HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND
JOHN DENNY AND STEVE BERNARD
A NEWFOUNDLAND POND
[To face page 197.
CHAPTER IV
HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND
The morning of the 31st was bright and cold, though rain had fallen in the night, and we got away about 9 o'clock. One hour's steady paddling and rowing, for the larger canoe had oars, took us to the north end of Hungry Grove Pond, about three miles I should say, from which issued a brook communicating with Red Hill Pond. The water was very low and the men spent most of their time in the water dragging the canoes over the rocky shallows. I strolled along the bank and saw many old tracks of caribou, but nothing fresh. We had one portage of about half-a-mile, to pass some bad rapids. The brook was about two miles long and owing to the bad water and portage it took us some two hours to get down to Red Hill Pond. We named the brook the Two Mile Brook. Millais had shown a communication between Hungry Grove Pond and Red Hill Pond in his map of the district, but never having travelled over the line we were taking he could not show details.
Red Hill Pond takes its name from a rocky reddish bluff, which rises a couple of hundred feet on the east side of the pond. The country is said to be a good one for bear, but we did not even see fresh tracks.
The pond is only about a mile long, and we got to the end about lunch-time.
I had brought rod rings with me, and had rigged up a rough trolling rod at our first camp, to which I lashed a spare reel. I made it a rule to have this primitive rod and my twelve-foot trout rod trolling over every lake and pond we crossed. I generally put a Devon minnow on one rod, and a blue phantom on the other. I used the fly exclusively when we came to any streams. I got one trout, a lively fish of 1½ lb., in crossing Red Hill Pond and two in Hungry Grove Pond. There was a rapid and a nice pool at the north end of the pond where we halted for lunch, and putting on a small silver doctor in a few minutes I had six nice trout, some of 1½ lb., ready for lunch. John Denny said they were all onannaniche or landlocked salmon. I had never seen them before; they were just like sea trout, and played in the same way, jumping out of the water even more frequently than sea trout. They were strong, game fish, and better still, excellent eating. Here I got my first mud trout, which I take to be char. They were more flabby and not in such good condition as the onannaniche; their flesh was a bright red, and they were good eating.
From Red Hill Pond, after a portage over the short rapid where I had fished, we entered a long weedy pond where fishing was impossible; then came shallow streams with just a perceptible current and three more large ponds, till we reached our camping ground at 4.30 at the head of a rough brook, over which we had to portage next day. I calculated we had come about fourteen miles. The steadies required careful navigation, for there were masses of sharp rocks, some just submerged, others showing well above the water. The bow paddler had to keep a sharp look-out, for very little will knock a hole in a Peterborough canoe. We were now getting rather anxious for meat, for it is simply impossible to carry tinned provisions in sufficient quantity to satisfy the appetites of four hungry men.
The wind had been north-east all day, and fell to a dead calm as Steve and I quietly paddled out, skirting the lake shore, with the hope of seeing game. We went about a mile and landed on a sandy beach where there were one or two fresh tracks, and then on about half-a-mile inland to a rocky knoll from which we could spy the surrounding country, which was mostly marsh with patches of dense wood scattered all over the plain and becoming thicker down by the lake's edge.
At this season of the year all the stags spend their days in the woods, and only come out morning and evening to feed. There was not a breath of air and the mosquitoes and black fly were out in force; towards sunset we saw a small stag with a poor head come out of a wood about a mile away, and feed down towards us. We had visions of caribou steak and liver and bacon before us, when suddenly the wind veered right round; at the same time a fox on the shore of the lake, who had seen us, kept barking persistently. Whether it was the wind or the fox I can't say, but the stag put up his head, turned right round and walked straight away—alas, the hopes of meat were gone. It was getting dusk, so we made for the canoe. On the way we saw a very small doe, but the wind was again wrong and she was off in a moment. We got back to camp in the dark.
Steve swore we must have meat and asked for my Rigby Mauser that he might go out at daybreak and shoot anything eatable. I offered him the little rook rifle, so it was decided he would be out before daybreak for meat. I was only hunting heads, but all the Indians had strong opinions on the subject of meat.
