July 30th I looked forward to as a red-letter day in my life, for was I not to have my first chance for that 70 lb. fish, about which I had dreamt for so many years?
The early morning (we were all up at 6 a.m.) was spent in getting my tackle ship-shape, and, most important of all, in engaging the services of a good boatman—for on his strength and willingness to "buck the tide," as they happily term rowing against the strong tidal currents, depends largely the chance of success.
The man I selected was a fine boatman. Keen on getting fish—jealous of all others of his craft, and with a capacity for bucking about himself, and what he had done and could do, which I have seldom seen equalled.
His command of strong and even highly flavoured language was remarkable, but a little of it went a long way. When I asked his name, he replied, "Every one calls me Billy." No one on the West coast seems to have a surname, so "Billy" he was to me for all my fishing days.
Billy was, I should say, about twenty-three years of age, slightly built, but extraordinarily strong with an oar. His temper was not of the best, and when I lost a fish he always considered that I was to blame, and resented the unfortunate fact as if it were a personal insult to his own powers as a boatman.
I don't believe he ever thought of the Cannery or of the sum which under happier auspices would have stood to his credit. His pay was three dollars a day (12s.) plus the value of the fish. His appetite corresponded with his pay, which was large.
He was willing to row all day long with suitable intervals for his meals—but any attempt to keep him on the water at meal-time was somewhat sulkily resented.
We fished together for some thirty days, more or less harmoniously, and there was only one great explosion which threatened to sever our connection.
Through his gross stupidity my boat, which was being towed behind the Cannery launch, was upset, and I had the pleasure of seeing all my fishing-tackle, fly-books, the companions of years—all my pet flies, spoons, spring balance—sunk in sixty feet of water—£20 worth of tackle gone in a moment.
Fortunately I had taken my rod and camera on board the launch, or they, too, would have been lost.
It was infra dig. that he should express any regret, and very unreasonable from his point of view that I should show any annoyance, which I did in what I considered very moderate terms, considering the provocation.
On landing, he suggested that I did not seem satisfied with him, which was quite true, and that "Joe," a hated rival, was disengaged and available.
I very nearly took him at his word and "fired him out"—but we made it up somehow, and he remained my boatman, though I never quite forgave the loss of so much valuable tackle.
Fortunately I had only a few more fishing days left and had some spare tackle to replace what was gone.
Our opening day was simply glorious, a bright sun and a crispness in the air which made one feel that it was good to be alive.
The scenery was exquisite. The sea calm as a mill-pond, only broken by the oily swirls of the rushing tide, and then there was the possibility of that long-hoped-for big fish, who did not come that day, though every pull from a cohoe might have been him.
Billy was positively polite, as it was his first day. Why many of these West coast men should imagine that politeness means servility, while roughness and rudeness only show equality and independence of character, I never could understand.
It was not long before I was in a fish, but as he was only a 5½ lb. cohoe, he was hauled in with scant ceremony and was soon in the net.
As I shall have something to say about tackle later on, I would only now mention that I was fishing with a fourteen-foot Deeside spinning rod, made by Blacklaw of Kincardine.
I had a large Nottingham reel with 200 yards of tarpon line, purchased in England, not, alas! in New York; a heavy gut trace with large brass swivels which would have frightened any but a Vancouver salmon; a 4 oz. lead, I afterwards came to a 6 oz., and one of Farlow's spoons specially made for the tastes of Vancouver salmon.
My bag that day, fishing morning and evening, was only six cohoe, weighing 3O½ lb. and one cod about 5 lb. I never had a pull from a tyee.
The row home that evening compensated for everything. The sun was setting behind the snow-covered peaks of the Vancouver Mountains, bare and cold below the snow-line, but gradually clothed with foliage down the slopes till the dense pine forest of the plain between the mountains and the sea was reached, from which the evening mists were beginning to rise. In the foreground, the sea, like molten glass, reflected the exquisite colouring of the northern sunset, its surface broken by the eddies of the making tide, or the occasional splash of a leaping salmon. Across the Straits on the Mainland, the tops of the great mountains clothed with eternal snow were lit up a rose-pink by the rays of the setting sun.
