Part 7
That was a never-to-be-forgotten night. The wind roared incessantly among the trees, the tent shook and flapped, an obtrusive root insisted upon being familiar with our ribs, and, to complete the enjoyment, a hedge-hog made us a call. That call afforded the one bit of comfort in an otherwise dreary night. To see the artist, in scanty attire, chasing that hedge-hog around the camp-fire at two o’clock in the morning was a sight to warm the cockles of the heart. To the artistic temperament there was nothing attractive in slaughter, but if the well-armed marauder could be caught alive and taken down to the hotel, that would be worth while. Finally, a well-aimed blow stunned the animal and he was hastily thrust under an empty box with a sufficient number of stones piled upon it to prevent it from being overturned by any exertion on the part of the captive. When daylight came, the box was in its place, but the hedge-hog had gnawed his way to liberty. That we did not extract his teeth before imprisoning him was a fatal oversight.
XI. AMONG THE CUT-THROATS OF LAKE CHELAN
ON’T be frightened! The writer has not turned desperado, neither has he fallen among men of bloody practices. In order that all minds may be set at rest before we go further, be it known that this is but a fish story pure and simple. The brother with the melancholy mind and ossified piety will do well to stop here and turn to “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs” or some other literature of that order. The elect few who love the open, rejoice in God’s out-of-doors and the beauty of lake and mountain, may safely venture to read this frivolous story of a side-trip made by one of the delegates to a church convention.
What have cut-throats to do with fishing? Patience for a moment, you who live east of the Mississippi! The Pacific Coast dwellers will need no explanation, but for the benefit of the unenlightened it may be said that in common parlance the “_Salmo Clarkii_” is known as a “cut-throat.” This appellation has nothing to do with the character of the fish, for he is an eminently respectable citizen of the watery world, but is due to the presence of a blood-red line on either side of his throat which by an extreme stretch of the imagination may be made to resemble a bloody cut. It is said that when he has access to salt water the cut-throat ranges far seaward, in which case he loses his black spots and takes on a coat of silver; but he still holds fast to his crimson necktie.
Doubtless the next question will be, “Where is Lake Chelan?” If you are too indolent to look it up on the map of Washington, follow the trail of the fisherman. He took the Great Northern road from Seattle, crossed the beautiful Cascade Mountains and left the train at Wenatchee. It is alleged in a multitude of highly coloured circulars that this is the “home of the big, red apple.” A trustful habit of mind makes us ready to believe this, although the aforesaid big, red apple was not at home when we were there. He is expected to return in the fall. There are orchards and orchards, and then more orchards.
An enthusiastic friend had pictured the beauties of the Columbia River Valley, and when we took the boat at Wenatchee for a forty-mile ride up-stream, anticipation stood on tip-toe. To be sure, aside from the orchards there was nothing attractive in the country around Wenatchee, but we felt sure that it would be “better farther on.” But it wasn’t. Possibly our æsthetic sense had suffered from a stroke of paralysis; if not, a muddy river, sage brush and alkali dust, brown, treeless hills and a general air of desolation do not combine to form an entrancing picture. To be sure, there are spots of green where fruit-trees have been planted and water from the river or from some irrigation ditch is led in and out through the orchard. But to one who has seen the beauty of an eastern landscape, before whose eyes comes a vision of stately trees and luxuriant meadows and babbling brooks of clear, cold water, those little dabs of green in the midst of wide stretches of dreariness awaken pity and not admiration. There is nothing either in the accommodations on the boat or in the scenery to make the traveller long to repeat his ride from Wenatchee to Chelan Falls.
It is said to be four miles from Chelan Falls, on the Columbia River, to the foot of Lake Chelan. We believe it, and would just as readily believe that it is ten miles. The fact is that the miles are perpendicular. You are either going up or down all of the time. Lake Chelan lies four hundred feet above the Columbia River, and the road borders the stream through which Lake Chelan discharges its waters. On second thought that word “borders” does not fit. The road transcends the stream; looks down upon it. At one point in the journey you gaze downwards some five hundred feet upon the boiling, turbulent waters which have made a way for themselves through a crevice in the rock. The colour reminds one of his boyhood when he interviewed the bluing water in the family wash-tub.
