“Up with the banners on the height,
Set every matin-bell astir!
The tree-top choirs carouse in light;
The dew’s on phlox and lavender,”—
till at last we pulled his hat down over his mouth, and made him go fishing with us. He declared he didn’t want to fish that day, so we took him to carry our captures.
This time we cut through the woods, and struck the river about half a mile below the outlet. The sparkling day had made us break bounds. At this point the Squatook River, after rushing in white-capped tumult down a gloomy channel, broadens fan-like out, and breaks over a low fall into a pool of quiet waters, out of which roars a strong rapid. The pool is wide and deep, and girt with great rocks. Over the black surface fleecy masses of froth were wheeling. How our hearts leaped at the sight! Behold us waist-deep around the margin of the pool, or braced upon the edge of the fall. The surface is lashed sometimes in three or four places at once by the struggles of the speckled prey against the slow, inexorable reel. Our excitement is intense, but quiet. Its only expression is the reel’s determined click, or its thrilling, swift rattle as the taut line cuts the water, and the rod bends and bends. A smallish fish has taken Sam’s “drop,” and is being reeled, half spent, across the basin. The “leader” trails out behind. There is a shining swirl beside it,—a strike; and stung by the check the very monarch of the pool flashes up, and darts like lightning down stream. But Sam’s fly is sticking in his jaw. Now, gallant fisherman, hold thine own! We forget our own rods. More than once Sam’s reel is almost empty. For twenty minutes the result is doubtful. Then, reluctantly, victory declares herself for the lithe rod and the skilful wrist. The larger of these two prizes which our lucky fisherman thus brought to land just tipped the beam at two and three-quarters pounds. The other was a light half-pounder.
That day after a hasty lunch we bade farewell to Camp de Squatook. The morning’s fishing had been so good that we resolved to keep its memory unblurred. A sudden desire seized us for “fresh fields and pastures new.” We struck tent, packed the canoes, and paddled out joyously from the landing. Through the whitefish barrier we slipped smoothly and swiftly onward down the racing current. Almost before we could realize it we were in the wild sluice above the fall. There was a clear channel at one side, and we raced through the big ripples with a shout and a cheer.
But alas for high spirits and heedlessness! Sam and Ranolf were in the rear canoe. They objected to this position; and just after running the shoot and clearing the basin, they tried to pass Magnus and me. We were in the strong and twisting current, however; and the first thing our rivals knew they were thrown upon a round-backed, weedy rock. Their canoe turned over gracefully, and discharged her whole burden into the stream.
Instantly the surface of the pool was diversified with floating paddles, poles, tent-pins, tin kettles, box-covers, etc., and Stranion and Queerman, Magnus and I, were busy capturing these estrays in the eddy below. The canoe was got ashore, righted, and found to be none the worse. Our heavy valuables, guns and the like, were lashed to the canoe, and hence got no worse than a wetting; but our axe and various spoons and forks were gone from our sight forever. The oatmeal was a part of our lading, and the tobacco as well. For this last we felt no anxiety, congratulating ourselves that it was in a waterproof tin. We did not at the time open this tin, as there was tobacco enough for a time in the other canoes. But the meal-bag was a slop. Henceforth we were to have no porridge, only beans, beans, beans, to go with our trout and canned knickknacks. And this meant nothing more nor less than dinner three times a day, instead of the old appetizing sequence of breakfast, dinner, and—dinner.
After a brief delay we continued our journey. An exciting afternoon it proved throughout, leaving us well tired at evening. Taking care to preserve a discreet distance between the canoes whenever the current grew threatening, we slipped on swiftly between ever-varying shores. Rounding a sharp turn we would see before us a long slope of angry water, with huddling waves and frequent rocks; and at the foot of the slope three or four great white “ripples” foaming and roaring in the sun. Then a brief season of stern restraint, strong checkings, strenuous thrustings, sudden bold dashes, and hair’s-breadth evasions—a plunge and a cheer, and, drenched from the crest of that last “ripple,” we would look back on the raging incline behind us. This sort of thing took place three times within two hours. We passed without stopping through Second Lake, and under the majestic front of Sugar Loaf Mountain, which is matchlessly reflected in the deep, still waters. The mountain towers from the water’s edge, its base in a cedar swamp, its lofty conical summit, which topples towards the lake as if it had received a mighty push from behind, veiled and softened with thick bushes and shrubbery.