By Madge Macbeth, circa 1924
The Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FIFTH DAY
Clear and very hot. Grasshoppers arranged themselves in weird designs all over our tents, and filled the still air with their raucous scraping. We drifted lazily into the dining hall to find our largest trout beautifully mounted on birch bark and hanging above the end of the table. This was Friday's work. He hadn't eaten that, anyway!
A unique experience was added to our growing collection, when we were paddled right into the rapids, and anchored there by means of an enormous stone, which was powerless, even with the assistance of the two guides, to keep us stationary. But the fishing was the best we had enjoyed... great big trout, fat and firm, tumbling down the icy waters with no other object than snapping at our flies.
We stopped at noon, and took a couple hours rest. Towards evening all of us seemed to have renewed energy, even the fish, and before the sun sank we hauled up our anchors and called it a day, for no other reason than because the Game Inspector had a stern chin, and although we had thrown back as many trout as we had caught, each of us had taken his quota.
THE SIXTH AND REMAINING DAYS
It was a wrench to leave Pine Portage, but Camp Alexander beckoned, so one day we waved our regret to the swaying trees and set sail on the broad waters of the Nipigon.
Really set sail! A strong wind swept southward and the Indians hoisted blankets in lieu of canvas, proving themselves able seamen of diversified accomplishments.
To the music of guttural cries we raced madly along, keeping well ahead of the wind which strengthened into a spanking gale, as the day progressed. Points of interest flew past too rapidly to make much of an impression. Island Portage, an ancient landmark, was not much of an island and certainly no portage any longer. With the building of the dam at Hydro, the level of the river was raised to such an extent that it has virtually become a series of broad lakes, inundating not only a considerable stretch of the former shore line and rising high along the trunks of growing trees, but also covering camp sites and portages and offering an unobstructed waterway between Pine Portage and Camp Alexander, a distance of some fifteen miles.
Split Rock, made famous by post cards that fail to do it justice, rose majestically on our port side, and receded into the haze of blazing moon. A fisherman on the starboard bow saluted us with a fine big pike. We learned that the channel once lay between Split Rock and the farther shore, but our attention was centred on Nicholas-John, who was handling his canoe with masterly and discomfiting skill, rather than upon that hydrographic detail.
Rabbit-skin Rock was covered by water, so we could not see this interesting spot shaped like an enormous rabbit's skin stretched out to dry, but we saw Old Indian's Head silhouetted against the clouds, and learned that this Manitou promised his children to guard their land against the invasion of the white men. When asked why he didn't keep his word, Friend Guide bent to his work and pretended not to have heard the question.
Hiawatha's Blanket, too, was passed on the way to Alexander. Here, the great Teacher used to gather about him the young men of the tribe, and tell them of the gods and lesser gods, of the Spirits living in bird and beast and tree. And here, he left his blanket - a large flat white stone - to which, it is expected that he will return one day.
***
We danced gaily to the dock at Nipigon Camp and sorted out our duffle bags with prodigious sighs. The tank was lifted carefully ashore for "future intensive study of Flora's fauna," somebody said. Two mounted fish were laid on the wharf, the proud owners trying to assume the look that deprecates a conspicuous achievement.
The trip was finished. In ten days we had made a circuit of about eighty miles under ideal conditions and through the finest trout fishing waters on the continent. As our neighbour had said, we could go no farther... The Nipigon is the best there is!
Monday, 15 July 2013
Sunday, 14 July 2013
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A TREMENDOUS THANKS TO YOU FROM NIPIGON HISTORICAL MUSEUM
A TREMENDOUS THANKS TO YOU FROM NIPIGON HISTORICAL MUSEUM
Saturday, 13 July 2013
NIPIGON THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE part 6
By Madge Macbeth, circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FOURTH DAY
We walked the portage at Flat Rock, between berry-laden bushes, and came upon an olive lake, where a magnificent pickerel rose to the bait even as assembled on the dock waiting for our gondoliers. A moment later, another angler shouted and we turned to see him landing a royal trout.