Lake Chelan, at last, and a hotel for the night, as the boat does not leave for the upper end of the lake until morning. It was an eventful night not only because the inhabitants of the village were celebrating the “glorious Fourth,” but chiefly from an important archaeological discovery made by the writer. Many of our readers are familiar with the account given in the Bible of the pillow upon which Jacob spent a dream-filled night. That identical pillow is in a hotel at Lakeside. It must be confessed that this is a deduction and lacks absolute historical verification; but as Jacob’s pillow was of stone and the Lakeside pillow is of the same material, and inasmuch as we have no record of any other pillow of that kind, it is a fair inference that Jacob’s famous head-rest has been identified. If any one questions the deduction let him try the pillow.
It is fifty-one miles from the foot of Lake Chelan to its head, and with each mile as one goes north the scenery grows more beautiful. The mountains at the lower end of the lake rise to a height of three or four thousand feet, while at the upper end they tower nine thousand feet almost precipitously from the water. The water of the lake is clear and blue, the mountains crowd upon it in their silent majesty, the air is clean and refreshing.
On some still morning when the winds do not disturb the bosom of the lake, nature is at its best. In the lake we saw pictures that cannot be reproduced by any skill of man; miles of flawless mirror in which mountains and crags and trees and clouds were reproduced with matchless fidelity. Sometimes the clouds hung for hours over the summits of the mountains, and here and there were great masses of snow which no summer heat could banish. Looking up the valley of the Stehekin towards the north, twenty-five miles away rises a huge mountain, down the side of which a giant glacier makes its way. And the best of all is that here one is “far from the madding crowd.” At the head of the lake is a hotel and a fish hatchery; no store, no factory, not even a Chautauqua.
It has taken a long time to get to the cut-throats, but we have arrived at last. The books on fishing assure one that the cut-throat “takes the artificial fly greedily,” and all the way the right arm has been fairly tingling with anxiety to begin casting. Alas! and again alas! The hotel clerk says that it is too early for the fly; we must use bait or a spoon. It is the old story over again. Did you ever travel far to a famous fishing ground and find the conditions just right? It is always too early or too late, the water is too high or too low, something is the matter which effectually prevents the best sport. But the man who has lugged a bundle of fly-rods to the church convention that he might use them on Lake Chelan is slow to believe that all his enterprise has been in vain. He will give them a try before abandoning hope. Behold him, then, whipping patiently on the edge of sand bars, in the swift water, under over-hanging bushes, in the shadows of great rocks, here, there, everywhere except on the board walk and the roof of the hotel; but so far as results are concerned he might as well have cast his flies in State Street, Chicago. Nothing doing; not even the feeblest answer to his invitation. Meanwhile a fellow-boarder is fishing with bait, using a bamboo pole about sixteen feet long and derricking fish in with a regularity that is equalled only by his evident ignorance of all the fundamental principles of true sport. But he gets the fish. If one is fishing for market he may use a telegraph pole or a net; but if he has in him something of the temper of the famous Izaak, fishing is more than meat. He loves the water and the sky, is made captive by the beauty of stream and mountain, delights to pit his wits against those of the wary citizens of the pool.
But what is to be done? No one has yet been found who can compel a trout to go after the fly when he does not wish to. We troll with a Dowagiac spinner, and the result, in number of fish, is distinctly satisfactory. As the trolling is done with a steel rod there is a certain amount of sport in the exercise; but at the best it is far below fly-fishing.
