was while fishing in this manner and after taking
six or eight fine fish, that a feeble tug at the line
signalled the presence of the invalid. He came in
with scarce a struggle; in fact he seemed to be
relieved to have his troubles ended. As no expert
was present to diagnose the case we shall never
know from what malady he suffered, but he was
a sick fish. If he had been a man the pallor and
emaciation might have indicated tuberculosis, al-
though he did not cough. He had a giant frame,
and in health would have weighed five pounds or
more. As it was, he barely went two pounds.
As he was still able to wiggle a little after the
weighing process was over, he was returned to
the water, where, after lying seemingly lifeless for
a moment, he feebly swam away. Just before he
disappeared he turned a reproachful look towards
the fisherman, as much as to say, " Why didn't
you put an end to my suffering? I'm disappointed
in you." If we ever catch another invalid fish
we'll kill him on the spot.

On a certain day, among the new arrivals was a
Cleric and his Satellite. The Cleric was a genial
and interesting man and an enthusiastic fisherman.
That night he asked many questions about the



SKEGEMOG POINT 187

fishing, and calmly announced that the next day
he would show us how to catch bass. Then the
Satellite took the floor and descanted at length
upon the prowess of his friend and the piscatorial
victories won by him on other waters and in other
days. Not a word was said in reply by the men of
the company, some of whom had fancied that they
knew a little about bass fishing; but on more than
one face there was a grim look which betokened
something a little short of perfect happiness.

The next morning the Cleric and his Satellite
were up bright and early, being the first to start
out upon the day's fishing. Later on, three other
boats put out, each containing a man who had
vowed to beat that Cleric or perish in the attempt.
When night came and the records of the day's
catches were compared, it was found that the high-
hook had brought in eighteen bass, another twelve,
a third eight, while the invincible Cleric had taken
but two. Never again, as the guests gathered on
the porch at nightfall, did the Cleric expatiate upon
his skill as a fisher for bass, and no more did the
Satellite recount the marvellous exploits of his
hero. On the faces of the other fishermen there
rested a look of deep satisfaction and in their eyes
one might detect a gleam of amusement. It isn't
necessary to brag about your achievements. Just
do things, and let that brag for you.

But the Cleric was a good fellow and his stories
helped to pass many an evening pleasantly. One,



188 DAYS IN THE OPEN

that may serve as a sample, has stuck in our
memory :

" Where a railroad crosses a Michigan river is
a deep pool under the bridge. As a fisherman was
casting in this pool one day, he had a mighty
strike followed by the fierce whizzing of his reel
as the fish ran out the line. Before the man
realized what was happening the line parted and
the fish was free. In the afternoon he returned
with a new and stronger line, only to repeat the
experience of the morning. Then salmon tackle
was called into use, which was promptly smashed
by the, as yet, unseen denizen of the pool. By this
time the fisherman had parted company with all
his cherished principles of sportsmanship, and
vowed that he would capture that fish even if he
had to shoot it. Abjuring the rod, he next em-
ployed a muskallonge line and a cod-hook, baiting
with a five-inch minnow. The fish responded
promptly, and the big line just as promptly parted
when this Sandow of the finny tribe had gotten
fully into action. As a result of deep reflection
the fisherman then bought a clothes-line and em-
ployed a neighbouring blacksmith to make him a
hook big enough and strong enough to hold a
shark. Baiting the hook with a pound of raw beef
and giving the line a half-hitch around a near-by
stump, he once more challenged his unseen foe.
For three hours a mighty battle raged. The
blacksmith, two section hands and a farmer joined



SKEGEMOG POINT 189

forces with the fisherman, and the five of them
finally succeeded in landing the fish. After quiet-
ing him with a club, they began to wonder at the
fight which he had put up. While he was large
some twenty-five inches in length his size did not
fully explain matters. Then one of them under-
took to turn the fish over with his foot, and could
not stir him. He used both hands and failed.
Then the five together tackled the job and barely
succeeded. Evidently, here was an extraordi-
narily heavy fish, and the phenomenon was ex-
plained only when they cut the fish open and found
him full of railroad frogs."