We shot a beautiful stretch of creamy water called White Chute and after passing a large flock of duck, landed at Pine Portage. There, while the guides were making camp, we started to fish in earnest. Before lunch time, we had taken seven fine trout - two rainbow trout among them.
We encountered several other parties during the day, and our next-door neighbours (on the camping grounds) were a lady and gentleman from Kansas City. The latter had contracted the Nipigon habit thirty-three years ago, and had suffered an outbreak of the fever every summer since. One of the guides with him had been a bright-eyed papoose on his first trip up the river.
"There's nothing like it where trout fishing is concerned," he said. "What Comedie Francaise is to the aspiring French actor, or perhaps Kimberley is to the diamond merchant, the Nipigon is to anglers with a weakness for trout. You can't go any further. This is the best there is!"
We felt a sense of remoteness to a startling degree the following day, when returning from Camp Alexander, they told us of seeing a caribou swimming across the river, while two of our guides held the animal's horns and posed for a photograph. Where, save in the primordial forests, could such a thing have happened?
"Our Guides?" we repeated, amazed. "Which ones?"
"Friday," the gentleman told us. He didn't know the man's name.
"What became of the caribou?" asked our camera man, eagerly.
"Friday's eaten him by now," returned the Chief, with a twinkle in his eye.
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FOURTH DAY
We walked the portage at Flat Rock, between berry-laden bushes, and came upon an olive lake, where a magnificent pickerel rose to the bait even as assembled on the dock waiting for our gondoliers. A moment later, another angler shouted and we turned to see him landing a royal trout.
We shot a beautiful stretch of creamy water called White Chute and after passing a large flock of duck, landed at Pine Portage. There, while the guides were making camp, we started to fish in earnest. Before lunch time, we had taken seven fine trout - two rainbow trout among them.
We encountered several other parties during the day, and our next-door neighbours (on the camping grounds) were a lady and gentleman from Kansas City. The latter had contracted the Nipigon habit thirty-three years ago, and had suffered an outbreak of the fever every summer since. One of the guides with him had been a bright-eyed papoose on his first trip up the river.
"There's nothing like it where trout fishing is concerned," he said. "What Comedie Francaise is to the aspiring French actor, or perhaps Kimberley is to the diamond merchant, the Nipigon is to anglers with a weakness for trout. You can't go any further. This is the best there is!"
We felt a sense of remoteness to a startling degree the following day, when returning from Camp Alexander, they told us of seeing a caribou swimming across the river, while two of our guides held the animal's horns and posed for a photograph. Where, save in the primordial forests, could such a thing have happened?
"Our Guides?" we repeated, amazed. "Which ones?"
"Friday," the gentleman told us. He didn't know the man's name.
"What became of the caribou?" asked our camera man, eagerly.
"Friday's eaten him by now," returned the Chief, with a twinkle in his eye.
TO BE CONTINUED
NIPIGON THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE - part 5
By Madge Macbeth, circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE THIRD DAY
A moose crossed just below the Falls as we were peeping out of our blankets to face a thin Scotch mist. Breakfast was hurriedly eaten, for every fisherman was impatient to feel the rod in his hands, Some of the party undertook the beautiful six-mile walk to Orient Bay and were rewarded by seeing a deer and a fawn. The mail came in, brought from Nipigon by a runner, or by relays of runners. Four guides joined us. They had just come down from James Bay, and judging by the rapid-fire conversation that passed amongst the Indians, their arrival was better than the coming of a newspaper. Indians somehow have gained themselves the reputation for taciturnity, but no characteristic was less conspicuous in those of our party.
There was the incident of Friday and the fish.
Michel Friday or Mike, as he called himself, was a guide who instantly endeared himself to the lot of us. Why? How does one know? Who can dissect and tabulate that elusive quality termed charm? He was just Friday. That was all.
Several fine fish had been caught at dusk on the second day, and anticipating the scepticism of our friends, we determined to make pictures of our catch. The camera man had invented a tank - about which there was a good deal of jollity, for he demanded volunteers to get inside and create for him an improvement on "Neptune's Daughter." He even suggested our sharing it with a sturgeon and a couple of imported muskellunge!
