I reserve for ever a warm corner in my heart for "Dick" and "Nigger."
How "Dick" found his way in the forest was always a mystery to me. Of the keenest sporting instinct, he considered it his duty to pursue any track he came across. Wolf, bear or deer were all the same to him. I fear even a wapiti would not have been sacred, but in the wapiti country, we always tied him up in camp.
Over and over again he went away giving tongue loudly till distance drowned his barks. He had no idea in what direction we were marching. Sometimes he would be away for an hour and we began to fear something had happened to him but he invariably turned up wagging his tail, having found our tracks and followed them. I have seldom met a more intelligent dog.
Coming out of the dense forest and suddenly striking the open lake bathed in brilliant sunshine, the effect was dazzling and our eyes were almost blinded. Fortunately we saw a Siwash canoe across the lake, and were lucky enough to find that Mr. Dickenson, one of the Directors of a timber company, was up on a tour of inspection.
He most kindly offered to take me down the river in his canoe, and we decided to fish a little on the way down. In the first pool where the river left the lake I got a couple of nice cut-throat trout, one about 2 lb., on the fly.
The pool was simply alive with cohoe salmon, which could be seen on all sides swimming about in the clear water. Mr. Dickenson trolling with a spoon was soon in a nice fish of about 7 lb., which gave really good sport on a light trout rod before it was landed.
Shooting the rapids in great form we were very soon opposite Lansdown's house, where I landed.
And so ended my hunting trip in the Vancouver forests.
I cannot say much in its favour. It was timber crawling pure and simple from beginning to end—no real stalking, only a snapshot which fortunately got me my wapiti. The weather had been all against us—the camping grounds, with the exception of that on Keogh Lake, most uncomfortable. Food was indifferent owing to difficulty of finding any game; deer there were in numbers, judging by the tracks, but one seldom saw them. There were ruffled grouse, but Smith was not very successful with his pistol, and we only got two or three the whole trip.
With the fishing I was very much disappointed. The trout in the lakes in the interior were tiny things, hardly worth catching or eating.
So long as one has to pack, I do not see how a really comfortable trip can be made. Discomfort to a certain extent I don't mind, but we had a little too much of it. I had added one more experience to a life of varied sport, but I mentally resolved that I never again would be tempted to hunt the wapiti in the Vancouver forest, or indeed, to go on any hunting trip which depended on packing for transport. Who knows whether I shall keep that resolve?
That night we put up at Lansdown's, and never in the best restaurants of Paris or London have I enjoyed a meal more than that which Mrs. Lansdown with true hospitality placed before us, abundance of food—mutton, potatoes, and other fresh vegetables, eggs, milk and cream. I fear we all ate far too much.
Having still a few days to spare, I decided to try for a Rocky Mountain goat on the Mainland.
Lansdown had lived for some years at the head of Kingcome Inlet, one of the great inlets running in to the Mainland, just behind the island on which the town of Alert Bay is situated.
He stated that goats were plentiful but that one would have to climb up to the tops of the mountains at this season of the year. He also pretended to an intimate knowledge of every turn and bend of the inlet, and the best campgrounds. I accordingly engaged him and his sixteen-feet rowing and sailing boat for the trip.
September 17th. We started early for Alert Bay and were fortunate in getting a tow across from the timber company's steam launch, and arrived at Alert Bay in the early forenoon. We laid in ample supplies of provisions at Mr. Chambers' store and with some difficulty I got the men to start at 3 p.m.
My two bottles of rum had long since been exhausted though only taken in homoeopathic doses. The difficulty was to get more. No spirits were allowed to be sold in Alert Bay, a passing steamer was the only chance, and fortunately one was due before we started.
My friend Mr. Halliday saved the situation. He as a magistrate gave me a certificate that the rum was required on medical grounds, without which the Captain of the steamer would have refused to part with any. I was the envy of the entire Indian population as I left the steamer's side with a bottle of rum sticking out of each of my coat pockets.
It was a lovely evening and though Mr. Chambers had offered us a tow with his steam launch, which runs to the head of the inlet once a fortnight, if we would wait two days, I preferred to get away rather than kick my heels about Alert Bay.
Rowing up to the mouth of the inlet with a flowing tide we made about seven miles, and camped at 6 o'clock on a rocky islet where we found an ideal camping ground, near which some Siwash Indians had settled for the summer fishing. The scenery was superb. A background of the snow-covered mountains of the Mainland, in the middle distance many islands clad with wood down to the foreshore, a sea like glass in which mountains, islands and forests were reflected and the surface only broken by the eddies of the flowing tide. The sunset was glorious and the colouring indescribable.
That evening, we saw a remarkable sight. Pilot whales in schools were common at the Campbell River, but here came a great whale all alone ploughing his way up the inlet and coming up every few minutes to blow—once he threw his entire body many feet out of the water and came down with a crash which echoed through the surrounding islands.
September 18th. After a hearty breakfast we got away about 9 a.m., but by 12.45 the appetites of the men called for a halt. Noon never passed without a spell for food being proposed.
Trolling with a spoon and a hand line, for I had left my rod at Alert Bay, I got a nice cohoe of about ten pounds, and strange to say quite good eating.
At 4 o'clock a halt for the night was suggested, but I would not have it, and as Lansdown said there was a good camping ground some four miles away, we pushed on.
The sides of the inlet were so steep that it was only in certain places that ground where a tent could be pitched was to be found.
Lansdown had lived twelve years on the inlet, but his bump of locality was sadly deficient, for it took us three and a half hours to cover that four miles which must have been nearer nine, and I had to take the oar for the last two hours.