I have seldom seen a more beautiful scene, or one which gave such a deep sense of peace. There was a grandeur and immensity about it which satisfied one's very soul, it amply justified the realization of the call of the wild which had brought me so many thousand miles to those distant shores.
The morning of the 31st found me late in starting, as I had to interview Cecil Smith, who was to be my guide, companion and friend on my hunting trip in September.
On that morning, I got only two cohoes of 5½ and 4½ lb., one spring salmon of 9 lb., and as there was evidently no take on, I went up the river for a short time. I saw no salmon, but landed three cut-throat trout weighing 3½ lb., one a good fish of 2 lb.
On the way home to luncheon I killed a 20 lb. fish—a small tyee, and going out for half-an-hour in the evening after dinner lost a heavy fish.
Bad luck as regards the big fish still pursued me. It was true the big run of tyee had not yet begun, but a few were being taken from day to day.
On the morning of August 1st I hooked a heavy fish, but in his second big race, the line slipped over the drum of the Nottingham reel and the inevitable break came.
My catch that day was only three cohoes and three cut-throat trout.
A very high north wind blowing against the tide raised a heavy swell, and fishing was impossible in the afternoon.
August 2nd, I fished all the morning without getting a pull, so decided to try to go up the river to the falls, which attempt, as previously described, was not a success.
Returning to the sea in the afternoon I found Griswold with three fine fish, of 59, 45 and 40 lb. I landed a small tyee of 30½ lb. and four cohoe weighing 20 lb.
On August 3rd, I got my first good fish of 53 lb. and another of 42 lb. The tide was running strong and the 53 lb. fish took out about 120 yards of line, but eventually I got him in hand, when he made two wild runs—threw himself clean out of the water each time and then went to the bottom like a stone and sulked.
It took me just under an hour to kill that fish, and I found that he was foul hooked on the side of the head.
The 42 lb. fish was a lively one and tired himself out by repeated runs—he never got to the bottom and in about fifteen minutes he came to the gaff.
In addition to the two tyee, I had seven cohoe weighing 46½ lb., so luck was beginning to turn.
August 4th was a great day. Four tyee, 45, 44½, 42½ and 35 lb.; one cohoe, 6 lb.; one cut-throat trout, 5 lb., a picture of a fish; one sea trout, 2 lb., and one cod, 5 lb.; all before two o'clock.
There was a big take in the evening, and I missed it by getting out too late.
Griswold had five tyee, the largest 47 lb.; I came in for the tail end of the take and only picked up eight cohoe, weighing 43½ lb., and one spring salmon, 13 lb. Total weight for the day: 240½ lb.
August 5th. I had two tyee, 45 and 37 lb., and sixteen cohoe averaging about 6 lb., and so on day after day, with varying luck and always hoping for that 70 lb. fish which never came.
On August 10th, I got my second biggest fish. The spring tides were racing up and down the Straits and it was impossible to hold a boat, much less row it against the tide.
By this time from a study of the bottom, at low water, I had a fair idea of how the fish ran up and down with the tide. I accordingly anchored my boat off a point I knew the fish were bound to pass. The anchor was fixed on to a log of wood to which the boat was moored by a running knot. It was Billy's duty to cast off the moment I was in a fish.
The greatest race of the tide was at about half flood, and the current was so strong that the heavy spoon and 6 oz. lead were swept away like a cork. Letting out about thirty yards of line and giving Billy the rod to hold, I began casting with the fly, using a fourteen-foot Castleconnell rod, fine tackle and a two-inch silver doctor. I soon had a sea trout, 2½ lb., and two cohoe, besides many rises, and grand sport these fish gave in the racing tide on a light rod.