When the tank was unpacked, we were relieved to find a small box-like affair only about a cubic foot in size. It barely accommodated one worthy trout.
Now, the fish that had been caught at dusk could not, of course, have their photo taken at that time of night, so with great trouble and back-straining, we built them a kraal or pen at the water's edge and left them to be photographed in the morning. At lunch time some one thought of those fish. The kraal was empty. The fish were gone.
The old newspaperman revived his sleuthing instincts, and ran the mystery to earth. Friday had eaten the fish, and it was only Saturday on the calendar!
The Indians never tired of the joke. We came to see something funny in it ourselves. At the mention of comestibles, every eye would turn accusingly to Friday, who bore the scrutiny with unruffled calm and a good-natured grin. We blamed him for a temporary shortage in jam, for the scarcity of caribou, for failure to discover a moose whose trail we followed all one morning. When one of the party was late for lunch, we even accused him of eating her!
And when he snared a couple of rabbits and laid them by for a succulent meal, the rest of the guides appropriated them during his absence, and explained that such was his punishment for taking the fish. Talk? Why, the Indians were never silent, except when sleeping.
In the afternoon, we broke camp and paddled a glorious fourteen miles down the river to Flat Rock, shooting several exciting rapids - including Devil's and Victoria - but, not fatally. We found an excellent camping ground at Flat Rock and availed ourselves right gladly of it, although this was not the spot originally chosen for our destination. Pine Portage, three miles away, was full - which is to say, its convenient camp sites had already been pre-empted by fishermen bound up or down the river.
That night, across a lofty columnar bonfire, I asked Nicholas John the meaning of the word Nipigon.
"It's hard to pronounce in English," he replied. "We spell it with an 'e', " he added, throwing in a little swank about his schooling.
I was no nearer my objective, and afterwards discovered that by 'pronounce' he meant 'translate,' and as for spelling Nipigon with an 'e,' the Indians spell it, like most of their language, exactly as suits their fancy. To hear them speak the work, I should call it Nem-be-gong, and a loose translation of my own is The Sea Without a Shore - this referring to the lake which is about seventy miles long and fifty wide.
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE THIRD DAY
A moose crossed just below the Falls as we were peeping out of our blankets to face a thin Scotch mist. Breakfast was hurriedly eaten, for every fisherman was impatient to feel the rod in his hands, Some of the party undertook the beautiful six-mile walk to Orient Bay and were rewarded by seeing a deer and a fawn. The mail came in, brought from Nipigon by a runner, or by relays of runners. Four guides joined us. They had just come down from James Bay, and judging by the rapid-fire conversation that passed amongst the Indians, their arrival was better than the coming of a newspaper. Indians somehow have gained themselves the reputation for taciturnity, but no characteristic was less conspicuous in those of our party.
There was the incident of Friday and the fish.
Michel Friday or Mike, as he called himself, was a guide who instantly endeared himself to the lot of us. Why? How does one know? Who can dissect and tabulate that elusive quality termed charm? He was just Friday. That was all.
Several fine fish had been caught at dusk on the second day, and anticipating the scepticism of our friends, we determined to make pictures of our catch. The camera man had invented a tank - about which there was a good deal of jollity, for he demanded volunteers to get inside and create for him an improvement on "Neptune's Daughter." He even suggested our sharing it with a sturgeon and a couple of imported muskellunge!
When the tank was unpacked, we were relieved to find a small box-like affair only about a cubic foot in size. It barely accommodated one worthy trout.
Now, the fish that had been caught at dusk could not, of course, have their photo taken at that time of night, so with great trouble and back-straining, we built them a kraal or pen at the water's edge and left them to be photographed in the morning. At lunch time some one thought of those fish. The kraal was empty. The fish were gone.
The old newspaperman revived his sleuthing instincts, and ran the mystery to earth. Friday had eaten the fish, and it was only Saturday on the calendar!