At last we reached the cove with a shelving sandy beach, but it was pitch dark and the rain was coming down, so I fear I was rather short with poor Lansdown, who had kept promising the camping ground a few yards round every point we passed.
September 19th. The camping ground as seen in the daylight was an ideal one. There was no undergrowth, and a grassy glade in the shelter of the great trees was a perfect site for the tents. A head wind had got up and the rain was still pouring down, so the prospects were not very encouraging, but still by tacking and rowing we made about seven miles when we were picked up by Mr. Chambers' launch and taken on to the head of the inlet where the Kingcome River falls into the sea. The scenery all up the inlet was very fine. The hills got more and more perpendicular as the head of the inlet was approached, and were clothed with dense forest down to the water's edge. Down the ravines from the hill-tops 3,000 feet high poured great waterfalls, and rain-clouds and mist swept over the tops of the hills, giving from time to time a glimpse of distant snow-covered peaks some 6,000 feet high.
The evening was fine and by 6 o'clock we were anchored in the river opposite a few settlers' houses.
We found Lansdown's old house, somewhat dilapidated but habitable. There was abundance of sweet hay and it was a luxury to spread my blanket on a hay-strewn dry wooden floor with a rainproof roof over my head.
Most of the settlers, including Lansdown's strapping brother, came round to have a chat and to hear the news from the outside world. They seem to have a fairly easy time chiefly raising cattle, for the delta formed by the washed-down detritus from the hills was a rich white soil on which a fine crop of grass was raised. There were a good number of wild duck about, and the settlers were a sporting lot, so they amused themselves with the evening flighting and with occasional trips up Mount Kingcome, which overshadowed the valley, after goat, deer and bear.
September 20th. It was a fine morning and the snow-covered peaks of Mount Kingcome about 6,000 feet above us, where we hoped to find our goats, were glistening in the morning sun.
Smith was hors de combat—I had offered to send him home from Alert Bay, but he said he was quite fit to go on. I think he was a bit nervous when he saw the climb before him, for carrying a pack up the steep mountain was no joke.
I was fortunate enough to secure the services of Harry Kirby, one of the settlers who knew the country well and he was willing to take Smith's place; a better man after goat I could not wish to have. He was very deaf and somewhat outspoken. Looking me over he said, "You are too stout for goat," which I rather felt to be true, though the trip after wapiti had fined me down considerably. I was, however, in hard condition by this time, and half-way up when we stopped for a midday meal, he quietly remarked, "I think after all you will do," and so my character as a prospective goat-hunter was restored.
Quite a good track was blazed and cleared for about half-way up the hill, and the path though very steep was not bad, only hard on the men carrying the packs, so spells for rest were fairly frequent. The last half where the track had not been cleared was real bad going. A great torrent swept down the bottom of the steep ravine we were ascending, and it had to be crossed many times, which meant a wetting.
The undergrowth was a dense tangle, fallen trees blocked the path and never had we met the accursed devil-club in such abundance.
All things must come to an end, and by 5 o'clock we were clear of the forest and entered a fairly open valley, shut in on all sides by steep cliffs. At the end of the valley rose the snow-covered summit of Mount Kingcome about three miles away.
We had been marching since 9.30 and had ascended about 4,000 feet. We pitched camp in the last clump of wood in the valley, and on the side of the hill.
Though the forest ceased, there were dense masses of impenetrable cover, consisting of salmon-berry, wine-berry and devil-club, for about a mile up the valley, after which the ground was quite open.
Large patches of snow were lying on the bare hills just above the cover—and while selecting our camping ground, I suddenly saw a black object moving across a snow patch about half-a-mile across the valley.
Leaving Kirby and Lansdown to pitch the camp I took Thomson with me, and getting within about 500 yards of the snow patch, saw what looked like a small bear, but as Thomson said, "I never saw a bear with a long tail." The animal was moving quickly over the snow and getting closer every minute to a patch of dense cover. No doubt it was a wolverine. I had a long shot at about 400 yards and knocked up the snow under his belly. In a moment he was in the cover and we never saw him again.
Further up towards the head of the valley we saw a bear moving across a patch of snow, but he, too, disappeared in the cover. Evening was now closing in, so we turned towards camp. About a mile away, just opposite the camp and on some almost precipitous rocks a goat suddenly came into view round a corner of the rock. He must have been lying down all the time out of sight, and it was bad luck not having seen him before, for though to climb the face of the cliff was impossible, we might have got a long shot from below; as it was, by the time we had got up to the foot of the cliff, it was too dark to shoot, so we decide to leave him till next day.
At last I had reached a game country, having seen a wolverine, a bear and goat in one afternoon.
September 21st. It had rained all night but cleared up in the morning. Before I had turned out, Kirby reported the wolverine crossing the same patch of snow opposite the camp about half-a-mile away. Slipping on a pair of boots, I rushed out in my sleeping clothes. Getting the glass on to the beast, I found that this time it was a bear making tracks for the valley we had come up, and no doubt after the salmon which were rotting in thousands on the bank of the river below.
He was into the cover before anything could be done in the way of a stalk, and did not appear again.
Examining the ground, I found the valley extended up to the base of Mount Kingcome for about one and a half miles. The sides were precipitous cliffs quite impossible to climb. The slope up to their base was clothed with dense undergrowth, while a creek fed by the melting snow and the rain from the surrounding hills was tumbling noisily down below our camp.
The head of the valley narrowed rapidly until completely shut in by the mountains, the tops of which were covered with snow. Large patches of snow lay in the hollows of the hills all round, never melting even in the summer months.
The air was cold, but bracing, just the day for a stalk. Spying the valley carefully, I soon found a goat high up on the cliff to the right. I think it must have been our friend of last evening, who had fed along the side of the hill to his present position up in the valley. The ground did not look impossible, but Kirby pronounced against it as too dangerous.