I had just killed my last fish when the scream of the reel on the rod which Billy was holding told me we were in a big fish. Taking the rod from Billy, I told him to cast off. The fish was racing up with the tide some 150 yards away, but the rope was fouled, or Billy bungled, and the result was a smash.
Hardly had I got out another spoon when I was in another fish. I was evidently lying in their track. This time we got away, and how that fish raced! Before I knew where I was we were up about a mile, being literally towed by him on the flowing tide before I could get him in hand. I eventually killed him, almost opposite the hotel, one and a half miles from where I had hooked him: weight, 59 lb.
In the evening I got two tyee of 47 and 46 lb. The big fish's measurements were: length, 47½ inches; greatest girth, 31½ inches, and girth round the anal fin, 22 inches.
The well-known formula for estimating the weight of a fish from measurement is as follows—
| girth^2 × length | = | weight. |
| —————— | ||
| 800 |
Applying this formula, the weight worked out just 59 lb., which the scales corroborated. The weighing machine, an old rusty steelyard, set up on the beach in front of the hotel, left a good deal to be desired; but I had a spring balance weighing up to 60 lb., which I tested at the local store and found to be quite accurate.
On August 24th heavy clouds were piling up, and a break in the glorious weather we had enjoyed from the beginning of August seemed imminent.
On August 26th, my last day at the hotel, I started to fish in a heavy gale from the south-east, the worst wind one could have in these waters.
Though leaving that night and having all my packing to do, I determined to have one last try for the big fish which had so far evaded me.
There was a heavy sea on and it was almost impossible to hold the boat, but Billy was on his mettle for the last day's fishing and really did wonders.
On the way down to the mouth of the river, I got a 10 lb. cohoe, and on arriving at the best ground I put on a big brass spoon, which Mr. Daggett had kindly lent me, about twice as long as the Farlow spoon. I was letting out the spoon when I got a tremendous pull and a very short run, which apparently took the fish to the bottom or into some kelp. There he remained and simply sulked without taking out a yard of line.
The rod was bent double and I put on all the strain possible, but it was a full three-quarters of an hour before I could see my lead coming up to the surface, and my arms and back were aching. How the rod did not break I cannot understand, for the fish came up gradually from straight under the boat; but at last I had the gaff in the biggest but least sporting fish I had killed during the month. He weighed 59½ lb. at the hotel, having lost a good deal of blood, and must have been over 60 lb. when he came out of the water. The brass spoon was either bitten or broken in half.
Having killed forty-one tyee, fished steadily for a month, and seen most of the fish that were caught, I do not think many fish over 60 lb. are killed. One fish caught by a hand-line and small spoon by a young settler named Pidcock, I weighed, and he must have been close on 70 lb. My spring balance went down with a rush to its limit of 60 lb., and I heard afterwards that when weighed at the Cannery it scaled 68 lb., so when fresh must have been close on 70 lb. This was the biggest fish I saw on the coast.
Farther north there are other fishing grounds well worth a visit, where the fish are said to run up to 100 lb.—such are the Kitimaat River and McCallister's Bay at the entrance to Gardner Canal, about four hundred miles north of Campbell River.
A steamer runs direct to Kitimaat and Hartley Bay once a month. Accommodation can be had at Kitimaat, but a camp is necessary at McCallister's Bay. Fish run as early as May. Campbell River is getting too well known, and there are too many boats on the water.
The following amusing description of an evening's fishing is from the clever pen of J. G. Millais, and was published in Country Life. I venture to reproduce it—
"Amidst gorgeous sunset hues we went to fish the usual beat opposite the Indian village on August 11th. The sun had already set, when of a sudden a suppressed excitement ran through the boats. A fresh run of tyee were in and had begun to take. Three or four Indians were 'fast' at once, and yells for help came down the line. In a moment, while close to the beacon stake at the mouth of the river, Mr. Powell, Sir John Rogers and I were 'into' fish at the same moment.
