Spring Fever

Sports Afield, April 1931

Every year toward the tail end of winter, something happens that plays havoc with our domestic natures. To some it's the advent of the first robin, to others the caress of a warm and balmy day, but to myself and a million others of my ilk, it comes in the form of an elusive feeling or hunch that jerks us bodily from our comfortable firesides and sens us forth in search of far horizons.

Strange though it may seem, my last rejuvenation came on a blustery day in March, a day of whirling snow and blizzard. What it was, I do not know, but the first breath I took that fateful morning told me that this was no ordinary kind of storm. Instinctively I knew that behind the false front of the gale rode a hint of something else, a promise of blue skies to come, thawing earth and gurgling rivulets.

Though doubting at first, as the day wore on I grew more and more confident and was filled at last with such inward joy and peace of soul that those who knew me best marveled.

All day I walked on air, and that very evening dug out from his burrow another who was as delicately attuned to the siren voice of spring as I was myself. Without even asking as to his state of mind, for I knew that in all probability he had breathed the same intoxication, I broached the subject, a twenty-mile hike to Snowbank Lake with the avowed intention of catching trout.

The dean of our local college, for he it was, looked at me quizzically for a moment, weighing the issues at hand. Then his tongue went into his cheek and I knew the spirit of high adventure that had hounded him through Mexico and a couple of continents was gnawing again at his vitals.

"When do we start?" was the only question he asked.

"Tomorrow at White Iron Rapids on the Kawishoway," I answered. "I'll bring the outfit, all you'll need will be your sleeping bag. This is Tuesday, we will be back by Sunday night. See you in the morning," and I turned to go.

Daylight found us at the rapids loading on our packs. Before us stretched the Kawishoway, miles and miles of brittle frozen crust. We started down the river just as the eastern horizon began to color up. The crisp morning air was a tonic in itself. It seemed good just to be moving and the forty-pound packs rode lightly.

As the first rays of sunlight shot over the ridge, the river was transformed into a brilliant crystal-studded boulevard, fringed by a silhouette of rugged timbered shore. The crust was hard and roughened just enough for perfect footing. Point after point disappeared behind us and landmarks far ahead approached with startling suddenness. Our spirits were high and hiking along was sheer exhilaration.

Within an hour we hove in sight of a notch in the hills that marked the beginning of our first portage. We passed between islands wooded thickly with jackpine and spruce, threaded a narrows choked with the gaunt spires of trees killed by high water of years before and then approached lower Deadman's Rapids. Below was a pool of open water eating its way into the blackening ice along its edges. As we drew closer a flock of wintering bluebills flew up, circled widely only to return with a plop into the very spot from which they had flown.

Skirting the weak ice gingerly, we reached the shore near the portage. Our first sight of open water was a treat and for a while we rested watching the rapids tumble down over the ice-encrusted boulders to the pool below. The ducks decided at last that we were harmless and continued their feeding along the opposite edge.

While I was meditating happily on the whys and wherefores of things in general, the dean, always a man of action, had rigged up a line and even now was worming his way cautiously out over the ice toward the water. I watched him not without a few misgivings.

Upon reaching the edge of the ice, he unlimbered, dropped a silver smelt into the swirling water before him and began to play out line. He hadn't long to wait. Presently he stiffened and turning his head, said in a stage whisper, "There's one down there, just took hold."

I waited expectantly. Then with a stifled, "I've got him," saw him strike, followed by a very unstifled, "Damn! Say that was a whopper."

I was enjoying myself hugely from my safe perch on shore and waiting until the air had cleared sufficiently. I ventured, "What do you think he was?"

"Nothing but a pike," he answered, "but a whale at that. I could tell by the way he ran with it. Give me another smelt."

I slid one out to him and he baited his hook carefully. Fifteen minutes elasped before any more action. This time when he struck, the line went taut and I knew there was trouble down below. But now the dean was in a predicament for the ice was too weak to stand the strain of very much pulling.

"Hold everything," I yelled, dashing into a clump of dead alder. Breaking off a long, dry sapling, I hurried back and shoved it out to him over the ice. Grasping his line with one hand, he manipulated the pole under him with the other and then proceeded to play his fiash. After a minute of suspense, a monster great northern pike rolled lazily to the surface, jaws wide open, famming the water with his fins.

The dean lay there helplessly and with popping eyes gazed at the wicked array of teeth a few inches from his face. He tried to change his position but the ice cracked sharply under him.

"Look out," I yelled. "Don't let him grab you."

At the sound of my voice the pike did a double flop and drenched his captor with a bucket-full of icy water. That last wild ruch took most of the slack and ended in a long sulk on the bottom. A few moments later he rolled again to the surface, but this time the valiant dean, at the risk of drowning, lifted the pike flopping onto the ice.

