SPORT ON KEPSKAIG

STEVE JOE DRIES HIMSELF.

STEVE BERNARD IN CAMP.[To face page 226.

Allowing some ten minutes to elapse we followed him through the wood, more out of curiosity than anything else. Coming out on to an open grassy plain, there he was feeding quietly about 200 yards away. Looking round to my left I suddenly saw a second stag not 150 yards away. The horns of thefirst stag were clean. The second stag had a better head, but the velvet was peeling off and the frontal tines, and indeed most of the horn, were crimson with blood. It was difficult to determine the points, owing to the bits of velvet hanging all about, but getting the glass on to him I saw that though the frontals were good the rest of the head was very indifferent, so he had too to be passed.

We whistled to move the second stag but he took not the slightest notice of us, and it was not until we gave him, and incidentally the first stag, our wind that they both went away over the plain at a slinging trot.

Coming home in the gloaming we saw another stag come out of the wood and walk along the shore. We got within fifty yards of him, but the head was, if possible, inferior to the other two. This was bad luck! We had seen four stags in one day and not one worth shooting.

September 8th. We got away at 6 a.m., crossed the lake in the canoe and made for the top of a small hill about a mile away. The country was undulating. Numerous ponds lay in the hollows. Clumps of wood (drokes), in which the stags rested during the day, werescattered over the plain; altogether a likely looking ground. We soon saw a big stag about two miles away feeding across a swamp. The head looked a good one but it was impossible to make out the points at such a distance, so we decided to get nearer. As we moved on we saw another stag coming out of a hollow on our left, but the head was a poor one. Within four minutes we saw a third stag on our right, but the glass soon showed that he too was not of the right sort. All these were big-bodied animals, but carrying poor heads. Following on after the first stag, we saw him enter a small wood. As soon as we got close outside the wood I decided to send Steve round and give the stag his wind. I took a position commanding both sides of the wood, on one of which, if Steve's drive were successful, the stag must come out. After about half-an-hour's wait a crash in the wood just in front of me told me that our plan had succeeded, and out burst a fine stag and stood looking back into the wood and within twenty yards of me. Alas, his horns were in velvet, and although the tops were good he had only one indifferent frontal and a spike for the other. So he too had to go unharmed. Again I reproached myself for not having brought the camera. I had missed yesterday and to-day two chances of snapshotssuch as seldom occur. On getting back to camp John reported having seen a small stag crossing the end of the lake, so at least there were plenty of caribou in the country, though unfortunately no big heads.

In the afternoon the light breeze dropped to a dead calm, so starting at 2.30 we made for the far west end of the lake, about five miles away, where a long steady ran up for about three miles, and which Steve said was a good country for deer. Landing a few hundred yards up the steady, we made for the top of a ridge about a hundred feet high, up which led one of the deepest deer tracks I had yet seen. It was at least two feet deep, cut right into the side of the hill, and there were fresh signs everywhere. Unfortunately it was one of those dead calm evenings when the stags come out very late, and as we were a good way from camp we could only wait till just after sunset, and saw nothing. On our way home just at the mouth of the steady we saw a barren hind standing in the water. As we wanted meat I sent Steve ashore with the rook rifle to get her, which he did after bungling one or two shots. As we were getting the carcass into the canoe, out came another hind, and just behind her a small stag, on the point we had just left, but the head was no good. We got to camp wellafter dark, but it was a lovely, calm night without a ripple on the lake.

September 9th. We were up at daybreak and across the lake to spy the ground where we had seen the three stags yesterday. Nothing was in sight, but we saw for a moment one stag behind our camp on the high open ground; he was just disappearing into a small droke, so we could not make out the head. However, we went after him, but when we had crossed the pond and got up to where he had disappeared, there was nothing in sight, so we decided to get back to camp and move on if possible. Just as we reached the camp, looking back for a moment I saw him on the sky-line about a quarter of a mile away, but, getting the glass on, I found the head was no good. As we were making for camp we saw another stag on the shore where we had landed in the morning, but he was like all the rest, unshootable. He both got our wind and saw us and went off at a real gallop instead of the ordinary long slinging trot.

We certainly had seen plenty of stags, but as luck would have it not one good head. All the country round Koskācodde was very good for deer. We had been extraordinarily lucky so far in our weather, the "mishes" were all dry but rather fatiguing going, just like walkingover a thick bed of dry sponges. The fine weather could not be expected to last for ever, and the chances were that when we most wanted it, on the Shoe Hill Ridge, it would break.

