CHAPTER IV

HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND

The morning of the 31st was bright and cold, though rain had fallen in the night, and we got away about 9 o'clock. One hour's steady paddling and rowing, for the larger canoe had oars, took us to the north end of Hungry Grove Pond, about three miles I should say, from which issued a brook communicating with Red Hill Pond. The water was very low and the men spent most of their time in the water dragging the canoes over the rocky shallows. I strolled along the bank and saw many old tracks of caribou, but nothing fresh. We had one portage of about half-a-mile, to pass some bad rapids. The brook was about two miles long and owing to the bad water and portage it took us some two hours to get down to Red Hill Pond. We named the brook the Two Mile Brook. Millais had shown a communication between Hungry Grove Pond and Red Hill Pond in his map of the district, but never having travelled over the line we were taking he could not show details.

Red Hill Pond takes its name from a rocky reddish bluff, which rises a couple of hundred feet on the east side of the pond. The country is said to be a good one for bear, but we did not even see fresh tracks.

The pond is only about a mile long, and we got to the end about lunch-time.

I had brought rod rings with me, and had rigged up a rough trolling rod at our first camp, to which I lashed a spare reel. I made it a rule to have this primitive rod and my twelve-foot trout rod trolling over every lake and pond we crossed. I generally put a Devon minnow on one rod, and a blue phantom on the other. I used the fly exclusively when we came to any streams. I got one trout, a lively fish of 1½ lb., in crossing Red Hill Pond and two in Hungry Grove Pond. There was a rapid and a nice pool at the north end of the pond where we halted for lunch, and putting on a small silver doctor in a few minutes I had six nice trout, some of 1½ lb., ready for lunch. John Denny said they were all onannaniche or landlocked salmon. I had never seen them before; they were just like sea trout, and played in the same way, jumping out of the water even more frequently than sea trout. They were strong, game fish, and better still, excellent eating. Here I got my first mud trout, which I take to be char. They were more flabby and not in such good condition as the onannaniche; their flesh was a bright red, and they were good eating.

From Red Hill Pond, after a portage over the short rapid where I had fished, we entered a long weedy pond where fishing was impossible; then came shallow streams with just a perceptible current and three more large ponds, till we reached our camping ground at 4.30 at the head of a rough brook, over which we had to portage next day. I calculated we had come about fourteen miles. The steadies required careful navigation, for there were masses of sharp rocks, some just submerged, others showing well above the water. The bow paddler had to keep a sharp look-out, for very little will knock a hole in a Peterborough canoe. We were now getting rather anxious for meat, for it is simply impossible to carry tinned provisions in sufficient quantity to satisfy the appetites of four hungry men.

The wind had been north-east all day, and fell to a dead calm as Steve and I quietly paddled out, skirting the lake shore, with the hope of seeing game. We went about a mile and landed on a sandy beach where there were one or two fresh tracks, and then on about half-a-mile inland to a rocky knoll from which we could spy the surrounding country, which was mostly marsh with patches of dense wood scattered all over the plain and becoming thicker down by the lake's edge.

At this season of the year all the stags spend their days in the woods, and only come out morning and evening to feed. There was not a breath of air and the mosquitoes and black fly were out in force; towards sunset we saw a small stag with a poor head come out of a wood about a mile away, and feed down towards us. We had visions of caribou steak and liver and bacon before us, when suddenly the wind veered right round; at the same time a fox on the shore of the lake, who had seen us, kept barking persistently. Whether it was the wind or the fox I can't say, but the stag put up his head, turned right round and walked straight away--alas, the hopes of meat were gone. It was getting dusk, so we made for the canoe. On the way we saw a very small doe, but the wind was again wrong and she was off in a moment. We got back to camp in the dark.

Steve swore we must have meat and asked for my Rigby Mauser that he might go out at daybreak and shoot anything eatable. I offered him the little rook rifle, so it was decided he would be out before daybreak for meat. I was only hunting heads, but all the Indians had strong opinions on the subject of meat.