On September 1st Steve was out at daybreak with the small rifle and came back about seven o'clock triumphant, having shot a young stag in good condition. He had crawled within about fifty yards and killed the beast with one shot. I was simply astonished, for I never could have believed that the little rifle, one of Rigby's rook rifles, could have killed an animal bigger than an ordinary red deer. Steve had brought in the liver and kidneys and left the meat to be picked up on our march, for fortunately it was close to a pond we had to pass through. How we all revelled in a good breakfast of kidneys and liver and bacon. Every one was in good humour, for we now had ample meat.
The brook was about three-quarters of a mile long and everything had to be portaged.
It looked ideal fishing water, and while the men were portaging I fished every pool. I got two onannaniche and two mud trout above the first pool, and then never a rise, though the pools looked perfect.
Where the brook fell into the next lake looked the best water, but I could move nothing. Why, I could not understand, unless it was that the season was late for these waters.
When the portage was over Steve and John went across the pond for the meat, and Joe and I pushed on in the big canoe about a mile across the pond to another rapid, fortunately only about thirty yards long, where we again had to portage. The day had turned bitterly cold and heavy rain clouds were coming up. I had got very warm walking and fishing along the brook, and though I put on a thick jersey the wind seemed to cut like a knife and I got a bad cold which gave me some trouble for days after. Poor old Joe had spent most of the day up to his waist in water getting the empty canoes down the creek and was looking very miserable. The men wore nothing but their cotton shirts and coats, cotton trousers and moccasins—they were never dry, but never seemed to catch cold.
It was just the occasion for a tot of rum. Whether it went to Joe's head or not I cannot say—he certainly became extra cheerful, and when the other men returned and all the men were carrying the loads across the rapid, Joe tumbled twice right into the water and got a thorough ducking. I only made a gesture of taking a tot, when I thought these simple folk would never stop laughing. It was a joke which lasted them the rest of the trip, and in Indian circles no doubt I have the reputation of being a great wit. Joe laughed if possible more heartily than the others, and though soaked to the skin was quite happy for the rest of the day.
Just as we were loading up the canoes John pointed to the sky-line about half-a-mile away and quietly said, "That good stag, I think." Sure enough there was a heavy beast, the first big stag I had seen, quietly feeding along the crest of the ridge. The wind was right, so we decided to cross the pond, land, and have a closer look at him. His head looked massive, but I could not make out the points.
I certainly never had an easier stalk, as the ground was perfect for stalking, and this holds good all over the island. We walked quietly up in perfect shelter to within about 150 yards of where we had last seen the stag, and presently saw the tops of his horns sticking up from behind a low bush. Leaving Steve behind, I crawled up to within about seventy yards and got my telescope on to count the points. The horns were in velvet, but just stripping—and as the frontal tines were interlocked it was difficult to count the exact number. Beckoning Steve up we spent some time counting the points, for the poor beast was lying sound asleep with his head nodding. Steve could make out thirty points, but said we would get many better heads. We had almost determined to leave him, when I thought after all here was a certainty, so resting my rifle in the branch of a tree in front of me, I shot him through the neck. It was rather murder, for no skill either in the stalk or shot was necessary. However, he knew nothing, but rolled over stone dead. When we got up to him we could only make out twenty-nine points, but the head was quite a pretty one. The body was very big, but not in good condition.
Calling up the men, we soon had the head and meat down to the canoes and boiled the kettle before starting on. We now had enough meat for some days, though it is astonishing what a quantity of meat an Indian can get through; so we could afford to look for that extra good head—which as it happened we never came across.
We went on through some shallow and very rocky steadies, and after about a mile came to the last portage into Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake. We had to carry the canoes over this and were soon crossing to the north shore of Sandy Pond, where we were to make our permanent camp. There was a fine following wind which helped us along, and by sunset we had covered the four miles of lake and arrived at one of Steve's trapping camps, which was to be our headquarters.