"Then the circus began. 'Look out there; don't you see I'm fast?' 'Confound you; get up your line, or I'll be over you.' 'Gangway, gangway,' 'Where the devil are you coming to!' 'Mind your oars,' 'He's off to the tide. Hurry' (Mac or Bill, as the case might be); 'row like blazes,' were a few of the cries that broke from excited anglers, while even phlegmatic Indians grinned or yelled 'tyee, tyee' in sympathetic encouragement. We all cleared each other somehow. I do not quite know how. Sir John was whisked straight out to sea, and was a quarter of a mile off in no time. Mr. Powell broke, while my fish, to my horror, went straight for the beacon. I lugged at him to steer clear, and he took the hint so forcibly that he burnt my finger on the line with the rush he made for the deep water. It was like poor Dan Leno's hunting song, 'Away, away and away. I don't know where we're going to, but away and away and away.' We could hear men laughing and joking in the darkness behind, and then in a moment we were out of it all in the silence of the boiling tide. Mac was a good boatman, and the way he followed that tyee in the eight-knot current did him credit. This was the strongest fish I have ever hooked. He seemed to do with us just what he chose, and we, like sheep, had to follow. If he had carried out his first laudable intention of a visit to Queen Charlotte Islands he might have defeated us, but seemingly he altered his plan and made a fierce hundred yards' run for the curl of the current at the mouth of the Campbell River. Here there were nasty lumps of floating kelp, and the two anglers fishing there received our return landwards with shouts of warning. In the gloom I could see by their attitudes that they were intensely interested in our welfare, for the next best thing to playing a fish yourself is to watch another at the game. Then began a series of 'magnificent cruises.' It is part of the interest in salmon-fishing that the fish you have 'on' is infinitely larger than anything previously hooked. Generally it is a pleasant delusion; but sometimes it is true, and then the conflicting emotions of the play and the thrill of subsequent capture are something to live for.
"My fish was, I knew, the biggest I had ever hooked, so one had to follow the same old ways of playing him, coupled with such extra force as that stout tackle warranted. After every great circuit of the boat I resorted to all sorts of devices for tiring my antagonist, but he refused to give in or to allow me to shorten the line. But my fish was as gallant a fighter as ever was hatched, and the better the fighter the quicker he kills himself. Half-an-hour has elapsed and I see the lead six feet up the line for the first time. Soon we shall see back and tail. Yes, there they are, and what a monster. He must be 60 lb. at least. At last he shows side, and that is the beginning of the end. Mac, an indifferent gaffer under the most favourable circumstances, now surpasses himself in the fields of incompetence. He makes one or two feeble shots, and then, getting the gaff well home, attempts to lift the fish as I throw my weight on to the reverse side of the light boat to prevent an upset. He heaves with both hands, and a great head appears, when crack goes the steel, and Mac sits down heavily in the boat, looking supremely foolish. I was not distressed, however, as that brief view of the fish's head had shown me the hook well placed; moreover, I knew that somewhere under the thwarts we possessed a goodly club. Mac, after a few moments' search, produced the truncheon, and, at the first attempt, stunned the salmon with a well-directed blow, and lifting it with his hand drew it into the boat. Ha! this is a fish indeed; one of the best of the season, we flatter ourselves, and 60 lb. for certain. But no; those cruel scales blast our hopes by 3 lb. Still, a fifty-seven-pounder is something to be proud of, and we rowed home that night at peace with the world. This, then, is Campbell River fishing for the great tyee salmon. If you wish to collect records you can do so by sitting all day in your boat for a month and using a tarpon-rod, which kills the biggest fish in two minutes, and a Vom Hofe reel, which carries a drag that would stop a buffalo."
If there are many Indians out the rod has not much chance, for their canoes cross and recross in every direction, and as they fish with a short hand-line, a long line let out from the rod is apt to get fouled.
Fortunately, their favourite ground is by Cape Mudge Lighthouse, where the cohoe abound. I only tried this water once, and was so jostled by Indian canoes that I determined to stick to the tyee and the mouth of the Campbell River.