This story, thus far, has been written with careful attention to facts in order that it may bear the scrutiny of certain friends who companied with the writer for a short time at the head of the lake. They were good men and true, lovers of God’s out-of-doors, delightful comrades. Their company was a joy, but their presence was embarrassing. Every one knows that witnesses are unnecessary in fishing. To have some one at your elbow who wants to know just how many you have caught and what they weigh, allows no room for that play of the imagination which gives to fish stories their indefinable charm. It was a dark hour for the writer when these good friends turned their faces towards the south and left him desolate, but it was then that the fishing really began.
Just where the Stehekin makes its final plunges before joining the lake, there is a reach of rippling water bordered on one side by low-growing trees, and on the other by a great bunch of drift-wood. The fly-rod was put in commission, a sinker was used, and a bit of the white throat of a trout took the place of the artificial lure. With the boat lying against the drift-wood a cast was made towards the trees, the bait allowed to sink and then drawn slowly towards the boat. Was that the bottom? Hardly, for it is tugging and lunging and rushing back and forth across the narrow water. The light bamboo meets every lunge, and the fight goes merrily on for ten minutes or so, when a beautiful Dolly Varden trout is brought to net. Another cast and another strike. This time the visitor has succeeded in getting on the other side of a log that juts out into the stream from the drift-wood. So much the better for the sport. Gently, little by little, he is persuaded to travel towards the end of that log, until, after many efforts, the line swings free. A long, delightful tussle, and he joins his comrade in the bottom of the boat. Lest the reader’s patience should give way under the strain of detailed description, suffice it to say that from that one spot six Dolly Vardens were taken, not one of which weighed less than three pounds.
But fly-fishing was found, such as it was. Two miles up the valley Boulder Creek comes down the canon and empties into the Stehekin. We were told that here one could catch mountain trout with the fly. A mile beyond Boulder Creek are the Rainbow Falls, where a stream drops over the eastern mountains for a sheer plunge of three hundred and twenty feet. One day was all too little to devote to the beauty of this scenery and an excursion up Boulder, but it was a day well spent. The trout were there; little fellows among whom a nine-inch fish was a giant. The farther one went up the canon the better the fishing grew and the more plentiful and vindictive the mosquitoes became. The fish bit readily and the mosquitoes more readily. One could have filled a basket with small fish, but after saving a dozen for dinner the rest were thrown back. Zest was added to this excursion by the information that rattlesnakes frequented these rocky slopes; so the fisherman walked softly and kept an eye to windward.
Mountains and forests, dancing streams and beautiful lake, quiet and--fish! What more could one wish who seeks rest for tired nerves? Some time they will build a railroad in there, and then Lake Chelan will be easier of access, but less to be desired than now. When the crowds come, half of its present charm will be lost.
```_There is green on the hill, there is
````gold on the river,
```And the wind on the rye sets my
`````spirit aquiver,
````There’s a thrill in the sod
````At the touch of the God,
```And a song in my heart for the gift
`````and the Giver._
`````--Edwin Markham,
`````_The Wind on the Rye._
XII. CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON
```"Three fishers went rolling out into the North;
```Out into the North as the sun went down."=
F that is plagiarism, make the most of it. It is a fact. There was the Business Man, the Doctor and the Preacher; fishermen all. They preferred to roll rather than to sail, because they were in a hurry. They rolled north rather than west, because the best trout stream in North America lies between Chicago and Hudson’s Bay. Who has not heard of the famous Nepigon? What angler has not dreamed of battling with the giant trout which inhabit its waters? For months the Business Man, the Doctor and the Preacher had been examining their rods, looking over tackle, selecting flies, laying plans and looking forward with feverish anxiety to August first.
