A HUNTER’S CAMP
Angling in the lakes for trout is also a delightful sport. Within ten miles of St. John’s there are large expanses of water that are alive with Loch Leven and Californian rainbow trout. On a charming June morning you decide to leave the city and spend the day with rod and line upon the lakes in your little canvas boat. You see that your conveyance contains a kettle, a teapot, and a good supply of food, for when you reach the side of the lake you will find it almost impossible to satisfy your hunger. Away you start at a rattling pace, and in a short time you find yourself in the heart of primitive scenery. What does it matter if the trout refuse to bite? The air has given you a new lease of life, the blue sky has got into your soul, the odour of the avenues of spruce-trees makes you smack your lips, and at every turn in the road you are greeted by some stream that babbles through a cluster of ferns and flowers. Then your horse creeps panting up a steep hill, whose summit introduces you to a glimpse of the great Atlantic, or a quaint little fishing village sleeping in a cuplike hollow near the seashore. At last you reach the lake, unharness the horse, prepare your rod and line, fix your boat on the water, and lure your fish to the surface of the lake by the aid of your “Silver Doctor,” for that is the fly that seems best to tempt the palate of the “rainbow,” and “Loch Leven.” When you have whipped the water for a few hours, you suddenly get a telegraphic message from your stomach that it is time to dine. You pull up to the edge of the water, make an extempore fire-grate out of the boulders, snap off some dry spruce-twigs, and in a short time the mouth of your kettle is belching forth boiling water. The only sounds to be heard are the crackling of the burning twigs and the song of your kettle. One member of the party spreads the cloth upon the velvet moss, one makes the tea, one opens the tinned peaches, and another goes into the wood with a dish to gather wild raspberries, to add lusciousness to the pot of cream.
When the meal is over, you take to your boat again, and “swish, swish” go the lines once more. A few more fish are gathered in. You take another meal, and then fish on until you are satisfied with the day’s sport. Satisfied! Was any angler ever satisfied? No! You decide to fish on until darkness covers the face of the water.
At last a mist comes over the lake, the moon begins to show her face above the hills, and you pull reluctantly to the side. The horse looks at you, as much as to say, “I thought you fellows were going to stay all night.” Your goods and chattels are packed up, the horse is harnessed, and off you scamper for St. John’s and home.
The moonbeams streak the water, and you look back upon the lake with a feeling akin to that with which you look from the deck of a steamer upon the friends you are leaving behind.
As you wend your way home, the scenery, under the influence of the moon, seems more bewitching than ever. The Northern Lights cast a halo over the hills and waters and forests, and you wish that the ten miles’ drive were fifty.
“Glorious day’s sport, boys!” says one of the party, as we see the tower on Signal Hill silhouetted against the dark blue sky. “Grand! grand!” is the unanimous reply.