That story brings to mind the champion story-
teller of northern Michigan who acted as occasional
oarsman for the Skegemog guests. He was gen-
erally known as the " Cheerful Liar," and his
kinship to Baron Munchausen was put beyond the
shadow of a doubt by the variety and character
of his stories. After a somewhat careful study of
the man, at least one of his occasional companions
became convinced that he did not prevaricate con-
sciously. His was simply a case of an over-grown
and exuberant imagination. Given a tiny bit of
fact as a starter, that imagination began to caper
about without let or hindrance until the most in-
credible story resulted. He was a great comrade,
always good-natured, always personally interested
in the fishing, a lover of the woods and the water,
ready at all times with an interesting story and



190 DAYS IN THE OPEN

never telling the same one twice. What more can
one reasonably ask in an oarsman ?

In earlier days he had lived in another part of
the state, and most of his alleged adventures were
localized on or near Clearwater Lake. As accu-
rately as we could compute, the fish which he
claimed to have caught in this one lake would have
been sufficient to cover the southern peninsula of
Michigan to a depth of seventeen feet, six inches,
and then leave some four hundred fish unused.
One of the most fascinating of his many de-
lightful yarns concerned his adventure with a giant
pickerel :

" Cousin Jim Smith and I," the narrator began,
" were fishin' one lowery day on Clearwater Lake
in a cranky little boat, when Jim hooked on to a
pick'rel. The fish put up a tough fight and Jim
got excited and kept standin' up in the boat and I
a-yellin' to him to se'down. Bimeby Jim got 'im
into the boat, and then jumped up again, and over
we went. When I saw we were goin' I grabbed for
the line and got holt just above the spoon. That
pick'rel pulled and I hung on and he took me clear
to the bottom in eighteen foot of water. When we
got down there, I grabbed that fish with both hands,
tucked him under my left arm, gave a big spring
and shot up to the top of the water. What does
that pick'rel do as soon as we reached the top,
but slip out from under my arm and make for
the bottom again, me hangin' on to the line close



SKEGEMOG POINT 191

to the spoon. When we reached the bottom I
tucked him under my arm again, gave another
spring, came to the top ; the fish squirmed out again,
and well, I don't know how many times we
made the trip up and back, but just when I was
about tuckered, some fellows in another boat came
up and pulled us both in. That pick'rel weighed
twenty-two pounds."

The thoughtful critic will easily separate the
element of historic fact from the mythical accre-
tions in this story, and be able to retain Jim and a
fishing trip and a big " pick'rel," even if compelled
to reject the account of the numerous subaqueous
excursions.

In many of the larger inland lakes of Michigan
lake-trout may be found, and summer visitors vary
the sport of bass fishing with excursions after
trout. Early in the season these fish are found in
shallow water, along the shore, and may be taken
by ordinary trolling; but as the weather grows
warm the trout retreat to the deepest part of the
lake, where they can be captured only by some un-
usual means. The method employed does not
appeal strongly to a true sportsman, but he can
afford to try it, once, at least, for the sake of the
novelty. At the foot of Elk Lake lived an old man
who was a past-master in the art of taking these
deep-lying trout, and to him the visitor turned
when he grew satiated with bass fishing and sighed
for new worlds to conquer. The old fisherman has



192 DAYS IN THE OPEN

a big, heavy boat, in the back end of which he has
fixed a windlass holding a thousand feet of fine,
copper wire. The trout are lying in about three
hundred feet of water, and no ordinary line will
allow the trolling spoon to sink deep enough to
reach those dim recesses. With all the copper wire
paid out, the old man rows slowly over the deepest
parts of the lake, while the tourist sits holding the
handle of the windlass, ready to begin turning at
the least suspicion of a strike. Now and then there
is a false alarm, and the excited fisherman cranks in
a thousand feet of wire only to find a piece of wood
or weed fastened to the spoon-hook. When, by
chance, a trout is hooked, the sensation differs little
from that experienced in winding up a bucket of
water from a deep well. The fish has not travelled
far in his involuntary journey through the water
before he loses all ambition, fills with water and
becomes no more obstreperous than any other in-
animate object would be when fastened to sixty
rods of line. These trout are delicious eating, and
run as high as twenty-five pounds, or even more
in weight.

