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Fishing with the fly

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Title: Fishing with the fly
        sketches by lovers of the art, with illustrations of standard flies

Compiler: C. F. Orvis
        A. Nelson Cheney


        
Release date: August 25, 2014 [eBook #46680]
                Most recently updated: November 8, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46680

Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
        provided by the Internet Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FISHING WITH THE FLY ***




FISHING WITH THE FLY


By Charles F. Orvis and Others

Copyright 1883

               “Together let us beat this ample field,

               Try what the open, what the covert yield.”

—Pope.

“Gentlemen, let not prejudice prepossess you. I confess my discourse is
like to prove suitable to my recreation, calm and quiet. So much for the
prologue of what I mean to say.”—Izaac Walton.




FISHING WITH THE FLY.




ETCHINGS ON A SALMON STREAM.

By Charles Hallock


I suppose that all that can be instructively written of the salmon has
already been said. The processes of natural and artificial propagation
have become familiar to all who desire to learn; the secrets of their
periodical migrations—their advents and their absences—have been
fathomed from the depths of ocean; their form and beauty have been lined
by the artist’s brush, and their flavor (in cans) is known to all the
world where commerce spreads her wings. And yet, the subject always
carries with it a perennial freshness and piquancy, which is renewed
with each recurring spring, and enhanced by every utterance which
attempts to make it vocal; just as the heavenly choirs repeat the
anthem of the constructed universe intoned to the music of the assenting
spheres! The enthusiasm which constantly invests it like a halo has not
been dissipated or abated by the persistent pursuit of many centuries,
albeit the sentiments of to-day are but the rehearsal of the original
inspiration, and present knowledge the hereditary outcome of ancient
germs.

All down the ages echo has answered echo, and the sounding forks have
transmitted orally the accented annals wherever the lordly salmon swims.

Now, hold rhapsody, and let us look to the river! Do you mark the regal
presence in yonder glinting pool, upon which the sun flashes with an
intensity which reveals the smallest pebble on the bottom? Nay? You
cannot see that salmon, just there at the curl of the rapid? Nor his
knightly retinue drawn up there abreast just behind him in supporting
position? Then, my friend, you are indeed a novice on the river, and the
refraction of the solar rays upon its surface blinds your unaccustomed
eyes. Well, they do certainly look but shadows in the quiet pool, so
motionless and inanimate, or but counterfeiting the swaying of the
pensile rock-weeds of the middle stream. What comfortable satisfaction
or foreboding premonitions do you imagine possess the noble lord while
he is taking his recuperative rest in the middle chamber, after passing
from his matriculation in the sea? Faith! you can almost read his
emotions in the slow pulsations of his pectoral fins, and the inflection
of his throbbing tail! Perhaps he shrinks from the barricade of rock and
foam before him; or hesitates to essay the royal arch above the gorge,
which reflects in prismatic hues of emblematic glory the mist and
mysteries of the unattempted passage.

And his doughty squires around him; do they share his misgivings, or
are they all royal bloods together, _sans peur sans reproche_, in scaled
armiture of blue and silver, eager to attain the land of promise and
the ultimate degree of revelation? Ah! the way is indeed beset with
difficulties and crucial tests, but its end is joy and the fulness of
knowledge: and “knowledge is the beginning of life.”

Let us go nearer, and with caution. Ha! what flash was that across the
pool, so swift and sudden that it seemed to begin and end at once? It
sped like a silver arrow across the line of sight, but it was not a
silver arrow; only _the salmon_ on his route up stream, at the rate of
90 miles per hour. Were it not for the obstructions of the cascades and
the long rapids, and perchance the wicked set-nets of the fishermen,
it would not take him long to accomplish his journey to the head of the
stream, and there prepare for the spawning-beds. But were-the way to
procreation made thus easy, and should all the salmon of a season’s
hatching survive, they would stock their native rivers so full in a
couple of years that there would be no room for them. So the sacrifice
of life is necessary that life may continue. Strange the paradox!

I love to see the salmon leap in the sunlight on the first flood of a
“June rise,” and I love to hear his splash in the darkness of the still
night, when the place where he jumped can be determined only by the
sound, unless perchance his break in the water disturbed the reflection
of a star. I have stood on heights afar off at the opening of the
season, ere my unconsecrated rod had chance to exercise its magic, or my
lips and feet to kiss the river, and with the combined exhilaration of
impatience, desire, and joy, watched the incessant spirits of silvery
spray until my chained and chafed spirit almost broke at the strain;
and I have lain on my couch at midnight sleepless and kept awake by
the constant splash of the salmon leaps. More interesting, if not so
stimulating, is the leap of the salmon at obstructing falls, with the
air filled with dozens of darting, tumbling, and falling fish—the foam
dashing and sparkling in the sun, the air resonant with roar, and damp
with the ever-tossing spray. Nay, more: I have seen a fall whose breast
was an unbroken sheet thirty feet perpendicular, inclosed by lateral
abutments of shelving crags which had been honey-combed by the churning
of the water in time of flood; and over these crags the side-flow of
the falls ran in struggling rivulets, filling up the holes and providing
little reservoirs of temporary rest and refreshment for the running
salmon; and I have actually seen and caught with my hands a twelve-pound
salmon which had worked its way nearly to the counterscarp of the
topmost ledge in its almost successful effort to surmount a barrier so
insuperable! Surely, the example of such consummate pertinacity should
teach men to laugh at average obstacles which stand in the pathway of
their ambition!

I always become enthusiastic over the rugged grandeur of some Canadian
rivers with which I am familiar.

We have no such rivers in our own domain, except on the Pacific slope;
and except in parts of Scotland and Norway, the streams of Europe must
be tame in comparison. It is because so few of our own anglers have
the experience to enable them to draw contrasts, that they do not more
appreciate the charm of salmon fishing. Even a vivid description
fails to enforce the reality upon their comprehension, and they remain
listless and content with smaller game. Beyond the circumscribed horizon
of grass-meadows and the mountain trout streams of New England and the
Blue Ridge their vision does not reach. There is a higher plane both of
eminence and art.

Opportunely for man’s periodical proclivities, nature has given to
salmon and green peas a vernal flavor and adaptation to each other, as
well as to his desires, so that, when the spring comes around they act
directly on his liver, expelling all the effete accumulations of
winter, stimulating the action of the nerves and brain, and imparting an
irresistible desire to go a-fishing. They oil the hinges of the tongue
and keep it wagging until June. When that auspicious, leafy
month arrives, not all the cares of State will hold a President,
Vice-President, or even a Vice-Regent, from taking his annual outing on
the salmon streams. Representatives of royalty and representatives of
republicanism join sympathies and hands. The Governor-General of Canada
sails to his favorite river in a government vessel with her officers in
full panoply of brass buttons and navy-blue. The President of the United
States abandons the well-worn star routes for more congenial by-paths.
Wealthy Americans in private yachts steam away to the tributaries of the
St. Lawrence, and clubs cross lines on their exclusive casting grounds.
The humbler citizen, with more limited purse, betakes his solitary way
to the rehabilitated streams of Maine, enjoys fair sport, and while he
fishes, thanks the indefatigable Fish Commissioners of the State for the
good work which they have accomplished.

“So everybody is happy, and nobody left out; and therefore so long as
the season lasts—Hurrah for Salmon and Green Peas, and vive la Salmo
Salar! I may, peradventure, give you some instructions that may be of
use even in your own rivers; and shall bring you acquainted with
more flies than Father Walton has taken notice of in his Complete
Angler.”—Charles Cotton.

“Eh, man! what a conceit it is when ye reach a fine run on a warm spring
mornin’, the wuds hatchin’ wi’ birds, an’ dauds o’ licht noos and thans
glintin’ on the water; an’ the water itsel’ in trim order, a wee doon,
after a nicht’s spate, and wi’ a drap o’ porter in’t, an’ rowin’ and
bubblin’ ower the big stanes, curlin’ into the linn and oot o’t; and you
up tae the henches in a dark neuk whaur the fish canna see ye; an’ than
to get a lang cast in the breeze that soughs in the bushes, an’ see yer
flee licht in the verra place ye want, quiet as a midge lichts on yer
nose, or a bumbee on a flower o’ clover.”—Norman McLeod, D.D.

“Salmon fishing is confessedly the highest department in the school of
angling.”—George Dawson.

[Illustration: 0016]


1. Prince Wm. of Orange.

2. Butcher.

3. Jock Scott.

4. Silver Doctor.

5. Fairy

6. Silver Gray.

7. Curtis.


“The noblest of fish, the mighty salmon, refuses bait utterly, and only
with the most artistic tackle and the greatest skill can he be taken;
the trout, which ranks second to the salmon, demands an almost equal
perfection of bait, and in his true season, the genial days of spring
and summer, scorns every allurement but the tempting fly. The black bass
prefers the fly, but will take the trolling spoon, and even bait, at all
seasons; whereas the fish of lesser station give a preference to bait,
or accept it alone. This order of precedence sufficiently proves what
every thorough sportsman will endorse—that bait fishing, although an
art of intricacy and difficulty, is altogether inferior to the science
of fly fishing.”—_Robert B. Roosevelt._

“Sometimes a body may keep threshin’ the water for a week without
seein’ a snout—and sometimes a bodyhyucks a fish at the very first
thrau!”—_Christopher North._

“Salmon fishing is, to all other kinds of angling, as buck shooting to
shooting of any meaner description. The salmon is in this particular the
king of fish. It requires a dexterous hand and an accurate eye to raise
and strike him; and when this is achieved, the sport is only begun,
where, even in trout angling, unless in case of an unusually lively
and strong fish, it is at once commenced and ended. Indeed the most
sprightly trout that ever was hooked, shows mere child’s play in
comparison to a fresh run salmon.”—_Sir Walter Scott._

“‘I chose the largest fly I could find,’ said the captain, ‘because
the water here is very deep and strong; and as the salmon lies near the
bottom I must have a large fly to attract his attention; but I must not
have a gaudy fly, because the water is so clear that the sparkle of the
tinsel would be more glittering than anything in nature; and the fish,
when he had risen and come near enough to distinguish it, would be very
apt to turn short.’

“‘You have it now, precisely,’ said the parson; ‘the depth of the
water regulates the size of the fly, and the clearness of the water
its colors. This rule, of course, is not without exceptions; if it were
there would be no science in fishing. The sun, the wind, the season,
the state of the atmosphere, must also be taken into consideration; for
instance, this rapid we are going to fish now, is the very same water
we have been fishing in below, and therefore just as clear, but it is
rough, and overhung by rocks and trees. I mean therefore to put on a
gayer fly than any we have used hitherto.’”—_Rev. Henry Newland._

“I unhesitatingly assert that there is no single moment with horse or
gun into which is concentrated such a thrill of hope, fear, expectation,
and exultation, as that of the rise and successful striking of a heavy
salmon. I have seen men literally unable to stand, or to hold their rod,
from sheer excitement.”—_H. Choimondeley Pennell._




FLY CASTING FOR SALMON.

By George Dawson.