Sandy Pond is a lovely sheet of water studded with innumerable islands, some densely wooded, some quite bare. In the early mornings and evenings in fair weather the view was exquisite, and I was never tired of the changing effects on the lake. One day there would not be a ripple, another day would come a gale and driving rain, and such a sea that the canoes could not be launched, but as a rule for three weeks we had perfect weather.
In crossing Sandy Pond I caught four nice trout, the two largest about 1½ lb. each, so the day's bag was two deer and eight trout. The licence only allows the shooting of three stags, but to shoot meat for food is, I think, an unwritten law of the island, and I feel sure the authorities themselves would not insist on a too strict application of the licence. It is simply impossible to carry enough tinned meat to keep four men going, and with meat at the door when it is urgently needed it is not human nature to resist the temptation. On the entire trip we shot only what was absolutely necessary for food, but with no meat in camp I used to send Steve out with the small rifle to shoot a barren doe for the pot, and not a pound of meat was wasted.
Our camp was pitched in a dense wood, for after the great forests of Vancouver the Newfoundland timber looks insignificant and only worthy of the name of wood. A good clearing had already been made by Steve on his trapping expeditions, and poles for pitching the fly were lying ready. We soon had a most comfortable camp pitched, and with plenty of food and a tot of rum to mark the occasion of arriving in our permanent camp, we passed a happy evening, smoking our pipes in front of a glorious camp fire and discussing the plans and the prospects for the future.
We decided to make this our main camp, leaving here most of our stores, and to make flying trips, at first west into the thickly wooded country where the stags were most likely to be found at this time of year, and later north-east up to the barrens and Shoe Hill Ridge.
This was Steve's advice and I naturally decided to follow it. I had originally thought of working north by Mount Sylvester, striking the higher waters of the Terra Nova River and so down to the railway at Terra Nova, which would have been a shorter way back to St. John's; but Steve told me that last season he had been with a party of Americans who came in from Terra Nova, and that the country had been shot out, as they never saw a decent stag till they came on to the barrens hear Shoe Hill Ridge, where they could only stay for two days, during which they secured two good stags.
The morning of September 2nd was exquisite, all the clouds of yesterday had cleared away and a bright sun was shining in a cloudless sky. I had passed rather a bad night coughing, owing to the chill caught the day before, but in the climate of Newfoundland one never felt ill.
After an early breakfast we started off in the big canoe to explore the shores of the lake and look for signs. Stags we could not expect to see, for they were bound to be in the woods, and the whole of the northern shore of Sandy Pond is densely wooded. About a mile west of the camp was the brook connecting Sandy Pond with the large lake of Kaegudeck to the north. Here, I thought, must be the ideal spot for trout, but though I fished for an hour I never got a rise. The brook is only about ten yards wide and quite unnavigable for canoes.
We found plenty of fresh marks of deer on the sandy beaches of the lake, but saw nothing.
Returning to camp we pottered around getting the camp shipshape—including the making of my patent bed, which was a tremendous success. Poles for hanging clothes, rests for rifles and fishing-rods, shelves in my tent, and even tables were run up by the men, and the camp was soon all that could be desired in the way of comfort.
About 4 o'clock we took the canoe and went east about a mile, passing another brook quite as big as that running from Kaegudeck and which takes its rise in Shoe Hill Lake. Landing, we went up to a look-out hill about half-a-mile away, from which we had a splendid view of the country to the east.
The ground, rugged and intersected with small watercourses, rose gradually to a ridge about three miles away, beyond which, Steve said, lay an open plain leading on to Shoe Hill Ridge. The hills looked about 400 feet high and from our look-out we could spy the entire face for some miles; to the south-east lay Square Box Hill crowning the ridge. There were many clumps of timber lining the sides of the watercourses and numerous small ponds lay in the hollows.
It looked an ideal caribou country, over which later on in the season all the caribou from the south and west cross to gain the barrens.