Other trout, the real, speckled brook-trout, are
found in the streams flowing into the lake, and
more than one delightful day was spent in pursuit
of them. After all, there is no other fishing quite
like that. It is not altogether because brook-trout
are the cleanliest, handsomest of fish, or that they
are so gamey and so toothsome that this sport is



SKEGEMOG POINT 193

easily the prime favourite with fishermen. The
brook itself is a joy. Just to company with it
makes life worth while. It chatters to you, laughs
at you, plays hide-and-go-seek with you, and never
gets to be an old story. Sitting on an old root,
just where a log fallen across the stream makes a
good hiding-place for the shy fish, it doesn't matter
very much whether you catch anything or not. The
checkers of sunlight are dancing all about you, a
red squirrel is scolding at you from a neighbouring
tree, a mink may go stealing by if you are quiet,
and over all is a great peace which steals into the
heart, filling it with profound contentment.

One day we followed far up the brook, so far
that when the night fell and we saw a farmer's
home across the fields, it was deemed wise to seek
lodging there for the night rather than to attempt
the long trip back to the Point through the dark-
ness. The farmer and his wife were hospitable
and kindly, furnished us with an appetizing supper
and, later on, showed us to a tiny bed-room under
the eaves. It was not the fault of the house-wife,
for the buildings were old, but a brief stay in that
bed proved beyond peradventure that it had been
preempted. We did not " fight and run away " ;
we ran without even beginning to fight. Stealing
quietly down stairs we made for the neighbouring
barn and the haymow, where we slept untroubled
by anything more vicious than an occasional
" daddy-long-legs." Then, in the early morning,



194. DAYS IN THE OPEN

back to the brook again and to trout that fairly
tumbled over one another in their eagerness to grab
the " Silver Doctor " as the light rod sent it flitting
to and fro over the face of the stream.

When one of the guests proposed, one evening,
that we all go on an excursion up the lakes the
next day, there was hearty and unanimous assent.
The lakes that wash the shores of Skegemog Point
are only two of a series, all connected by thorough-
fares. A steamer of light draught can go the whole
length of the chain, some twenty-five miles or more.
The next morning proved ideal for such a trip.
The sky was a deep blue with just enough fleecy
clouds in it to furnish the needed contrast. The
wind set little wavelets to dancing on every inch
of the lake, but never grew troublesome and un-
pleasant. The farmers were at work in their grain
fields on either shore, the luncheon was excellent,
and nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of the
day. Why write of an experience so common and
so uneventful? Just because of what the day
brought to one member of the little company.

Among the excursionists was a man in middle
life whose mother had gone home to God the
previous Christmas-time. He had seen the light
go out of her eyes, had held her hand in his as
she breathed her last, had stood by the new-made
grave in the village cemetery as they lowered the
casket into the earth. The snow lay deep upon the
ground and was steadily falling as the friends



SKEGEMOG POINT 195

turned away from the burial and, Christian man
though he was, that son could not feel that his
mother was. Have you ever felt that one who has
been a part of your life, is not only dead, but has
utterly and entirely ceased to be? He told himself
that she whom he had loved so passionately was
safe in our Father's house, and he believed it but
he could not feel it. The days and weeks and
months had come and gone, and still there had
come to his heart whatever his head might affirm
no comforting sense that his mother still lived,
safe-sheltered in a better country. He was sitting
by himself that day, far up in the bow of the boat,
drinking in the beauty of earth and sky and lake.
It all brought back other and golden days when
he and his mother had been together on the ma-
jestic St. Lawrence, and then, all at once She was
at hand. He felt her presence like a benediction.
He heard no voice, saw no vision; but somehow
his soul sensed her nearness, and his sore heart
knew a comfort that has never departed and never
lessened in the years that have come and gone
since that hour.



IN THE

ALGOMA WOODS
AND BEFORE




Shelter of forests, comfort of the

grass,
Music of birds, murmur of little

rills,

Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass,
And after showers
The smell of flowers,
And of the good, green earth,
And, best of all, along the way,
friendship and mirth.
HENRY VAN DYKE, God of
the Open Air.