The large majority of the salmon were really sporting fish. The cohoe had no chance with the strong tackle necessary for the tyee, but still were wonderfully lively, and when caught with light tackle on the fly, gave great sport.
In one respect they were all a hopeless failure—they were quite unfit to eat. Why it should be so I cannot say. Perfect to look at, as good as any Atlantic fish, the flesh was like cotton wool, dry and devoid of all flavour. On the other hand, the cut-throat trout were excellent eating.
During the entire month of August we had little or no rain. The climate was absolutely ideal and the eye never tired of the exquisite scenery, varying in colouring and effect every day.
The row of one and a half miles from the hotel to the best fishing ground, if the tide was not favourable, was a drawback, and personally I should prefer to pitch a camp on one of the many excellent sites at the mouth of the Campbell River, so one would be independent of the hotel hours and meals. When the tide is not favourable, a good plan is to leave the boat at the mouth of the river and walk home along the shore to the hotel for meals.
The fish generally took best at the turn of the tide, and about half water. Many enthusiasts were out at 3 and 4 a.m. and in some cases struck a good rise, but these early mornings without a cup of tea, I fear, did not often appeal to me.
The following table shows my bag day by day—
So the last day had come and the fishing was to be a memory of the past. Our pleasant party was broken up—Millais and his young undergraduate friends, Powell and Stern, had gone north to Wrangel to start on their hunting trip in Alaska; Griswold back to New York, planning the construction of a special boat and the adding of the great tuna to his many trophies of big sea fish. Daggett alone remained, seated daily in the comfortable armchair he had rigged up in his boat, still intent on that 70 lb. fish we had all hoped for, but failed to secure.
The pleasant days of friendly intercourse had come to an end. No more the quiet row home in the gloaming after a successful or moderately successful day. No more the nightly gathering on the beach and the weighing of the great fish. The weather itself looked despondent, and was making up its mind to break. The certainty of the past was over, the uncertainty of the future before me, and it was with a sad heart I bade farewell to the Willows Hotel, and to the fishing days that were now no more.
The depressing hour of 1 a.m. found me sitting on the end of the pier waiting for the arrival of the Queen City, which was only an hour late, and once more I was bound for the unknown.
As regards tackle, one rule only must be followed: everything must be of the best, and the best is to be obtained either in England or New York.
The choice of a rod is a difficult matter, and depends altogether on the individual idea of what constitutes sport.
If by sport is meant the taking of the greatest number of fish in the shortest possible time, in fact the making of a record—no rod is necessary. Follow the Indian method of fishing with a strong hand-line and no trace, the spoon being fastened on to the line direct. The moment the fish is on, if a small one, he is hauled hand over hand up to the canoe and jerked in—if a tyee, he is played by hand. I have never seen one allowed to make a race, and when fairly done he is hauled alongside the canoe, the line held short with the left hand, while a sharp blow on the head is administered with a wooden club, and he is then done for and lifted into the boat—no gaff being used.
It is astonishing how quick the Indians are in killing even a large tyee by this method. The hand playing apparently takes all the life out of the fish, and the strong tackle does the rest.
I have seen many white men follow this system—but they were all fishing for business and the Cannery. Only one white man from the hotel fished in this way, and I don't think any of us envied him his so-called sport.
The take comes on quite unexpectedly—boats will be rowing backwards and forwards without a pull. Suddenly the take comes on and nearly every boat may be in a fish. He, therefore, who can kill his fish quickest will make the biggest bag, if record breaking be his object.
I have seen one Indian canoe bring in over one hundred fish in a day's fishing—but is this sport? I think all true fishermen will say it is not.
After the hand-line comes the rod, and again, if the object be to catch as many fish as possible while the take is on, a small tarpon rod with a Vom Hofe multiplying reel and an 18-thread tarpon line, practically unbreakable, may be used.