There is no essential difference between trout and salmon casting. The
same general principles apply to both, and it only requires the careful
application of the skill attained in ‘the one to become equally expert
in the other. The difference is simply the difference in weight. A
twelve-foot trout rod weighs, say, eight ounces, and an eighteen-foot
salmon rod, with reel, weighs two or three times as much. The one can
be manipulated with one hand; the other requires both. With the one you
ordinarily cast forty or fifty feet; with the other sixty or eighty; and
with rods equally approximating perfection, it is as easy to cast the
eighty feet with the one as the forty feet with the other. I do not mean
to say that no more muscular exertion is required in the one case than
in the other, but simply that with such slight effort as is necessary
with either, it is as easy to place your fly where you wish it with the
one rod as with the other. No great muscular exertion is necessary to
cast with either. Indeed, the chief difficulty in casting is to get rid
of the idea that a great deal of muscular effort is necessary to get out
a long line. That coveted result is not to be attained by mere muscle.
If you have a giant’s strength you mustn’t use it like a giant. If you
do you will never make a long or a graceful cast with either trout
or salmon rod. With both there must be only such strength used as
is necessary to give the line a quick but not a snappy back
movement—keeping up the motion evenly until the fly is placed where you
desire it.

The most difficult attainment, in both salmon and trout casting, is to
be able, with instinctive accuracy, to measure the distance traversed
by the backward movement of your line. If you begin the return too soon
your line will snap and thereby endanger your fly; if you are too tardy
it will droop and thereby lose the continuity of tension indispensable
to a graceful and effective forward movement. This essential art
can only be attained by practice. Some attain it readily; others
never;—just as some measure time in music with unerring accuracy,
without a teacher; some only acquire the art after protracted drilling,
and others never acquire it at all.

There is almost as perfect rhythm in fly-casting as in music. Given a
definite length of line and the expert can measure his cast by his one,
two, three, four, as accurately as a teacher can regulate the time of
his orchestra by the movement of his _baton_. While this is true in
casting with either rod it is most noticeable in easting for salmon.
The heavy line, the massive springy rod, and the great distance to be
traversed, render each movement—the lift from the water, the backward
flight of the line, the return motion, and the drop at the point
desired—as distinct to a quick perception as the beat of a bar in
music.

But there are occasions when it would not do to cast by count. If the
wind is strong in any direction the movement of the line is perceptibly
effected; and if the wind happens to be at your back, it requires great
skill and care to counteract its influence and secure satisfactory
results. With such a wind, unless you are perfect master of the
situation, you will be apt to snap off more flies in an hour than you
will be likely to lose legitimately in a fortnight. Nine-tenths of all
the flies I ever lost took their departure before I learned how to cast
safely with a high wind at my back.

In many salmon rivers the pools are so placed and the general body
of water is of such depth that you can always cast from your anchored
canoe. As, under such circumstances, there are no obstructions behind
you, less care is required in keeping your fly well up in its backward
flight than when casting from the shore—as in some rivers you always
have to do.

In the salmon season the water is usually well down in the banks, and
in many rivers the slope from high water mark to the summer channel is
considerable. In casting, as a rule, you stand near the water; unless,
therefore, you cast high—that is, unless you keep your fly well up
in its backward flight it will almost certainly come in contact with
a stone or boulder of some sort and be broken. To avoid this mishap
requires great care. You must keep the point of your rod well up
always—several degrees higher than when casting on the water. My first
experience in shore-casting where the banks had a precipitous slope cost
me a great many pet flies; and I never got to feel really “at home” in
casting under such circumstances. It detracts from the sport when
your mind is occupied with the proper swing of the line. But enough of
ecstacy remains to enable one to overlook this inconsiderable drawback.
Only give the angler an opportunity to cast from any sort of standpoint
and he will speedily discover the proper lift and swing to overcome any
obstacle, and be happy.

Salmon casting—especially the frequency of the cast—depends largely
upon the character of the water you are fishing. If the pool is straight
and narrow and the current strong, and you are casting from a canoe, you
can so manipulate your fly as to render frequent casts unnecessary—the
important thing being not to let your fly sink, as it is not likely to
do in such a current. In large pools where the current is sluggish, as
is sometimes the case, frequent casts are necessary in order to touch it
at every point with your fly on the surface. Where you are able to cast
across a pool, if the current moves with a moderate force, you can sweep
it at each cast by giving your rod the proper motion. This latter class
of pools are those most coveted, because you can cover a great deal
of ground with very little effort. If you fall in with a pool—as
you sometimes will—where the current is so sluggish as to be almost
imperceptible, frequent casts are unavoidable. Without them, not only
will your fly sink, but your line will soon acquire a slack which not
only gives one an uncomfortable feeling but is unsafe in case of a rise.
The very first requisite in salmon fishing is a taut line. It is not
only requisite for safety, but without it it is impossible to promptly
and properly recover your line for a new cast.

But there is nothing so tests a salmon angler’s skill and patience as
to cast in an eddy or whirl. No matter how carefully or at what distance
one casts, the moment the fly touches the water it begins to come back
upon you, compelling constant casting if you cast at all. The result
is a great deal of hard work with very little effect, because to keep a
straight line your fly must be lifted almost the very moment it finds a
lodgment on the surface. In such a pool one soon becomes weary with his
efforts to place and hold his fly in the desired position, for it is not
often that he is rewarded by a rise. Since my first experience in such a
pool I have never hankered after its counterpart. And yet it was a sort
of success in this wray: Having become tired casting I allowed my fly
to go as it pleased. It was soon out of sight, having been drawn down by
one of the whirls, and in reeling up to prevent its being twisted around
the rock I presumed to be the primary cause of the whirl, I found myself
hooked to a fish which had taken my fly at least ten or twelve feet
below the surface. When I first felt him he came up as easily as a
six-ounce chub, and I supposed I had nothing heavier than a medium sized
trout. But as soon as he felt the hook and saw my canoe he showed his
mettle, and gave me just such a fight as I might have expected from a
twenty-pound salmon, as he proved to be. That was the first and last
salmon I ever took with the fly so far under water. The rule with some
anglers is “to let the fly sink a little”; my rule is never to let it
sink at all. When a fish strikes I want to see him. There is no movement
that so thrills and delights me as the rush of the salmon for the fly.
To me, half the pleasure of a rise is lost if I don’t see the head and
shoulders of the kingly fish when he leaps for the lure.

The manner of casting is almost as varied as the casters themselves. You
will seldom see two salmon anglers cast precisely alike. Some cast with
a straight backward and forward movement, without the divergence of
a hair. Others secure a half sweep to the line by giving the backward
movement over the left shoulder and the return over the right, or _vice
versa_. Still others almost invariably cast sideways, or “under” as it
is called, seldom lifting their rod perpendicularly. Some stand as erect
and motionless as a statue when they cast. Others sway to and fro as
if they made their body rather than their arms do the work; and others
still push themselves forward as they cast, as if they were not sure
their fly would reach its destination unless they followed it. These,
however, are simple mannerisms. Each may be equally expert—that is,
equally successful in placing his fly just where he wants it and just at
such distance as he please. My own preference and practice is, a slight
sway of the body and a nearly straight backward and forward movement of
the line. There are, of course, occasions when a semicircle sweep of the
line, or a lateral movement, or an under cast is necessary to reach
some desired objective point. All these movements, when they are deemed
necessary, will come from experience; but for unobstructed waters I
prefer a straight cast, and only such slight motion of the body as
will give occasional respite to the arms; for it is no boy’s play to
so handle a ponderous salmon rod for hours in succession as to give the
needed sweep to an eighty-foot line.

The flies used for salmon are more numerous and varied than those used
for trout, and quite as uncertain and puzzling to those who use them. I
have taken salmon, as I have taken trout, out of the same water within
the same hour with flies of directly opposite hues, and of shapes and
sizes which were the counterpart of nothing “in the heavens above,
in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth.” There are,
however, standard flies which experience has shown to be generally more
“taking” than others, and for this sufficient reason are always found
in salmon anglers’ fly books. But no expert deems any fly or any dozen
flies invariably adapted to all waters and all conditions of wind and
weather. It is superlative nonsense, therefore, to multiply varieties
indefinitely. It is only necessary to have an “assortment,” gaudy and
sombre, large and small, but plenty of them. It is very unpleasant to
run short when you are two or three hundred miles away from “the shop.”
Those who have had any considerable experience know just what they want,
and the only safe thing for the novice to do, when ready to lay in his
stock, is to seek advice of someone who knows something of what may be
required in the waters to be visited.

And then let him go to the quiet and roaring rivers where salmon
congregate, experiment with such flies as he has, lure the fish by his
skilful casts, strike quick, fight hard, and be happy.

Albany, Dec. 7th, 1882.




THE SALMON AND TROUT OF ALASKA.

By L. A. Beardslee, Captain D. S. Navy.


From the great salmon of the Yukon, to the tiny fingerlings, which in
innumerable quantities throng in the various creeks of Alaska, and are
as ambitious to seize a single salmon egg as are their larger brethren
to appropriate great masses of the same, however illy the bait may cover
and disguise the hook which impales it, there is not, I am convinced,
an Alaskan fish, which through any merit of its own, is entitled to
an introduction to the angling fraternity through the medium of this
volume, and to the companionship of the beautiful fac-similes of the
flies, which in life they scorned.

From personal observation and collected information, I am prepared to
accuse all of the salmon family which are found in Alaska, of the grave
offence of utterly ignoring the fly, either as food or plaything, and of
depending upon more gross and substantial resources.

They are odd fish, and require peculiar treatment both in catching and
discussing. And it is to this cause alone that they are indebted for the
honor of being made honorary members of the gallant band of game-fishes
of which this volume treats.

I have selected them as the subject of my contribution, because a
single glance at the array of well-known names of those who are to be
my co-contributors, convinced me that if I wished to present any new,
interesting, or valuable facts upon any icthyological subjects within
my range, I would have to travel well out of the ordinary tracks, and go
prospecting in some “far countree.”

This I have done, and I feel confident that I alone of the contributors
have been forced by circumstances over which I had no control, into a
situation where the obtaining of my notes became pleasure instead of
toil.

The notes which will be woven into this paper are not all of them
entirely new. Some have entered into a series of letters, which over
the signature “Piseco” have appeared in the columns of the _Forest and
Stream_, during 1879–80–81. Through the courtesy of the editor of that
journal, I am permitted to again make use of them.

I have preferred a grave charge against the salmon and trout of Alaska;
it is but just that I should explain the basis upon which it is founded,
and endeavor to establish my claim to be somewhat of an authority on the
subject.

From the middle of June, 1879, to the latter part of September, 1880, I,
as the commander of the U. S. ship of war _Jamestown_, was stationed
in the Territory of Alaska, with general instructions to restore and
preserve order among the incongruous collections of Whites, Creoles, and
Indians of which the inhabitants of that forsaken country was composed.

My command was moored in Sitka Harbor, but during the two summers and
autumns of my sojourn, my duties called upon me to make frequent trips
of from ten to two hundred miles, to various portions of the Territory.

These trips were made in small steamers which I hired, steam launches
and boats of the ship, and Indian canoes, and in them I explored many
of the straits and sounds which separate the islands of the Alexander
Archipelago.

Naturally fond of fishing and gunning, my Orvis rods, with full
assortment of flies, all gear necessary for salt-water fishing, and my
rifle and shot-gun, were my inseparable companions; and after days spent
in explorations, sometimes of bays and sounds never before entered by
white men, and in one case of a large bay forty miles deep by fifteen
broad, existing where the latest charts showed solid land only, my
evenings were spent poring over works on natural history, icthyology,
and ornithology, and jotting down in my note-book descriptions of my
finds. Such jolly times! One day a mineral lode, another great flocks of
ptarmigan, another a bear, a mountain sheep, or some new fish—gave me
something to dream of.

