Sport in Vancouver and Newfoundland

BOOK II. I to Newfoundland 157

I TO NEWFOUNDLAND 157 II TO LONG HARBOUR 173 III TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS 187 IV HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND 195 V TO KOSK[=A]CODDE 215 VI SPORT ON KEPSKAIG 233 VII TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY 245 VIII HOMEWARD BOUND 257

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VANCOUVER

ORIGINAL DRAWINGS To face page

THE MOUTH OF THE CAMPBELL RIVER Frontispiece MORNING MISTS, MT. KINGCOME 138 CAMP ON MT. KINGCOME 140

PHOTOS

THE INDIAN CEMETERY, CAMPBELL RIVER 41 A MORNING'S CATCH 41 TWO GOOD FISH 50 A 60 LB. FISH 50 "DICK" 80 TOTEM POLES, ALERT BAY 80 THE HEAD OF NIMQUISH LAKE 92 DRIFTWOOD ON THE BEACH OF LAKE NIMQUISH, "DICK" IN THE FOREGROUND 92 THE VANCOUVER FOREST, SHOWING UNDERGROWTH THROUGH WHICH WE HAD TO MAKE OUR WAY 110 LAKE NO. 1 110 PACKING OUT 121 THE WAPITI, 13 POINTS 126 THE SHORE OF LAKE NIMQUISH 126 A ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT 141 THE GOAT COUNTRY 141

NEWFOUNDLAND

ORIGINAL DRAWINGS To face page

NOT GOOD ENOUGH 159 STEVE JOE DRIES HIMSELF 226 STEVE BERNARD IN CAMP 226 THE CLEARING OF THE STORM, SHOE HILL RIDGE 247 A VIEW IN LONG HARBOUR 263

PHOTOS

JOHN DENNY AND STEVE BERNARD 197 A NEWFOUNDLAND POND 197 STEVE SPYING, SANDY POND 217 CAMP, WEST END SANDY POND 217 THE THREE-HORNED STAG 225 "BAD WATER" 225 A THIRTY-FOUR POINT CARIBOU 238 STEVE SKINNING THE HEAD OF THE THIRTY-FOUR POINTER 238 LUNCH ON THE BAIE DU NORD RIVER 256 MY CAMP, SHOE HILL DROKE 256 UP THE TWO-MILE BROOK, HOMEWARD BOUND 261 A BROOK IN FLOOD 261

MAPS

SKETCH MAP OF VANCOUVER ISLAND 3 SKETCH MAP OF NEWFOUNDLAND 159

TO VANCOUVER ISLAND

CHAPTER I. To Vancouver Island

TO VANCOUVER ISLAND

From the day I read in the Field Sir Richard Musgrave's article, "A seventy-pound salmon with rod and line," and located the river as the Campbell River, I determined that should the opportunity arise, I, too, would try my luck in those waters.

Subsequent articles in the Field, which appeared from time to time, only increased my desire, and the summer of 1908 found me in a position to start on the trip to which I had so long looked forward.

Living in Egypt, the land of eternal glare and sunshine, I counted the days till I could rest my eyes on the ever-green forests of Vancouver Island.

My intention was to arrive in Vancouver about the end of July, spend the month of August, when the great tyee salmon run, at the Campbell River, and pass September, when the shooting season begins, in hunting for wapiti in the primeval forests which clothe the north of Vancouver Island.

I also hoped, should time permit, to have a try for a Rocky Mountain goat, and possibly a bear on the Mainland.

I sailed from Southampton on July 10, on the Deutschland, the magnificent steamer of the Hamburg-American Line, and never did I travel in greater luxury.

The voyage across the Atlantic is always dull and monotonous; it was therefore with great relief that, having passed Sandy Hook in the early morning, I found myself approaching New York on the 16th.

Here I was to have a new experience.

I am, I hope, a modest man, and never dreamt that I was worthy of becoming the prey of the American interviewer.

The fact of being a Pasha in Egypt, a rank which I attained when serving in the Egyptian Army, was my undoing.

A kind German friend who had used his good offices on my behalf with the Board of the Hamburg-American Line, gave the show away, for I found myself on the printed passenger list figuring as Sir John Rogers Pasha.