Though the wind was almost blowing a gale against us we decided to start, and crept along under the shelter of the shore. Heavy seas were breaking over the numerous sunken rocks and we shipped a good deal of water. I was not sorry to reach a point about three miles off, where the lake turned round to the north and where we had a following wind, and though the waves were still high they were behind us, and we soon reached a short rapid leading into Kepskaig Lake. We had covered the distance from our last camp in three and a half hours.

Unloading the canoe, we got her over the rapid and camped immediately below. In front of the camp, at the bottom of the short rapid, was a nice pool, and while the men were pitching camp and cooking dinner I fished the pool, and in one and a half hours I got twenty-one trout and char; the biggest about 1½ lb.

Although the gale was a strong one the rain had so far kept off, but the clouds were nowpiling up for heavy rain, and the glass was falling rapidly. We were lucky to have got across, for the wind was now too high to have attempted the lake. We were in a good, dry camp, plenty of fish assured, and we could afford to ignore the weather.

Kepskaig was a short and somewhat narrow lake, not more than one and a half miles long; from it two steadies led out into Meddonagonax Lake. The shores were thickly wooded, but at the far end were some fairly open marshes with two good look-out hills, from which we could spy the entire country.

We started about 4.30 for the far end of the lake, but landed half-way to spy the shores for any feeding stag that might come out. We soon saw a stag with a good-looking head feeding on the shore opposite to us, and were just about to start after him when Steve saw another stag feeding across one of the marshes at the far end of the lake. The tops of the horns looked very good, so we decided to go after him first. Pushing on in the canoe to the end of the lake, we were soon on the top of one of the small hills, and could see him feeding on towards us and moving very quickly. The glass showed that though he had good tops, both middles and frontals were very poor, so we decided to leave him and go back to thefirst stag. It was nearly dark when we got to the place we had last seen him, but fortunately he was there still feeding amongst some big boulders on the shore of the lake. A high wind was blowing and he was not more than eighty yards away, so hidden by the rocks and long grass I could not make out his frontals, but tops and middles were good, and waiting, what seemed an indefinite time, to get a broadside shot, at last he began feeding away with his rump straight on to me. I could now hardly see the telescope sight, but fortunately he gave a half turn and as I fired I heard the bullet go home. He galloped madly right into the lake, and stood some 150 yards away among some big rocks from which I could hardly distinguish him. Taking the best sight I could I fired again and he dropped stone dead in the water. Getting him ashore, we found he was a nice thirty-four pointer, the best head we had yet seen, and as it happened the best head we saw the whole trip. He was in poor condition, having been badly wounded in the body at some time. Abscesses had formed round the wounds and Steve pronounced his flesh uneatable. It was too dark to do more than pull him out of the water and gralloch him, and we had a hard paddle back to camp in the dark. The rain was now falling heavily and a roaring fire andcosy camp were more than welcome.

The following morning it was still raining, but more like a thick Scotch mist. We went over to fetch the head, and found that the first bullet had gone in just behind the ribs and raked him through lungs and heart, so the second shot was unnecessary. We saw a hind and calf swimming in the lake, and tried to overtake them to get a snapshot, but hard as we both paddled I only succeeded in getting within about thirty yards, too far for a good photo—the light too was bad, and the result was not a success. I spent the morning sketching and photoing the head, and then Steve set to work to skin and clean it. After breakfast there was great excitement, as four otters came swimming up to the rapid, possibly with the idea of going up into the lake above. Regardless of season and game laws, Steve had a shot with the small rifle and missed, but turned them back. Going out to fish I could not get a rise, the otters had evidently scared all the fish out of the pool.

The clouds now cleared away and a brilliant sun came out, while hardly a ripple stirred the surface of the lake. In the afternoon we went down again to the end of the lake, climbed the highest look-out hill and stayed there till sunset. The views on all sides were verybeautiful and we looked right over Meddonagonax with its numerous wooded islands, but saw no stags. We paddled down one of the steadies leading into Meddonagonax and so into the lake, hoping to see some feeding stag on its shores, but without success.

A THIRTY-FOUR POINT CARIBOU

STEVE SKINNING THE HEAD OF THE THIRTY-FOUR POINTER[To face page 238.

It was a wonderful night, the moonlight made it almost as bright as day.