Many well-worn caribou tracks led upwards. It was a lovely evening. We could look over Sandy Pond with its wooded islands and its forest-clothed shores standing out dark against the setting sun and reflected in the placid waters of the lake. Just as the sun went down in a blaze of colour we saw five deer come out of different patches of wood, but only one was a stag, and the head being poor we left him, though to get a shot would have been a very easy stalk.
In the short row home I picked up five trout, two being over a pound. I found that just half-an-hour before and half-an-hour after sunset was the best time for trolling, and I could always pick up enough fish for the camp coming home in the canoe after a day's stalking.
Next morning, September 3rd, we were up for an early breakfast and got away at 7 a.m. Here I first used the rucksack, which was most convenient, as in it we carried our midday meal, an oilskin, if it looked like rain, and a kettle for tea. The lake was dead calm and the morning mists were clearing away as we started. Our plan was to work up to the top of the ridge we had seen the evening before, hunt the face of the hill and see if there were any signs of stags on the barrens.
Unfortunately our chances of deer on the way up were spoiled by a south-west wind which got up about eight o'clock, and blew steadily from behind us the whole way up. We saw four does on one of the islands in the lake, but the whole face of the ridge was devoid of stags.
It was only about three miles to the crest of the ridge, and the country being dry the going was good. There were many small swamps and ponds along the side of the hill with small drokes in the hollows, altogether ideal ground for stags. There were not many fresh tracks, though the deep ruts cut by the hoofs of innumerable herds of deer showed what numbers must pass later on in the season.
On reaching the top of the ridge we looked over a vast undulating tract of country, the true barrens. There were only three drokes in sight. One about four miles away, which Steve pointed out to me as Shoe Hill Droke, where Millais camped and from which he got such fine heads in October; nearer still another droke where Captain Legge had camped two years before and from which he got a forty-pointer; in fact, I was looking over historic ground from a sporting point of view, and there seemed no reasons why I should not be as successful as those who had gone before me.
There were neither stags nor does in sight, and no fresh tracks. Steve said they would not move up to the barrens before the 15th or 20th of September. It made me bitterly regret I was so cramped for time, and that I had to be back to catch the Glencoe at Belleoram on September 26th. It is the greatest mistake being tied down to time on any hunting trip; a week extra might have made all the difference in my sport, but steamers did not fit in, and I was bound to be in New York to sail for home on October 8th.
We had a splendid view of the entire country from the look-out hill on the top of the ridge. To the north lay Mount Sylvester about four hours' march away; to the north-west Lake Kaegudeck, buried in dense woods; behind Kaegudeck lay the hills over the Gander. To the east the view was bounded by Shoe Hill Ridge with its droke standing up against the clear sky. To the west was the country we had just come through sloping down to Sandy Pond, while far behind to the west lay Kepskaig Hill, which we were to visit later on. After spending some time spying the entire country, we boiled the kettle, had lunch and strolled leisurely down to the lake. Meanwhile the placid lake of the morning had changed and the south-west wind, now blowing half a gale, was rolling up big breakers on the shore. We had sent the canoe home in the morning and it was too rough for Joe to fetch us, so we went back to the look-out of the first evening and spied the whole country till dark. We saw two stags up on the sky-line near Square Box Hill, but it was too late to go after them; one looked a heavy beast. The wind went down with the setting sun and Joe was able to come across for us, but the lake was still too rough for fishing.
On September 4th the glass had fallen badly, a gale was blowing and heavy rain clouds were coming up from the south-west. Notwithstanding the prospect of bad weather we decided to go up to Square Box Hill and have a look for the stag we had seen the previous evening. It was a five miles' walk, up hill the whole way, but the ascent was gradual. We had just reached the top of the ridge within about half-a-mile of the hill when the rain came down in sheets. Spying was impossible, so we took shelter in a droke, lit a good fire, boiled the kettle and had lunch. We waited till about two o'clock, but there was no sign of clearing, so we plodded back to camp, getting well soaked through. Just as we got to camp the rain cleared off, and after a change of clothing we started to fish about five o'clock. We picked up five nice fish, all on the minnow—one about 2 lb. Just at dusk a doe came swimming out from one of the islands as if to have a look at us. Meat was not over abundant in camp, so I gave Steve permission to shoot her with the rook rifle. Steve rather prided himself on being a good shot, but he was shooting from a wobbly canoe and missed clean with the first shot, but hit her with the second, and landing, killed her stone dead. By the time the doe was gralloched and in the canoe a heavy fog had come up and it was dark before we reached camp.