To the American interviewer, a Pasha was, I presume, a novelty, and the opportunity of torturing one not to be forgone, for as soon as we came alongside the quay at Hoboken, a pleasant and well-spoken individual came up to me and, raising his hat, remarked, "The Pasha I believe. Welcome to America." I then realized what I was in for.

Had I been a witness in the box, I could not have undergone a more merciless cross-examination. It was almost on a par with a declaration I had to make for the Immigration Authorities--giving my age, where I was born, who were my father and mother, when did they die, what was the colour of my hair and eyes, and lastly, had I ever been in prison, and if so, for what offence?

I really think New York might spare its visitors this ordeal.

Wriggle as I could, my interviewer was determined to obtain copy, and though I insisted that the title of "Pasha" had been entered on the passenger list by mistake, and that it was one not intended for exportation, he was not to be satisfied.

Giving as few details as possible as to how I had obtained my exalted title, I eventually shook off my persecutor. No sooner had I moved a few steps away, than if possible a more plausible person expressed the great pleasure it gave him to welcome me to New York, and endeavoured to impress on me that it was a duty I owed to myself and to the American nation, not only to explain what a "Pasha" was and how I became a Pasha, but also to allow my photograph to be taken, which he guaranteed would appear the following day in his paper--naturally the leading journal of New York.

On my point-blank refusal to accord any more interviewers an audience or to be immortalized in his paper, he sadly expressed his astonishment that I should refuse the celebrity he wished to confer on me.

Had not Mr. Kingdon Gould allowed himself to be photographed?--then why not I?

Other interviewers gave me up as a bad job, but just before landing I was leaning over the side of the steamer when some one shouted, "I have got you!" and I saw that one of my persecutors had taken a snapshot, which I am glad to say must have been a failure, for I did not appear in the New York papers the next day.

I acknowledge that one of my interviewers to whom I had refused any information heaped coals of fire on my head, by rendering me valuable assistance in getting my luggage through the Customs.

I had often heard of the difficulties of the New York Customs, but I must say I never met with greater civility, and there was no delay in passing all my baggage, fishing-rods, guns, rifles, no duty being charged.

New York possessed few attractions for me, and the call of the Campbell River was strong--so July 17th found me starting for Montreal, where I arrived the same night and put up at the excellent Windsor Hotel.

Only a top sleeping berth on the Trans-Continental Express was available for the following night, and, as I desired a section--that is two berths, upper and lower--I had to wait till the evening of Sunday, the 19th, before I could start for Vancouver.

Leaving Montreal at 10.15 p.m., I arrived at Vancouver about noon on the 24th, having travelled straight through.

The Canadian Pacific Railway is probably the most extensively advertised line in the world. I cannot say it complied with modern requirements as regards convenience and comfort.

Every one knows the much-vaunted Pullman Car system of America--men and women in the same carriage, the only privacy being offered by drawing the curtains across the berths which are arranged in two long rows on either side of the car.

If you have a section of two berths, which is essential to comfort, you can stand upright in the lower berth to dress and undress, and put away your clothes where you can.

If you have only a single berth, you have to dress and undress as best you can, sitting in your berth.

On my first trip to Canada, I was only going as far as Mattawa, one night in the train, so contented myself with a single lower berth.

The upper berth was occupied by a very stout lady, who in descending in the morning, gave me an exhibition of understandings as unexpected by me as it was unintentional on her part.

The real advantage of a section, in taking the long Trans-Continental journey, is that when the berths are put up in the day-time, one has a nice compartment to oneself; that is, if the black porter does not condescend sometimes to occupy one of the seats, and only to move, on being politely requested to do so.

The sporting pamphlets of the Canadian Pacific Railway make a sportsman's mouth water. Here we have the paradise of the fisherman--there the Mecca of the sportsman.

It was certainly then disappointing, to say the least of it, to find in the Restaurant Car, that though passing through the paradise of the fisherman, two days out from Montreal, we were eating stale mackerel, and on the return journey when the sporting season was in full swing and duck and prairie hens were being brought in abundance to the car for sale--they were only purchased by the black porters for re-sale at Montreal at a handsome profit. None of them appeared at our table.

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