September 5th was a lovely morning, not a breath of wind and a cloudless sky, so different from yesterday. Getting away at 9.30 we made a good four miles an hour, reaching our camping ground at the west end of the lake at 11.30. Steve, Joe and I were in the big canoe and John, a fine boatman, in the small canoe which skirted the shores of the lake. We disturbed a small stag which was feeding along the shore and which at once disappeared in the woods. The camp was simply perfect, fairly open yet with sufficient shelter from the surrounding woods. Behind it rose a hill about 100 feet high, a fine look-out over the entire country. The tents were pitched on a spur of land just where the Baie du Nord River, or rather its head-waters, left the lake in a tumbling torrent with intervening deep pools, an ideal salmon river to look at, but unfortunately no salmon can pass Smoky Falls, many miles away to the south of Lake Meddonagonax.

I had caught two trout crossing the lake, but could not resist the first really good fly-fishing water I had come to, so a few minutes after arrival I was on the bank of the river fishing an ideal pool. There was about a quarter of a mile of fishing water, after which was a small lake and then more rapids below. In an hour I had landed twelve trout and char, weighing 10½ lb. The trout were all onannaniche and played like sea trout—more often out of the water than in. The largest was 2¼ lb., and the two largest char weighed 2¾ lb. In the heavy rapid water they gave grand sport. What an ideal camp it was! The best of fishing at the door of the tent, a glorious view over the lake, with its many wood-clad islands to the south, while across the lake the ground was open and sloped gradually upwards, and here Steve said he had more than once seen good stags. The whole ground could be spied from the rocky hill behind the camp, from which, too, we could look over all the woodland marshes to north and west and could see the river winding away to distant Koskacodde, and in the further distance Kepskaig Hill and the country we were to hunt later on.

After lunch, about 3 o'clock, Steve and I started for the look-outs. There were three in all, behind and to the north of our camp. We decided to go straight to the one farthest north, a mile away, and from which we could command all the open ground near the lake and the numerous glades and marshes lying around us. Our only chance was to see a stag coming out to feed about sunset.

The country was undulating, and on the north side of the lake gradually rose to hills about 200 feet high. Dense woods clothed the ravines running up to the higher ground, while between the woods and the surrounding numerous small ponds were fairly open glades interspersed with marshes. The track worn by the feet of many caribou and cleared in parts by Steve, who trapped this country in the winter, was quite good going and we were on the top of our hill long before sunset. The view was a fine one; as we looked right over the entire lake and away to the south we could see the river winding down through the woods to Lake Koskacodde, only about four miles away as the crow flies. Koskacodde is the Indian for the Mackle bird, or Little Gull Pond.

On our way up we saw the first sign of a stag cleaning his antlers, and the fresh rubbing showed that he had been on the ground quite recently.

Having spied the entire country on both sides and nothing being in sight, we decided to return to camp. About half-a-mile from camp we suddenly saw a big stag come out of the woods and feed along a ridge just above the shores of the lake. He was not more than 400 yards away and was walking rapidly as he fed up wind and towards the camp. Waiting until he had crossed the ridge and was out of sight, we pushed on across a small dip between us and the ridge, and so to the top of the ridge where he had disappeared. It could hardly be dignified by the name of a stalk, for on looking over there he was standing about a hundred yards away, feeding quietly. On the side towards me the frontals and middles were good, the tops poor, but stags were scarce, and hoping for the best I dropped him with one shot. It was the usual story, the two sides were not alike and the horn next to me was the best one. This is one of the great difficulties of judging heads; on one side may be a fine frontal of seven or eight points concealing the other frontal, which may be a single spike. He was a very heavy stag, in good condition and quite clean, but I should say the head was going back. In one respect it was remarkable—there were three distinct horns, the third with two points growing out of the orbital ridge and completely separated from the horn on the same side. Steve said he had never seen one like it.

The next morning I sent Steve out early to spy the country. He came back having seen only one very small stag and three does. Joe was dispatched to cut up yesterday's stag, and bring in the head and meat, while I decided to fish the river down and go out again in the evening on the chance of another stag.

Taking Steve with me, I fished down for about two miles. There was some lovely water, but all the fish were lying in the pools and none in the streams.

In the lowest pool I reached I got a fine fish of 3 lb. and five other good ones. By lunch I had twenty-one trout and five char, weighing 19 lb.; a number of small ones I had put back. The trout were all onannaniche and as game a fish for its size as I ever want to catch; in the heavy water they gave grand sport. Coming back to camp we saw two old geese and a fine lot of young ones feeding in a marsh across a small lake. Seeing us they kept cackling and moving higher up into the reeds. We both went back to camp to fetch the rook rifle, so making a great mistake, for had one of us remained where we were we certainly would have got a shot, for they would not have left the marsh so long as some one was in sight, guarding the narrow mouth of the river by which they were bound to pass. When we got back with the rifle they had disappeared.