One American tarpon fisher, Mr. Griswold, a true sportsman too, followed this method and naturally defended it. I do not in any way criticize his methods, I only felt they did not appeal to me. It is true I have seen him kill three fish while I was killing one, but I did not feel at all envious.
Generous to a degree, he more than once offered to fit me out and instruct me in the art of "pumping" fish, but though much tempted, I did not fall. Had I succumbed, I much fear I should have become an ardent advocate of tarpon methods applied to tyee salmon.
On the other hand, to fish for tyee with a highly finished 18-foot split cane, or other make of rod, seemed to me out of place. There were some who did it and gloried in the fact that they had caught a great tyee on an ordinary home salmon rod.
It seemed to me a waste of good material, for the rod was likely to be broken or permanently strained in the process of lifting a great fish from the depths of the sea—for after one or two rushes taking out 100 to 150 yards of line, the tyee will often go straight down to the bottom, stand on his head and sulk, and then you want that power to bring him up which only a very stiff rod possesses.
One of our number who had killed many a salmon at home, fished with an ordinary 18-foot rod. The fish seemed to do what it liked with him, and it generally ended in the rod being lowered till the tip touched the water, and the boat disappearing in tow of the fish, up or down the Straits with the racing tide.
In fact the fish was being played on the line from the reel without the power of a hand-line. To give him the butt would have inevitably resulted in breaking the rod. Yet this good sportsman sometimes got his fish and came back triumphant, having had him on for a couple of hours.
The local rods, whether those to be obtained in Vancouver or at the store on the pier at Campbell River, seemed to me most inferior in quality and workmanship, and the same applies to all other tackle, except possibly the leads, which are too heavy to carry about and which can be purchased locally.
As stated before, I used a three-piece Deeside spinning rod, twelve feet long, built by Blacklaw of Kincardine—but I must confess that twice my tip was broken by the strain of the weight of a big fish which had to be brought up to the gaff from the bottom of the sea.
Many a time was this little rod bent double, till I wondered how it ever bore the strain. On it I had killed all my tyee and most of my cohoe, but it suffered in the process, and the middle and top joints had to be replaced on my return home. If I were going again, I should feel inclined to take a 10-foot rod built on the same lines and of the very best material and workmanship. Such a rod would give more power and stiffness than the 12-foot rod.
Besides the 12-foot rod, I had a 14-foot three-piece Castleconnell rod, an old friend. This I used for fishing for cohoe with the fly, and grand sport they gave in the racing tide on a rod which played its fish right down to the reel. An ordinary 12-foot trout rod for the cut-throat trout completed my rod equipment.
Reels and Lines.—I started with a large Nottingham reel, but soon gave it up. It had the advantage, of course, of not rusting, but the workmanship could not stand the rush of a heavy fish. I lost big fish by the line slipping over the drum and jamming, though I had fixed up the usual guard improvised out of the brass wire handle of a tin can purchased locally. I then came to my largest bronze salmon reel, after which I had no more trouble—though the salt water caused rusting of the screws.
The reel should take 200 yards of tarpon line and be of the very best and strongest make. The Vom Hofe multiplying reels are perfect specimens of workmanship, and the attached leather drag worked by pressure with the thumb is an excellent device. In fact, for the big fish, from tyee to tarpon, I think the American tackle makers beat us as regards reels and lines.
I purchased two tarpon lines in London; who the maker was I cannot say. One did good service, the other seemed of inferior quality, for it broke without any special reason.
I should recommend 200 yards of 18 or 21 Vom Hofe tarpon line, which now can be purchased in England at Messrs. Farlow & Son's, or in New York.
One great advantage of this line is that it need neither be washed in fresh water after use in the sea nor dried. It can remain on the reel wet without rotting.
Gaff.—Farlow makes a specially strong gaff lashed into a long ash or hazel handle. I found this quite satisfactory. On the other hand, the American fishermen use quite a short gaff, but fishing with a six or seven foot tarpon rod they can bring the fish much closer up to the side of the boat.
