At Cross Point, where the river makes a long loop around a narrow mountain, thin as a saw and crowned on its jagged edge by a rude wooden cross, we stopped for an hour to try the fishing.  It was here that I hooked two mysterious creatures, each of which took the fly when it was below the surface, pulled for a few moments in a sullen way and then apparently melted into nothingness.  It will always be a source of regret to me that the nature of these fish must remain unknown.  While they were on the line it was the general opinion that they were heavy trout; but no sooner had they departed, than I became firmly convinced, in accordance with a psychological law which holds good all over the world, that they were both enormous salmon.  Even the Turks have a proverb which says, “Every fish that escapes appears larger than it is.”  No one can alter that conviction, because no one can logically refute it.  Our best blessings, like our largest fish, always depart before we have time to measure them.

The Slide Pool is in the wildest and most picturesque part of the river, about thirty-five miles above Metapedia.  The stream, flowing swiftly down a stretch of rapids between forest-clad hills, runs straight toward the base of an eminence so precipitous that the trees can hardly find a foothold upon it, and seem to be climbing up in haste on either side of the long slide which leads to the summit.  The current, barred by the wall of rock, takes a great sweep to the right, dashing up at first in angry waves, then falling away in oily curves and eddies, until at last it sleeps in a black deep, apparently almost motionless, at the foot of the hill.  It was here, on the upper edge of the stream, opposite to the slide, that we brought our floating camp to anchor for some days.  What does one do in such a watering-place?

Let us take a “specimen day.”  It is early morning, or to be more precise, about eight of the clock, and the white fog is just beginning to curl and drift away from the surface of the river.  Sooner than this it would be idle to go out.  The preternaturally early bird in his greedy haste may catch the worm; but the salmon never take the fly until the fog has lifted; and in this the scientific angler sees, with gratitude, a remarkable adaptation of the laws of nature to the tastes of man.  The canoes are waiting at the front door.  We step into them and push off, Favonius going up the stream a couple of miles to the mouth of the Patapedia, and I down, a little shorter distance, to the famous Indian House Pool.  The slim boat glides easily on the current, with a smooth buoyant motion, quickened by the strokes of the paddles in the bow and the stern.  We pass around two curves in the river and find ourselves at the head of the pool.  Here the man in the stern drops the anchor, just on the edge of the bar where the rapid breaks over into the deeper water.  The long rod is lifted; the fly unhooked from the reel; a few feet of line pulled through the rings, and the fishing begins.