The Alexander Archipelago, of which Baranoff, Kruzoff, and Tchitagofi
Islands are the principal, is separated from the coast by Chatham
Strait, which, beginning at the southward as a continuation of Puget
Sound reaches to above 60° north at Chilkhat; it is from three to ten
miles wide, deep and steep, too, throughout, bordered on the coast side
by high, heavily timbered, snow-clad mountains, and on the other by
high wooded islands. On both sides, many of the ravines are occupied by
immense glaciers, from which flow icy streams, the birthplace of salmon.

Running nearly east and west there are several straits and sounds
connecting Chatham Strait with the Pacific Ocean, of which Peril
Strait, Icy Strait, and Cross Sound, are the principal. These, too,
are bordered, as is Chatham Straits, and are the homes of glaciers and
glacial streams.

Many of these streams I have personally fished, and among those under my
command were several with kindred tastes, and I became possessed of the
results of their experience.

I have read all that I could find of works on Alaska, and since my
return have naturally conversed much with every one whom I have met who
had also an Alaskan episode in his life, and have collected testimony
on the point at issue. One and all affirm that my experience has been
theirs, and the most strenuous efforts with well selected flies have
failed to record a single capture of trout or salmon. The first bit of
evidence I collected is worth recording. When the news that the Yankees
had purchased Alaska, and thus become owners of the land north as well
as south of British Columbia, was communicated to the Scotch Admiral
of the English squadron at Victoria, Vancouver’s Island, he ejaculated,
“_Dom the country! let ’em have it; the blausted saumon won’t rise to a
floi._” Such was our united experience and verdict.

Of course, as we caught no end of them (trout and salmon) there were
baits which would seduce them, and these were, for the trout, salmon
roe, and for the salmon, live herrings.

There was no poetry in our trout fishing, for compared with salmon roe
in slippery, sticky, slimy chunks, fish worms are aesthetically dainty.

There are several little lakes and more streams in the vicinity of
Sitka; some within reach for a day’s fishing, and some within an hour’s.
The principal of these are _Piseco Lake_ and stream, back of and running
through the town; _Indian River_ and pond, _Saw-Mill_ creek and lakes,
from one to five miles to the eastward; the _Redoubt_ river, lake, and
fall, seven miles to the southward; and a nameless lake and outlet on
Kruzoff Island, the lake embedded in a deep valley, one side of which is
formed by the foot-hills of Mount Edgecomb, a noble, eternally snow-clad
extinct volcano. In all of these trout or salmon are abundant in the
season; in some both, and in some are found species which do not exist
in others.

At the “_Redoubt_” I believe that all varieties and species are found.
The place is named from a huge dam winch the Russians built across the
mouth of a deep and wide ravine, thus forming a large lake of the river
which here empties into the sea. The dam is provided with a number of
salmon gates and traps. From the first run to the last, every passing
school leaves here its tribute, seduced by the proximity of the
beautiful lake; which tribute, duly smoked or salted, is barrelled for
the San Francisco market by a very “lone fisherman,” a Russian who for
many years, without other companionship than his klootchman (Indian
wife) and dogs, has devoted his life to the business.

If in this paper I make an occasional blunder, by transposition,
or misapplication of the terms “specie” and “variety,” or fail on a
scientific nomenclature, I beg that it will be remembered that my claim
is not to be an authority on icthyology, when such names are necessary,
but on Alaska fish, which get along very well with their English,
Indian, or Russian names.

I find in my note-book memoranda of the capture of
_bathymaster-signatus, chirus deccagramus, and even a
cotlus-polycicantliocejrfialous_, but had not Professor Bean instructed
me, I should have continued (and I believe I did) to call the first two
after the fish they most resembled, viz., rock cod and sea bass; and
of the last named I have lost and forgotten the description. But we
can spare him; the salmon and trout will, I feel sure, furnish all the
material needed, and I will confine myself to them.


THE SALMON.

Five species of salmon have been identified as found in Alaska; these
are:

The Oncorhynchus Chouicha,

The Oncorhynchus Keta,

The Oncorhynchus Nerka,

The Oncorhynchus Kisutch,

The Oncorhynchus Garbosha.

I am indebted to Professor Bean for the above list. In it I recognize
some familiar Russian names, and I will supplement the nomenclature. The
“_Keta_” is the big hump-backed salmon of the Yukon, sometimes attaining
a weight of sixty pounds; the _Nerha_ is also called by the Russians
_Crassnarebia_, or red-fleshed; and the distinction is well made, for
compared with it, the flesh of the other species seems to fade into
pink; the “_Kisutch_” or “black throat” is so called on account of the
intense blackness of the roof of the mouth and throat; the flesh is
lighter red than the _Nerkas_, but more so than any other species,
and as a table fish it excels all others, bringing twice the price at
retail; the _Garbosha_ is the small hump-back, and strikingly resembles
the “red fish” of Idaho. This is the only salmon that I am sure
ascends any of the streams near Sitka, except at the Redoubt, where
the _Kisutch_ and _Crassna-rebia_ are taken in late August and
early September. The common name for the _garbosha_ is the
“dog salmon,” and a more _hideous_ object than one of them as found
swimming listlessly or dying in one of the pools, it is hard to conceive
of. I find this note of description: “Aug. 26th.—In a shallow pool
I saw a fish some two feet long, feebly struggling as though he were
trying to push himself ashore. I picked him up and laid him on the
grass. A sicker fish never continued to wag his tail; his skin was
yellow, picked out with green and blue spots, from an inch to three
in diameter; and one on his side was about an inch wide and six inches
long, bleeding and raw as though gnawed by mice. One eye was gone, one
gill cover eaten through, and every fin and the tail were but ragged
bristles, all web between the rays having disappeared.”

The first run of the salmon is well worth description. About the middle
of May, varying from year to year by a few days only, the inhabitants of
dull, sleepy old Sitka experience a sensation, and are aroused from the
lethargy in which they have existed through the long winter. The word
spreads like wildfire, _the salmon are coming!_ Everybody rushes to the
heights which furnish prospect, and strain their eyes for confirmation.

One of our sailors, musically inclined, paraphrased very neatly the old
song, “_The Campbells are Coming!_ huzza! huzza!” and achieved fame by
portraying the emotions nightly under the lee of the forecastle.

So good an outlook has been kept by the keen-eyed Indians, and the
Creole boy in the belfry of the Greek church, that when first the glad
tidings are announced, the fish are many miles away, and no signs of
their advent visible to the unpracticed eye. Ear away to the southward,
there hangs all winter a dense black bank, the accumulation of the
constant uprising of vapor from the warm surface of the Kuro-siwo,
or Japanese Gulf Stream, which washes the shores of this archipelago;
condensed by the cold winds sweeping over the snow-clad mountains to
the northward, it is swept by them, and piled up as far as the eye can
reach, covering and hiding the southern horizon as with a pall.

Presently our glasses reveal bright flashes upon the face of this
curtain; and soon, to the naked eye, it appears as though the whole
horizon had been encircled with a coral reef, against which the dashing
waves were being shattered into foamy breakers. The breakers advance,
and soon among them we discern black, rapidly-moving forms, and here
our previous nautical experience comes into play, and, “Holymither, d’ye
mind the say pigs!” as shouted by Paddy Sullivan, the captain of the
afterguard, explains most graphically the phenomenon.

The salmon _are_ coming, and with them, among, and after them, a host
of porpoises; an army so great, that an attempt to estimate in numbers
would be futile.

The Bay and Sound of Sitka are dotted with many beautiful, well-wooded
islands; between them, the channels are deep and blue, and these are
soon thronged by the fleeing salmon and their pursuers; the harbor is
soon reached; but it does not prove one of safety, for although there
are immense flats covered only at half to whole tide, where the salmon
could, and the porpoises could not go, the former avoid them, and,
clinging to the deep water, seek vainly the protection of our ship and
boats, which do not deter the porpoises in the slightest degree. For
two or three days, our eyes, and at night, our ears, tell us that the
warfare, or rather massacre, is unceasing; then there comes an interval
of several days, during which there are no salmon nor porpoises.

I had formed an idea, a wrong one, that the presence of salmon would be
made manifest by the leaping of the fish; on the contrary, were we to
judge by this sign alone, but very few had visited us.

The first school had hardly gotten fairly into the harbor, before I,
with others, was in pursuit.

The cannery boats, and Indians, with their seines, and I with a trolling
line and fly-rod.

A single fish apparently, was at intervals of perhaps a minute, leaping
near a point. Indian Dick, one of my staff, excitedly pointed that way,
and urged me to go. “_There! there! sawmo sugataheen_” (plenty). I
was inclined to look elsewhere, or wait for a larger school; but Dick
remonstrated, “_Man see one fish jump, sir, may be got thousand don’t
jump, be under_.” And Dick was right; but a very small percentage leap
from the water, of which I became more fully convinced when I went with
Tom McCauley, head fisherman of the cannery, on seining trips, or
rather on a seining trip, for the affair disgusted me; and, as with my
experience of Spanish bull-fighting, one trial was enough. Imagine so
many fish that _tons_ were the units used in estimating, penned up by
the walls of the seines, into an enclosure, massed so solidly that five
Indians, striking rapidly at random into the mass, with short-handled
gaff hooks, at such rate that, upon one day’s fishing, this boat,
manned by eight Indians and one white man, secured _thirteen tons_ of
marketable fish. It was bloody, nasty butchery, and sickened me. Not a
fish attempted to leap out of the net.

McCauley supplied me with some data, from his point of view.

“_About the middle of June, the fish are plentiful enough to start the
cannery, and the season lasts from ten to twelve weeks” He has observed
“Seven different kinds of salmon, all of which are good for canning and
for the table; but two species which come latest are the most valuable,
the flesh being very red and rich with oil_” (Kisutch and Crassna
Rebia); that “_all of the salmon ‘dog’ more or less, and that the
dogging begins immediately after they have attempted to enter the
streams, not before August; that after this process has begun_ (and he
discovered it in fish which, to my unexperienced eyes showed no signs of
it) _the value for canning was depreciated_,” and all such he rejected,
and gave to the flock of poor Indians, who, in their canoes, followed
us to secure them. If McCauley’s ideas are correct, the Alaska salmon
caught in salt water, should be superior to those of the Columbia River
and elsewhere, caught in brackish water. During the season of 1879 there
was packed at this cannery, 144,000 lbs. of fish; the largest catch
of any one day was 30,000 lbs. (over 16 tons); the greatest quantity
canned, 9,000 lbs.; the largest fish obtained, 51 lbs.; and the average
weight 12 lbs. The cost of the fish can be estimated at less than
one cent per pound. Just what “dogging” is, I don’t know. McCauley’s
opinion, which was shared by many others familiar with the fishing, is
that it is a sickness indicated by a change of form and color, produced
by contact with fresh water, and that the most hideously hump-backed,
hook-jawed, red and purple garbosha, was once a straight-backed, comely
fish; which, if true, upsets some theories. All I know about it is, that
previous to the advent of the garboshas, in August, no change of form
and color is observable in any of the fish, none of which enter the
streams. During August, at the same time and place in the creeks, there
can be seen garbosha salmon in all stages of the transformation, and
the change in form and color is coincident. Some are silvery and nearly
straight; others tarnished, and with slight elevation of back; others
red, with greater protuberance; and finally, some purple-red, with fully
developed humps, which more than double their height above the median
line; and these monsters the Indians like best, and say that they are
better for smoking than any other.

