Sport in Vancouver and Newfoundland — A Reader’s Guide

The Diary as a Technical Manual

Rogers frames his book as “simply a transcription of my rough diary,” and the text bears that out. He records the weight of fish, the condition of rivers, and the performance of equipment with the precision of a field notebook. When he misses a bear, he notes that he had left his coat with spare cartridges behind and that the telescope sight was “screwed up to 300 yards” when the animal was closer. These details are not dramatic flourishes; they are operational notes. The reader learns that crossing a creek in flood on “rough boulders” is “as bad as it well could be,” and that a wounded bear in dense undergrowth is too dangerous to follow. The book’s value lies in this granular, unromantic record of what worked and what did not.

Voice and the Absence of Self-Dramatization

Rogers rarely casts himself as a hero. When he fires his last cartridge and the wounded bear walks toward him, he writes: “There was I without a cartridge and a wounded bear apparently walking on top of me. I lay quite quietly behind my rock.” The understatement is characteristic. He does not describe his fear; he reports his position and the bear’s movement. Later, when his companion Thomson wants to follow the bear into the brush, Rogers refuses but records Thomson’s persistence. The narrative voice is that of a leader making calculated decisions, not a hunter boasting of close calls. The drama emerges from the situation, not from self-praise.

Landscape as Obstacle and Spectacle

Rogers’ descriptions of terrain are functional but occasionally vivid. After a night of rain and sleet, he notes that “the rain had now turned to snow, which was lying as low down as the level of the camp.” The march that follows is a catalogue of difficulties: the creek is “a roaring torrent,” the boulders are slippery, and everything is “sodden.” Yet he also pauses for a view: “Our last view of the valley, before we entered the forest, was superb. The rain had cleared away, a bright sun was breaking through the heavy clouds.” These moments are rare and therefore striking. The landscape is primarily an obstacle to be managed, but Rogers acknowledges its beauty in passing, without sentimentality.

The Role of Local Knowledge and Companions

Rogers does not travel alone. He mentions guides and companions by name—Kirby, Lansdown, Thomson—and their actions are integral to the narrative. Thomson is the one who “would not give him up” and crawls through the cover to track the wounded bear. The guides skin the goat and bring in the head. Rogers presents himself as dependent on their skills, and the diary records their contributions without fuss. The book is as much about the network of people who enable these expeditions as it is about the author’s own prowess. This collective effort is a quiet thread throughout the text.

Readers approaching Sport in Vancouver and Newfoundland should expect a practical, unadorned narrative. Rogers’ diary format means that events are presented in sequence, with little retrospection or thematic organization. The book rewards those who read for specific detail—the weight of a salmon, the behavior of a wounded bear, the condition of a trail after rain. It is not a meditation on nature or sport, but a record of what one man did and saw, and it is best read as such.

I keep thinking about that 1912 diary—how carefully Rogers noted the weight of a salmon, the exact bend of a river, and what it meant to wait for hours in cold rain. That quiet, patient attention to place feels echoed in An Account of Two Voyages to New-England, Made During the Years 1638, 1663 — Edition Insights, where a different century’s traveler also paused to notice small, stubborn details of the land. Something about that steadiness stays with me.