Across the bay from where the Indians lived, ran a stream, called
Po-po-moh-ah. Here every autumn, when the salmon came, they stayed
and caught the fish for winter use. Yet strange to say these
ancient E-coulth-ahts seemed unaware that at their very doors, a
nature hewn canal had its entrance. One fine September morning
Ha-houlth-thuk-amik and Han-ah-kut-ish, the sons of Wick-in-in-ish
or, as some say Ka-kay-un, accompanied by their father's slave
See-na-ulth were paddling slowly to Po-po-moh-ah, when half across
and near to Tsa-a-toos they saw dead salmon floating on the tide.

The salmon had spawned, and is it not strange to think that this, the
king of fish should struggle up the rapid tumbling streams for many
miles, against strong currents, over falls where the water breaks
the least, perchance to fall within the wicker purse of Indian traps
placed there so cunningly to catch them if they should fall back; and
even if they escape the Indian traps and find the gravel bar where
they four years before, began their life, and having spent themselves
in giving life, sicken and die, their bodies even in death give
sustenance to gulls and eagles circling round those haunts.

"These fish have come from where fresh water flows, so let us follow
up from whence they come. Let Quawteaht direct our course, and we
shall find new streams where salmon are in plenty and win great glory
in our tribe." Thus spake the sons of Wick-in-in-ish, and they turned
the prow of their canoe upstream, and followed where the trail of
salmon led, to the broad entrance of that splendid fjord.

Soon they paddled by the harbour U-chuck-le-sit, long famed for its
safe anchorage and quiet retreat, when winter storms lash the waters