Another idea which I had imbibed in regard to salmon, became greatly
modified by my experience. I thought, and I believe many do, that the
instinct which prompts the salmon to run in from the sea, is to reach,
by the shortest route, the place of birth; and that they make a straight
wake from the ocean to the mouth of their native creeks; and that while
impelled by this instinct, they refrain altogether from food. In all
of this, I think that I was mistaken; and that the fish which begin to
swarm in Sitka Harbor in May, and continue coming and going for nearly
three months before any enter the stream, are simply visitors, which,
on their way north, are driven in to seek shelter from the porpoises and
other enemies.

That they feed at this time, I have plenty of evidence. We caught small
ones, on hand-lines baited with venison. Numbers were taken trolling,
using any ordinary spoon. I had with me pickerel, bass, and lake trout
spoons, of brass and silvery surface. All were successful, the silvery
ones the most so.

And I had many good strikes upon _spectabilis_ or salmon trout, of six
to eight inches, spun on a gang and trolled. The Indians in Chatham
Strait catch a great many upon hooks baited with live herring; these are
attached to short lines, which are fastened to duckshaped wooden buoys,
and allowed to float away from the canoe. I have myself been present at
the capture of a number in this manner.

The Greek Priest, and companies of the least poor of the Creoles, own
seine boats, which go out daily; and after every fair clay’s seining the
sandy beach in front of Russian town presents a picturesque appearance,
dotted as it is with heaps of from one to three tons of salmon, whose
silvery sheen reflects the light of the bonfires, around which, knives
in hand, squat all the old squaws and children, cleaning on shares.
Nearly all of the fish taken by them are smoked for winter’s use.

Every glacial stream in Alaska is, in its season, full of salmon,
alive and dead. One, which for want of a better, was given my name, and
appears on the charts as _Beardslee_ River, I will describe; for in it I
saw, for the first time, that which had been described to me, but which
I had doubted; a stream so crowded with fish that one could hardly wade
it and not step on them; this and other as interesting sights fell to me
that pleasant August day.

As we, in our little steamer, neared _William Henry Bay_, situated
on the west side of _Chatham Strait_, and an indentation of _Baranoff
Island_, we found ourselves in a pea-green sea, dotted here and there
with the backs of garbosha salmon; the fish, which were of the few that
had survived the crisis of reproduction, having drifted out of the
hay, and with their huge humps projecting, were swimming aimlessly,
and apparently blindly (for after anchoring, they would run against our
boats, and directly into hands held out to catch them), in the brackish
surface water; made so and given its peculiar color by the water of
Beardslee River, which arising at the foot of a glacier, had been fed
by rivulets from others on its course to the sea, and through its lower
specific gravity, rested upon the salt water. These sick salmon were so
plentiful that I thought that a large percentage had lived and escaped
the danger, but upon landing at the mouth of the river, saw that I was
mistaken. For several miles the river meanders through an alluvial flat,
the moraine of receded glaciers. The moraine was covered with a thick
growth of timothy and wild barley, some standing six feet in height;
much more pressed flat by layers, three and four deep, of dead salmon,
which had been left by the waters falling. Thousands of gulls and fish
crows were feeding upon the eyes and entrails of these fish, and in the
soft mud innumerable tracks of bears and other animals were interspersed
with bodiless heads of salmon, showing that they, too, had attended the
feast. I waded the river for over two miles, and the scene was
always the same. That wade was one to be remembered. In advance of
me generally, but checked at times by shoal water, there rushed a
struggling and splashing mass of salmon, and when through the shoaling,
or by turning a short corner, I got among them, progress was almost
impossible; they were around me, under me, and once when, through
stepping on one I fell, I fancy over me. All were headed up stream, and
I presumed, ascending, until, while resting on a dry rock, I noticed
that many, although _headed up_, were actually slowly _drifting down
stream_.

In many pools that I passed, the gravel bottom was hollowed out into
great wallows, from which, as I approached, crowds of salmon would
dart; and I could see that the bottom was thickly covered with eggs, and
feasting on them were numbers of immense salmon trout.

I saw frequently the act of spawning; and I saw once, a greedy trout
rush at a female salmon, seize the exuding ova, and tear it away, and
I thought that perhaps in some such rushes, lay the explanation of the
wounds which so frequently are found on the female salmon’s belly after
spawning.

At first, I thought there were two species of salmon in the creek; one
unmistakably the hideous garboslia, the other a dark straight-backed
fish; but upon examining quite a number of each variety which I had
picked up, I found that all the hump-backed fish were males, and the
others all females; that is, all that I examined; but as they were all
spent fish, I could not be sure. I therefore shot quite a number of
livelier ones, and found confirmation.

I saw one female that was just finishing spawning. She lay quiet, as
though faint, for a couple of minutes, then began to topple slowly over
on to her side, recovered herself, and then, as though suddenly startled
from a deep sleep, darted forward, and thrust herself half of her length
out of the water, upon a gravel bar, and continued to work her way until
she was completely out of water, and there I left her to die.

A very large proportion of the fish were more or less bruised and
discolored; and upon nearly all there extended over the belly a fungoid
growth resembling rough yellow blotting paper.

The size of the fish was quite uniform, ranging from two feet to thirty
inches.

But that I had seen the living spent fish in the bay, I could have
readily believed the truth of the impression of many, that the act of
spawning terminates the life of the salmon of the Pacific coast.

One more point on the salmon, and I will leave them.

Upon our first arrival, we all indulged very heartily upon them, and in
two or three days, a new disease made its appearance among us. A number
of us were seized with very severe gripes and cramps, and these lasted,
in all cases, for several days, and in some for a much longer period,
two of the men becoming so reduced that it was necessary to send them
to hospital. The direct cause, our doctor ascertained, was the diet
of salmon to which we had taken; and by regulating and reducing the
consumption, the difficulties were checked.

In conclusion, I would say that I have made every effort that would
naturally occur to a fisherman to take Alaska salmon with flies, of
which I had good assortment, and never got a rise.


ALASKA TROUT.

I am indebted to Professor Tarleton II. Bean for a classification of the
various trout, of which specimens had been duly bottled and labelled,
during our stay in Alaska. I had fancied, from differences in the
markings, that I had _five_ species at the least, but Bean ruthlessly
cut the number down to three, viz.:

_Salvelina Malma, or Spectabilis, or Bairdil_

_Salmo Gardneri_, and

_Salmo Purpuratus_, or Clark’s trout.


The first named, called commonly by us the salmon trout, was abundant in
all of the streams, from about middle of June until middle of September,
evidently timing their arrival and departure by the movements of the
salmon, upon whose eggs they live. I have noted, on June 1st, “No salmon
trout yet in any of the streams. Several fine, large ones captured by
the Indians in nets set in sea.” Ten days after, the streams were full
of them, and in the earlier part of the interim many would run into the
pools of the lower parts with the flooding tide, and out again on the
ebb.

When they left us in September, it is probable that they migrated
south, for in a letter to _Forest and Stream_, dated Portland, Oregon,
September 28, a correspondent states that, in that month, “there begins
to appear in the streams near the Columbia river, a trout,” whose
description tallies exactly with that of the _spec-tabilis_, except that
the correspondent speaks of their affording _fine sport with the fly_;
this the trout while in Alaska fails to do. At first, the _spectabilis_
affect the rapids, but after a few days seek the deep pools, where they
gather in great numbers, and bite ravenously on hooks covered with spawn
and sunk to the bottom. Occasionally, when spawn was out, we used a bit
of fresh venison; but at the best they cared little for it, and when
the blood became soaked out, the bait was useless. Although fairly gamey
when hooked, fishing for these trout was but a poor substitute, for one
who had felt and remembered the thrills caused by sudden strikes of our
Adirondack fish. I have often when pool-fishing, seen them leisurely
approach the bait, and nibble at it as a dainty, full-fed kitten will at
a bit of meat, and when one did get the hook, we found it out only by a
slight resistance to the series of light twitches which it was necessary
to give it. They have evidently been taught by experience that salmon
roe is not apt to attempt escape. The usual size of the fish ranged from
six to twelve inches—now and then one larger. The largest taken by any
of us, near Sitka, fell victim to my “salmon spawn fly,” and gave
my little Orvis rod half an hour’s good work. It measured twenty-one
inches, but was very light for the length, weighing but two and
three-quarter pounds. At the Redoubt river, much larger ones were taken;
and two which I shot in Beardslee river were over two feet in length;
how much they weighed I never found out, for their surroundings of
sick and dying salmon, upon whose eggs they were feeding, prejudiced me
against them and I left them.

In shape and color the _spectabilis_ vary greatly, both factors
depending upon the length of time they have been in fresh water. When
fresh run, they are long and lean, shaped somewhat like the lake trout
of Adirondack lakes. The colors are dark lustrous olive-green back,
growing lighter as the median line is approached, and blending into a
silvery gray tint, which pales to a pure white on the belly; the green
portion is sprinkled with golden specks; the flesh is hard, and very
good for the table. After a very short sojourn in the creek, bright
crimson specks appear among the golden, which, however, fade to a pale
yellow; the lustre of the green disappears, they become heavier, but the
flesh becomes soft and uneatable, and the skin is covered with slime.
Salmon trout taken late in August and early in September, were full of
ripe ova.

Professor Bean placed some fish, that had been taken in salt water, into
a bucket of fresh, and the crimson spots made their appearance in less
than a day.

When fully decked with these, and fattened, they resembled our
_fontanalis_ greatly—the head, however, being somewhat larger, and the
tail less square.

_Salmo Gardneri_. My acquaintance with this species is very limited. The
first one that I saw I took in Sawmill Creek, well up to the head, in
September, 1879. Seeing that it differed greatly from the _spectabilis_,
I preserved it in alcohol, and it was subsequently identified by
Professor Bean. It measured a trifle over ten inches, and was very
plump, weighing seven and a quarter ounces. In my notes, I describe it
thus: “Body, dark green on back, but in general colors very much like
a steel head or quinnat salmon; covered with round, black spots, from
one-sixteenth to one-eighth inch in diameter; these extend considerably
below the median line, and the tail and dorsal fins are covered
with them; the second dorsal adipose, but less so than that of the
_fontanalis_, having a slight show of membrane, on which there are four
spots; ventral and anal fins, yellowish in centre, bordered with red;
belly, dull white; tail, nearly square; scales, quite large, about the
size of those of a fingerling chub; flesh, firm; and skin, not slimy. No
signs of ova or milt.”

On the 28th of April, 1880, I made note: “The first salmon of the season
made their début to-day—that is, if they are salmon, which I doubt.

“Five beauties, from thirty to forty inches long, were brought
alongside, in a canoe paddled by a wild-looking and awe-struck Siwash,
who, with his crouching Klootchman and papoose, gazed upon our ship,
guns, and us with an expression that showed them to be unfamiliar
sights. He was evidently a stranger, and was taken in, for he took
willingly two bits (25 cents) each for the fish, and no Sitka Siwasli
but would have charged treble the price. Through an interpreter, I
learned that he had spent the last seven months in a shanty on the
western side of Kruzoff Island, and that well up, among the foot-hills
of Mount Edgecomb, there was a little lake, from which there flowed a
small stream into the Pacific, and that in the headwaters of this stream
he had speared these fish, which run up the stream in the fall, remain
all winter in the lake, and in early spring spawn in the head of the
outlet.”