The following morning was bright and cold and the mists hanging over the lake were soon dispelled by the morning sun. We got away about 6.30 a.m. and went down to the far end of the lake, but only saw one unshootable stag. Coming back for breakfast we decided to take a trip to the far end of Meddonagonax, where Steve said there was good fishing just where the river left the lake. It only took us one and a half hours of a steady row and paddle to get to the end of the lake where the Baie du Nord River leaves it. We ran down a few hundred yards of rapids and hauled up the canoe, leaving John to prepare lunch. It was an ideal-looking river and Steve said he had caught many large trout in it. The pools were perfect to look at, but somehow fish were comparatively few and not in very good condition. I fished down about a mile to where the river fell into a small lake, and caught eighteen troutweighing about nine pounds. Steve said it was only a good day's march from where we were to where the river runs into the sea. About half-way down there is a big fall called Smoky Falls, above which salmon cannot run, but he said salmon were numerous below the falls. In the water we had fished he had caught many big trout in July, so possibly we were too late.

Leaving at 5 o'clock I trolled all the way home but never got a pull nor did we see a stag.

As we had apparently exhausted the ground, we decided to start back in the morning of the 12th and camp in a steady at the west end of Koskācodde. While John was packing up we had an early morning prowl round the shores in the canoe, but saw nothing. While the packing was being finished I fished the pool at the camp and got thirteen trout weighing 7½ lb.—the largest about 1½ lb. It was a blazing hot day, we got to our new camping ground shortly after midday, and only caught one trout on the way.

Going out in the evening we crossed some ideal-looking caribou ground, but saw only one stag with a poor head and a couple of hinds.

All our hopes were now centred on the Shoe Hill Ridge country, for though we had seen many stags we were most unfortunate asregards heads. This was the seventh day away from the main camp, and we had seen fourteen stags. I cannot help thinking it was a bad year for heads, or surely we should have seen something better.

I sent Steve out early on the morning of the 13th to spy, but he came back and reported nothing in sight.

We got away about 9.30, and with a favourable wind were soon passing our old camp on Koskācodde.

Joe had been uneasy about us, or lonely, and we met him tramping down the river, and, incidentally, disturbing the whole country. He reported a stag (of course a colossal one) which had passed quite close to our old camp. It was lucky no gun was left behind, for he most certainly would have had a shot.

About dinner-time we reached a small lake from which the river ran out in a sluggish stream. Steve said it was a favourite spot for trout and suggested I should try it while lunch was being got ready. There was a deep hole just above the stream and a light wind was rippling the water. The trout was there in numbers and greedy for the fly. At every cast I rose one or two, and in an hour and a half I had forty trout weighing 19½ lb., the biggest about 2 lb. I lost one which must havebeen at least 3 lb., and put back at least a dozen small ones. I never saw trout in such numbers or so eager to take the fly.

It was nice to get back to the cheery camp on Sandy Grove Pond, and to my comfortable camp bed, but Joe had spoiled all chance of stags. We saw a good covey of grouse close to the camp, but they were very wild. I thought Joe would never go to sleep he had so much to say to his pals, and his stag grew bigger and bigger as the evening wore on, perhaps due to a tot of rum which was served out to celebrate our meeting.

The morning of the 14th broke grey with a light rain, and the glass was falling, but there was no wind. I went down to fish the river for the last time while the men were packing up. In my favourite pool I took eleven fine trout, weighing 14 lb., four others in the smaller streams, 2 lb., and seven in crossing the lake, 5 lb.—a total for the day of twenty-two trout, 21 lb. I lost a fly in a good trout in the big pool. I fished the streams down till Steve came to say that all was ready for a start. As we passed the pool I chaffingly said, "I must get that trout which broke me." At the first cast I hooked a 2-lb. fish, and on landing him Steve quietly remarked, "Quite right, here is your fly," and sure enough there it was! Crossing the lake we saw two stags and landedto look at them, but again the heads were no good. The wind was rising and the rain coming down ere we reached our main camp on Sandy Grove Pond about 2.30 p.m. Time was now getting short, so we decided to push on to the Shoe Hill Ridge and there hope for a big stag as the deer began moving out of the woods. The evening was wild and wet, so we stayed in camp making arrangements for the morrow's march inland.

THE CLEARING OF THE STORM, SHOE HILL RIDGE[To face page 247.