On September 1st Steve was out at daybreak with the small rifle and came back about seven o'clock triumphant, having shot a young stag in good condition. He had crawled within about fifty yards and killed the beast with one shot. I was simply astonished, for I never could have believed that the little rifle, one of Rigby's rook rifles, could have killed an animal bigger than an ordinary red deer. Steve had brought in the liver and kidneys and left the meat to be picked up on our march, for fortunately it was close to a pond we had to pass through. How we all revelled in a good breakfast of kidneys and liver and bacon. Every one was in good humour, for we now had ample meat.

The brook was about three-quarters of a mile long and everything had to be portaged.

It looked ideal fishing water, and while the men were portaging I fished every pool. I got two onannaniche and two mud trout above the first pool, and then never a rise, though the pools looked perfect.

Where the brook fell into the next lake looked the best water, but I could move nothing. Why, I could not understand, unless it was that the season was late for these waters.

When the portage was over Steve and John went across the pond for the meat, and Joe and I pushed on in the big canoe about a mile across the pond to another rapid, fortunately only about thirty yards long, where we again had to portage. The day had turned bitterly cold and heavy rain clouds were coming up. I had got very warm walking and fishing along the brook, and though I put on a thick jersey the wind seemed to cut like a knife and I got a bad cold which gave me some trouble for days after. Poor old Joe had spent most of the day up to his waist in water getting the empty canoes down the creek and was looking very miserable. The men wore nothing but their cotton shirts and coats, cotton trousers and moccasins--they were never dry, but never seemed to catch cold.

It was just the occasion for a tot of rum. Whether it went to Joe's head or not I cannot say--he certainly became extra cheerful, and when the other men returned and all the men were carrying the loads across the rapid, Joe tumbled twice right into the water and got a thorough ducking. I only made a gesture of taking a tot, when I thought these simple folk would never stop laughing. It was a joke which lasted them the rest of the trip, and in Indian circles no doubt I have the reputation of being a great wit. Joe laughed if possible more heartily than the others, and though soaked to the skin was quite happy for the rest of the day.

Just as we were loading up the canoes John pointed to the sky-line about half-a-mile away and quietly said, "That good stag, I think." Sure enough there was a heavy beast, the first big stag I had seen, quietly feeding along the crest of the ridge. The wind was right, so we decided to cross the pond, land, and have a closer look at him. His head looked massive, but I could not make out the points.

I certainly never had an easier stalk, as the ground was perfect for stalking, and this holds good all over the island. We walked quietly up in perfect shelter to within about 150 yards of where we had last seen the stag, and presently saw the tops of his horns sticking up from behind a low bush. Leaving Steve behind, I crawled up to within about seventy yards and got my telescope on to count the points. The horns were in velvet, but just stripping--and as the frontal tines were interlocked it was difficult to count the exact number. Beckoning Steve up we spent some time counting the points, for the poor beast was lying sound asleep with his head nodding. Steve could make out thirty points, but said we would get many better heads. We had almost determined to leave him, when I thought after all here was a certainty, so resting my rifle in the branch of a tree in front of me, I shot him through the neck. It was rather murder, for no skill either in the stalk or shot was necessary. However, he knew nothing, but rolled over stone dead. When we got up to him we could only make out twenty-nine points, but the head was quite a pretty one. The body was very big, but not in good condition.

Calling up the men, we soon had the head and meat down to the canoes and boiled the kettle before starting on. We now had enough meat for some days, though it is astonishing what a quantity of meat an Indian can get through; so we could afford to look for that extra good head--which as it happened we never came across.

We went on through some shallow and very rocky steadies, and after about a mile came to the last portage into Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake. We had to carry the canoes over this and were soon crossing to the north shore of Sandy Pond, where we were to make our permanent camp. There was a fine following wind which helped us along, and by sunset we had covered the four miles of lake and arrived at one of Steve's trapping camps, which was to be our headquarters.

Sandy Pond is a lovely sheet of water studded with innumerable islands, some densely wooded, some quite bare. In the early mornings and evenings in fair weather the view was exquisite, and I was never tired of the changing effects on the lake. One day there would not be a ripple, another day would come a gale and driving rain, and such a sea that the canoes could not be launched, but as a rule for three weeks we had perfect weather.

In crossing Sandy Pond I caught four nice trout, the two largest 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