Higher up on a hill-top at the far end and just on the edge of the snow, I picked up with the glass two more goats and we decided to go for them. It was easy going to the foot of the hill where the valley ended, but a really stiff climb of about one and a half hours to get up to the patch of snow close to which we had seen them, above the line of cover; the hill-side was covered with a sort of heather growing between the rocks and it was very slippery going.
As we arrived at the spot and were looking everywhere for the goats, I saw two goats, a nanny and a kid, moving away about 400 yards off and climbing steadily up the face of the cliff. We both thought they were the two we were after, who had seen us or got our wind.
We were now 6,000 feet up and it was quite cold enough without a blizzard which suddenly set in with a bitter wind, which drove the snow and sleet almost through one.
We were huddled under a sloping rock, trying to get a little shelter, when it struck me to send Kirby up and see if by any chance the goats were still where we had seen them first, as possibly the two we saw moving away were another lot. It was lucky I did so, for he was back in a few minutes with the good news that our goats were feeding quietly in a hollow behind a ridge not a hundred yards above us.
I never was so cold in my life, but leaving Kirby behind, I crawled up to the top of the ridge, and looking over saw to my delight a good billy and two nannies feeding a hundred yards away.
Getting into position for a careful shot, I proceeded to remove the caps of my telescope sight, which I had kept on up to the last moment on account of the rain and the snow.
At the critical moment the front cap jammed, and with my half-frozen hands it took me a couple of minutes, which seemed hours, to get it off. Peering over I saw the goats moving off, they may have got our wind, for heavy gales were eddying round the top of the hill.
The two nannies fortunately went first, the billy was moving on pretty quickly behind. I had just time to get a shot, another moment and he would have disappeared behind some rocks, and I heard the welcome thud of the bullet; he stood for a moment, and as the extraordinary vitality of the mountain goat had been impressed on me by Kirby, I gave him a second shot, and he came rolling down the hill like a rabbit, stone dead.
Had it not been for the jamming of the cap I would certainly have got one of the nannies as well. He was a fine beast, much heavier and bigger than I had expected.
The snow was still falling and we were both shivering with cold. While still undecided what to do a momentary break showed us two more goats, one a fine billy right across the valley and a little higher up, and as the day was young we decided to have a try for them. Climbing about 500 feet up, we arrived practically at the summit and were spying as to the best way to try a stalk, for the valley was now disturbed and the goats were on the alert and looking about in every direction.
Unfortunately, the snow set in worse than ever and blotted out any view of the hill. To attempt a stalk on such dangerous ground would have been madness, so we turned back and went down to where we had left the dead goat. The cold was now so intense we could not remain to skin the goat, so made straight for camp. The going on the way down was as bad as it could be. The newly-fallen snow lying on the heather had made it very slippery and almost dangerous. I had many a slip but generally landed sitting down, and arrived at the foot of the hill bruised but thankful, for after all I had got my goat. This was real sport: to find your game, mark him down and then an honest stalk, ending in a kill; but it was stiff work and a little too much for a man of my age.
We had come down about 2,000 feet, and the snow had turned into rain, which felt quite warm and comforting after the blizzard on the hill-top. Kirby was so cold, he asked leave to go ahead, and I soon saw him running down the valley and skipping like a goat from rock to rock. Taking it easier, I got to camp about 5 o'clock, fairly tired out.
September 22nd. It rained and snowed all night, and for the first time the little tent was not waterproof. The weather cleared about 8 a.m., and the morning sun broke through the rain clouds and mists which were sweeping away from the hill-tops; the effect was most beautiful.
The hills where we had been stalking yesterday were entirely covered with snow, and patches were lying far down in the valley. I sent Kirby and Lansdown up to skin the goat and bring in the head and skin, while I made preparations for striking the camp and going down the mountain on their return.
They returned about noon, and we were just preparing to start when I saw a bear—probably the same one we had seen before, moving rapidly up the valley at the foot of the cliff and across one of the numerous patches of snow. Seizing the rifle I dashed down, followed by Thomson, to try and get a shot. I left my coat, in which I always carried spare cartridges, behind.
By the time I had crossed the creek, the bear was well ahead and looked about 300 yards away. Putting up the 300 yards sight, I knelt down, rather breathless and shaky from my run, and fired. The bullet knocked up the snow in a good line but short. This started him off at a run and he was getting farther and farther away as I fired two more shots, which also struck low. My last chance was another shot before he reached the thick cover, and, aiming right over his back, I hit him, where I could not say. He must have been 400 yards away when I fired. On being hit, he stumbled forward and turned right down hill into some dense undergrowth which extended right down to the creek.
Having only one cartridge left, I sent Thomson back to camp for cartridges, and sat down behind the rock from which I had fired to await events. My impression was that he was badly hit and that we would have to follow him up in the cover. To my surprise, I suddenly saw him come out of the cover and come down to the creek. He was not more than 150 yards away and passing between a lot of big boulders, and it looked as if he were heading up the valley.
Thinking it was my last chance, I fired and saw the bullet hit a rock just over his back. To my horror, I then realized I had left the telescope sight screwed up to 300 yards. Worse luck was to follow, for the shot turned him and he came down the creek towards me, very slowly and looking very sick. There was I without a cartridge and a wounded bear apparently walking on top of me. I lay quite quietly behind my rock, and had the pleasure of seeing him come within thirty yards, when he turned slowly and, crossing the creek, entered the dense undergrowth on the other side just as Thomson came up with the cartridges. It was as bad a moment as I have ever experienced in my sporting life. At first we could trace his movements by the shaking of the bushes, and at one time, this ceasing, he apparently lay down.
