Days in the Open

by Lathan A. Crandall

The Preacher chuckled and then roared, until the guide growled, “You’ll scare all the deer out of the lake and over the mountain if you make so much noise.” Possibly it was the Preacher’s vociferous hilarity that explains why we “jacked” around the shores of the lake that night for two hours without sighting anything more animated than a dead stump. The Preacher was comparatively young then and had not learned that the less we know about a matter the more unrestrained and cocksure we may be in discussing it.

Not a few experiences are more amusing when considered in retrospect than at the time when they are going forward. When the guide proposed to the Preacher that they visit a little lake a couple of miles from the cabin, try for trout at sundown and then float for deer when darkness had fallen, the proposition was greeted with applause. Although the trail was not an easy one, the guide carried a canoe on his shoulders and the Preacher trudged on behind with the guns and rods, his mind filled with alluring visions of mighty trout and at least one big buck. When the lake was reached and it came time to joint the rods, it was discovered that the reels and lines had been forgotten. The fly-book, with its gaudy contents, was in the Preacher’s pocket, but neither of the two felt competent to do any successful fishing without a line. It would be dark before the trip to camp and back could be made and, reluctantly, the fishing part of the trip was abandoned. That night there was no moon to compel them to wait upon its slow movements, and as soon as darkness had fallen the “jack” was lighted and the slow circling of the lake began. About two-thirds of the way around, the guide stopped paddling, then gave the canoe a little twist so that the bow pointed towards shore, and the Preacher felt the slight shaking of the canoe agreed upon as the signal to shoot. Shoot at what? He could see nothing.

A whisper came from the guide—“Shoot!”

“Where?” was wafted back from the half-paralyzed lips of the Preacher.

“There at the edge of the lily-pads, just a little to your left.” Did the Preacher see the dim outline of a form? He does not know to this day, but he shot as he was commanded. A mighty snort answered the shot, then splashing of water and breaking of limbs, and the guide announced, “You missed him.” The assertion was entirely gratuitous. In fact, the Preacher had not expected to hit what he could not see.

Just about that time a thunder-cloud in the west became so threatening that the guide proposed that they go on shore and get under shelter. That sounded good, but it was not just clear to the passenger where the shelter was to be found. However, the mystery was solved when the guide pulled the canoe to a dry spot on shore, turned it upside down, and both crept under it as the first big drops of rain came pelting down. Just as the Preacher was congratulating himself upon their good fortune, the dulcet note of a mosquito sounded in his ears. He promptly slapped, and then kept on slapping. The singer was the advance guard of an innumerable host. All of the tribe between Paul Smith’s and Lowville had evidently gathered to the feast. To make a bad matter the worst possible, the quarters were exceedingly cramped. One could not well roll over without rolling from under the canoe. The omnipresent root was persistently punching the Preacher’s ribs. To lift his sufferings to the nth power, that guide went to sleep and actually snored. It would have been a satisfaction to have companionship in suffering, but now this was denied him. Was it only four hours? It seemed like four eternities before the guide decided that they ought to start for the cabin. The storm had passed, but every bush showered quarts of water at the slightest touch. Just where the advantage lies in keeping dry from the storm, only to get soaked to the skin from tramping through miles of wet underbrush, is not yet quite clear. At two o’clock in the morning the cabin was reached, sans trout, sans deer, but not sans mosquito bites or a thorough drenching.

What a day that was which the Doctor and the Preacher spent on the East Fork! The lake is fed by two streams, one flowing in from the southeast and the other from the southwest. By a trail the eastern branch could be struck well up towards its source, and from this point down to the lake furnished just about the right distance for a day’s fishing. Bright and early the start was made, with plenty of bread and butter, a skillet, and a supply of fat, salt pork. The fisherman who could not be happy on such a stream, on such a day, whether the fish would bite or not, listening to the laughter of the water, watching the flickers of sunshine strained through the meshes of the trees, drinking in the sweet, pure air, in close touch with nature, is a hopeless pessimist. Fishing side by side, sometimes one and then the other going first, the friends loitered down that beautiful stream while “not a wave of trouble rolled across their peaceful breasts.” Now and then an exceptionally fine trout was taken, and then fishing was suspended while they examined and exclaimed over it. They wondered again, as they had often done before, why some of the fish should be red of fin and belly and with yellow meat, while others had the greyish-white fin and belly, with white meat. The Preacher caught two trout from under the same log, one with blood-red fins and golden flesh, the other white. They were both speckled trout, lived side by side, ate the same food, but differed as greatly as a red-headed boy and an albino.

At noon, where the waters of a cold spring bubbled out of the bank, a fire was made, the fat pork set to sizzling in the skillet and then—but what’s the use? Trout fresh from the brook, fried over a fire in the open and eaten with an appetite engendered by hours of tramping and wading, make a dish for the adequate description of which words are impotent. Of course, the smaller trout were chosen for the mid-day meal, not alone that the catch might look better when exhibited that night, but because they tasted better than the larger ones. How many did we eat? Ask the Doctor! Who should understand the proper amount of food to be taken into the stomach at a single meal, if not one of his profession?

An hour or so for luncheon and chatting, and then into the stream again and on our way towards its mouth. The creels were getting heavy, and the Doctor decided to take a short cut for the lake shore. Just before starting, the two were standing near together fishing a pool, when the Doctor, taking a forward step, slipped on a smooth stone and began falling. The process was the most slow, deliberate, and altogether comical the Preacher ever witnessed. As he began losing his balance and tipping over backwards, he made frantic efforts to regain his poise. Both hands waving in the air, one clutching his rod, eyes popping out of his head, a look of mingled surprise and disgust illuminating his manly face, the final, mighty splash as the stream yielded to the impact of his body, formed a most delightful picture for his sympathetic and sorrowing comrade. Strangely enough, the Doctor could not see the humour of the situation, and if he should ever deign to read this truthful record it is doubtful if he cracks a smile.

Thoroughly drenched, the Doctor’s previous determination to take a short-cut home was much strengthened. He struck off into the woods and the Preacher was left alone to follow the stream. When he had reached the cabin the Doctor had not arrived. When it was almost sundown and no Doctor, the guide started out in search of him. According to later reports the Doctor was found in a depressed state of mind playing hide-and-go-seek with the trees in a tamarack swamp. The guide declared that he knew where they were all of the time—a most credible statement. They were in a tamarack swamp. It was well towards nine o’clock when they arrived at camp, and it took a hot supper to restore their normal good spirits.