On this trip I was introduced to two great delicacies. One roast doe's head, and the other roast breast-bone of stag. John was an adept at these dishes, and anything more delicious and tender I have never tasted. The head was only skinned, put in the baker and roasted whole for about six hours, the great advantage of the baker being that the heat can be regulated by the distance it is kept from the fire.
In the evening we had a long discussion as to what we had better do. There were no stags to speak of in the country we were in. So a move was necessary, and Steve decided we would take all the outfit to the west end of Sandy Pond, there make our main camp, and with a small camp work down to Kepskaig, all through a wooded country where he maintained the stags were now to be found. So we decided to make a start the following morning.
Our camp was simply infested with grey jays, generally known as robber-birds; there were at least a dozen who made the camp their home. No sooner was a bit of meat hung up in the open than they descended on it and began picking it to pieces.
It was very interesting watching them, for they were so tame that Joe caught one with his hand. They appeared to be ravenous, and stuffed themselves with meat and then flew away, but Steve explained they only went a short distance to store the meat for the bad winter days to come, hiding it in crevices in the bark of the surrounding trees. They worked hard from morning to night and must have laid by a good store, for I left a good lump of venison hanging in the open for their special benefit, the rest of the meat being protected from the flies and the jays by my mosquito net, which I had turned into a meat safe.
[TO KOSKĀCODDE]
STEVE SPYING, SANDY POND
CAMP, WEST END SANDY POND
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CHAPTER V
TO KOSKĀCODDE
September 5th was a lovely morning, not a breath of wind and a cloudless sky, so different from yesterday. Getting away at 9.30 we made a good four miles an hour, reaching our camping ground at the west end of the lake at 11.30. Steve, Joe and I were in the big canoe and John, a fine boatman, in the small canoe which skirted the shores of the lake. We disturbed a small stag which was feeding along the shore and which at once disappeared in the woods. The camp was simply perfect, fairly open yet with sufficient shelter from the surrounding woods. Behind it rose a hill about 100 feet high, a fine look-out over the entire country. The tents were pitched on a spur of land just where the Baie du Nord River, or rather its head-waters, left the lake in a tumbling torrent with intervening deep pools, an ideal salmon river to look at, but unfortunately no salmon can pass Smoky Falls, many miles away to the south of Lake Meddonagonax.
I had caught two trout crossing the lake, but could not resist the first really good fly-fishing water I had come to, so a few minutes after arrival I was on the bank of the river fishing an ideal pool. There was about a quarter of a mile of fishing water, after which was a small lake and then more rapids below. In an hour I had landed twelve trout and char, weighing 10½ lb. The trout were all onannaniche and played like sea trout—more often out of the water than in. The largest was 2¼ lb., and the two largest char weighed 2¾ lb. In the heavy rapid water they gave grand sport. What an ideal camp it was! The best of fishing at the door of the tent, a glorious view over the lake, with its many wood-clad islands to the south, while across the lake the ground was open and sloped gradually upwards, and here Steve said he had more than once seen good stags. The whole ground could be spied from the rocky hill behind the camp, from which, too, we could look over all the woodland marshes to north and west and could see the river winding away to distant Koskācodde, and in the further distance Kepskaig Hill and the country we were to hunt later on.
After lunch, about 3 o'clock, Steve and I started for the look-outs. There were three in all, behind and to the north of our camp. We decided to go straight to the one farthest north, a mile away, and from which we could command all the open ground near the lake and the numerous glades and marshes lying around us. Our only chance was to see a stag coming out to feed about sunset.