The morning of the 15th was grey, and though the glass was falling, the weather looked like clearing. The men dawdled about and it was 11 before we all got away. Our plans were to take three good packs up to Shoe Hill Ridge and then send Joe back for what we wanted from time to time.

We had kippered all the big trout and very excellent they were later on, for no fish were to be had on the barrens.

We reached the top of the ridge about 1 o'clock, when heavy rain set in. As I could not walk in an oilskin, there was nothing for it but to get wet through, and very soon I was literally wet to the skin. We were all shivering with cold as a bitter wind was blowing over the open barrens, so at 2 o'clock we halted to boil the kettle under the shelter of a big rock. Though wet through, the men were as cheery as ever, and Steve challenged Joe to race him to the top of a small hill which was Millais' look-out when he was camped in the Shoe HillDroke. They came back having seen nothing. We plodded along, a sorry crew, in the pouring rain, but somewhat refreshed by the hot tea.

As we came in sight of a big lake lying south of the Shoe Hill Droke for which we were bound, we saw a good stag lying on the far side of the lake. The head certainly looked the biggest I had seen, but it was hard to use the telescope in the rain and I could not make out the points. However, both Steve and I saw that he had very big frontals, though I could only make out two points on the tops.

The wind was all wrong and to get a stalk meant going right round the lake, about three miles. The other two men would have had to wait in the rain, and as we were all feeling pretty wretched, we decided to leave him and push on to camp. The decision was mine and I shall always regret it, for I believe he carried the best head we saw on the trip, but I thought as we were to hunt for a week on the Shoe Hill Ridge we had a fair chance of coming on him again, so we passed on to camp. He got our wind at least a mile away and cleared out over a ridge and never was seen again. We got to camp about 5 o'clock and were soon warming and drying ourselves before a roaring fire.

We were now in the Shoe Hill Droke, and in the centre of what Millais described as thefinest caribou country he had seen in Newfoundland. There was, however, one great difference. He had been there the end of October, when all the stags had moved up. It was now only the 15th September, and it remained to be seen what our luck would be.

While getting everything shipshape I found my telescope sight was missing. Steve always carried it slung over his shoulder and must have left it behind at one of our halts. He assured me it would be "all right" and that he would go out at daybreak and bring it in, which he did. This was the first really uncomfortable day we had had—but our troubles were soon forgotten, and over a roaring camp fire and with a tot of rum each, we looked forward hopefully to our prospects for the next few days. The morning of the 16th was fine, the sun was shining brightly, the glass was rising, a fresh north-east wind was blowing, altogether a perfect stalking day.

The Shoe Hill Droke lay on a slight rise above the Shoe Hill Lake. The droke was a general camping ground for shooting and trapping parties, and the remains of many camps were scattered through the wood. To the north lay Mount Sylvester, some seven miles away, with a fine open country between; to the south the view was bounded by a ridgeabout three miles away. A similar ridge lay about the same distance to the east, while to the west lay the country we had crossed the day before. The whole country was undulating and there were scattered clumps of wood affording nice shelter for stags. We could hunt in every direction and could not possibly have been in a better centre. The ground was hard and dry, and it was certainly the best walking in the island.

We started north about 9 a.m., and covered a lot of ground, walking continuously until 6 p.m., with an hour's rest for a midday meal. We saw four stags that day, and though two looked shootable, yet after a long tramp in each case we found the horns no good, which was a great disappointment, for we had worked really hard.

We also saw for the first time two bands of hinds, one of six with two small very young stags and one of four. We came on the spot where Millais had shot his forty-nine pointer and Steve pointed with pride to the bones still lying about, also to the scene of Captain Lumsden's thirty-seven pointer, but it was a poor satisfaction to me to know my predecessors on the ground had got such fine trophies if I could not find a shootable beast.

Millais, Captain Lumsden, Captain Leggeand Mr. Littledale had all shot this country with Steve, who certainly knew every inch of it, but October is the month for the Shoe Hill Ridge, when the sport must be grand, for all the stags from the north as well as those from the wooded country all round come up to these barrens in the late autumn. The country was cut up with deep trails, showing where the stags passed on their annual migration south.

For pleasure I should choose the early season, up to October 1st; the weather is finer and some fishing is to be had, but for good heads the late season is certainly the best, for all the stags are out in the open during and after the rut. In the end of October the weather is sometimes fine, but sometimes very broken, and Steve told me that he had more than once hunted in heavy snow in that month.