All of this militated strongly against the theory that they were salmon,
and when, on being dressed, the females were found to be full of ripe
ova, said theory was upset completely. My ten-inch specimen of last
September supplied us with a clue, and it was soon decided that these
magnificent fish were indeed trout; for in every respect except size,
and size of spots, some of which were a quarter of an inch in diameter,
the fish were identical. Whitford, the oldest inhabitant, confirmed
the Indian’s story, and gave me in addition the Indian name for the
fish—_Quot_ and that of the Russians, which I forget, but it meant
“Mountain Trout,” and said that they are found only in the lakes, high
up in the mountains, and that in winter the Indians spear and catch them
through holes in the ice.

We found the flesh to be very delicious—far more so than the best of
the salmon. The processes of cooking, both by broiling and boiling, had
a curious effect, for the flesh, which, when uncooked, was of a very
bright red, blanched to pure white.

The trip to Mount Edgecomb, in the early spring, involved hardship and
danger; and although several of us resolved that we would undertake
it, for the sake of such fish, somehow we never did, and I have thus
described all of the _gardneri_ that I ever saw.

_Salmo purpuratus (Clarkii)_. The most beautiful of the trout family,
although in no way equal to our Eastern trout in any other respect.

The _purpuratus_ is a lake trout, and found only in low-lying lakes.
Just back of Sitka, at the foot of the mountains, and elevated perhaps
twenty feet above the sea, is a little lake dubbed by me “_Piseco_”.

Handy to get at, and its outlet running through the centre of the town,
it became, in early spring, our first resort for fishing. Arriving in
June, 1879, many of us had, through days of fruitless endeavor, during
the summer and autumn, grown to disbelieve the tales of the inhabitants,
that this lake abounded in trout; but on the 20th of May, 1880, from
somewhere, there thronged the shallow edges, among the lily pads, great
schools of these trout, and for about two weeks there was no limit to
the number one could take of them. Salmon spawn was the best bait, but a
bit of venison would answer. A fly they would not rise to. In size, they
ranged from six to twelve inches—the latter size being, however, very
exceptional; their average was about eight inches. The description in my
notes is: “Specimen, May 27th. Length, nine and one-half inches; depth,
two and three-eighth inches; weight, five ounces; colors—back, rich,
dark brown, growing lighter toward medial line; at which, covering it
for a space of half an inch, there is a longitudinal stripe of rich
purple, extending from opercle nearly to tail; below the median line,
bright olive-green, lightening to silvery white on belly. All of the
tinted portion is profusely sprinkled with oval black spots, which mark
also the dorsal, caudal, and adipose fins; the ventral and anal fins are
yellowish bordered with crimson; tail, nearly square.

“The entire tinted portion has a beautiful golden iridescence, so that
when held in the sunlight, and looked at from the rear, it seems to be
gilded.” It may be noticed that, with the exception of the purple stripe
and the golden iridescence, the description of this fish is almost
identical with that of the _gardneri_. I think it quite possible that
they are the same at different ages, and that later in life these
Clarkii may become ambitious and seek more lofty lakes. None that were
taken contained ova.

Where they came from, unless they run up the inlet at night, no one
found out, for although closely watched in the daytime, none were ever
seen in it.

After about two weeks the greater portion disappeared, and although
sought in the deep waters of the lake, could not be found. Major William
Governeur Morris, the Collector of Customs of Alaska, assures me,
however, that during the summer of 1882, he found certain places in the
lake where he caught them until August. On July 4th he with a friend
catching four hundred and three in three hours, baiting with a single
salmon egg.

I am not sure that we could not have again found them, but the fishing
having grown slack in the lake, and growing daily better in the creeks,
we spent most of our time on the latter.


COMPARISON OF ALASKA WITH EASTERN TROUT.

The principal differences between the Alaska and Eastern trout are,
first, all Alaskans have hyoid teeth, the eastern trout have not.

No Alaskan trout will take a fly. All Alaskan trout, I think, spend a
portion of their lives in salt water. Length being equal, the Alaska
trout, with the exception of the Gardneri, or mountain trout, are
lighter than those of our eastern streams.

Using as a standard the average weight of a number of ten-inch
Adirondack trout, the following table will show this:

[Illustration: 0051]

     Fontanalis-Adirondack, length 10 inches,
     Fresh-run Spectabilis,      „ 10   „
     Crimson-specked             „ 10.3 „
     Sal mo Clarkii,             „  9   „
     Salmo Gardneri,             „ 10.1 „

In conclusion, I must again request that this contribution shall not be
considered and judged as an attempt to scientifically describe the fish
treated upon, but rather as what it really is, a condensation of the
field-notes of an amateur angler.

I have, in giving the sizes, weights, and other data in regard to the
Alaska salmon and trout, depended almost entirely upon my personal
knowledge and experience; it may not be out of place to add to them some
data gathered from reliable authorities.

In his report on the resources of Alaska, Major Mm. Governeur Morris
writes: “Sixty thousand Indians and several thousand Aleuts and
Esquimaux depend for the most part upon dried salmon for their winter
sustenance.”

The Hon. Wm. S. Hodge, formerly Mayor of Sitka, states in an official
report: “And additional testimony comes to us from numerous persons,
that at Cook’s Inlet the salmon average in weight sixty pounds, and some
of them reach a weight of one hundred and twenty pounds, and Mr. T. G.
Murphy only last week brought down from there on the _Newbern_ a barrel
full, containing only _four_ fish.” Surgeon Thomas T. Minor, who some
years ago visited Cook’s Inlet, in connection with business of the
Smithsonian Institution, makes statements which confirm the foregoing.

In the vicinity of Klawaek a cannery is established. A catch of seven
thousand fish at one haul of the seines is not unusual, many weighing
over forty pounds.

Mr. Frederick Whymper, artist to the Russian Overland Telegraph
Expedition, says in his well-written and interesting account of his
adventures: “The Yukon salmon is by no means to be despised. One large
variety is so rich that there is no necessity when frying it to put fat
in the pan. The fish sometimes measure five feet in length, and I have
seen boats whose sides were made of the tough skin.”

And a writer who, if disposed to strain the truth would not do so to say
anything in favor of Alaska, says in an article in Harper’s Magazine,
Vol. LV. page 815: “The number of spawning fish that ascend the Yukon
every June or July is something fabulous.... It would appear reasonable
to anticipate, therefore, the adoption by our fishermen of some
machinery by which they can visit the Yukon when the salmon begin to
run, and while they ascend the river catch a million pounds a day, for
the raw material is there, of the largest size, the finest flavor, and
the greatest number known to any stream in the world.’”

My general views about Alaska differ widely from those of the writer,
but on the salmon question, I indorse all I have quoted, excepting only
the word flavor.

I do not think the Alaska salmon equal in this respect to those of the
Atlantic coast, and far behind those of the Rhine; they are, however,
superior to those of the Columbia River.

In speaking of the salmon, I find I have omitted to mention that in
early spring, before the arrival of the salmon trout, and after their
departure in fall, great quantities of fingerling salmon pervaded the
streams, and bit eagerly at any kind of meat bait.

While the _spectabilis_ were present, these little fellows kept out of
sight and notice.

Since the body of this paper was written there has been on exhibition by
Mr. Blackford, of Fulton Market, Yew York, a number of trout, pronounced
to be the _salmo irideus_, one of which, weighing fifteen pounds, was
sent to the Smithsonian Institution, and there identified by Professor
Bean as being “_Salmo gardneri, the great trout of Edgecomb Lake_.”

I, studying these fish in their glass tank, did not form this opinion,
for Blackford’s trout had a broad red band extending from just back of
the eye to the tail, covering the opercule, a marking not existing on
any of the Edgecomb trout I have seen. But the Professor assures me that
“_color on the lateral line is not a specific character_.” On comparing
my notes of description of these fish, I find that in all other respects
they did appear identical, hence that the conclusion arrived at by
Prof. Bean, that “the _gardneri_ and the _irideus_ (or rainbow trout of
McCloud River), are identical seems well founded. If so, and my crude
supposition that the Clarkii, obtained in Piseco Lake near Sitka are
also identical with the gardneri turns out to be correct, there can be
a condensation of nomenclature, which will lead to at least one valuable
result from this paper.

“No sooner had the barbed hook fastened in its insidious hold, and the
impaled monarch learned that he was captive, than every effort of his
lithe and agile frame was brought into play to recover freedom. In every
struggle, in every effort to burst thee bonds that made him captive,
there was an utter recklesness of consequences, a disregard for life
that was previously unknown, as from side to side of the pool he rushed,
or headlong stemmed the sweeping current. Nor did the hero confine
himself to His own element; again and again he burst from its surface
to fall back fatigued, but not conquered. The battle was a severe one, a
struggle to the death; and when the landing net placed the victim at
my feet, I felt that he had died the death of a hero. Such was my first
sea-trout, no gamer, truly, than hundreds I have captured since;
but what can be expected of a race of which every member is a
hero?”—_Parker Gilmore_.

“If, indeed, you be an angler, join us and welcome, for then it is known
to you that no man is in perfect condition to enjoy scenery unless
he have a fly-rod in his hand and a fly-book in his pocket.”—_Wm. G.
Prime_.

“It was something more than a splendid trout that he brought to our view
as we met him at the landing. The young heart in the old body—the
genuine enthusiasm of the veteran angler—the glorification of the
gentle art which has soothed and comforted many an aged philosopher—all
this he revealed to us, and we wanted to lift the grand old man to our
shoulders and bear him in reverent triumph up the ascent.”—A. Judd
Northrop.

“From the fisherman’s point of view, the sea trout is equal to the
finest grilse that ever ascended Tay or Tweed, exceeding, as he does,
for gameness and pertinacity every other British fish.”—_David
Foster_.

[Illustration: 0056]

1. Silver Doctor.

2. Scarlet Ibis.

3. Black June.

4. Gray Drake.

5. Captain.

6.’Academy.

“As to flies, the indifference of sea-trout about kind, when they are in
the humor to take any, almost warrants the belief of some anglers that
they leap in mere sport at whatever chances to be floating. It is true
they will take incredible combinations, as if color-blind and blind to
form. But experiments on their caprice are not safe. If their desire is
to be tempted, that may most surely be done with three insects, adapted
to proper places and seasons. One need not go beyond the range of a
red-bodied fly with blue tip and wood-duck wings for ordinary use, a
small all gray fly for low water in bright light, and a yellowish fly,
green striped and winged with curlew feathers, for a fine cast under the
alders for the patriarchs.”—_A. R. Macdonough_.

“His tackle, for brieht airless days, is o’ gossamere; and at a wee
distance aff, you think he’s fishin’ without ony line ava, till whirr
gangs the pirn, and up springs the sea-trout, silver-brieht, twa yards
out o’ the water, by a delicate jerk o’ the wrist, hyucked inextricably
by the tongue clean ower the barb o’ the kirby-bend. Midge-flees!”—_The
Ettrick Shepherd_.