The evening of that day found us on board a vestibule Northwestern train, bound for Duluth and the Nepigon. At Duluth we exchanged rolling for sailing--by steam. If the weather had been at all nasty, we should have combined rolling with sailing; for the little tub which plies between Port Arthur and Duluth was evidently designed to exemplify all the possibilities in the way of tumbling about. But Lake Superior was on its good behaviour, with its face as smooth and calm as that of a sportsman when he has just landed a five-pound trout. The captain was one of the most genial of men, and the cook was undoubtedly a genius. We were not privileged to meet him personally, but we had abundant evidence of his culinary skill. The memory of his soup will linger with us forever. After mature deliberation we unanimously agreed that it was unlike anything we had ever tasted. We tasted it but once, for whatever other failings we may have, we are not greedy--at least for soup made from a strong decoction of musty hay, flavoured with extract of logwood. The polite waiter, observing that the Business Man was playing with the soup spoon instead of eating, mercifully inquired, “Have you got tired of your plate?” Disgust, relief, unsatisfied longing and a choice variety of unclassified emotions expressed themselves through the hasty affirmative of the B. M.
If this chapter did not aim to treat of fishing, the writer would be tempted to say that Port Arthur is “beautiful for situation.” It lies one hundred and eighty miles east of Duluth on the north shore of Lake Superior. At this point the land rises gently from the lake shore, and from the elevation in the northern part of the town a beautiful panorama is seen. Immediately before us is Thunder Bay, hemmed in by the rocky walls of the mainland, Pie Island and Thunder Cape. A narrow passage opens out into the lake, through which Isle Royal may be dimly seen in the distance. Thunder Cape rises to a height of fourteen hundred feet, and Pie Island--which takes its name from its shape--is not less than one thousand feet high, with a little lake on its top. The sides of both island and cape are exceedingly bold. We watched them one August night as the setting sun touched the bold rock into gold and purple, and saw the shadows steal over the waters and up the precipitous sides of the cliffs until water and cliff were hidden in the darkness.
But we must get on to Nepigon, seventy-five to one hundred miles away. We take the train on the Canadian Pacific, and glad are we when the conductor shouts out, “Nepigon.” We look out with curious eyes upon the famous Canadian city. There are four log-houses, a store and a hotel. We afterward found the Hudson Bay Company’s store, and the comfortable house occupied by the agent. In fact, this same agent was the immediate object of our search, for he had kindly undertaken to engage guides and make the other necessary arrangements for our trip up the river. He proved to be one of the most courteous and obliging of gentlemen, and spared no pains to assist us in preparations for the trip. To his wise selection of guides was due much of the pleasure of our outing.
Behold us on a sunny morning fairly embarked and headed up the noble Nepigon. A little geography and guide-book eloquence might be appropriate just here. The Nepigon River is the largest tributary to Lake Superior. It is about forty miles in length, and the outlet of Lake Nepigon, a body of water seventy miles long by fifty miles wide, with a shoreline of five hundred and eighty miles. There is a fall of one hundred and thirty feet in its course of forty miles, and that means numerous cascades and rapids. But the fact of prime importance is that this river is the home of big trout; not only large, but pugnacious. They are the Sullivans--beg pardon, I mean the Johnsons--of the _Salmo Fontinalis_ family.
But this is getting ahead of my story. We are just starting up the river. Let me introduce you to our four guides: Aleck De La Ronde, Joe Kejigos, Vincent Ashawikyegulap and Zavier Misak. They are Ojibway Indians. Aleck, the head man, not only speaks English, but reads and writes. Joe speaks a little English, and the other two none at all. Two birch-bark canoes are loaded with our tents, duffle and provisions. If any reader imagines that to camp out is to go half starved, let him cast his eye over this list of eatables: ham, bacon, potatoes, flour, eggs, baked beans, canned soups, chicken, beef, peaches, apricots, maple syrup, preserves of various kinds, condensed milk, bouillon, etc., etc. However, we needed all our provisions, and even more, for a camp appetite is sure to be large, vigorous, and in a chronic state of discontent.