On our return to camp everything was most comfortable—benches, tables, shelves in the tent, rests for the rifles; only the big stag was wanted to make the Shoe Hill Droke a hunter's earthly paradise.

On the morning of the 17th we struck east and crossed two ridges till we got to a valley between Shoe Hill Ridge and the hill on which was the Kesoquit Droke, where Millais had camped on his way up from the Long Harbour River.

Looking down into the valley, we saw a good stag as regards body and two smaller ones. The head was a pretty open one, but the middles and frontals were poor, so we left him alone. I picked up a single horn with eighteen good points close by. We saw two more stags a long way off and went after them, but the distance was much greater than I thought. On our way we saw another small stag come out of a droke and walk quietly up a slight rise, where he was joined by a still smaller one from the far side of the ridge. Neither had shootable heads. They both went in for what Steve called their "standing sleep," stuck their legs out and remained perfectly motionless with the head drooping till it almost touched the ground; occasionally they woke up with a start, but were soon sound asleep again. It was a most comical sight and lasted for about a quarter of an hour. I crawled up within about sixty yards without any difficulty and could easily have shot them both. The little stag woke up first, but it was not till we showed ourselves that the bigger stag moved away in a most dignified manner, giving two or three most beautiful chances before he went out of sight.

While Steve was boiling the kettle I went on to a little hillock to spy the ground, andsaw the two stags we were first after, but again the heads were no good.

I heard a rustle behind me and, thinking it was Steve coming up to call me to dinner, turned round and saw a hind feeding beside me, not five yards away. She started when she saw me, but moved away quite quietly. While eating our midday meal two more hinds fed quietly up to within a few yards and passed by without showing any signs of fear. This country was certainly full of deer, but none of the right sort. When we stopped for dinner we were within one and a half miles of the Kesoquit Droke, which is only about four miles from the head-waters of the Long Harbour River. From a small hillock we could see the entire country and the hills over Long Harbour, while away to the east was the conical hill known as the "Tolt." The ground looked very much the same as far as the eye could reach and should be a grand hunting country in October. We could also see the waters of the Maelpeg Lake, about three miles away. Returning to camp, we saw a black fox in the distance, which made Steve's mouth water, as he said he could sell a good skin for two hundred and forty dollars.

Altogether the day had been a very interesting one. We had seen seven stags and anumber of does, but unfortunately no good heads.

On the 18th the weather broke badly, the glass fell 7/10ths, a gale of wind and heavy driving rain made stalking impossible and kept us in camp all day. Towards evening the wind went round and the rain stopped, and then we saw a wonderful sunset, the heavy rain clouds drifting away across a golden red setting sun. We saw a stag on the sky-line about two miles away, but too late to go after him.

On the 19th the wind had come round to the north, and it was a bright, lovely morning. We took the ground to the north-west, working round by where we had seen the stag the previous evening. We covered a lot of ground and altogether stalked four separate stags, only to find, on getting up to them, that the heads were no good. We must have walked over fifteen miles, but in the bracing air of the barrens fatigue was unknown. We saw another black fox to-day a long way off, and Steve said he would be back trapping in three weeks and hoped to get the two black foxes. I picked up a single horn with twenty-two points, very short and thick. There were eight points on the top just like a frontal tine.

The morning of the 20th was very cold andgrey, but we hoped it would clear up, so started away over the ridge to the south-west. On topping the ridge, we looked down on a great marshy plain with a few scattered drokes. Nothing was in sight, so we walked quietly on towards one of the drokes, from behind which suddenly burst out five hinds pursued by what looked like a good stag, who was grunting as he followed the hinds—the first rutting stag we had seen. They paid so little attention to us that they were almost on top of us before they saw us. Unfortunately, the head was poor, as he gave an easy shot. Almost immediately after two herds of hinds passed us, while in the distance two more stags were seen feeding about three miles away. We went on towards them, when the rain set in and we had to find shelter for lunch. There was no sign of the weather clearing and stalking was impossible in the heavy rain and mist, so we plodded wearily back to camp, which we reached after dark, wet to the skin. This valley was full of grouse; we saw seven good coveys and I shot three birds for the pot with the small rifle.

The rain continued all night, but stopped about 7 a.m. on the morning of the 21st.

We had come up to Shoe Hill Ridge on the 15th in heavy rain. It had rained on the 18th and again on the 20th, so three days out of sixwere spoiled. The whole country was now soaked with the rain, little rivulets had become torrents, and the marshes were knee deep in water. It seemed useless to remain on, as it meant my missing my steamer in New York, so we decided to pack up and get out.