XV

IN THE ALGOMA WOODS AND
BEFORE

T AVE you ever taken the Georgian
^ Bay trip?" asked the General
Passenger Agent when we sought
his advice as to our annual outing.
" The scenery is beautiful and the
fishing all that heart could wish."
So it came to pass that we boarded the steamer
at Sault Ste. Marie for the round trip of Georgian
Bay, our tickets including generous stop-over privi-
leges. Undoubtedly " palatial " is the proper term
to use in describing a passenger steamer, but having
never lived in a palace we are unable to judge of
the fitness of the appellation as applied to this
particular boat. We can affirm, however, that we
were very comfortable, and that the scenery quite
equalled our high expectations. So many people
have made this trip and it has been described so
199



200 DAYS IN THE OPEN

frequently and so well, that the eulogistic possibil-
ities of the English language were long ago ex-
hausted in praise of the beauty of this unsalted
sea.

It will be enough to say that we made the regu-
lation trip and were quite orthodox in the matter
of admiration. The moments of enthusiam over
the scenery were interspersed with periods of deep
reflection; for somewhere along the course of the
steamer we had decided to stop off for a stay of
some weeks. Where should it be? We had
started with a notion that the choice would lie
between Pantanguishene and Parry Sound; but the
former place failed to make a strong appeal, and
at Parry Sound there were too many people and
too few fish.

On our way down we had touched at Manito-
waning. When and where had we heard of this
place? Carefully overhauling the odds and ends
stowed away in the chambers of memory, we came
at last upon a glowing account, given us some years
before by a fisherman friend, of a vacation spent
at Manitowaning. Much of what he said had been
forgotten, but not his praise of the fishing. When
the captain of the steamer assured us that there
was a comfortable hotel in the little village, the
matter was settled, and Manitowaning it was. It
may be just as well to exhibit the " fly in the oint-
ment " at once, and have done with it. The hotel
had a bar, and the drinking and the drunkenness



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 201

went far towards marring our enjoyment of this
otherwise most delightful spot.

Manitou Lake, three miles from the village,
swarms with little-mouth bass. One can hire a rig
for a dollar and a half for the day, and many were
the hours spent in close and delightful intercourse
with the inhabitants of this beautiful body of water.
Bass are freaky fish, and one never knows just
when they will take a notion to scorn all efforts
at their capture. One day Sue and the writer
drove over to the lake, and those bass took every-
thing that was offered. In a little sandy bay,
where the water was not over four feet deep, we
anchored and began fishing with minnows. So
eager were the fish that both of us were kept busy
hauling in the victims and putting on fresh bait.
The Senior decided to try a gaudy, artificial fly,
and the bass grabbed it with utter disregard of the
fact that it resembled nothing which they had ever
seen before. The fishing went forward so fast
and furiously that it was finally agreed to throw
back every bass that was not clearly of three
pounds in weight, or more. Urged on by the sport
of that day, the whole family started bright and
early the next morning to duplicate the delightful
experience. Alas! some mysterious change had
come over the " spirit of their dream " in fishdom.
Not a bass could be found in the little sandy bay
where they had thronged only a short twenty-four
hours before and, after a day of arduous toil, the



202 DAYS IN THE OPEN

net results were five bass, not one over two pounds.
If the fisherman were to find an earthly paradise
it would be where he could catch trout from one
side of his boat and little-mouth bass from the
other. Next in attractiveness to this unrealized
ideal must be placed the spot where these two
species of game fish may both be found within a
radius of a few miles. In this respect Manito-
waning fills the bill. Although the village is on an
island Grand Manitoulin trout streams abound,
and among these the one flowing out of Manitou
Lake was highly recommended by local sportsmen.
The favourite point was some fifteen miles distant,
and we were advised to drive over in the afternoon,
stay all night at a farmer's nearby, getting the
evening and morning fishing. That sounded at-
tractive, and was promptly tried out. There may
be lazier horses than the one we drove that day,
but if so they should be promptly executed for the
crime of putting an unendurable strain on the
driver's good nature. But we finally arrived at
our destination, and could hardly wait to stable
Bucephalus, so eager were we to begin operations
with the trout. It was a sizable stream, with much
quick water in sight as we crossed the bridge and,
in anticipation, we saw the big string of noble fish
that we would carry proudly back to Manitowaning
on the morrow. Must it be told? When it was
nine o'clock that night and too dark to distinguish
a favourable pool from a mud-puddle, we turned



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 203

towards the farm-house not only without a trout,
but not having had one rise in response to the in-
calculable number of times that the alluring flies
had been cast. The next morning, at sunrise, we
were on the stream again, and four hours of faith-
ful fishing brought in return two small trout which
had evidently escaped from some asylum for
feeble-minded fish.