I knew it was hopeless following him in such undergrowth, for not only was there the danger of being charged, but if even I could have made my way through the tangle, it would have been impossible to put the rifle to my shoulder. Thomson would not give him up, but begged I would lend him my rifle and he would follow him up.
I returned to camp utterly disgusted, and in about one hour Thomson returned, saying he had crawled through the cover, found lots of blood, saw the bear once in the distance, but could not get a shot. The worst of it was, it was now too late to start, and to make matters more depressing, rain and sleet fell all the afternoon and night.
September 23rd. The rain had now turned to snow, which was lying as low down as the level of the camp. Everything was sodden, and a wet march was before us.
We got away by 9 o'clock, and had a hard march as the creek was now a roaring torrent, which we had to cross and recross several times. Going on the rough boulders, over and round which the flood was pouring, was as bad as it well could be, and we were all wet through by the time we reached the cleared track. Our last view of the valley, before we entered the forest, was superb. The rain had cleared away, a bright sun was breaking through the heavy clouds, which were being swept away from the summits of the snow-clad hills and from the slopes of the valley, now dazzling white in the morning sun, while looking back through the forest we were just entering the trees stood out in black silhouette against a background of snow. It was with deep regret I turned my back on the Goat Valley, where I had seen more game in two days than in all the rest of my trip.
By 3 o'clock we reached the Kingcome River, but it was too late to make a start that night.
September 24th. We got away at 8.15. The morning was fine, and the inlet and snow-covered peaks behind looked very beautiful. The current always runs down this inlet irrespective of the tide, though it is, of course, stronger with the ebb. We made only one halt for lunch, and by 7.15 p.m. reached Quiesden—a deserted Indian village thirty miles from the head of the inlet; not a bad performance, as we had to row the whole way.
Here we found an empty mission house, and Lansdown somewhat burglariously effected an entrance through a window and opened the door from inside. We soon had a fire going in the dilapidated stove, and settled down comfortably for the night on the bare boards. They were at least dry and we had a roof over our heads. The walls of the sitting-room were mostly decorated with texts, but a coloured illustration representing a young naval officer making violent love to an extremely pretty girl showed that even missionaries have a human side to their nature.
The village was entirely deserted, all the inhabitants being away fishing. There were some fine totem poles, and the woods all round were the cemetery of the neighbourhood—the bodies of many departed Siwashes, packed in boxes or bundles, being slung up in the forks of the trees—the Siwash method of burial.
September 25th. Leaving Quiesden at 8.15, we had a fine sailing breeze which before night had increased to half a gale, and on arrival at Alert Bay, about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Chambers most hospitably put me up till my old friend the Queen City, due at 1 a.m., should arrive.
September 26th. The Queen City did not arrive till noon, and bidding good-bye to my kind friends at Alert Bay and to Lansdown, who was returning to his farm on the Nimquish, we were soon on our way to Vancouver.
Accounts had to be made up and good-bye said to Smith and Thomson and my dear friends "Dick" and "Nigger," for they were all to be landed at some unearthly hour in the morning at Quatiaski Cove. All the roughing was over, and the comforts of civilization were before me, yet it was with sincere regret that I saw the last of my friends and companions. The discomforts were forgotten, the sodden forest, the rain, the indifferent food, and the poor sport, but the impressive scenery of the vast Vancouver forest, the still lakes and rushing creeks, and the beauty of the Kingcome inlet, with its setting of snow-covered mountains, will remain indelibly impressed on my memory, and as the prospect of future trips becomes more remote, the recollections of those days will always be with me. The call of the wild may be as strong as ever, but the capacity to respond to it must diminish as years roll on. The man who has not a love for the solitudes of nature and the simple life in camp, misses experiences which to me at least have been amongst the keenest enjoyments of my life.
September 27th. We arrived at Vancouver about 5 p.m. That day I saw Mr. Williams, just returned from inspection and sport in the Kootenay district. He reported game plentiful and brought back two fine sheep heads which he had secured after hard work and stiff climbing.
I left Vancouver on the 29th and, changing trains at Winnipeg, arrived at Toronto on October 3rd—four hours late from Winnipeg.
Leaving Toronto the next morning, I spent that evening and the following day at Niagara Falls, arriving in New York in the early morning of the 6th. Through the kindness of Mr. Griswold, I had been made an honorary member of the Knickerbocker and Union Clubs. More luxurious and better-managed clubs could not be found in any capital of Europe.
At 10 a.m. I was once more steaming out of New York on the Blücher, one of the slower steamers of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, and after a most comfortable voyage, with charming fellow-passengers, I disembarked at Southampton on the 17th—just three months and seven days from leaving England.
Notwithstanding my resolve that the Vancouver trip should be my last one, the call of the wild was once more too strong, and the summer of 1910 found me planning an expedition to Newfoundland.
I think J. G. Millais' charming book Newfoundland and its Untrodden Ways, as well as the description he personally gave me of the country, were largely responsible for my decision.
I sailed from Southampton on August 5th by the Cincinnati, of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, bound for St. John's, Newfoundland, via New York.
The ship was crowded and the voyage as monotonous as all Atlantic voyages are, while being a slow boat we only arrived at New York on the morning of the 14th. The heat of New York was intense, and I was not sorry to leave it at midnight for Boston, and straight on via St. John's, New Brunswick, to Sydney, where I took the Bruce, which runs between Sydney and Port aux Basques, Newfoundland, a distance of a hundred miles.
I would recommend any one who is taking this route, and is not a total abstainer, to provide himself with a bottle of whisky, for Maine, through which a good portion of the journey lies, is a teetotal state, and even on board the Bruce not a drop of any form of liquor, even beer, was allowed to be served until the steamer was under way.