Looking back, I think this was a mistake. I might have spent another week in this grand country and taken a later boat home. Some big stags might have come up from the woods. On the other hand, the weather was broken and even Steve was in favour of moving. All along he regretted that I had not come in for the October shooting, when, he said, I was bound to have got good heads. He was just as keen as I was and sorry to leave.

LUNCH ON THE BAIE DU NORD RIVER

MY CAMP, SHOE HILL DROKE[To face page 256.

Just as we had packed up a fearful thunderstorm came on which lasted over an hour, and we did not get away till 11.45, arriving at Sandy Pond at 3 o'clock, wet through. The water was pouring down the hill sides, every deep deer track was a torrent, and it was heavy going through the marshes. We had a meal and a change of clothes, and, packing the canoes, reached the portage into Sandy Pond at dusk. The evening was fine; we pitched camp in a nice droke and over a good hot supper at 9 o'clock the discomforts of the day were soon forgotten. By the aneroid the Shoe Hill Droke was 370 feet above the level of Sandy Grove Pond. There was just a last chance of a stag, as Steve said there was some good ground in the direction of where I had shot the first stag. I sent him out at daybreak on the 22nd, and he came back reporting three stags about half-a-mile away, one of which he thought was a good one.

We started away and found them feeding in an open marsh without any cover but threegreat boulders about 800 yards from where they were. The biggest stag had a very pretty head, but careful examination with the glass decided me to let him go. Steve said, "Pity that not forty-pointer." The position looked so impossible that I told Steve we never could have got a stalk or a shot. "I drive him," said Steve. Wishing to see how he would manage it I told him to go ahead, while I lay behind the big boulder; meanwhile the stags lay down. He took a tremendous round and presently I saw him about a mile on the other side of the stags, who at the moment got his wind, rose and began to trot away, but not towards me. Suddenly I saw Steve trotting along to turn them, which he did most successfully, for the three stags came along at a swinging trot, the big one behind, and passed in the open about 150 yards from me. The shot was such a sporting one I could not resist it, and as the thud of the bullet came back to me the stag dashed forward at a gallop and rolled over stone dead, shot through the heart. My last stalk and shot of the trip. I cannot pretend that stalking caribou is a high form of sport. If the wind is right and there are not too many hinds about one can take any liberties. Of all the animals I have shot the caribou seems to me the most stupid and theeasiest to bag under ordinary circumstances.

UP THE TWO-MILE BROOK, HOMEWARD BOUND

A BROOK IN FLOOD[To face page 261.

I had a special permit to shoot five stags, but only shot four, not counting the deer we had to shoot for meat, generally hinds.

We soon had the meat in the canoes. The brooks and shallow steadies were now full up from the heavy rains, so we poled where we had to portage coming in. The rain was falling in torrents. We saw our last stag as we came up to Red Hill Pond, but he had no head to speak of. By 4.30 we reached Red Hill Pond, which was up over two feet. The rain was so bad we decided to camp, and soon had a fire as big as a house going, before which we dried ourselves; the men just as cheerful as if it had been bright sunshine. It was an awful night, a gale tearing through the tops of the trees, and the rain coming down in sheets; but the morning of the 23rd was fine, as the wind had come round to the north, and we made an early start as we hoped to reach Ryan's by nightfall. I had had bad luck; I had seen and stalked forty-two stags and never saw one really good head. I think it must have been a bad year for heads, or Millais, Lumsden, Legge and Littledale had cleared the best stags off the ground. A party of Americans had come over from the east the previous year, but spent only two days on the Shoe Hill Ridge andgot two good stags.

Steve now regretted that we had not gone back by the Terra Nova river and lake. He said we could have shot every rapid without unloading and would have reached St. John's much quicker than by going back to Belleoram. With a gale of wind behind us, but no rain, we made good time. The two-mile brook was in heavy flood and we poled the canoe up and reached the old camp on Hungry Grove Pond by 11.

Here I left all the provisions that were left over, the fly for the men and the kit I was giving them as a present, and we started for a fifteen-mile tramp to Ryan's at 11.45.

The ground was saturated and we only reached the top of the hill above Ryan's at dark. It was awful going down the hill in the dark, and the men fell with their packs more than once. We simply waded and stumbled along till we saw the welcome lights of the house at 7.30 p.m.—a real hard day's work. I shot five grouse on the way. By the aneroid the top of the six-mile hill was 800 feet above the sea-level at Ryan's.