On our way out we had noticed an attractive
looking stream which we crossed some ten miles
from Manitowaning. Just by the bridge over this
stream stood the remains of an old mill, half fallen
down and with the timbers of the dam furnishing
ideal hiding places for trout. When this spot was
reached on the return trip the pull was too strong
to be resisted and, hitching the apology for a horse
to a nearby fence, preparations were made for a
foray upon the unsuspecting fish. Fly-casting was
out of the question and, after choosing a new snood
of double gut and covering the hook with an ex-
ceedingly plethoric angleworm, the bait was cau-
tiously dropped into the rushing waters at the
upper side of the ruins of the flume. Slowly the
line was paid out and the lure allowed to go far
down out of sight. Zip! Yank! Tug! and it's all
over. Under the conditions, any such thing as
playing the fish was out of the question, and the
straight-away pull parted that new snood as if it
had been made of a single strand of cotton thread.
Our humiliation was complete, and with a thor-



204 DAYS IN THE OPEN

oughly chastened spirit the horse was untied and
the homeward journey resumed. That night as
we told the champion fisherman of the village of
the experience at the old mill, he poured a little
balm upon our sore spirit by exclaiming, " That's
no trout, that's a whale. There isn't a fisherman
within twenty-five miles of the old mill who has
not hooked that fish and lost him." Strange, isn't
it, how other men's ill fortune takes some measure
of the sting from our own?

But this is no tale of woe. On another day,
and on the same stream that flows by the old mill,
the elect-lady and her unworthy consort spent hours
that are a joy to recall. It was only eleven miles
to the point recommended by our friendly adviser,
and the horse was reasonably ambitious. We had
laid in a supply of provisions and took along a skil-
let. A perfect day and perfect comradeship, plenty
to eat and the novelty of unexplored territory,
made it certain that, fish or no fish, the hours would
pass pleasantly. As so frequently happens when we
are not very particular whether the fish bite or not,
they elected to be friendly. The stream where we
visited it ran through meadow and pasture-land,
with a luxuriant growth of alders along its banks.
The open spaces afforded opportunities for my
lady to try her hand at trout fishing, and the other
member of the party could wade the stream and
test the more inaccessible places. The water was
almost ice-cold, the stream having its rise less than



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 205

a mile away in a great, bubbling spring. Owing
to the colour of the water the stream is called the
" Bluejay."

When noon came, a fire was kindled in a se-
cluded spot close by the running brook. Coffee!
You never tasted any like it. Fried trout ! Why are
they never so appetizing as when cooked and eaten
in the open? We lingered long over that dinner,
and the writer would fain linger a little over that
day even now when it is only a memory. He has
known many happy days; days which are golden
as he looks back upon them across the years; but
among them all no day spent in the out-of-doors,
in touch with fields and stream and sky, stands
out more clearly and alluringly against the back-
ground of yesterday than that passed with the
dearest woman in the world upon the banks of the
Bluejay. The sun was low in the west as we
started homeward, and from the summit of a low
hill over which the road led, we looked north and
eastward over miles of woodland and cultivated
fields, and saw in the distance the glistening waters
of the bay. Yes, there is the lighthouse at Manito-
waning, and the children are watching for us. In
spite of the alluring beauty of the scene, something
more attractive awaits us yonder. We must
hasten.

Before leaving home it had been decided that
all but one member of the family should spend a
portion of the vacation time in visiting old friends.



206 DAYS IN THE OPEN

Accordingly, when Sault Ste. Marie was reached,
the devotee of rod and reel turned his face towards
the north, while the wife and children took steamer
for Chicago. The trip into the woods was not
undertaken alone, for a fisherman friend who shall
be known as Jim, one of the best of comrades, was
waiting at the Canadian " Soo " to bear us com-
pany on the visit to the Algoma woods. What
name, if any, the railroad bears which runs from
the " Soo " sixty miles northeast, we do not know.
The company does not depend upon passenger
traffic for revenue, for that would mean bank-