Getting away at eleven o'clock, and after a rather rough passage, for the Bruce is only about 800 tons, we arrived at Port aux Basques at 7 a.m. on the 17th.
It was a lovely morning, and the rocky shores of Newfoundland looked particularly wild and attractive in the bright sunshine. Port aux Basques is a small settlement, and so far as I could ascertain does not contain an hotel, but no doubt some form of lodging-house exists, where, as throughout the island, the visitor would be given a warm welcome and whatever was going, be it little or much.
The train was waiting for the steamer. The line is a narrow-gauge one, but the cars were quite comfortable, and the prospect of seeing a new country is always attractive. But how we did bump over that line; whether it was the fault of the laying of the permanent way or the driving I cannot say, but in a long experience of railway travelling I never have been so jolted, the driver seeming to take a special pleasure in pulling up with a jerk sufficient to knock over any one standing up, and then to start, if possible, in a rougher manner. However, no one seemed to mind, and after all passengers should be grateful for having a line at all. My mouth watered at accounts I heard of sea trout fishing, about three hours by launch from Port aux Basques. I was told that a few days previously three rods got 110 sea trout, averaging three pounds, in the Garia River, in a few hours.
Getting away at 8.15 we passed all along the west coast, through a most beautiful country, teeming with salmon rivers, most of them I fear much over-fished, for the west coast rivers are the favourite haunts of the American angler, being easily reached from New York and Boston.
Thompson's Hotel, prettily situated on the Little Codroy River, looked particularly attractive, and two American anglers got off there. I was told there was a late run of big fish in August, an exception, for as a rule all the Newfoundland rivers are early ones.
At Crabbes a local guide, on the look-out for a job, deeply deplored the fact that Crabbes should be neglected for the better-known Little and Big Codroy Rivers. He assured me there were two rivers, the one ten minutes, the other about two minutes, from the station, "crawling" of course with fish, and that a thirty-five pound salmon had been caught by a local angler a few days before. No doubt he was crying up his own wares. There was neither hotel nor boarding-house at Crabbes—camping out was necessary, but the country is a lovely one, and what could be more enjoyable than a comfortable camp on the banks of the river if only the fish were there and the water in fishing trim. Black flies and mosquitoes must not, however, be lightly put aside, for they are the curse of the island in the summer months.
As we slowly bumped our way north, the scenery became more and more beautiful, until it culminated in the views as the train skirted the Humber River, then along Deer Lake, gradually rising towards the barrens of the centre of the island. All along the sides of the railway the ground was carpeted with wild flowers, a perfect blaze of colour. Nightfall found us at the north end of the Grand Lake, where is situated "The Bungalow," a sporting hotel recently established, which from the train looked most comfortable.
The food in the dining-car was quite good, but by no means cheap. Why one should pay 40 cents, about 1s. 8d., for a slice of fried cod in the very home of the cod, when a whole fish can be purchased for half the money, I could not understand, and although Newfoundland abounds in fish neither trout nor salmon were once served in the restaurant car.
On Thursday the 18th I arrived at St. John's at 12.30, having travelled without a stop from the previous Sunday at midnight. It is much to be regretted that the direct Allan Line from Liverpool to St. John's, which only takes seven days, should not have larger and more up-to-date steamers. The largest boat is under 5,000 tons; not very comfortable for crossing the Atlantic. As the Allan Line run excellent boats to Quebec, there must be some good reason for the local service to St. John's not being better served.
Leaving England on August 5th, and travelling continuously, I did not reach St. John's till the 18th. It is true I took a slow boat and came by New York. A better route would have been by one of the larger steamers to Quebec or Rimouski, and then back by rail to Sydney, and so on to Port aux Basques.
If the large steamers which pass so close to Newfoundland would only make a call at St. John's, to disembark passengers, I feel sure many more tourists would be tempted to visit the island.
I was met at the station by Mr. Blair, Jr., whose firm were to provide all my outfit except camp equipment, which I had sent ahead from England. I was much indebted to him for valuable information and advice.
I was, I must confess, very disappointed with St. John's, which is not worthy to be the capital of England's oldest colony, and the less said about hotel accommodation the better. The best hotel was really only an indifferent boarding-house, and could not compare in comfort with the hotel of any small provincial town at home.
St. John's possessing few attractions for me, I decided to get away as soon as possible. When I left England the steamer Glencoe, which sails from Placentia to Port aux Basques, all along the south coast, was timed to leave every Saturday, but the sailing had been altered to Wednesday, leaving me with some idle days, which I could not face in St. John's.
I had heard of sea trout fishing and possible salmon in the south-east arm of Placentia, where good accommodation was to be had at a fishing inn, known as Fulford's. Wiring to Mr. Fulford to know if the sea trout were running, the answer came back that they were all in the ponds, which I did not quite understand at the time, but anything was better than five days in St. John's, so on Saturday, August 20th, I started by the morning train for Placentia and Fulford's.
The rain came down in torrents as we left St. John's at 8.45 a.m. and lasted till we arrived at Placentia at 1.45—eighty miles in five hours. These Newfoundland trains are certainly not flyers.
Placentia is very beautifully situated at the junction of the two arms of the sea, known as the south-east and the north-east arms. The main town is on a spit of land which extends out into the sea, making the one entrance to either arm a very narrow channel, and through this the full force of the tide races, causing whirlpools and eddies which looked anything but safe. The foreshore was composed of large round stones, not pebbles, and the roar of these as they washed up and down the beach by the waves is one of the characteristics of Placentia. They say the people of Placentia talk louder than any one else in the island on account of this.
