We had been hearing, for weeks, of a small lake in the heart of the virgin forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with trout, unsophisticated, hungry trout:  the inlet to it was described as stiff with them.  In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a foot long, three tiers deep, a solid mass.  The lake had never been visited except by stray sable hunters in the winter, and was known as the Unknown Pond.  I determined to explore it, fully expecting, however, that it would prove to be a delusion, as such mysterious haunts of the trout usually are.  Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly made our preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at daybreak.  Each of us carried a boat, a pair of blankets, a sack of bread, pork, and maple-sugar; while I had my case of rods, creel, and book of flies, and Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils.  We think nothing of loads of this sort in the woods.

Five miles through a tamarack swamp brought us to the inlet of Unknown Pond, upon which we embarked our fleet, and paddled down its vagrant waters.  They were at first sluggish, winding among triste fir-trees, but gradually developed a strong current.  At the end of three miles a loud roar ahead warned us that we were approaching rapids, falls, and cascades.  We paused.  The danger was unknown.  We had our choice of shouldering our loads and making a detour through the woods, or of “shooting the rapids.”  Naturally we chose the more dangerous course.  Shooting the rapids has often been described, and I will not repeat the description here.  It is needless to say that I drove my frail bark through the boiling rapids, over the successive waterfalls, amid rocks and vicious eddies, and landed, half a mile below with whitened hair and a boat half full of water; and that the guide was upset, and boat, contents, and man were strewn along the shore.

After this common experience we went quickly on our journey, and, a couple of hours before sundown, reached the lake.  If I live to my dying day, I never shall forget its appearance.  The lake is almost an exact circle, about a quarter of a mile in diameter.  The forest about it was untouched by axe, and unkilled by artificial flooding.  The azure water had a perfect setting of evergreens, in which all the shades of the fir, the balsam, the pine, and the spruce were perfectly blended; and at intervals on the shore in the emerald rim blazed the ruby of the cardinal flower.  It was at once evident that the unruffled waters had never been vexed by the keel of a boat.  But what chiefly attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the water, the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle, with a fire underneath.  A tyro would have been astonished at this common phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me when I say that the water boiled with the breaking trout.  I studied the surface for some time to see upon what sort of flies they were feeding, in order to suit my cast to their appetites; but they seemed to be at play rather than feeding, leaping high in the air in graceful curves, and tumbling about each other as we see them in the Adirondack pictures.