A good strong landing net capable of taking a fish up of eight or ten pounds is most useful, and saves gaffing the smaller salmon.
Flies.—I started with the idea that the ordinary trout fly on No. 11 or 13 hook should be as good in Vancouver as it was in Scotland. I had very soon to acknowledge my mistake—the trout preferred a small salmon fly on No. 8 hook; silver grey, silver doctor, Wilkinson and Jock Scott, I found the best patterns.
The cohoe took a 2-inch silver doctor and rose steadily to the fly.
Spoons and Minnows.—Spoons can be obtained locally, either in Vancouver or in the Campbell River Store, but I should recommend their being purchased in England. The spoon specially made by Farlow is three inches long, silver on both sides, with a hook attached to the end of the spoon by a strong wire loop.
Local tastes varied, and in the local store there were many varieties of spoons. One year dull lead spoons were supposed to be most killing—another year it would be brass. Each fisherman had his special fancy.
Mr. Griswold had a silver spoon invented by a friend of his, or himself, for which a patent was about to be applied. He naturally, therefore, did not wish to give away the secret. It certainly was a most killing bait, and Mr. Griswold, between his special spoon and his tarpon methods, killed more fish than any of us for the time he remained at the Campbell River.
He most generously lent me one of his pet spoons on a day he was hauling in fish and I was getting nothing. I was promptly in a big fish which broke me, owing to the line jamming round the Nottingham reel, and away went the patent spoon. I did not feel justified in examining the spoon too closely or taking a drawing of it. It seemed longer than the Farlow spoon. The hook was suspended by a chain and the bait seemed to wobble rather than spin. The material was metal with bright silver plating.
An ordinary large-sized silver Devon Minnow spun from the boat, or at Cape Mudge from the shore, will take cohoe, and good sport can be obtained in this way.
A Tacomah spoon is deadly for cut-throat trout, but I preferred the fly.
Traces.—I took out some specially strong gut spinning traces made by Farlow, but I do not think any traces are necessary. The line is quite as invisible as the trace, and a few feet can be made into a trace by fixing two or three swivels—bronze, if possible, instead of bright brass—about two feet apart.
For fly fishing, good stout loch casting lines which will land a five or seven pound fish are sufficient. Very fine trout casts are unnecessary, except for trout in the river.
Leads.—These can be purchased locally, and one is saved the trouble of adding to the weight of baggage.
The method of fastening the lead on to the line all depends on whether it is decided to lose the lead when the fish is hooked or to fix it permanently on the line. A six-ounce lead when the fish is being played takes away considerably from the pleasure, owing to the dead weight on the rod. On the other hand, if it be decided to lose the lead each time a fish is hooked, a couple of hundred leads may be required.
In the former case, two methods can be adopted: loop up the line about twenty feet from the spoon with a piece of thread, on which is hung the lead; when the strike comes the thread is broken and the lead slips off—or, as described by Mr. Whitney: Tie two swivels on the line, nine inches apart; a small ring is soldered to one end of the lead, join the two swivels by a piece of weak cotton, thread the cotton through the ring of the lead and shorten it to four inches, which loops up the line, and when the strike comes the lead is released.
In the latter case, which I adopted, I found the simplest way was to cut the line about ten feet from the spoon and fasten the lead by two split rings and two swivels. Starting with a four-ounce lead I soon came to a six ounce, which I believe to be the most suitable, certainly in spring tides.
Odds and Ends.—One must carry out all one's own repairs, therefore an ample supply of repairing material and spare tackle must be taken.
Strong silk for splicing breakages, cobbler's wax, seccotine or liquid glue, rod varnish, spare hooks, split rings, bronze single and double swivels, fine copper wire, snake rod rings, and screws for reels.
A small portable case of tools, such as the "Bonsa," is invaluable, and with this and a sharp clasp knife most current repairs can be made.
Two good spring balances are advisable, one weighing up to seventy or eighty pounds, and one up to fifteen pounds. Both should be tested, which avoids any dispute afterwards as to their accuracy.