I was met at the station by George Kelly from Fulford's, who told me he had a buggy waiting for me across the ferry; but food was first necessary, and I got a mess of meat at the local hotel for 35 cents. On asking for a glass of beer or a whisky-and-soda, I was told they only kept "sober drinks," an expression which I heard for the first time.
The traveller in Newfoundland must reconcile himself to teetotalism and tea, unless he can carry his own liquor along. Even at the hotel in St. John's only very indifferent beer was obtainable with meals; for anything else one had to go round the corner to a second-rate public-house. Now all this seems very unnecessary, for it would appear to me that there is much greater chance of a man getting drunk if he finds himself set down in a public-house after dinner than if he could obtain what he reasonably required in his hotel. But all Newfoundland drinks tea, and the sensible traveller will adapt himself to the local customs, as well as to the midday dinner and the light early tea or supper.
The ferry was only a couple of hundred yards across, and George and I were soon on our way to Fulford's.
The drive was a lovely one, the road winding high up over the south-east arm. The weather had cleared up, the sun was shining brightly, the hills were glistening in the sunshine after the heavy rain, and every little stream had become a roaring torrent, which George said promised well for the fishing.
After a five-mile drive we arrived at Fulford's and I was warmly welcomed by Mr. Fulford and his wife, really charming people. The house was scrupulously clean. Fortunately for me, I was the only guest, and I can only say Mrs. Fulford gave me the best food I had in Newfoundland, while her terms were even more than moderate. The situation of the house was very beautiful, overlooking the mouth of the river, which was about a mile away.
I naturally inquired first about the fishing.
It seemed I was too late for the sea trout in the river itself, at least in its lower reaches. The sea trout run about July 14th, in great numbers, but only for a short time. The salmon run earlier.
In the season Fulford's is crammed, anglers sleeping anywhere all over the house, and struggling with each other for the best water.
The river, after a run of about four miles, falls out of what are locally termed ponds—what we would call lochs—and at this season of the year all the fish were in these lochs. At certain distances they are connected one with the other by short runs of a few yards, and here the fish lie. These are known as the four-mile, five-mile, six-mile and seven-mile pools.
Starting off about 4 o'clock, I drove up to the four-mile pool. The road was fairly good, winding along above the river through the wood, and the drive was most enjoyable. As we gradually ascended, the view, looking back over the south-east arm, was very beautiful, reminding me very much of Scotch scenery in Sutherland.
The entire country was saturated from the morning rain, and we started in our waders, as George said we had swampy ground to pass through before reaching the pool. Hitching up the horse where a pathway branched off, we plunged through a very wet swamp for a few hundred yards down to the pool.
The water was pouring down from the upper loch, the pool was full of fish all on the move for the run up to the higher waters, the evening was closing in—the black flies and mosquitoes were troublesome. Though I cast over many fish I never got a rise. Getting home at dusk I found an excellent dinner of roast fowl and wild raspberries and cream awaiting me.
The next morning we started early for the seven-mile pool. The going was pretty rough but the scenery very beautiful. We gradually emerged from the woods on to the higher and more open ground. A half-mile walk through a very wet marsh brought us to the bank of the stream between the two lochs, which was in perfect order. It was only a few yards wide and I could cover the entire fishable water with my fourteen-foot Castleconnell rod. I rose several fish, killed three who gave good sport, and lost a fly in another. As the water was about fished out we went down to the six-mile pool, where I killed one and lost another, but the fish were all small, 5½, 4½, 4, 3½ lb.
The following day we again tried the seven-mile pool, but the water had run down and there was little or no stream between the two lochs. I got one fish of 4 lb., and never saw another. As there was little chance of more salmon I asked my host if there were any trout in the neighbourhood. He strongly advised me trying a loch nine miles up the road, where he and a friend had got twenty-seven dozen mud trout (? char) in one day's fishing the previous year. After a rough drive over a very bad road for the last three miles we found the loch, but it was so overgrown with water-lilies that there was not a square yard of water on which to cast a fly. Whether they had grown up since his visit and whether they died down later on in the season I cannot say, but we had wasted our day. I could not understand the river; thousands of sea trout run up but I never saw or rose one. It was hardly a river, but a series of lochs with connecting streams. There were no boats on the lochs, but I had hoped to find sea trout in the tail of the streams. Not one, however, did I even see rise. There are a number of lochs about nine miles up. Whether they contained fish or not I cannot say. I think it would well repay Mr. Fulford, who is the fish warden of the district, to investigate the habits of the sea trout and find out where they eventually lie, presumably in the upper lochs, and put boats on. The salmon I got were in good condition and excellent eating. Driving home in the evening about sunset, we generally saw quite a number of Nova Scotia hares, locally called rabbits, sitting out on the road. I saw no other game of any description, though there are plenty of partridges (ruffled grouse) in the neighbourhood.
The steamer was due to sail from Placentia on the 24th inst., at 3 p.m., so I left Fulford's with much regret at 10.30 a.m. and drove into Placentia, where I found she would not sail till midnight owing to the amount of cargo.
Going into the Post Office to inquire for letters, I was told I must see the Communion Plate of the Protestant Church, which was kept in the Post Office. It was a very handsome service of plate presented by Prince William Henry, who as a young naval officer passed a winter in Placentia, then I believe the capital of the island. It was weary work getting through the day till the steamer sailed. Every berth was taken, so I had a shakedown in the corridor, which was much more airy than any cabin.