Ryan was away, but I received a hearty welcome from his niece. The question now was what was to be done? There was no schooner or sailing boat of any kind; however,as usual, Steve and John were not to be defeated, but said they would row me down to Anderson's Cove in the fishing dory.

A VIEW IN LONG HARBOUR.[To face page 263.

The morning of the 24th was lovely and calm, but a wind sprang up just as we got away and it was soon blowing a gale in our teeth and we were shipping heavy seas. Steve and John struggled gallantly on, but at 2 o'clock we had to halt, as we could make no way. After about two hours, when we were considering how we could pass the night, the wind dropped as suddenly as it rose and we reached John Saunders' house just at dark. Anderson's Cove was two miles farther on. Saunders was a fine specimen of the old settler, and his house was a picture of cleanliness and neatness. The sails of his schooner were unbent, so we decided to go on to the Cove where the leading trader, Mr. Thornhill, lived, and Steve said he had a sailing boat and could put us across next morning. There was a slight difficulty about this, as one of the hands wanted a guarantee of so many dollars a day should he be detained in Belleoram. I cut matters short by sending a wire to Saunders to bend his sails and come over as early as he could in the morning. I think my friends at Anderson's Cove were a bit disappointed when Saunders and his smartboat came across with a spanking breeze and picked us up about 9 a.m. We had all slept on the floor at Thornhill's, but had an excellent supper of a whole cod boiled with potatoes.

We had a lovely sail across to Belleoram—Saunders and a fine strapping son being the crew. The boat was as smart and clean as a yacht, and the two Saunders were the best type I had yet met of the Newfoundland settlers.

Steve and John came for the trip as cheery as ever, though their badly blistered hands showed the work of yesterday. By 12.30 I was at Belleoram, and by 1 o'clock the men were on their way back to Long Harbour. As Steve said good-bye it was really quite touching. "You treat us very well, you very good man. Come again, and God bless you." I certainly never parted with men with such regret and never want better friends or hunting comrades.

Being Sunday, Belleoram was very quiet. Mrs. Cluett gave me an excellent dinner and a delightful bedroom, for I had to stay the night, as my steamer was not due till next day. In the evening I went to the service in the big church on the hill. The congregation were mostly men who "go down to the sea in ships and occupy their business in great waters," while the special prayer for their protection against the perils of cod fishing struck a notethat was new to me. There was quite a nice little organ and the whole congregation joined devoutly in the hymns; altogether the service was most impressive.

TheGlencoeturned up at 1 o'clock on the 26th and the next afternoon we reached Placentia, where the train was waiting. We got away about 5.30, but did not reach St. John's (80 miles) till 2 a.m. the following morning, a very poor performance. The engine could not pull us up the inclines. We made a rush and each time stuck half-way and had to run back a couple of miles to make a fresh try. However, it seemed a usual occurrence, for every one on board took it quite philosophically, many recounting their reminiscences of when they had to stop all night in the train.

In the train was Mr. Job, just returning from a good grouse shoot. He told me he had in his office a sixty-four pointer caribou stag shot by an Indian and bought by his brother. He very kindly allowed me to see it the next day, and a very remarkable head it was; I could make out at least sixty points.

I left St. John's at 6 p.m. on the 29th and as we reached Gaff Topsails, about the highest point of the railway, sleet and light snow were falling and a bitter wind was blowing across the open barrens. Descending to the HumberValley the climate became milder and the autumn tints made the scenery, if possible, more beautiful than when I had passed it before. I had to spend Saturday night in Halifax, Nova Scotia, but got away by the Sunday night express and reached New York early on Tuesday morning. It was still hot and muggy and I was glad to leave on theDeutschlandon Saturday, October 8th, arriving in Plymouth early on October 14th.

The route I had chosen involved great loss of time, the weekly sailing of theGlencoeon the south coast being a great drawback. If one steamer be missed a week is lost.

I might just as well have gone from Port aux Basques to Belleoram by steamer and returned from Belleoram to Port aux Basques, thus avoiding the tiresome railway journey of twenty-nine hours, but I had to outfit at St. John's and wished also to see the scenery of the island.