He was a beautiful fish of about twenty pounds in weight, well fleshed and colored. The way those bronze speckles gleamed against their background of silver-grey was indeed a picture. For a space we were content to watch the heaving sides and gills, speculating upon the havoc he might have wrought on a light bamboo in June. Then to shouw our guileless natures, we let him go the way he had come. It was trout we were after anyway and not extra ballast just then.

"Say, that was a thriller," spoke the dean as we made ready to go. "Who says ice fishing is tame sport?"

"The only thing wrong with that picture," I answered, "was that the ice didn't cave in under you."

We packed away the tackle and crossed the portage. The snow was three feet deep and frozen hard as yet, so we had little trouble. Before us lay Haystack Rock, a huge pyramidal bit of granite as big as a house, stranded in mid-channel by the glacier. Two more short detours around open rapids and several thrilling moments on honeycombed ice brought us at last to a wide stretch of river this side of Murphy's Portage.

The shores on either side were now bold receding walls of rock: barren, burned over and desolate, some of the ridges towering hundreds of feet above the river. The south shore was still frozen and covered with snow but the north bank, exposed like a sloping hotbed to the sun, was brown and dry for over a mile.

We were hiking along, feasting our eyes on the unusual sight of bare earth and leaves in March, when without warning the brush cracked and a deer scampered up the rocky slope to our left. Before it reached the summit, three others had joined it. For a good half mile we watched their white flags bouncing baily along over rocks and windfalls and snow-filled gullies, 'til at last they disappeared over the crest of a far ridge.

A little further on, a buck and doe unaware of our approach, stalked boldly onto the ice. For a moment they regarded us nervously and then with a whistling snort from the buck, wheeled and sped for shore, gathering speed at every jump. Twenty feet at a time they flew, scaling the slippery ledges with the reckless and sure-footed abandon of mountain goats.

From then on, we saw deer everywhere. Once we startled a bunch of eighteen and sent them bounding up the slope after the rest. Flashing tails everywhere, big ones and little ones, crashing of brush and snorting; exciting moments!

At the very top of the ridge on a glaciated rock, they all stopped as though by prearrangement, faced us and stood in bold relief against the sky. It was a picture I shall never forget.

During the next half mile until we hit the portage, we were never out of sight of deer. They must have come from all over the country to feed on that lone bare strip of the Kawishoway. We couldn't keep track of them all but counted well over seventy. Without a doubt, there were several hundred feeding that day on the dry southern hillsides within a short distance of the river.

Here the Kawishoway tumbled for a full mile through a rocky canyon. The trail followed closely its northern rim, winding in and out, now giving us a view of the ice-bordered rapids swirling angrily far below and again hiding us completely in the scrub jackpine and spruce.

The road of water, flush with the first of the melting snow, was music to ears that for months had heard nothing but the howling wind and the rustle of powdery snow. Late that afternoon we saw before us the Fernberg Lookout on the highest peak in the district, a spidery tower of steel shining in the sunlight. An hour later we passed the ranger stations a mile below. The river now narrowed down to cut its channel through a maze of rocky gorges and dells. On every hand were spots of rare beauty now more entrancing than ever in the slowly suffusing glow of the afternoon sun.

We left the main channel and turned into a low-lying bay, a labyrinth of spruce-fringed arms and swampy indentations and at last saw before us the portage that would take us from the valley of the Kawishoway to Snowbank Lake, famous for its lake trout.

Upon reaching shore we dropped our packs gladly and took a long deferred rest. For twenty minutes we did not move. An owl hooted solemnly back in the swamp. It was getting dusk and time to go.

Now we struck our first hard going and for once we longed for snowshoes. The warm sun during the day had weakened the crust and to make things worse a pair of moose had ambled down the trail ahead of us pitting it with two footholes just big enough to stumble into.

A chorus of wolf howls greeted us from far across the bay. A mile from the portage we found the cabin half buried in snow underneath the spruces. A porky had made himself comfortable inside and resented our intrusion by chattering his teeth nervously in the darkest corner under the bunk. He left with little persuasion, however, for less crowded quarters outside. A roaring fire was soon under way in the Yukon stove, then supper, fresh boughs, and dreams.

Next morning found us hiking down the smooth, wind-polished surface of Snowbank Lake toward a group of ilsnads to the northward. In places the ice was covered with huge frost crystals as big as butterflies and much the same shape. Long cracks were bordered with them, for all the world like rows of cut glass flowers, and clear stretches blown free of snow were covered with intreicate clusters scattered haphazardly about. The sky was blue and cloudless, a sunny day in a sparkling world of ice. It was good to be alive.