In planning my trip I had the benefit of J. G. Millais' advice. He first recommended me to try the country at the head of the La Poile River on the south coast near Port aux Basques. On inquiry I found out that canoes could not be used. Everything would have to be packed, and it would take six men to pack to the hunting grounds. With the memory of my Vancouver trip before me, I decided against the La Poile country and packing, and chose the ground Millais had hunted with such success in 1906. He had gone in by the Long Harbour River, struck off to the north-west to Kesoquit and Shoe Hill Ridge and the Mount Sylvester region. But the Long Harbour River was very rough, and his canoes being at Hungry Grove Pond, where a series of ponds led up to Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake, its more modern name, I finally decided on this route, which would bring me quite close to Shoe Hill Ridge and Mount Sylvester.
Millais himself had not travelled over this ground, so the map published in his book only gave an approximate idea of the country and its waterways. I had secured the services of Steve Bernard, Millais' head man, and he was to meet me with two other Indians at the head of Long Harbour when I would send a wire.
My route was to be Placentia to Belleoram by the Glencoe. At Belleoram Mr. Ryan, who is in charge of the telegraph station at the head of Long Harbour, was to meet me in his sailing schooner the Caribou, and from Long Harbour we were to pack in to Hungry Grove Pond, where the canoes were to be ready.
We did not get away from Placentia till 1 a.m., and crossing Placentia Bay arrived at Burin the following morning in a thick fog, which occasionally lifted, showing a fine, wild coast with rocky headlands on all sides. Burin was a pretty spot, and I saw it better on my return when there was no fog. We arrived at Grand Bank, a big fishing town, in the evening, but the fog outside was so thick that the Captain decided to anchor till 2 a.m. and then cross Fortune Bay to Belleoram.
Grand Bank was responsible for the change in the sailing date of the Glencoe. Leaving Placentia on Saturday she was due at Grand Bank on Sunday. The inhabitants being very religious objected to loading and unloading on Sunday, so the sailing was changed to Wednesday, and their consciences were satisfied. They forgot, however, that they made some smaller port of call further west break the Sabbath, but being one of the most important shipping centres in the cod season their views had to be met.
We arrived at Belleoram at 6 a.m. on the 26th, feeling our way along the coast with our foghorn.
I and my belongings were turned out on the pier and I felt my trip had at last begun.
The Caribou was in harbour and a boat put off with Steve Bernard, who had come down to meet me and help Mr. Ryan, who was laid up on board with a bad leg. I at once went out to call on Mr. Ryan, as I wanted to get away as soon as possible. I found a sturdy Irishman of about sixty, full of go and energy, and in the cheeriest spirits, only extremely annoyed at the bad leg, which made him pretend to lie up, for lie up he never did, his restless nature would not allow it, and he was always on the move.
His illness began with a boil, but he would go off into the woods after caribou and so irritated it, that the boil had developed into a large sloughing ulcer with considerable inflammation. He did not seem to mind it much and insisted on hobbling about the deck.
There was only one place at which I was recommended to put up in case I had to stay in Belleoram, so I went up to call on Mrs. Cluett and incidentally forage for breakfast. I received a courteous welcome and had plenty of eggs, bread and butter, and tea. Getting back to the Caribou I persuaded Ryan to make a start. There was a thick fog and it was blowing hard; however, away we went in grand style, steering for the different points which loomed through the fog. As soon as we got into the open and had to cross some twelve or fourteen miles of open sea, an ancient and dilapidated compass was produced from the confusion of below, for the Caribou was not altogether a tidy boat; the compass gave a certain moral support, but the needle refused to point in any direction steadily for more than five minutes. Ryan would give it a smack, "Sure I think she's only about five points out now," and in a few minutes, "She's gone all wrong again."
I was entrusted with the steering, which may account for our sighting land about four miles north of the entrance to Long Harbour. It was a pretty rough crossing, but the old Caribou was a seaworthy and dry boat. The weather was what one expects of Newfoundland, wild and foggy, and the mountains looming up out of the fog looked bigger and grander than they really were.
We had a rattling following breeze, and notwithstanding Ryan's assertion that there would be no fog at his house, we ran up the fourteen miles of Long Harbour and arrived there about 4 o'clock in the afternoon in a dense fog, having left Belleoram at 10 a.m. Here I found waiting my two other Indians, John Denny Jeddore and Steve Joe. My party consisted then of Steve Bernard, head man and hunter, John Denny Jeddore, generally known as John Denny, and Steve Joe, who had to become Joe.
John Denny at once told me he had signed on as cook, but added quaintly: "I have never cooked for gentles." All the same he was an excellent plain cook, ready to learn anything, scrupulously clean in all his cooking, and a first-rate fellow. Joe was general utility man and always cheery. Steve Bernard was a pure bred Micmac, his father having been chief of the Micmac tribe, and the other two were half-breeds. John Denny's mother was a Frenchwoman, which perhaps accounted for his extraordinarily nice manners. My men were somewhat shy and reserved at first, but we soon became great friends, and I can only say I never wish for better men or comrades on a hunting expedition. We never had a word of difference. They were always bright and willing, and under the most uncomfortable circumstances never uttered a word of complaint. I think I may say we parted with mutual regret. They all spoke English, but Steve Bernard was the most fluent. Amongst themselves they chattered in their own soft Micmac language, and they never seemed to stop talking. All Newfoundlanders have a specially charming accent, which is neither Irish nor Canadian, and certainly not American. It is very soft and mellifluous. "All right," pronounced as if it were "aal," is the most common expression, and seems to be used on every possible occasion.
All my men, instead of dropping their "h's" in the Cockney fashion, seemed to aspirate almost every word beginning with a vowel, for instance they always spoke of h'oil, h'oar, h'eat, and h'arm, and so with many other words.