The Indians never tired of the joke. We came to see something funny in it ourselves. At the mention of comestibles, every eye would turn accusingly to Friday, who bore the scrutiny with unruffled calm and a good-natured grin. We blamed him for a temporary shortage in jam, for the scarcity of caribou, for failure to discover a moose whose trail we followed all one morning. When one of the party was late for lunch, we even accused him of eating her!
And when he snared a couple of rabbits and laid them by for a succulent meal, the rest of the guides appropriated them during his absence, and explained that such was his punishment for taking the fish. Talk? Why, the Indians were never silent, except when sleeping.
In the afternoon, we broke camp and paddled a glorious fourteen miles down the river to Flat Rock, shooting several exciting rapids - including Devil's and Victoria - but, not fatally. We found an excellent camping ground at Flat Rock and availed ourselves right gladly of it, although this was not the spot originally chosen for our destination. Pine Portage, three miles away, was full - which is to say, its convenient camp sites had already been pre-empted by fishermen bound up or down the river.
That night, across a lofty columnar bonfire, I asked Nicholas John the meaning of the word Nipigon.
"It's hard to pronounce in English," he replied. "We spell it with an 'e', " he added, throwing in a little swank about his schooling.
I was no nearer my objective, and afterwards discovered that by 'pronounce' he meant 'translate,' and as for spelling Nipigon with an 'e,' the Indians spell it, like most of their language, exactly as suits their fancy. To hear them speak the work, I should call it Nem-be-gong, and a loose translation of my own is The Sea Without a Shore - this referring to the lake which is about seventy miles long and fifty wide.
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, 12 July 2013
NIPIGON - THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE part 4
By Madge Macbeth , circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE SECOND DAY
The second day was faultless. The sun had almost dried our little white homes before we had finished breakfast, and it took the edge off a keen wind that was more suggestive of October than July. Virgin Falls raced over glittering rocks like so much liquid malachite. The rapids swirled and eddied, a wondrous green foam.
Intense activity prevailed around Camp. We consulted fly books, called to one another for advice we didn't take, polished the lenses of our cameras, and up and down the rocky shore, to the soft whir of spinning reels, damp lines were hung from tree to tree like crazy cobwebs etched against the sky.
We fished from shore, and decided after a disgraceful dinner that reduced the stores alarmingly that a swim in the Nipigon would be almost as enjoyable as angling. Consequently, we embarked in our spacious canoes and were paddled (even the sportsmen, too!) out among the Virgin Islands, where, with a good deal of hesitancy, we plunged into the clear, cold water of the river.
By the gods, it was cold! For a few seconds after the body's first immersion, one feels an impulse to turn immediately towards the shore. But this passes suddenly, and the only consciousness is that of intense invigoration, tempting one to swim great distances. I found that water less cold was unpleasant and enervating.
On the way home, the Curious Gentleman demanded of his guide how he could keep his moccasins so soft and pliable, like those of the Indians.
"You take them home," advised the old man, in almost unintelligible English, "and get your woman to chew them. That's the way Nindians' are soft."
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE SECOND DAY
The second day was faultless. The sun had almost dried our little white homes before we had finished breakfast, and it took the edge off a keen wind that was more suggestive of October than July. Virgin Falls raced over glittering rocks like so much liquid malachite. The rapids swirled and eddied, a wondrous green foam.
Intense activity prevailed around Camp. We consulted fly books, called to one another for advice we didn't take, polished the lenses of our cameras, and up and down the rocky shore, to the soft whir of spinning reels, damp lines were hung from tree to tree like crazy cobwebs etched against the sky.
We fished from shore, and decided after a disgraceful dinner that reduced the stores alarmingly that a swim in the Nipigon would be almost as enjoyable as angling. Consequently, we embarked in our spacious canoes and were paddled (even the sportsmen, too!) out among the Virgin Islands, where, with a good deal of hesitancy, we plunged into the clear, cold water of the river.
