After fishing the Round Rocks and the Bush Falls, we ascended the river to the Pabineau Falls, where we paused only to exchange friendly greetings with two fellow fishermen, and continuing through the dark, silent waters of the Bittabock, dined at the Middle Landing, where the stream pours seething in its narrow channel between high rocky banks, and where it is said to be six fathoms deep. We passed another angler at the Chain of Rocks, and reached the Grand Falls and pitched our tent on its precipitous shores by sundown.
Wild indeed is the scenery at the Grand Falls, the highest point the salmon reach. The falling water, in long ages, has worn away a channel between high bluffs, and now, in ordinary seasons, pours through a narrow gorge that once could be leaped across, but which has been blasted to admit the passage of timber. The sheet of water falls in a mass of foam some forty feet, the spray rising in volumes, and producing in the summer’s sun a beautiful mist rainbow. The granite rocks have been worn in deep holes by revolving bowlders, and in winter the whole chasm, filled with ice and water, must be grand and impressive in extreme.
There is a smaller, second fall, which the salmon occasionally try to leap; but they spawn in the pebbly beds below, the whole course of the stream, especially at the basin a short distance from the falls.
The principal natural fly of the Nipisiquit is about three-quarters of an inch long, has a yellow body and orange tip, two short whisks and two long, yellow antennæ, six thick yellow legs, a large, black head, a thick yellow body with nine rings, and four reticulated, dull yellowish, transparent wings. They are not very abundant, but there are many small nocturnal flies, that will be drawn together with a light in swarms.
It is extremely interesting to stand on the rocks overhanging the river and watch the salmon, their every motion distinctly visible, and their numbers readily counted. When one is casting the fly, his companion can see the fish move to take it, and call out when to strike. Salmon seem to rise very slowly and deliberately and can be observed of a bright day together in crowds, holding their own against the current with a scarcely perceptible effort. Not one in a hundred will notice the fly; ordinarily nothing but the fins are in motion, but occasionally an individual will give a flirt and turn up his side, which flashes like silver through the water.
We fished the Camp, the Falls, the Rock and Cooper’s Pools with great success; the fish were numerous, fine conditioned, large and strong. We had many a fierce contest; often was our line run out for seventy yards; the fish made splendid leaps and vigorous rushes, but we lost very few, as there was but one bad place. That was below the Falls Pool, where a stake had caught in the middle of the current; I found its locality by losing a fine grilse and a casting line.
The days wore on most pleasantly; salmon occupied all our thoughts. The first thing in the morning we looked for salmon, then we fished for salmon, then we breakfasted on salmon, and then again fished for them; then made flies to catch them, next dined on them, again fished for them, and then supped off them, and lastly dreamed of them. But the happiest and longest of summer days must end; our time came to return, and the camp was struck.
The river is quite evenly divided between the various stopping-places, and it is almost exactly three miles between each. There are six good fishing places: the Grand Falls, Middle Landing, Bittabock, Pabineau Falls, Round Rocks and Rough Waters.
We stopped at our original camp, the Round Rocks and there we struck our last fish. My friend hooked in the middle of the current a noble specimen, that gave such splendid play that I laid down my rod to witness the contest. The bright sides of the fish, as he leaped again and again out of water, proved that he was fresh run and strong, an impression his fierce rushes confirmed. He was played with great care and delicacy; but alas! suddenly darted across the current, took a turn around a rock, and returning passed round another. All hope was given up, but when the canoe was skillfully pushed across after him, he was found to be still on and the line uninjured by the smooth rocks. My friend, greatly rejoiced, had another severe contest, and foiled two determined efforts at escape down an impassable rapid, and when compelled to follow him through some very rough water, did it in a masterly style, standing erect in the canoe, which was ably handled by the two Chamberlains, and guiding the fish through the safest channel. Nearly an hour had been expended, and the fish, almost exhausted, made one last effort to reach the next rapid, and being prevented, came alongside, feebly turning over and over. My friend unfortunately had put on a double leader and could not reel up short, so the salmon lay deep under water, dimly seen, when John attempted to gaff him. At that instant the fish turned, the gaff slipped, he made a rush into the current, and one cry from my friend, “There, he’s off,” told the tale. The line sprung up into the air, we looked at one another in silence; the occasion was too sad for words. My friend sat down upon the rocks in despair; I felt for, but had no power to console him. At last, slowly and sadly, he broke the mournful silence: “Let us go home,” he said; and we went.
Good bye, lovely Nipisiquit, stream of the beautiful pools, the fisherman’s elysium; farewell to thy merry, noisy current, thy long quiet stretches, thy high bluffs, thy wooded and thy rocky shores. Long may thy music lull the innocent angler into day dreams of happiness. Long may thy deep holes afford secure havens of safety for the salmon, where they can bid defiance to the rapacious net and murderous spear. Long may thy romantic scenery charm the eye and gladden the heart of the artist and welcome the angler to a happy sylvan home. And often may I visit thee, beautiful Nipisiquit!