“O, sir, doubt not but that Angling is an art; is it not an art to
deceive a trout with an artificial fly?”—_Izaak-Walton._

“Sea-trout show themselves wherever salmon are found, but not always
simultaneously with them. In rivers where the salmon run begins in
May or early June, you need not look for sea-trout in any considerable
numbers before well on into July. Intermediately they are found in
tide-water at the mouths of the salmon rivers, and often in such numbers
and of such weight as give the angler superb sport.”—_George Dawson_.




SEA-TROUT.

By Fitz James Fitch.


Sunday morning, August 2, 1874, found us, Mr. A. R. Macdonough and
me, at Tadousac, a French. Canadian village, very small for its age,
situated on the northeast shore of the Saguenay River, one and a half
miles from the junction of its dark and mighty waters with the turbid
and mightier St. Lawrence. This day was the beginning of the culmination
of four months of preparation for a month’s release from the business
world, its toil, care and worry. The preparations began with the payment
of $150 in gold—$171.20 currency—the rent named in a lease securing
to us the exclusive right to fish a river on the north shore of, and
emptying into, the St. Lawrence many miles below the Saguenay. We left
New York sweltering in a temperature that sent the mercury up to the
nineties; were fanned by the cool evening breeze of the Hudson, and
later by the cooler breath of the old Catskills, around which cluster
the recollections and associations of thirty years of my life. We had
travelled by rail to Montreal, 412 miles, and spent a day there; by
steamboat to Quebec, 180 miles, where we passed twenty-four hours.
We had left this, the most interesting city of English-speaking North
America, in the morning by steamboat, and, after a day of delights
upon this majestic river, the St. Lawrence, reached L’Anse à l’Eau, the
landing for Tadousac, 130 miles, in the evening of August 1st.

We felt as we walked out upon the wide piazza of the Tadousac Hotel
that

                    “summer Sunday morn

                   When Nature’s face was fair,”

and looked up that mysterious river, the Saguenay, and upon its
castellated mountains of granite, that indeed “the lines had fallen to
us in pleasant places.” We had reached the end, as our course lay, of
railroads and steamboat lines, and must finish our journey in _chaloupe_
and birch-bark canoe. We were there to leave civilization and its
conveniences for nature and primitive modes of life. In the story I
am relating my progress up to this point has been as rapid as was our
transit. From this point on it must correspond with our slower mode of
progression; and hence there must be more of detail in what follows.
I hope, but cannot expect, that the reader will find the change as
agreeable and free from irksomeness as we found our _chaloupe_, canoe,
tent, and life in the woods.

After an excellent breakfast, we lighted cigars and walked down to the
humble cottage of my guide, David, on the beach of the little bay of
Tadousac, who had in charge our tents, stores, camp equipments,
and three new birch-bark canoes, ordered months before,
and for which we paid $75 in gold. David paddled us out to our
_chaloupe_, anchored in the bay, and introduced me to Captain Edward
Ovington, master, and his nephew, Fabian, a lad of sixteen or seventeen
years, his mate. The _chaloupe_ was thirty feet “fore and aft;” beam,
9½ feet. Six or eight feet aft we called the quarter-deck. A
comfortable seat surrounded three sides of it, affording sittings for
eight or ten persons. Next forward of this, and separated from it by a
bulkhead, was a space of six or eight feet for freight. Next came our
cabin, eight by nine feet, and just high enough to enable us to sit
upright on the low shelf which was to serve as a seat by day and bed
at night. Then came the forecastle, in which was a very small cooking
stove. The vessel was rigged with main and topmast, strengthened by
iron shrouds, with a large mainsail, topsail, jib and “jigger,” as it
is called by Canadian boatmen. It was in respect to the jigger that the
craft differed from a sloop-rigged yacht or boat. Clear aft, and back
of the rudder-post, was a mast about fifteen feet high; running from
the stern of the vessel was a stationary jigger boom, something like the
jib-boom, except that it was horizontal; on these was rigged a sail in
shape like the mainsail. The boat was a fair sailer, strong, well built,
and from four to six tons burden. In returning to the hotel we stopped
at and entered the little French Roman Catholic Church. It is not known
when it was erected. Jacques Cartier, in his second visit to America,
in 1535, explored the Saguenay; and Father Marquette made Tadousac his
residence for a short time. When he first came to this country in 1665,
tradition tells us, he established a mission there and built a log
chapel on the site where the church we entered stands. The latter is a
wooden building, about twenty-five by thirty feet, with a handsome altar
placed in a recess chancel, the rear wall of which is adorned with three
oil paintings. The centre one, over the altar, was the Crucifixion.
A small porch, or vestibule, of rough boards, had been added in modern
times. A little antique bell swung in the belfry on the east gable,
which was surmounted by an iron floriated cross. The church was filled
with devout _habitans_, mainly—there was a sprinkling of summer
boarders and anglers—who listened with apparent interest to the
extempore sermon of a young French priest of prepossessing appearance
and manner. In the afternoon I attended the English Episcopal Church,
about a mile from the hotel, and midway between Tadousac and L’Anse
à l’Eau. Here I felt quite at home, enjoyed the services, and joined
heartily in the prayer for the “Queen, the Royal Family, and all who are
in authority.” I was compelled to put a U. S. greenback, to represent my
contribution of one dollar, upon the plate. I have been sorry ever
since that I did not secure a reputation for honesty and fair dealing by
adding a dime to pay the premium on gold, and thus make good our (then)
depreciated currency.

August 3d.—A gray flannel suit and shirt were donned this morning.
Our fishing clothes and paraphernalia were packed in large canvas bags,
toilet articles, etc., in grip sacks, and all else left in our Saratoga
trunks, and in charge of the hotel manager until our return. At 11
o’clock we walked down to the beach where David and the Captain met us
with our respective canoes. I asked “Dah-veede” (he was very particular
about the pronunciation of his name), “how shall I dispose of myself in
this cranky thing?”

“Sit down on the bottom, sir.” The latter part of the sitting process
was rather emphatic. I wondered how I was to get up! All being on board
the good _chaloupe_ Quebec, the sails were spread to the breeze, and by
one o’clock we had beat out of the bay, down the Saguenay, and were on
the St. Lawrence. As we sailed, the canoes which had been in tow were
hoisted on deck; one, turned upon its side, was lashed to the shrouds
of the vessel on either side, and the third, turned bottom up, was laid
upon the cabin deck. The wind was N. W., and favorable, so that we made
about eight knots an hour. We landed at Escomains, to take on
board Pierre Jacques, a full-blooded Indian, possessing the usual
characteristics of his race—laziness and love of whiskey. He was Mr.
Macdonough’s guide; and, despite the weaknesses mentioned, proved a
good guide and a most skilful canoeist. We continued to sail until ten
o’clock at night, when we dropped anchor. The night was dark and rainy,
the wind fresh, and the river very rough, causing our little craft
to dance, roll, and pitch in a most disgusting manner. We had no
seasickness on board, but much wakefulness on my side of the cabin.
Being thus “Rocked in the cradle of the deep,” was not a success as a
soporific, in my case, at least.

_August 4th_.—Seven o’clock, A. M. We have been sailing since daylight
this morning, and are now at anchor near the Sault au Cochon. Mr.
Macdonough had occasion to visit a country store near the falls, and
suggested that I try to catch a trout for breakfast. The stream which
empties into the St. Lawrence here is of considerable size—say forty
feet wide—and pours over a ledge of rocks, or precipice, about fifty
feet in height, into the head of a small bay. The water under and near
the fall is very rough and swift. My guide launched my canoe, paddled
me out, and placed me in such a position that I could cast in the eddy
formed by the swift waters from the fall. With a hornbeam rod, of ten
ounces in weight, and twelve feet in length, armed with two flies, I
whipped the waters. A few casts brought up a trout. I saw its head as it
rose for my dropper, struck, and hooked the fish. It ran down with the
current, my click reel singing the tune so delightful to anglers’ ears,
until near one hundred feet of line was out. Placing my gloved thumb
upon the barrel of the reel, I checked its progress. The trout dashed
right and left, from and towards me, at times putting my tackle to a
severe test. It kept below the surface of the water; therefore, I could
only judge of the size of my captive by the strength it exerted in its
efforts to escape. My enthusiastic guide was much excited, and cheered
me by such remarks as, “Juge he big trout. He weigh three, four, five
pounds! He very big trout!” I concurred in his opinion, as it often
required the utmost strength of my right hand and wrist to hold my rod
at the proper angle. After playing the fish fifteen or twenty minutes,
without its showing any signs of exhaustion, I slowly, and by sheer
force, reeled the fish to the canoe, and my guide scooped it out
with the landing net. I then discovered it was not the monster we had
supposed it to be, but that it was hooked by the tail fly at the roots
of the caudal fin. The fish was killed, by a blow upon the head, and
weighed. The scales showed two pounds two ounces. The guide paddled
ashore, and upon the rocks near the falls built a fire, and prepared our
breakfast. The fish was split open on the back, spread out upon a plank,
to which it was secured by wooden pegs, set up before the fire, and
thus broiled, or more properly, roasted. A more delicious trout I never
tasted.

Up to this point, what has been written has been abstracted from the
prolix journal that I kept of this bout.

As I have taken my first sea-trout from Canadian waters it is fitting
that I turn to the subject of this article,


SEA-TROUT.

Like all anadromous fishes its “ways are dark and past finding out.”
Hence scientists, naturalists, anglers and guides differ widely and
materially in regard to its proper name, its species, and its habits.
Scarcely any two writers upon the subject have agreed in all these
points. Sea-trout (_Salmo Trutta_) abound in northern Europe. As stated
by Foster in his “Scientific Angler,” in “nearly every beck and burn,
loch and river of Scotland and Ireland; and are readily taken with a
fly.” These sea-trout have been mentioned and described by many eminent
writers—Sir Humphry Davy, Yarrel, Foster, and others. The description
given of this fish, the number of rays in its fins, its coloring and
markings, and lastly the absence of all red or vermilion spots render it
absolutely certain that they are not in species identical with the sea
trout of the Dominion of Canada.

As is shown by Thaddeus Norris, in his admirable work, “The American
Angler’s Book,” conclusively I think, the supposed identity of the two
kinds of sea-trout mentioned have led many writers astray when speaking
of the sea-trout found in American waters.

Norris has applied to the latter fish the name _Salmo Canadensis_,
given, I believe, by Col. Hamilton Smith, in 1834. Whether icthyologists
can find a better or more appropriate one matters not. It is desirable
that there be a name to distinguish this fish from all others, and this
one, if generally adopted, will serve all necessary purposes.

In describing the fish Norris writes thus: “A Canadian trout, fresh from
the sea, as compared with the brook trout, has larger and more distinct
scales; the form is not so much compressed; the markings on the back are
lighter and not so vermiculated in form, but resemble more the broken
segments of a circle; it has fewer red spots, which are also less
distinct.” He also thinks the sea-trout, until they attain the weight
of two pounds, more slender in form. Again I quote verbatim: “In color,
when fresh run from the sea, this fish is a light, bluish green on the
back, light silvery gray on the sides, and brilliant white on the belly;
the ventral and anal fins entirely white; the pectorals brownish blue in
front and the posterior rays rosy white. The tail is quite forked in the
young fish, as in all the salmonidæ, but when fully grown is slightly
lunate.”

