Favorite Fish and Fishing

by James A. Henshall

Arriving at that quaint and historic town, we obtained, with the help of the American consul, Mr. Downes, a new basswood canoe, built on the model of a birch bark, about fifteen feet in length; this we procured from an Indian tribe near the city. Through our letter of introduction from Mr. Light to Mr. Beemer, the contractor of the Q. & L. St. John railway, we had no difficulty in getting transportation for our canoes and camp equipage to the Batiscan River, which was then the terminus of the railway. Indeed, Mr. Beemer kindly went with us to that point, to see that we were started right on our exploration of the Upper Batiscan. Our objective point was Batiscan Lake, some ten miles as the crow flies, but the distance by river unknown, for its upper waters had never been fished by white men. A railroad survey party had gone a short distance up the stream by land, but beyond that it was a terra incognita to the angler. I questioned an old French trapper, who told me that he had been to the lake with sled and snowshoes in winter, and had fished through the ice; also that the trout ran up to ten pounds in weight. It was to be a veritable voyage of discovery, and Mr. Light was quite desirous to know something of the resources and particulars of the region, having leased the fishing privileges from the Dominion.

Lacs du Rognon

Arriving at the river, I found Mr. Farnsworth—who has written so entertainingly of the French inhabitants—established in a pleasant camp a mile below the railroad crossing. I also met Captain Seaton, president of a Quebec fishing club, the lessee of the Lacs du Rognon, near the railroad crossing of the Batiscan. Captain Seaton showed me a basket of brook trout averaging five pounds, but to my surprise he stated that they were taken with the trolling spoon, as the trout of those lakes—more's the pity—utterly refused to take the fly, giving as a reason that those waters abounded in myriads of chub, on which the trout habitually fed.

Up the River

We embarked in the canoes and proceeded up the river, which we found to be a wild, rocky stream, with long rapids, up which it was impossible to propel the canoes. This entailed the labor and delay of long portages, making our progress extremely slow. Between the rapids were long stretches of smooth, but very rapid water. The mountains rose up on each side from the edge of the stream, so that the portages were on a side hill of Laurentian rocks overgrown with moss a foot or two in depth. Owing to these difficulties we were six days in traveling five miles, and failed to reach Batiscan Lake, though I saw its waters from the top of a mountain.

Trout Galore

That we found trout galore is no name for it. They were as numerous as the black flies by day or the mosquitoes by night. And the chub were both plentiful and gamy—great dark, round, stout fellows, weighing sometimes two pounds, and gamier than the trout. We at last reached a fall, or rather twin falls, aggregating some thirty feet in height, and the most beautiful sight I have ever seen on any stream. The summit of the fall flowed in a straight, unbroken line across the river, over a solid ledge of rocks, with a curve as true, uniform, and unbroken as a mill dam. |Batiscan Falls|The waters fell into a circular basin of considerable extent, and then, divided by a small island in the middle of the lower fall, plunged down again to the lower level. On this little isle were twin fir trees of remarkable beauty and symmetry, standing like silent sentinels in the silent Canadian forest—for no sound was ever heard except the rushing of the tumultuous waters beneath. The absence of birds was remarkable, only an occasional song sparrow being heard.

Our last camp was at the summit of the fall, a few feet from its edge. Above the fall were nothing but brook trout; not a chub to be seen; great lusty trout from one-half to three pounds—none less, none more. And they were too plentiful for real sport. A dozen would rise to the single fly at once, knocking it about sometimes like a tennis ball. We fished only a few minutes in the early morning and toward sundown, as we took only enough to supply the camp.

Fishing on the Verge

Most of my fishing here was from the very verge or curve of the fall, where the trout were playing. Strange to say, none went over, as I ascertained by careful watching below. Indeed, there seemed to be none in the circular basin below. I could, at least, see none, neither could I get a rise, though I tried repeatedly. When hooked, on the verge of the fall, the fish always started up stream. As there were two feet of water going over the fall with a velocity of five or six miles an hour, or more, the strength and activity of the trout can be imagined. These trout were the most beautiful and highly colored I have ever seen; their bellies a bright orange-red, and their sides sprinkled with gold and intensely crimson spots, and their fins edged with jet black and pure white. The coloration was unusually vivid and pronounced.