The country was undulating, and on the north side of the lake gradually rose to hills about 200 feet high. Dense woods clothed the ravines running up to the higher ground, while between the woods and the surrounding numerous small ponds were fairly open glades interspersed with marshes. The track worn by the feet of many caribou and cleared in parts by Steve, who trapped this country in the winter, was quite good going and we were on the top of our hill long before sunset. The view was a fine one; as we looked right over the entire lake and away to the south we could see the river winding down through the woods to Lake Koskācodde, only about four miles away as the crow flies. Koskācodde is the Indian for the Mackle bird, or Little Gull Pond.
On our way up we saw the first sign of a stag cleaning his antlers, and the fresh rubbing showed that he had been on the ground quite recently.
Having spied the entire country on both sides and nothing being in sight, we decided to return to camp. About half-a-mile from camp we suddenly saw a big stag come out of the woods and feed along a ridge just above the shores of the lake. He was not more than 400 yards away and was walking rapidly as he fed up wind and towards the camp. Waiting until he had crossed the ridge and was out of sight, we pushed on across a small dip between us and the ridge, and so to the top of the ridge where he had disappeared. It could hardly be dignified by the name of a stalk, for on looking over there he was standing about a hundred yards away, feeding quietly. On the side towards me the frontals and middles were good, the tops poor, but stags were scarce, and hoping for the best I dropped him with one shot. It was the usual story, the two sides were not alike and the horn next to me was the best one. This is one of the great difficulties of judging heads; on one side may be a fine frontal of seven or eight points concealing the other frontal, which may be a single spike. He was a very heavy stag, in good condition and quite clean, but I should say the head was going back. In one respect it was remarkable—there were three distinct horns, the third with two points growing out of the orbital ridge and completely separated from the horn on the same side. Steve said he had never seen one like it.
The next morning I sent Steve out early to spy the country. He came back having seen only one very small stag and three does. Joe was dispatched to cut up yesterday's stag, and bring in the head and meat, while I decided to fish the river down and go out again in the evening on the chance of another stag.
Taking Steve with me, I fished down for about two miles. There was some lovely water, but all the fish were lying in the pools and none in the streams.
In the lowest pool I reached I got a fine fish of 3 lb. and five other good ones. By lunch I had twenty-one trout and five char, weighing 19 lb.; a number of small ones I had put back. The trout were all onannaniche and as game a fish for its size as I ever want to catch; in the heavy water they gave grand sport. Coming back to camp we saw two old geese and a fine lot of young ones feeding in a marsh across a small lake. Seeing us they kept cackling and moving higher up into the reeds. We both went back to camp to fetch the rook rifle, so making a great mistake, for had one of us remained where we were we certainly would have got a shot, for they would not have left the marsh so long as some one was in sight, guarding the narrow mouth of the river by which they were bound to pass. When we got back with the rifle they had disappeared.
In the afternoon we went out to the second look-out, and waited till sunset. It was a wonderful evening, not a breath of wind, and the mosquitoes and flies were out in force even on the top of our little hill. In a small pond below us half-a-dozen black duck were swimming about through the reeds, while the hundreds of rings on the water showed that the pond was well stocked with trout, but Steve said they were all very small and not worth catching; the pond must have been simply alive with them judging from the number of rises.
Presently we saw a barren doe come out of the woods and feed towards where we had shot yesterday's stag. The sound of chopping wood in camp was quite distinct in the still air, and whether it was hearing this or whether she had winded where the dead stag had lain, she turned back and swam straight out into the lake for about 300 yards, then turned north and swam at least a mile to a jutting out wooded point where she landed, shook herself like a dog and disappeared in the woods. She swam very high in the water with her scut straight up. It was a pretty sight, as I could watch her all the way with my glasses.