Genio C. Scott, who laid no claim to being a scientist, but who was
a close observer, also compares the same fish, which he calls the
Silver-trout or sea-trout, _Trutta Argentina_, or _Trutta Marina_, with
the brook trout. He says, “The sea-trout is similar to the brook-trout
in all facial peculiarities. It is shaped like the brook-trout. The
vermicular marks on the back, and above the lateral line, are like those
of the brook-trout; its vermicular white and amber dots are like the
brook-trout’s; its fins are like the brook-trout’s, even to the square
or slightly lunate end of the tail. It has the amber back and silver
sides of such brook-trout as have access to the estuary food of the eggs
of different fishes, the young herring,” etc.

These descriptions differ but little, and are, I believe, as accurate
in the main as can be given. Both these writers, as will be seen, are
discussing, and have taken opposite sides upon the question, whether the
Canadian sea-trout is an anadromous brook-trout. This question was very
well presented by Mr. Macdonough (my companion) in an article entitled
“Sea-Trout Fishing,” published in _Scribner’s Monthly Magazine_ for May,
1877. He begins thus: “What is a sea-trout? A problem to begin with,
though quite a minor one, since naturalists have for some time past kept
specimens waiting their leisure to decide whether he is a cadet of
the noble salmon race, or merely the chief of the familiar brook-trout
tribe. Science inclines to the former view upon certain slight but sure
indications noted in spines and gill covers. The witness of guides and
gaffers leads the same way; and the Indians all say that the habits of
the sea-trout and brook-trout differ, and that the contrast between the
markings of the two kinds of fish taken from the same pool, forbids the
idea of their identity. Yet the testimony of many accomplished sportsmen
affirms it. The gradual change of color in the same fish as he ascends
the stream from plain silvery gray to deepest dotted bronze; his haunts
at the lower end of pools, behind rocks, and among roots; his action in
taking the fly with an upward leap, not downwards from above—all
these resemblances support the theory that the sea-trout is only an
anadromous brook-trout.... Indeed the difference in color between the
brook-trout and sea-trout ranges within a far narrower scale than that
between parr, grilse, and salmon.” The reader who has not read the paper
would doubtless thank me for quoting it entire.

As will have been seen, the conscientious and lamented Thad. Norris,
when he wrote as above quoted, thought that the Canadian sea-trout were
not the English _Salmo Trutta_, nor the _Salmo Fontinalis_, and as proof
gave this table showing the number of rays in the fins of the following
fish:

[Illustration: 0069]

He adds, speaking of the last two fish—“there being only a difference
of one ray in the pectorals, which may be accidental.” I am credibly
informed that some years after his book was written, and after a more
familiar acquaintance with the _S. Canadensis_, his views underwent
an entire change, and that he wrote “the _S. Canadensis_ is the _S.
Fontinalis_ gone to sea.”

The space allowed me for this paper will not admit of my quoting further
from the writings of those above mentioned or of others upon this
subject.

I will now state, as briefly as I can, my own views resulting from long
familiarity with brook-trout, gained by thirty-five years of angling for
them, my acquaintance with the sea-trout of Long Island, and those found
in Canadian waters. In regard to the markings of the fish _immediately
after migrating from salt to fresh water_ it is unnecessary to say more,
except that the vermicular marks differ somewhat in different fish. Some
that I caught and examined closely had, as Scott says, “vermiculate
marks on the back very plain and distinct.” And on others, as Norris
writes, “the markings on the back were lighter and not so vermiculated
in form, but resembling more the broken segments of a circle.” The fish
in this respect differ from each other far less than often do brook
trout, taken from the same pool. Norris thinks the sea-trout more
slender in form than the brook-trout until the former attains the weight
of two pounds. I have not been able to discover this difference between
sea-trout and the brook-trout taken from the waters of this State. The
trout of Rangeley Lake, and waters adjacent in Maine (I assume, as I
believe, they are genuine brook trout), are thicker and shorter than
trout of the same weight caught in the State of New York, or the
Canadian sea-trout. I have two careful and accurate drawings—one of
a sea-trout which weighed four and one-quarter pounds, and measured
twenty-two and one-half inches in length, and five and one-eighth inches
in depth—the other of a Rangeley trout that weighed eight pounds, and
measured twenty-six inches in length, and eight and a half inches in
depth. I have seen and measured several Rangeley trout two of seven
pounds each, one of four and one-half pounds, etc., and in all I think
there was a similar disproportion as compared with the other trout above
mentioned.

As regards the number of rays in the fins of sea-trout I can only say
that while fishing for them I counted the rays and found them to compare
in number with those of the brook-trout as given by Norris in the table
inserted ante.

All the writers from whom I have quoted, and all persons with whom
I have conversed who have fished for these sea-trout, concur in the
opinion that soon after the sea-trout enters fresh water, a change in
color and appearance begins, which ends in assimilating, as nearly as
may be, the fish in question to the brook trout. On the first day’s
fishing, when my guide accompanied me, he opened the mouth of a trout
and called my attention to small parasites—“Sea-lice,” he called
them—in the mouth and throat of the fish. He said that the presence of
these parasites was a sure indication that the fish had just left the
salt water; that they would soon disappear in fresh water. As a matter
of curiosity I examined the mouths of several fish, and invariably found
that if they presented the appearance described by Norris and Scott, the
parasites were present; but if they had assumed a gayer livery none were
to be found. The change in color, which begins with the trout’s advent
to fresh water, is progressive, and ceases only when the object of its
mission, the deposit and impregnation of the spawn, is accomplished. In
proof of this I will state that during the last days of our stay on
the stream, and notably in fish taken fifteen or twenty miles from
tide water, it was not infrequent that we caught trout as gorgeous
and brilliant in color as the male brook trout at the spawning season.
Whether this change of color is attributable to the character of the
water in which it “lives, moves, and has its being,” to the food it
eats, or other causes, it is impossible to say. I often caught from the
same or adjacent pools, trout fresh from the sea and dull in color, and
those showing in a greater or less degree the brilliancy of the mountain
brook trout. Of course they differ widely in appearance, and therefore
it is not surprising that the “Indians all say,” as expressed by Mr.
Macdonough, “that the contrast between the markings of the two kinds of
fish forbids the idea of their identity.”

As mentioned by Mr. Macdonough the sea-trout have their “haunts at the
lower end of pools” [and upper end he might have added with truth],
“behind rocks, among roots,” in short, in the same parts of a stream
that an experienced angler expects to find and does find the brook
trout.

The sea trout will take the same bait, rise at the same fly, and rest
at the same hours of the day, as brook trout. The flies that I ordered,
made from samples furnished by Mr. Macdonough, who had had some years’
experience on the stream before I accompanied him, were much larger and
more gaudy than the usual trout flies, and ordinarily were sufficiently
_taking_ in character; but, on very bright days, when the water was low
and clear, we found that the flies used by us on the Beaver Kill, and
Neversink, in Sullivan County, New York, were better. The largest trout
taken by us on this bout—four and one-quarter pounds—was hooked with
a stone fly made by Pritchard Brothers, of New York, for use on those
streams. On one occasion, I took at one cast, and landed safely, two
trout, weighing three pounds and one-quarter, and one and three-quarters
pounds, respectively, upon one of the said stone flies and a mediumsized
gray hackle.

In conclusion of this part of my article, I will say that, for the
reasons above given, I have no doubt but that the Canada sea-trout are
anadromous brook trout, and that they should be classed with the _salmo
fontinalis_, or, if preferred, _salvelinus fontinalis_.

The trout in question come up the St. Lawrence from the ocean in large
numbers, and file off, probably in accordance with the instinct of
anadromous fishes, to the streams in which they were severally hatched.
The detachment for our stream reaches it invariably in the first days of
August. “When once fairly in the current” (I quote from Mr. Macdonough’s
paper), “their movements up-stream are very rapid. Passionless and
almost sexless, as the mode of the nuptials, they are on their way to
complete, may seem to more highly organized beings, they drive with
headlong eagerness through torrent and foam, toward the shining
reaches and gravelly beds far up the river, where their ova are to be
deposited.” They stop for but a short time for rest in certain pools;
one of these resting places was directly in front of our tents. Two,
three, or more, could be taken from it in the morning; sometimes, not
always, in the evening; but assuredly the ensuing morning; and so on,
until the beginning of September.

When these fish return to “the ocean, that great receptacle of fishes,”
as Goldsmith styles it, is a problem not yet solved. Some think they
remain until winter, or spring. I incline to the opinion that they
go back to the sea in the fall soon after their procreative duty is
performed. It is well known that the _salmo fontinalis_ gives no care or
thought to its offspring; and evinces no love or affection for it after
it passes the embryotic or ova-otic stage; and that during that
stage their parental fondness is akin to that of the cannibal for the
conventional “fat missionary.” The voraciousness that prompts the
parent trout to eat all the eggs they can find as soon as deposited and
fertilized, would also prompt them to return to the estuaries so well
stocked with food suited to their taste and wants.

What becomes of the young fry during early _fishhood_ is another
problem. From the fact that no small trout are caught or seen in the
rivers, at the source and in the tributaries of which millions are
hatched, it is fair to assume that the young remain where they were
incubated until they attain age, size, and strength that enable them
to evade, if not defend themselves against, the attack of their many
enemies. When this time arrives, they doubtless accompany their parents,
or the parents of other troutlings (it is, indeed, a wise fish “that
knows its own father”—or mother), on their migration to the sea. During
our stay upon the stream I caught but two trout as small as one-fourth
of a pound, but one of six ounces, and few as small as half a pound. The
average size of our whole catch was one pound four ounces.

Since writing the foregoing, I have received from Dr. J. A. Henshall, an
answer to a letter that I addressed to him, before I began this article,
in which I asked him to give me the nomenclature of the sea trout of the
lower St. Lawrence, and also to inform me whether he thought these fish
anadromous brook trout.

I here record my thanks to the Doctor for his courteous compliance with
my request, and give a copy of so much of his letter as relates to the
fish under consideration, which, to my mind, settles the question of
the _status_ of the sea-trout of Canada.

“Cynthiana, Ky., Jan. 29, 1883.

“Dear Sir,—The so-called ‘sea-trout’ or ‘salmon-trout’ of the lower St.
Lawrence, is the brook trout (_S. fontinalis_), but having access to
the sea, becomes anadromous, and like all anadromous and marine fishes,
becomes of a silvery appearance, losing, somewhat, its characteristic
colors. The brook trout has a wide range (from northern Georgia to the
Arctic regions), and of course presents some geographical variations in
appearance, habits, etc...but does not vary in its specific relations.
Mr. ———” (naming an American author to whom I referred), “was wrong
in calling this fish _Salmo trutta, S. trutta_ is a European species;
and if he applied the name to the Canadian brook trout it is a misnomer.
I cannot say, not having read ————” (a work by said author mentioned
by me). “Trusting this may meet your wants, I am,

 “Yours very sincerely,

“J. A. Henshall.

“P.S.—On next page please find nomenclature of the sea-trout of the
lower St. Lawrence.

“Canadian Sea-Trout.

“_Salvelinus fontinalis_, (Mitchell), Gill & Jordan.

“Synonomy.—_Salmo canadensis_, Ham. Smith, in Griffith’s Cuvier, x,
474, 1834. _Salmo immaculatus_, H. R. Storer, in _Bost, Jour. Nat.
Hist_., vi, 364, 1850.