In the afternoon we went out to the second look-out, and waited till sunset. It was a wonderful evening, not a breath of wind, and the mosquitoes and flies were out in force even on the top of our little hill. In a small pond below us half-a-dozen black duck were swimming about through the reeds, while the hundreds of rings on the water showed that the pond was well stocked with trout, but Steve said they were all very small and not worth catching; the pond must have been simply alive with them judging from the number of rises.

Presently we saw a barren doe come out of the woods and feed towards where we had shot yesterday's stag. The sound of chopping wood in camp was quite distinct in the still air, and whether it was hearing this or whether she had winded where the dead stag had lain, she turned back and swam straight out into the lake for about 300 yards, then turned north and swam at least a mile to a jutting out wooded point where she landed, shook herself like a dog and disappeared in the woods. She swam very high in the water with her scut straight up. It was a pretty sight, as I could watch her all the way with my glasses.

I was not very satisfied with the system of hunting we were obliged to follow. Sitting waiting on the top of a look-out on the chance of something turning up did not appeal to me, but Steve assured me it was much too early to go up to the barrens and that our only chance was in the woods, and I have no doubt he was right. The stags do not move up to the high ground much before September 20th, though I believe the Shoe Hill country and right away east holds stags permanently, but the big stags who have summered in the woods do not begin to move much before the 20th. The season closing on October 1st, there is not much time for good stags. The close time is from October 1st to 20th, when shooting is again allowed. I have a shrewd suspicion that men who go in about October 5th, to be in time for the second season, are not very particular about dates. I feel I should be sadly tempted myself were I to see a forty-five pointer, say October 16th. But when the rutting season is on, between October 1st and 20th, the stags are easily approachable and the sport cannot be good.

We discussed our plans at length—there were not many big stags about, and though the camp was an ideal one I decided, on Steve's recommendation, to move down south to Lake Koskacodde and Kepskaig, where, though the country was fairly wooded, Steve said we should have a chance of a good stag.

On September 7th the weather looked like breaking. Steve was out at daybreak and spied two stags down the river where we proposed to go. We decided to leave Joe in camp and take a light camp and provisions for a week in the big canoe and explore the country to the south. Joe was rather sad at being left behind, but though he had a good tent, lots of meat and provisions, the enforced solitude did not appeal to him.

While Steve and John were packing the canoe I went down to the river and soon had ten trout and char, 8½ lb., the two biggest being over 2 lb. each. The canoe was let down the rapids with a rope, the kit being portaged to the bottom of the rapids, only about 400 yards, where the river fell into a small lake or Podopsk, a generic term for all the small ponds in the course of a river. After crossing this we had a navigable stream with occasional rapids, all of which we were able to negotiate without unloading. Having started at 9 a.m. we reached a rapid at the entrance to Koskacodde about 1.15. Here we had to portage about fifty yards. I slipped on the rocks and took an involuntary bath, which was rather annoying. However, a change of clothes was at hand and I was none the worse for my dip. Just as we got into the new lake I saw a deer make off on the far side, having seen us. I could not make out whether it was a stag or a hind, as I only saw its rump disappearing in the trees. At the same moment John saw a stag feeding quietly away on our side of the lake. We soon got close enough to see that the head was a poor one. I tried to take a snapshot with the camera, but when I got within fifty yards he saw me and was off. He was a fine big-bodied beast, and may have been one of the stags Steve had seen in the morning. We pushed on about one mile, and camped on a promontory stretching out into the lake. There was a nice sandy shelving beach and a perfect camping ground all ready, as it had been cleared by some other party the previous year, and only the undergrowth had to be cut away.

In the afternoon, taking the canoe, we paddled quietly along the shore, and after about two miles landed on a sandy beach to look for signs. A fringe of wood clothed the south shore of the lake, beyond which was a fairly open country. There were plenty of signs, and we were strolling quietly along the beach when Steve seized me by the arm and whispered, "Deer coming through wood." I confess I could hear nothing, but Steve's hearing was marvellously acute. Sitting down on a big rock, I got the rifle ready and laid it across my knees. Presently I heard a crackling and breaking of branches quite close by, when a noble-looking stag walked out into the open and without looking round or ahead crossed the sandy beach down to the edge of the lake not thirty yards away. We were both in full view, but alas, though his body looked enormous his head was a very poor one, not more than twenty points. He never saw me but bent his head, had a long drink, then looked round for a couple of minutes and walked quietly back into the wood. What would I not have given for my camera!—a more perfect picture could not be imagined. Though a gentle breeze was blowing, fortunately in the right direction, there was not a ripple on the waters of the sandy bay, which was sheltered by the wood, and as he stood with his head up and every line of his body reflected in the water below, it was a noble sight, such as one could but rarely hope to see.

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 the first 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, were scattered 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 snapshots such 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 well after 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 Koskacodde 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 walking over 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.