I was not very satisfied with the system of hunting we were obliged to follow. Sitting waiting on the top of a look-out on the chance of something turning up did not appeal to me, but Steve assured me it was much too early to go up to the barrens and that our only chance was in the woods, and I have no doubt he was right. The stags do not move up to the high ground much before September 20th, though I believe the Shoe Hill country and right away east holds stags permanently, but the big stags who have summered in the woods do not begin to move much before the 20th. The season closing on October 1st, there is not much time for good stags. The close time is from October 1st to 20th, when shooting is again allowed. I have a shrewd suspicion that men who go in about October 5th, to be in time for the second season, are not very particular about dates. I feel I should be sadly tempted myself were I to see a forty-five pointer, say October 16th. But when the rutting season is on, between October 1st and 20th, the stags are easily approachable and the sport cannot be good.
We discussed our plans at length—there were not many big stags about, and though the camp was an ideal one I decided, on Steve's recommendation, to move down south to Lake Koskācodde and Kepskaig, where, though the country was fairly wooded, Steve said we should have a chance of a good stag.
On September 7th the weather looked like breaking. Steve was out at daybreak and spied two stags down the river where we proposed to go. We decided to leave Joe in camp and take a light camp and provisions for a week in the big canoe and explore the country to the south. Joe was rather sad at being left behind, but though he had a good tent, lots of meat and provisions, the enforced solitude did not appeal to him.
While Steve and John were packing the canoe I went down to the river and soon had ten trout and char, 8½ lb., the two biggest being over 2 lb. each. The canoe was let down the rapids with a rope, the kit being portaged to the bottom of the rapids, only about 400 yards, where the river fell into a small lake or Podopsk, a generic term for all the small ponds in the course of a river. After crossing this we had a navigable stream with occasional rapids, all of which we were able to negotiate without unloading. Having started at 9 a.m. we reached a rapid at the entrance to Koskācodde about 1.15. Here we had to portage about fifty yards. I slipped on the rocks and took an involuntary bath, which was rather annoying. However, a change of clothes was at hand and I was none the worse for my dip. Just as we got into the new lake I saw a deer make off on the far side, having seen us. I could not make out whether it was a stag or a hind, as I only saw its rump disappearing in the trees. At the same moment John saw a stag feeding quietly away on our side of the lake. We soon got close enough to see that the head was a poor one. I tried to take a snapshot with the camera, but when I got within fifty yards he saw me and was off. He was a fine big-bodied beast, and may have been one of the stags Steve had seen in the morning. We pushed on about one mile, and camped on a promontory stretching out into the lake. There was a nice sandy shelving beach and a perfect camping ground all ready, as it had been cleared by some other party the previous year, and only the undergrowth had to be cut away.
THE THREE-HORNED STAG
"BAD WATER"
[To face page 225.
In the afternoon, taking the canoe, we paddled quietly along the shore, and after about two miles landed on a sandy beach to look for signs. A fringe of wood clothed the south shore of the lake, beyond which was a fairly open country. There were plenty of signs, and we were strolling quietly along the beach when Steve seized me by the arm and whispered, "Deer coming through wood." I confess I could hear nothing, but Steve's hearing was marvellously acute. Sitting down on a big rock, I got the rifle ready and laid it across my knees. Presently I heard a crackling and breaking of branches quite close by, when a noble-looking stag walked out into the open and without looking round or ahead crossed the sandy beach down to the edge of the lake not thirty yards away. We were both in full view, but alas, though his body looked enormous his head was a very poor one, not more than twenty points. He never saw me but bent his head, had a long drink, then looked round for a couple of minutes and walked quietly back into the wood. What would I not have given for my camera!—a more perfect picture could not be imagined. Though a gentle breeze was blowing, fortunately in the right direction, there was not a ripple on the waters of the sandy bay, which was sheltered by the wood, and as he stood with his head up and every line of his body reflected in the water below, it was a noble sight, such as one could but rarely hope to see.
STEVE JOE DRIES HIMSELF.
STEVE BERNARD IN CAMP.
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Allowing some ten minutes to elapse we followed him through the wood, more out of curiosity than anything else. Coming out on to an open grassy plain, there he was feeding quietly about 200 yards away. Looking round to my left I suddenly saw a second stag not 150 yards away. The horns of the first stag were clean. The second stag had a better head, but the velvet was peeling off and the frontal tines, and indeed most of the horn, were crimson with blood. It was difficult to determine the points, owing to the bits of velvet hanging all about, but getting the glass on to him I saw that though the frontals were good the rest of the head was very indifferent, so he had too to be passed.
