race
with a boat from the _Peary_. This suggestion was hailed with acclaim,
and we immediately set to work tuning up our engine. At this moment
arrived Chief Aerographer Francis in the _Peary’s_ cutter. Immediately
we hurled at him our challenge which he at once accepted and it was
not long before both boats were at the line ready for the starting
gun. Our interest was keen, and suggestions and advice poured over our
bulwarks like a Bay of Fundy tide. Soon they were off neck and neck.
For a time all progressed beautifully. Then the regular cadence of our
boat’s exhaust became faltering. The _Peary’s_ craft forged ahead. We
yelled like mad as our crew of two desperately spun the needle valve,
and tinkered with every other gadget on the craft. But to no avail. Off
went our opponent and with him our hopes of victory. When he crossed
the finish line, our crew was still wrestling with the refractory
engine, and we reluctantly presented Francis with the first prize, a
leaky rubber boot. He hove the boot at our heads and went off in high
dudgeon over our lack of appreciation of his superior prowess.
All along the Commander had held forth on the delicacy of the Labrador
trout and salmon, and therefore great was our delight when one day the
mission people proposed a trip to the head of St. Louis Bay, where
was located a fine trout stream not far from the winter hospital. It
is necessary to maintain a winter station in addition to the summer
station at Battle Harbor, as the outer islands are untenable in winter
owing to their exposed position. The heavy pack ice comes in from
the sea, and savage winter gales lash the bleak and desolate islands,
rendering them impracticable for winter habitation. Every one moves
inland to the head of the great bays and settles down in a well
sheltered log cabin in close proximity to a forest of good firewood.
The hospital is no exception to this rule, and by the time the last
schooner has winged its way southward, the Battle Harbor station is
closed, and the winter hospital is put into service. We were all very
anxious to see the back country and looked forward to the trip with
keen expectancy, whetted by what we had heard from the Commander.
Early the next day with the Commander’s permission, all hands, with the
exception of one or two who unfortunately had to keep the ship, gaily
sallied forth in the capacious mission boat. After traversing a space
of rough water, which caused embarrassment to several of the ladies,
hospital nurses who accompanied us, we entered the great bay and sailed
past shores at first barren of vegetation but growing progressively
greener as we penetrated inland. It was interesting to observe this
increase in plant life as we drew away from the blighting influence
of the frigid Labrador current, which makes this coast the bleak and
barren land it is.
We arrived at the winter station a short time before noon and gave it
a thorough inspection. It seemed so nice and cosy tucked away in the
midst of a beautiful grove of pines on a picturesque arm of the bay,
that I almost wished I was a patient there.
As the sun mounted higher and higher towards the zenith, I began to
wonder where lunch fitted into the program. This also seemed to be in
the minds of our hosts and Doctor Grenfell soon suggested that we have
lunch on the banks of St. Mary’s Creek and do our fishing afterwards.
The lunch was to be cooked “on location,” as they say in the movies,
and the pièce de résistance was to be a real old New England fish
chowder. To one who has never experienced a fish chowder--for it is an
experience--words are inadequate to describe it; and to one who has
experienced it any attempt at description is superfluous. Suffice it to
say we gorged ourselves to repletion.
Even this heavy cargo of chowder did not hinder our getting under weigh
for the trout basin, and we were soon off with rod and gear. Williams,
however, who looked down on fishing with sophisticated contempt,
remained behind to amuse the ladies. As we moved off we last saw him
feverishly tossing dishes aloft, and only on our return did we learn
much to our relief that his brain had not been affected by the heavy
meal and that he was merely giving an exhibition of Bagdad juggling.
A short distance up the stream we found a small series of rapids
between which were dark, enticing pools. Mart, our mentor in such
matters, declared the location favorable, and we were soon casting our
flies into the swirling eddies. Every now and then we could see the
silver flash of a fish break the white water of the rapids, but for a
considerable time no welcome tug at the line ensued. We were on the
point of moving farther upstream when suddenly I felt a violent jerk,
my reel sang and my rod assumed an excessive arc. I stood my ground and
watched the line pay out until I could see the nickel core of the reel.
I was on the point of dashing into the stream to relieve the danger
of having the line unreeve, when slowly the rod came straight and the
reel ceased to revolve. One of father’s old fishing axioms came to me:
“A slack line spells disaster.” I began reeling furiously, and for a
minute I felt that my fish was off. I was on the point of giving up
when again came a taut jerk. Away sped the fish with another thirty
feet of my line. I played him with all the cunning I could command,
until at last his silver scales sparkled in the shallow pool at my
feet. Just as I was about to draw him to shore, he flipped his tail
and was gone again. Once more I gave him his head. This time he dashed
towards a jagged clump of rocks, and I realized with dismay that unless
I took extreme measures I should soon have my line inextricably tangled
around the rocks. Taking a desperate chance I added a few more pounds
tension to the reel. The rod bent dangerously, and my breath came hard
with the suspense, but the rod held. He came short of the rocks by
several inches; then, exhausted by this desperate sally, he slackened
his efforts, and I began to reel him in. This time the struggle was
short, and in a few minutes he was gasping on the rocks at my feet, as
fine a specimen of brook trout as I ever saw!
In my excitement I had not noticed that success had crowned the efforts
of my companions, and there were three or four other speckled beauties
divided among them. For a while longer we fished with signal good
fortune, but at last the dipping sun warned us that it was time to
think of returning to the ship. Gathering up our trophies we hastened
down to the shore where we rejoined the others, and in a short time we
were chugging along towards the ship, at the close of one of the finest
days we ever had in Labrador.