The Micmacs are Catholics, and their headquarters in Canada are at Restigouche. Their settlement in Newfoundland is on the Conne River. A priest from Restigouche visits Conne River from time to time and preaches in Micmac. At Restigouche are published the Bible, Catechism and other books in Micmac, which has the same character as English but only sixteen letters. A Micmac paper is also published at Restigouche and received once a month at Conne River. Steve was very amusing over the raising of funds for the construction of a new church at Conne River. Apparently a sort of bazaar was held at which the chief feature was a "Wheel of Fortune." Steve felt rather sore that he had gambled fifteen dollars and won nothing. All the Micmac colony, however, seemed to have enjoyed themselves hugely, gambling, dancing, and eating; they provided the food and afterwards paid for each meal—good for the church!
Ryan's niece kept house for him at Long Harbour—a lonely spot with only one other settler within twelve miles, and I received from uncle and niece the warm welcome which every traveller in Newfoundland is sure to meet with. The morning of the 27th was exquisite, the fog had cleared away, the sun was shining brightly, and the placid head-waters of Long Harbour lay without a ripple at our feet. The hills were not high but beautiful in colour and outline, and I might easily have imagined myself in a Scotch deer forest. Cases of stores had to be unpacked, tent and camp equipment looked out, and the morning was spent in making up the loads.
I had brought an 11-feet square fly for the three men, two tents for myself, both of the lean-to pattern, one heavier and stronger tent of green canvas 7 feet × 7 feet, the other the 6 feet × 7 feet silk tent I had used in Vancouver, and which weighed only 5 lb, my idea being to use it for short trips from the main camp. One pair of Hudson Bay blankets made into a sleeping bag, a pillow, the usual cooking tins in nests, and the folding baker completed my outfit. This latter is simply invaluable; I purchased one locally in St. John's.
Camp furniture I had none, but as experience had taught me that the comfort of a bed of balsam on the ground was somewhat overrated, I had brought a sheet of strong canvas 7 feet × 2 feet 9 inches, with gussets on either side, and eyelet holes at the top and bottom. Into the gussets were slipped strong poles and these laid on two logs at the head and foot in which notches were cut to receive them, and then the poles were nailed down with one 3-inch nail at each end, and the canvas at the head and foot laced round the logs.
A more comfortable camp bed it was impossible to have and it took about ten minutes to construct. With men such as I had, skilful with their axes, to bring camp furniture was unnecessary: tables, benches, poles for hanging clothes, rifle and gun rests, can easily be made, and one day in a permanent camp is sufficient to have all a hunter can want. My men were as good as, if not better than the French Canadians I employed when hunting moose in Canada some nine years before. They introduced me to a bench or camp seat I had never seen before. A suitable tree with outstanding branches is cut down, a short section chosen, on which, on one side at least, there are four branches to form the legs; this is split in two and an excellent camp stool is the result.
I found we had eight loads, which meant double journeys as far as Hungry Grove Pond, so I started off Joe and John Denny with two packs, while Steve and I took a light camp up to Mitchell's Point, where the river ran into the head of the Long Harbour and from which I was assured I could get some good sea trout fishing. We had camp pitched and our midday meal over by 3 o'clock, so started up the river for the sea trout on which we depended for dinner. It was a rough journey along the river bank or in its bed, and although all the water looked tempting it was 5 o'clock before we reached the pool in which the fish were supposed to be.
Long Harbour River is one of the biggest rivers in the south and in the early summer a large number of salmon and sea trout run up, but like most Newfoundland rivers that I saw, the pools alternated with long shallow runs, where no fish would lie. There were certainly some beautiful pools, so it was a disappointment, more especially as regards dinner, that I only rose one fish and hooked another which broke away. Steve unfortunately cut his foot with the small axe in making camp. It looked nothing, but on his way up the river the wound opened and bled rather freely. I fixed him up with a pad and a bandage, and dressed it on our return to camp with 1/1000 corrosive sublimate solution made from tabloids, without which I never travel.
We had only about half-an-hour to fish if we would get back to camp, some four miles away, before dark, so we really did not give the water a fair chance. We did not get into camp till about 8.30. Steve declared he was first-rate at slapjacks, so while I prepared a square of Lazenby's soup he set to work on the slapjacks. After using half a tin of butter he produced a sodden mass of dough, on which and the soup we made a poor meal.
The flies and mosquitoes were very troublesome, but Farlow's "dope" was fairly successful.
Our camping ground was too near the river and on rather low ground. A very heavy dew fell during the night and everything was soaking in the morning. As the fishing was not likely to prove a success we decided to return to Ryan's and push on after our men. Getting away about 12 o'clock, for I had sent Steve back to Ryan's on foot to borrow their dory which brought our camp up, we stopped to boil the kettle and have lunch near a settler's place just beyond the mouth of the river. He was a hardy old man, by name Joe Riggs, and though he had recently undergone several operations in the hospital at St. John's to remove some diseased ribs, he was working away all alone getting in his hay. He was very lonely and sad for he had only recently lost his wife, and the way he spoke about her was very touching. In winter, however, he went down to Anderson's Cove, a small settlement at the mouth of Long Harbour, where a married daughter lived. Among the solitary settlers I met, of whom Joe Riggs was a type, it was remarkable how the spot they had selected for settling on was the very finest to be found, and to poor old Joe, Long Harbour was a sort of earthly Paradise which he would not exchange for any other part of Newfoundland.
On reaching Ryan's, where I was ashamed to trespass once more on his hospitality for the night, I found John Denny and Joe had taken two packs on about eleven miles, to a spot about three miles from Hungry Grove Pond and returned for more loads.
I took another Indian, Micky John by name, to help and the three men started off about 3 o'clock. Two were to return the next day, while John Denny was to make a double trip down to Hungry Grove Pond.