We whistled to move the second stag but he took not the slightest notice of us, and it was not until we gave him, and incidentally the first stag, our wind that they both went away over the plain at a slinging trot.
Coming home in the gloaming we saw another stag come out of the wood and walk along the shore. We got within fifty yards of him, but the head was, if possible, inferior to the other two. This was bad luck! We had seen four stags in one day and not one worth shooting.
September 8th. We got away at 6 a.m., crossed the lake in the canoe and made for the top of a small hill about a mile away. The country was undulating. Numerous ponds lay in the hollows. Clumps of wood (drokes), in which the stags rested during the day, were scattered over the plain; altogether a likely looking ground. We soon saw a big stag about two miles away feeding across a swamp. The head looked a good one but it was impossible to make out the points at such a distance, so we decided to get nearer. As we moved on we saw another stag coming out of a hollow on our left, but the head was a poor one. Within four minutes we saw a third stag on our right, but the glass soon showed that he too was not of the right sort. All these were big-bodied animals, but carrying poor heads. Following on after the first stag, we saw him enter a small wood. As soon as we got close outside the wood I decided to send Steve round and give the stag his wind. I took a position commanding both sides of the wood, on one of which, if Steve's drive were successful, the stag must come out. After about half-an-hour's wait a crash in the wood just in front of me told me that our plan had succeeded, and out burst a fine stag and stood looking back into the wood and within twenty yards of me. Alas, his horns were in velvet, and although the tops were good he had only one indifferent frontal and a spike for the other. So he too had to go unharmed. Again I reproached myself for not having brought the camera. I had missed yesterday and to-day two chances of snapshots such as seldom occur. On getting back to camp John reported having seen a small stag crossing the end of the lake, so at least there were plenty of caribou in the country, though unfortunately no big heads.
In the afternoon the light breeze dropped to a dead calm, so starting at 2.30 we made for the far west end of the lake, about five miles away, where a long steady ran up for about three miles, and which Steve said was a good country for deer. Landing a few hundred yards up the steady, we made for the top of a ridge about a hundred feet high, up which led one of the deepest deer tracks I had yet seen. It was at least two feet deep, cut right into the side of the hill, and there were fresh signs everywhere. Unfortunately it was one of those dead calm evenings when the stags come out very late, and as we were a good way from camp we could only wait till just after sunset, and saw nothing. On our way home just at the mouth of the steady we saw a barren hind standing in the water. As we wanted meat I sent Steve ashore with the rook rifle to get her, which he did after bungling one or two shots. As we were getting the carcass into the canoe, out came another hind, and just behind her a small stag, on the point we had just left, but the head was no good. We got to camp well after dark, but it was a lovely, calm night without a ripple on the lake.
September 9th. We were up at daybreak and across the lake to spy the ground where we had seen the three stags yesterday. Nothing was in sight, but we saw for a moment one stag behind our camp on the high open ground; he was just disappearing into a small droke, so we could not make out the head. However, we went after him, but when we had crossed the pond and got up to where he had disappeared, there was nothing in sight, so we decided to get back to camp and move on if possible. Just as we reached the camp, looking back for a moment I saw him on the sky-line about a quarter of a mile away, but, getting the glass on, I found the head was no good. As we were making for camp we saw another stag on the shore where we had landed in the morning, but he was like all the rest, unshootable. He both got our wind and saw us and went off at a real gallop instead of the ordinary long slinging trot.
We certainly had seen plenty of stags, but as luck would have it not one good head. All the country round Koskācodde was very good for deer. We had been extraordinarily lucky so far in our weather, the "mishes" were all dry but rather fatiguing going, just like walking over a thick bed of dry sponges. The fine weather could not be expected to last for ever, and the chances were that when we most wanted it, on the Shoe Hill Ridge, it would break.