We stopped in the lee of a timbered island to cut our first holes and found to our dismay that three feet of clear blue ice awaited our chisel. It was over an hour before we had finished. After baiting our lines with smelt, we cut boughs to lay on alongside our sets, and then, thoroughly comfortable, began our fishing.

For another hour, or it may have been two, nothing happened and we had to content ourselves by basking in the warm March sunshine and watching the mysterious green shorelines for signs of game. A lone wolf crossed the ice between us and the cabin and once I was sure I saw a moose in the far end of a bay to the east. A flock of ravens wheeled and circled over an island down the lake. There was always something to look at and we were never without diversion. Besides we had time to think, which in these hurried days is rare enough sport at that.

Just as I hauled in my line for the twentieth time to inspect my bait, something heavy hung on and began to move slowly away. For a moment my heart all but stopped its beating. The impossible had happened. Automatically I played out line, ten, fifteen, twenty feet, and then struck. The hook set firmly. Something was on, there was no question about it and something big. What it was, I might never find out. Now the fun began, wild dashes 'round and 'round the hole, swirling dives to the bottom and long uncertain sulks, when it was hard to tell if I had lost my fish or was snagged. If only those who decry ice fishing so loudly could have held that line for just ten seconds, conversions to the sport would have been in order.

I finally started urging him in. He came slowly to within ten feet of the hole. Lowering my face until it almost touched the water, I peered down into the amber colored depths but could see nothing. Then a broad silver flash drifted across my line of visioin. It was a lake trout and a beauty. At sight of me he made a wild dash for liberty and took all the slack I had gained. That last run took all of his strength, however, and I edged him up to the hole once more, now thoroughly exhausted. Slipping my fingers into the wide open gills, I flipped him onto the ice, a ten-pounder if an ounce.

Summer trout are beautiful, but a trout in the winter time when at its best both in flesh and color, is a gratifying sight to the eyes of the most sophisticated fisherman. The dean came over hurriedly to share in the excitement and together we admired the first of our catch.

"Look at that color," he exclaimed wonderingly, "all gold and silver, and red fins to match. It's almost a shame to take 'em out."

I agreed and had it not been for the mulligan pot waiting back at camp, I'm afraid my trout would have followed the example of the pike at Deadman's portage. The dean had just spoken when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his stick was down. With a whoop, he left me and charged toward his set. For a while, he played his fish carefully, but as far as I could see, made no apparent effort to land it. Finally out of curiosity I yelled, "What's the trouble? Is he too big to come through?"

"That's just it," he called back, "he's too big. Bring the chisel and hurry."

That meant excitement and I hurried over to where he lay. I soon saw his predicament, for a great trout snagged in the cheek was laying crosswise of the hole. There was work cut out for us now and delicate work at that. One slip of the chisel and the fun would be over.

We let out a few feet of slack and while the fish swam slowly 'round and 'round the hole, I tried to time my strokes with the chisel to miss the shifting line. It was nerve-wracking work and several times I missed by a hair's breadth. At last, unable to stand the strain longer, the dean suddenly grabbed the chisel and yelled, "Hold on, I've got an idea." Holding the line in one hand, he fumbled nervously in his pocket with the other and brought out a large spoon hook attached to an eighteen-inch wire leader.

Forcing the trout up again to the hole, he slipped the treble hook in between the wide open jaws and hooked it firmly. "Now," he said, "cut as recklessly as you like."

It was a wise precaution, for at the very next blow, I severed the linen line neatly. The dean didn't say, "I told you so," but the look of triumphant scorn upon his face was sufficient.

At last, the hole was large enough. The trout was completely playled out and came up easily, another silver-bronze beauty even larger than the first. The strain of this last experience was too much for us and besides we had more than we could possibly hope to eat. Taking up our sets, we hiked happily back to camp.

That afternoon we cooked a trout mulligan, a dish called in politer circles, chowder. And what a mulligan! All of my ten-pound trout went into it with potatoes, onions, butter and milk to match. After cleaning it up, all thoughts of the strenuous life left us and we were content to loll around the cabin the rest of the afternoon.

The next few days, we fished and loafed and dreamed to our hearts' content, made friends with the chickadees and whiskey-jacks, and in the evenings listened to the quavering serenade of the wolves over toward Lake Disappointment.

One day, we did not fish at all, but wandered through the dense timber on the west shore of the lake. Once, we found a fresh bear trail and another time the carcass of a deer killed by the wolves. We followed for miles a winding sedge-bordered creek and looked for signs of beaver and otter. They were days filled to repletion with the simple, happy adventures that make life in the woods at all seasons of the year a joyous adventure. Long sunny hours we spend on the bare southern slopes. For us spring had come and we all but steeped ourselves in its benevolence.