By the gods, it was cold! For a few seconds after the body's first immersion, one feels an impulse to turn immediately towards the shore. But this passes suddenly, and the only consciousness is that of intense invigoration, tempting one to swim great distances. I found that water less cold was unpleasant and enervating.
On the way home, the Curious Gentleman demanded of his guide how he could keep his moccasins so soft and pliable, like those of the Indians.
"You take them home," advised the old man, in almost unintelligible English, "and get your woman to chew them. That's the way Nindians' are soft."
TO BE CONTINUED
NIPIGON - THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE part 3
By Madge Macbeth circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FIRST DAY
We were amazed to hear the splattering of rain drops on our tents in the morning. After such a night, it seemed incredible. However, no aspect of weather could dampen our spirits, and with the outfit furnished us, there was little that could interfere with our comfort.
This outfit deserves a paragraph at least. We were provided with tents, easily accommodating two persons. For the benefit of those who refused the luxury folding camp beds and preferred sleeping bags or mattresses laid upon the ground, there were tarpaulin floors. Otherwise, we used canvas beds, a towering pile of NEW blankets (none too many for the sharp cold nights) and pillows! We had a dining tent, furnished with a substantial table, and very comfortable folding chairs. We had also a Community tent, where a glorious fire burned throughout the rainy days, and where afternoon tea was served and coffee after dinner! We had a cook stove with which the "Prince of Wales' Jimmie" performed indescribably delicious gastronomic mysteries. We had bath towels and soap. I felt on more than one occasion that had I asked for a change of underwear or an elephant's tusk, my whim would have been gratified.
Confidentially, I might confess that there was some grumbling. The party included a few desperate sportsmen who resented our luxurious equipment and the sensation of being coddled. They up and spake their minds, and the rest of us were abashed, wishing that we hadn't written home to say that we were "camping." We avoided one another's eyes and felt like cheats - impostor's.
And we were not a little surprised to hear the sportsmen agree to try those confounded beds - as the ground was wet - and the next morning to hear them call for a basin of hot water!
We fished in the rapids from the shore the first day, taking our quota of speckled trout, and several white fish. The largest of the former tipped the scales at five and a quarter pounds, and evoked the observation from the jealous member of the group that, on such a day, anyone should be able to catch fish.
"In this downpour," said he, "they don't even know that they're out of the river!"
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FIRST DAY
We were amazed to hear the splattering of rain drops on our tents in the morning. After such a night, it seemed incredible. However, no aspect of weather could dampen our spirits, and with the outfit furnished us, there was little that could interfere with our comfort.
This outfit deserves a paragraph at least. We were provided with tents, easily accommodating two persons. For the benefit of those who refused the luxury folding camp beds and preferred sleeping bags or mattresses laid upon the ground, there were tarpaulin floors. Otherwise, we used canvas beds, a towering pile of NEW blankets (none too many for the sharp cold nights) and pillows! We had a dining tent, furnished with a substantial table, and very comfortable folding chairs. We had also a Community tent, where a glorious fire burned throughout the rainy days, and where afternoon tea was served and coffee after dinner! We had a cook stove with which the "Prince of Wales' Jimmie" performed indescribably delicious gastronomic mysteries. We had bath towels and soap. I felt on more than one occasion that had I asked for a change of underwear or an elephant's tusk, my whim would have been gratified.
Confidentially, I might confess that there was some grumbling. The party included a few desperate sportsmen who resented our luxurious equipment and the sensation of being coddled. They up and spake their minds, and the rest of us were abashed, wishing that we hadn't written home to say that we were "camping." We avoided one another's eyes and felt like cheats - impostor's.
And we were not a little surprised to hear the sportsmen agree to try those confounded beds - as the ground was wet - and the next morning to hear them call for a basin of hot water!
We fished in the rapids from the shore the first day, taking our quota of speckled trout, and several white fish. The largest of the former tipped the scales at five and a quarter pounds, and evoked the observation from the jealous member of the group that, on such a day, anyone should be able to catch fish.
"In this downpour," said he, "they don't even know that they're out of the river!"
TO BE CONTINUED
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