Our baggage was stowed, a comfortable seat made with the end of the tent upon the bottom of the canoe, our rods were rigged out for an occasional cast, and we commenced the ascent of the “Smiling Water.” There had been heavy and continuous rains, and quite a freshet had now changed its ordinary placid exterior into one of angry turbulence. The river poured down fierce and wild, crested with foam and discolored with sand and decayed matter. But we made swift progress; starting five miles above Boiestown, we soon passed the last settlement, and entering among the mountains, amid which flows the upper stream, trusted ourselves alone to the dangers of the wilderness, to the mercy of the black-flies for our comfort, and to our skill as sportsmen for our support.
Ten months of close confinement in the city, years amid the horrors of civilization, had well prepared us to appreciate a return to man’s natural state of savage life; long contact with vice and folly had made us eager to taste once more of truth and purity, the communion with nature uncorrupted and unsullied; to feel the air blow through the waving trees instead of down narrow streets; to hear the water rippling over its native bed, and not through Croton pipes; to see the sun shine from out the blue sky, instead of being reflected amid murk and smoke from heated bricks.
The spruce and fir-trees stretched in solid mass like a green wall on either side; occasionally, a white pine loomed above them, or a birch, with its satin bark, broke the dull hue; or where the landscape was more open, the graceful elm or willow stood forth in solitary beauty; and the juniper, with its endless names of hackmatac, tamarack, larch or cypress, waved its weird arms aloft; or the light, quivering poplar, with its never-resting leaves, cast an uncertain shade.
The weather had been changeable all day, occasionally bright and pleasant, the next moment dark and lowering—now the sun shining bright and warm over the hillsides, then the rain driving in spiteful showers and veiling them in mist. The storm no sooner forced on our overcoats than the sunshine persuaded them off. Toward night, when heavier and blacker clouds obscured the sky, we determined to camp, and chose a point opposite a little tributary rivulet called Sandy Brook.
That evening and the next day were passed completing our camp equipage of tables, chairs, basins, and various little articles, and in waiting for the river to fall. During this time one of those pleasant incidents occurred that are intensely enjoyed in rough woodsman’s life; two gentlemen who had been up the river and were returning, stopped and dined with us. There was a grand discussion over flies, resulting in a mutual exchange, and a general mourning over the condition of the water, with, however, the encouragement that the freshet had destroyed the nets and let the fish up to the higher grounds.
Next day we killed our first fish of the season. I had gone above the island at the head of the pool opposite our camp, and was fishing slowly down, taking occasionally a brook trout, when there came a heavier rise, a louder plash, and a fierce run that made my reel discourse sweetly. The fish had struck me in the broken water, and it was uncertain what he was till suddenly he sprang twice his length out of water, showing the silvery sides and gleaming scales of the lovely grilse; again and again he sprang in air, making the water fly as he fell back, and doing his best to break the line or shake out the hook. Bravely he fought, taking advantage of the current to run out line, and rubbing against rocks to cut it through. In vain, foiled at each attempt, his strength rapidly diminishing, he was slowly brought nearer and nearer, till a dexterous blow of the gaff finished the struggle.
Joyful at the good omen, we hastened to our camp, and were met by my companion, Dalton, who proudly exhibited a similar trophy. There was a grand supper that night, and strong hopes that the flood would abate, hopes that were destined to a cruel disappointment when next day the stream was found to be higher than ever, and heavy clouds portended a second deluge.
Our next camp was at Still Water Brook, a name that the present condition of that streamlet strongly belied. We did not, however, remain long, our sport being confined to grilse, and not many of those, and when an English officer, who had been fishing above, called to say he had taken all the fish he wanted at a station further on, we broke up camp at once, to the great disgust of our lazy cook, who thought he had cut his “sprunghungle,” or stick that supports the kettle over the fire, for the last time. We pushed on to Burnt Hill, a famous camping-ground among all those that fish the Miramichi, and there, on the open point near the rock at whose base is the deep pool where salmon lie when the water is warm we established our sylvan home for the last time.
Burnt Hill is so named from having been burnt over, years ago, and is still a mass of dead and blackened trunks, that tower in fantastic shapes toward the sky. Next morning, having selected my choicest cariboo fly, Abraham pushed the canoe across the boiling torrent, so that I could fish near the rocky shore opposite. Having made several casts toward the bank, he swung the canoe in, and, running its nose on a rock, gave me a chance to fish the centre of the channel. I had hardly cast, when from out the curling wave rushed a mighty monster, which gleamed a moment in the sunshine and disappeared. I felt a heavy, dull strain on my rod, the fish swam deep and seemed unconscious of what had happened. Then, suddenly aroused to his danger, a magnificent salmon rushed down-stream and vaulted high out of water. Abraham glanced at me; I returned the look, but not one word was spoken. The fish returned to his former station, as though disdaining a struggle with a fragile cord and contemptible fly, and remained there some moments, heavily swimming round and round. Suddenly he became alarmed, and away he went, thirty yards at least, the line whistling through the rings and the reel hissing with the speed. He made a splendid leap and paused.
I had just time to tell Abraham to swing his boat off the rock where she was resting, when the fish started again. Down he darted; the rod bent, the line flying through the water, and after him came the pursuers. He hesitated an instant above the worst rapids, and then sped down them; once in a while I could see him amid the foam and flying spray, as he rolled himself half out of water over some heavy wave; but my attention was occupied in keeping the line clear of rocks, and not exerting too much strain upon it. Admirably did Abraham handle the canoe. He was alone; the water seethed and boiled round us broken into a mass of fierce waves, small cascades and gleaming foam. It poured with raging current over high bowlders, and swept between narrow rocks. He stood erect in the stem, his eye, taking the measure of every falls, the strength of every eddy; he swung the canoe’s head first one way then another, easing her down over the higher waves, that, curling against the stream, broke over the bow in mimic showers, and pushing strongly through the circling eddies. Not a rock did he touch, not a moment did the boat escape from perfect command, and when we were launched upon the quiet bosom of the deep pool at the foot of Burnt Hill Rapids, the fish was on the line. We each drew a long breath and again exchanged glances. It was a beautiful spot to kill a fish. The water, all white and raging above, formed a broad eddy, that washed the base of the rock on which I now stood. Although there was still a strong current in the centre, an expanse of clear water spread out at our feet, into which, after each rush, the fish could be easily led, and where his mad leaps were the only risk. It was our first fish, and I exercised the utmost care; not till he was almost dead did I force him to the surface, where Abraham, with one blow of his gaff, brought our prize to land.