The heads I got did not make up for a somewhat expensive trip, but, on the other hand, I had seen a great deal of very beautiful country in fair comfort and enjoyed some excellent trout fishing which I would not have got had I gone in from the railway. I had the Mount Sylvester country all to myself and it was simply bad luck that I saw no good heads. Ican honestly say, however, that I never enjoyed a hunting trip more, and only wish I could look forward to another visit to the island, when with my present experiences I could, I think, make better arrangements to avoid loss of time in reaching the hunting grounds.

The game laws of Newfoundland are sufficiently liberal. A licence of $50 (£10) gives the visitor the right to shoot three caribou stags. The true sportsman should be content with this limit and will carefully pick his heads.

The Newfoundlander, whether white man or Indian, is not charged the $50. The Indian certainly shoots what he wants and is not particular about a close time. Accustomed as he has been from time immemorial to range the island and shoot for food and clothing, it is difficult to get him to understand the principle underlying game laws, and to accept a game limit to which he has never been accustomed and the necessity for which he does not understand.

When the fishing laws come to be considered there seems to me great room for improvement. The Newfoundland Government prides itself on all the rivers being open to every one. For the first time, in 1910, a fishing licence of $10 was imposed on the visitor, and this gave him the right to fish any river in the island. Thepractical result is, that many of the best-known rivers, such as the Codroy and Harry's Brook, are overfished.

All the rivers on the west coast are very accessible to the angler from the United States, and suffer most from overcrowding. I met an English angler who had been fishing the Codroy; he said it was one continual struggle as to who would get on to the water first. I heard the same story at the south-east arm, Placentia. The Government absolutely refuses to lease a river or even to limit the number of rods, and I think this policy is entirely wrong.

In practice one may decide on a season in Newfoundland. Having carefully selected a somewhat inaccessible river and made all one's arrangements for camping out, it would certainly be disappointing on arrival to find two or three other parties settled on the river and one's trip spoiled, yet this is quite possible. I was told in St. John's, no Government would dare to change the existing law and the policy of the open door in fishing. This I cannot understand, for what has been done in Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia can surely be done in Newfoundland.

The application of the law is carried to the extreme. An official of the Fishery Boardtold me of a case where an American offered a liberal rent for a remote river on the Labrador Coast. There was but one settler on the river and the American guaranteed that he would take him into his service. He proposed to build a fishing lodge and so put capital into the country. His application was refused.

The Government professes to be most anxious to encourage the tourist and sportsman to visit the island, but I venture to think they are not going the right way about it, at least as regards the angler.

They do not seem to recognize the advantage to the country of leasing any of the many rivers. First the lessee would see that the river was carefully preserved, he would give employment to watchers, he would probably build a house and in any case would spend money in the country, while at the same time his rent goes to increase the revenue.

A double object is thus attained—the preservation of fish and game, and an increase in revenue.

If, however, such a policy be impossible the least the Government can do is to limit the number of rods on each river and to have some means of knowing which rivers are being fished and by how many rods. In this way the angler contemplating a trip to Newfoundland couldapply for all information to the existing Fishery Board, who would advise him where to go with the least chance of being crowded out.

Given some such organization, Newfoundland should become the favourite resort of the British angler.

A hunting trip may be cheap or expensive, chiefly depending on the route selected, the number of Indians employed and the means of transport in the island. The cheapest route is by the direct steamers to St. John's. Two Indians are sufficient, but a third adds greatly to one's comfort. Their pay is—Headman, 2½ to 3 dollars a day; other men, 2 dollars. If a waterway into the interior be selected, two canoes are a luxury, one large one a necessity; with two canoes all the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life can be enjoyed; the same cannot be said of packing, as my Vancouver experiences have shown. It is to say the least a nuisance to have the necessaries cut down; the luxuries, by which I mean preserved milk, butter, jam, oatmeal, and a small amount of whisky or rum, one can do without, but why not be comfortable, if comfort can be found, by the better mode of transport which canoes afford.

They can be ordered from Canada through Mr. Blair and sold on leaving the island.

I give in an appendix my list of stores, but I had far too much. One and a half stone of flour is ample for four men for one week, the amount taken will then depend on the length of the trip. The cost as paid in St. John's is given. I had many stores over, for we had abundance of venison and fish.

Fish need never be wasted; the trout split, salted and hung up over or near the camp fire make excellent kippers, and when up on the Shoe Hill Ridge, where no fresh fish were obtainable, I thoroughly enjoyed the kippered trout from Sandy Grove Pond.

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