Now we are off. The river at this point has broadened out into a beautiful lake. Yonder, upon the eastern shore, nestles the Roman Catholic mission house. All of our guides, as well as the majority of the six hundred Indians upon the reservation, are members of this communion. No one who talks with them can doubt that their religion is real. It affects their lives and controls, in some measure, their actions. Yonder, toward the south, a great mass of red rock lifts itself high in the air, and for many years it gave the name of “Red Rock” to this section. The Indians paddle and jabber. It is comforting to be told by Aleck that there are no “swear words” in the Ojibway language; but for this assurance we should have thought our guides horribly profane. The language sounds rough and full of imprecation. How our conception of the morose and taciturn Indian vanishes in the presence of these light-hearted, genial and loquacious red-men! They are children, full of mirth, fond of companionship, kindly in disposition, honest and faithful. We pass the neat log cabins of our guides, catch glimpses of a few wigwams on the western shore, and by five o’clock in the afternoon land at Camp Alexander, some twelve miles from Nepigon station. This camp is on a large pool at the foot of a rapid. The water comes foaming down through the narrow pass between the rocks, and then swirls and eddies and boils and bubbles before beginning its quiet journey toward the lake. It is just the place for trout. Rods are quickly assembled, flies carefully selected, and, trembling with eagerness, the fishermen make their way to the stream. And now comes a humiliating confession. The Preacher is the first to reach the river, and in a moment more his flies are dancing in the eddy. To his surprise nothing disturbs them. He casts again and yet again, but all in vain. So far as any signs of trout are concerned he might as well cast upon the pellucid waters of the Chicago River. Then comes a terrible temptation. A wily fiend whispers in his ear, “Try a worm.” Now the large-hearted Hudson Bay agent had presented the Preacher with a box of choice angle worms, and said box is at that moment in the ministerial pocket. Another ineffectual cast of the flies, and then “What a fall was there, my countrymen!” Off come the flies and on goes a fat worm. Gently the wriggling bait is dropped into the water, just in the shadow of a huge rock, when, tug--zip--whoop--“Hello! Bring the landing net!--Quick! I’ve got him!--Hurry up!” The air is heavy with the Preacher’s cries, and the rod is springing under the mad dives of the trout, and then--it is all over, and out on the grass lies a beautiful “two-pounder,” and the Preacher is suffering from the taunts and jeers of the Business Man and the Doctor: “Caught it with a worm!”
“What kind of a sportsman do you call yourself?” The pride begotten by capturing the first fish is knocked down and trampled upon by the shame of having been unsportsmanlike. Let it be said that the next day that box of worms was lost and never found.
Back to camp, where we find the tents up and supper well under way. That first supper in camp! Three hungry men devoured everything in sight, until it came to pancakes; then they paused, not from lack of appetite, but from fear of a sudden and horrible death. From what ingredients Joe, the cook, compounded those cakes will remain a mystery forever. It was suggested that he had cooked a flannel blanket or a pair of gum-boots, but he denied it. We ate very sparingly of the cakes, and soon afterward went to bed. That night the Preacher had a dream. An enormous bird, with curved beak and fierce eyes, persisted in roosting upon his stomach. Nor would the bird stand still, but with fiendish malignity curvetted and danced and double-shuffled, greatly to the Preacher’s discomfort. The unfortunate victim expostulated mildly, but the bird laughed him to scorn. Then the Preacher pushed the dancer off, but the bird hopped back at once and proceeded to execute a Highland fling. Then the long-suffering Preacher arose in his wrath and, seizing a knife, cut the bird’s head off. Horror! No sooner was the “foul” deed accomplished than the bird proved to be a man, and the Preacher was hustled before a Chicago court to be tried for murder. The prosecuting attorney showed beyond a question that the Preacher had deliberately killed this man. The lawyer for the defence submitted, first, that the man had no business to assume the form of a bird; second, that the stomach of a Preacher should never be used as a dance hall. The jury retires and is gone for only five minutes. The Preacher trembles in the box, and as the jurymen file back into their seats he--awakes. The verdict will never be known, although the dreamer did his best to go to sleep again at once and find out the decision.