The morning of the 27th fulfilled the promise of the previous day. The weather had at last broken, and it was in a dense wetting mist that we crept north, bound for Alert Bay. We had no delay at the Seymour Narrows, which can only be navigated at a certain state of the tide. The whole force of the Pacific runs through these narrows—not more than half-a-mile broad—and the eddies and whirlpools that are formed are terrifying. There is one great rock in the middle of the passage—a special source of danger.
I had visited these narrows in a steam launch from the hotel, and had there seen the water at its worst—a wonderful sight; but the tide was now suitable, and as the Queen City passed through there was only a strong current.
The best guides and hunters are always snapped up early in the season, and before I left England, Mr. Bryan Williams had secured for me the services of Cecil Smith—better known in the local sporting world as "Cougar" Smith, from the number of cougars he had shot. As he lived at Quatiaski Cove, immediately opposite the Willows Hotel, I had frequently met him and discussed our plans together.
We had arranged to go from Alert Bay up the Nimquish River to the Nimquish Lake, from which we were to strike in north-west to some valleys in the interior where wapiti were reported as fairly plentiful. Cecil Smith did not know the ground personally, but his brother Eustace, who had been in that part of the country several times, was to meet us at Alert Bay and act as head guide. Unfortunately for us, at the last moment he was unable to come, and we had to find our way as best we could in an unknown and unmapped country. I had to find a man to replace Eustace Smith, and was fortunate in picking up Joe Thomson at Campbell River, and two better men than Smith and Thomson I could not have had.
Smith was to act as head hunter and guide and Thomson more particularly look after the cooking and camp generally. Thomson came on board with me and we picked up Smith at Quitiaski Cove at about 4 a.m.
Two other members of the party were even of more interest to me than the men. They were "Dick" and "Nigger," the latter generally known as "Satan." "Dick," who belonged to Smith, was a most adorable dog and celebrated throughout Vancouver for treeing cougars; indeed, as Smith himself acknowledged, he owed his reputation as a cougar hunter to Dick, who did everything except the actual shooting. It was difficult to say what Dick's breed was. He looked like a cross between a spaniel and a retriever. He was one of the most fascinating dog characters I have ever met. He adored his master, who returned his worship, but ingratiated himself with every one; soon discovering that I had a warm corner in my heart for all dogs, we at once became fast friends.
"Nigger," the property of Thomson, was a powerful, black, evil-looking bull terrier, but like many of his kind his character belied his looks, for he really was a soft-hearted, affectionate beast with a special ability for making himself comfortable under any circumstances. Thomson asserted that if there was no food, "Nigger" subsisted on berries, and he was an adept at catching fish for himself in the river. He had had some trouble with the authorities at Comox in a matter of sheep, and so a temporary absence from his native town was desirable, and he became, to his great joy, one of our party.
At 2 p.m. on the 27th we arrived at Alert Bay, which is situated on an island opposite where the Nimquish River discharges itself into the sea. Alert Bay is an important settlement of the Siwash Indians, and the village possesses one of the most remarkable collections of Totem Poles on the coast.
The question was, where to put up—hotels there were none. Mr. Chambers, the local merchant, had in the most generous manner built an annexe to his charming house, containing several bedrooms, but they were all occupied. Fortunately, I had been introduced to Mr. Halliday, the Alert Bay Indian Agent, at Campbell River, and he most kindly offered me a shakedown on a sofa in his drawing-room, which I gratefully accepted. I found Mr. Halliday was devoted to music, but seldom could find an accompanist—while to accompany was a pleasure to me, and we passed the evening going through many songs I had not heard for years, which recalled the Old Country and days long gone by.
Eustace Smith met us here and gave a rough sketch map to his brother Cecil, and indeed pointed out to us the peak on Vancouver Island under which we were to camp, and which only looked about fifteen miles off as the crow flies, and yet what difficulty we had afterwards to find our way through the impenetrable forest!