“Vernacular Names.—Canadian brook trout, sea-trout, salmon trout,
unspotted salmon, white sea-trout, etc.

“Specific Description.—Body oblong or ovate, moderately compressed;
depth of body one-fourth to one-fifth of length; back broad and rounded.

“Head large, not very long, sloping symmetrically above and below; head
contained four or five times in length of body. Nostrils double; vomer
boat-shaped; jaws with minute teeth; no teeth on hyoid bone; mouth
large, the maxillary reaching to the eye; eye large.

“Scales very small, in two hundred and twenty-five transverse rows;
caudal fin slightly lunate in adult, forked in young; adipose fin small.

“Fin rays: D. 10; A. 9; P. 13; V. 8; C. 19.

“Color: back mottled with dark markings; sides lighter; belly silvery
white; red and yellow spots on body, mostly on sides.

“Coloration often plain and silvery in sea-run individuals.”

The so-called “sea-trout” of Long Island, as stated by Mr. Charles
Hallock, in his “Fishing Tourist,” and of certain streams in
Connecticut, as mentioned by Mr. W. C. Prime in “I go a-Fishing,” are
genuine brook trout. Although they have access to the salt water, and go
there for food—and hence are fat and delicious in flavor—they _are
not anadromous brook trout_. They do not “pass from the sea into fresh
waters, at _stated seasons_” (Webster’s Dic.). They are caught at all
times from February or March until the following autumn in fresh water,
and, as Hallock expresses it, “they run in and out with the tide.”

When this article was commenced it was my intention to write not only of
the sea-trout, but to give an account of our excursion in 1874; and in
doing so to speak of the events of each day succeeding those of which
I have written. It has already exceeded in length the measure that was
fixed upon, hence I can give the reader only a casual glance at us as we
proceed to our destination; and a look now and then into our camp.

I left our party—breakfast over—at the Sault au Cochon, at about eight
A. M. of August 4th. Soon thereafter we set sail and made such progress
that a few hours brought us to the mouth of our river. It was low tide
when we reached it—low tide means something here, as the tide has a
rise and fall of fifteen feet—and hence the anchor was dropped near the
river’s mouth, canoes launched, our personal baggage transferred to our
respective canoes—Macdonough’s was named _Commodore_, in honor of his
father, who made an imperishable name on Lake Champlain in the war
of 1812, and mine _La Dame_, in honor of some one who lived in my
imagination; I never met her elsewhere. In the third canoe were placed
the tents, camp utensils, and stores for twenty-four hours. When all was
in readiness I lighted my pipe, seated myself on the bottom of my
canoe, leaned back against one of the _bords_ or cross bars; then David,
sitting upon the V formed by the sides of the canoe at the stern, with
paddle in hand, sent the birch bark flying up our river. Like most
Canadian trout streams it consists of a series of still, deep pools, and
swift, rocky rapids, alternating. Often the rapids have a fall of one
foot in ten, and are from one to five, and sometimes ten or more rods in
length. It is marvellous how these canoeists will force a loaded canoe
up them. In doing so they stand near the back end and use a long,
iron-pointed “setting pole.” Before sunset we reached our camping place,
five or six miles from the St. Lawrence. The guides built a fire to
dispel the mosquitoes, which were fearfully numerous and bloodthirsty,
and then set about pitching our tents. M. and I lighted cigars, put our
rods together, and in ten minutes’ time had taken from the pool in front
of us, each two trout, weighing from one pound two, to one pound eight
ounces each. Having caught enough for dinner we busied ourselves in
arranging our tents, preparing our beds, etc. My journal for the day
ends with the following brief entry: Nine P.M.—We are now settled in
camp, have eaten a good dinner, smoked our cigars, and are going to bed.

_Aug. 5th_.—Having had a good night’s sleep I rose at five A. M., made
a hasty toilet, took my rod and threw into the pool, within forty
feet of my tent, and took during a few minutes three trout weighing
three-quarters, one and a-quarter, and one and a-quarter pounds
respectively. M. soon followed and caught two of one and a-quarter
pounds each. Breakfast over we sent our guides with the canoes down to
the _chaloupe_ for the rest of our tents, stores, etc., and consequently
we can only fish the home pool to-day. With a hatchet I cut out a path
through the laurel thicket to the head of the pool, six or eight rods
distant; returned to camp, put on my India rubber wading pants and
rubber shoes (having a leather sole filled with Hungarian nails), took
my rod, walked to the head of the pool, and cast my flies on the swift
waters. In an instant a pair of capacious jaws emerged from the water.
I struck, and as the head disappeared, saw the tail and half the body of
an enormous trout.... In twenty minutes the fish was in my landing net.
I walked proudly and in a most contented frame of mind back to camp.
“That,” said Mr. Macdonough, “looks like old times.” The scales were
hooked in his jaw, the index showed three pounds, eight ounces.... Our
camp is on a sandy point of land around which curves the pool, and from
which, for the space of about one-eighth of an acre, all trees were cut
and the land cleared off, under the direction, tradition states, of
Sir Gore Ouseley, who first encamped here about twenty years ago, with
eighteen servants, retainers, and guides, of whom my guide was one, and
the cook. The stumps have rotted away, and the clearing is covered with
timothy and red-top grasses. We have cut much of this with our knives,
and intend to finish haying to-day. The grass when cured is to be used
in making our beds more luxurious. The pool in front is nearly two
hundred feet across at one point, and in places ten or fifteen
feet deep. In the centre and near the foot is a rock island about
seventy-five feet long. In the foot of the pool between this rock and
our camp large trout have been seen at all hours of the day.

Opposite our camp is quite a hill covered with spruce, larch, and white
birch. We have canvas beds, supported by crotched sticks about eighteen
inches high, upon which poles are laid and the canvas stretched.
5 P.M.—I have filled two canvas sacks with hay for a bed, and a
pillow-case with the same, for a bolster. These, with my small feather
pillow, sheets, blankets, and night-shirts, will render sleeping in the
“bush” Christian-like and endurable. 7 P.M.—I have just cast into the
pool and caught a pound and a-half trout, making for the day six trout,
weighing nine pounds four ounces, and have not fished in the aggregate
one hour. The guides, Captain and Fabian, have arrived with the three
canoes and all stores.

_Aug. 6th_, 7.30 a. m.—We have just finished breakfast. It consisted
of coffee, trout fish-balls, broiled ham, rice and wheat _crepes_
(pancakes) with butter and maple sugar. My guide is an excellent cook
and our stores abundant and of good quality. We purchased them in Quebec
at a cost of $73.59 in gold. A tub of butter, barrel of bread, and sack
of coarse salt, to preserve the trout, were purchased at Tadousac, and
cost $11.34 in gold.

5 P.M.—I have just come in from my first day’s fishing. Began at 10 A. M.,
quit at 4 P.M. I fished below and Macdonough above the camp.

“M. killed 15 fish, weight 26 lbs., 4 oz.

“F. „ 25 „ „ 31 lbs., 4 oz. = 57 lbs., 8 oz.

_Aug. 7th_.—... Dinner is a great institution with us. Next to
catching a trout of three pounds or over it is the event of the day.
Ours of this evening was as follows:

“Soup: bean with extract of beef.

“Fish: boiled trout.

“Vegetables: potatoes and boiled onions.

“Pastry: rice cakes and maple sugar.

“Dessert: crackers, cheese, and orange marmalade.

“Wines: claret and sherry.

“Tea: English breakfast.”

Our canoes are beauties. They are eighteen feet long, three feet three
inches wide in the centre, and fifteen inches in depth. With two men in
they draw but three or four inches of water.

_Aug. 9th_.—We left our camp with one tent, two canoes, and provisions
for four days; walked through the woods three miles to a lake, through
which our river runs, which is eight miles above us by the stream.

... It is a lovely sheet of water about three and a-half miles long
and one and a-half wide, surrounded, except at the inlet and outlet, by
rocky cliffs, in many places five to eight hundred feet high....

_Aug. 10th_.—To our usual breakfast was added this morning a broiled
partridge (ruffed grouse) which Fabian killed with a stick or stone
yesterday, in making the portage. While at breakfast a gray or silver
fox ran past us within twenty feet of where we sat. The woods are filled
with squirrels; their chattering is heard constantly. Large and very
tame fish-hawks abound—reminding one of the beach from Sandy Hook to
Long Branch.... We have tickled the lake with a spinner, trolled with
a long hand line, for pickerel. We fished but an hour with two lines. We
caught fourteen, weighing thirty-four pounds.

_Aug. 11th_.—We fished down from the Middle Camp (as our present one is
called). M. had the morning’s fishing in the “spring hole,” and took six
fish averaging two pounds each. In the Magdalen pool I took three one
pound trout immediately upon throwing in. Suddenly not ten feet from
where I stood (I was in the water up nearly to my waist), and directly
in front of me, a monster fish from three to four feet long, and of
thirty or thirty-five pounds weight, shot up from the water, stood
seemingly upon its tail for an instant, and with a heavy splash fell
over into the pool. “My God! what is that?” I asked my guide. “It’s
a _saumon_, sir,” he calmly replied. I was all excitement and began
whipping vigorously where it rose. Failing to get it up, I put on a
salmon fly. By this time salmon were leaping above me, below me, and at
my very feet. I whipped diligently, letting my fly fall like thistledown
upon the water, and then with a splash to attract attention, and now
letting it sink and float with the current. It was all in vain; three
hours of my most skilful fishing failed to entice one of the wily
monsters. Neither could I get up a trout; they had all been driven away
by the salmon. I caused my guide to paddle me over the still pool just
above, and saw in the pellucid water, three or four feet beneath the
surface, ten or fifteen large salmon. They lay perfectly still for a
time, and then darted through and around the pool in every direction, as
if in play. Suddenly they would congregate in the centre of the pool and
lay with their heads up stream, the largest slightly in advance of the
rest, as motionless as if the water had become ice, encasing the fish.

_Aug. 12th_.—At Main Camp.... The canoeing down from the Middle
Camp—five miles—was delightful, and at times very exciting; that is,
in running the rapids, which are numerous. In making a portage around
the “Little Falls” we started up a cock partridge. It alighted upon the
limb of a dead tree no higher than my head. “We approached within six
feet of it, and stood for a minute or two gazing at the graceful bird.
It returned our gaze with head turned aside, and a look of curious
inquiry which said, as plainly as if it had spoken, ‘What kind of
animals are you?’ I could easily have hit it with my landing-net handle
but would not make it a victim of misplaced confidence.” This incident
reminded me of the lines of Alexander Selkirk, in the English Reader,
which was in use in my early school-boy days:

                   “They are so unacquainted with man,

                   Their tameness is shocking to me.”

I may add that squirrels were constantly running about our camp,
exhibiting no more fear than those in the parks of Philadelphia.

_Aug. 14th_.—“David build a fire between our tents, it is cold,” I
called out about five o’clock this morning. “Yes, sir,” he replied; “a
black frost this morning, had to thaw out my boots before I could get
them on.” Our little encampment consists of two wall tents, ten feet
square, for the use of Mr. Macdonough and myself. They are about
fifteen feet apart, opening towards each other, upon a line twenty feet
from the pool, upon ground five or six feet above it. Back of our tents
is our dining-table, made of planks split from the spruce, and sheltered
with a tent fly. In rear of this is the kitchen fire; and still farther
back, two “A tents,” one for the use of our men, and the other for-the
protection of our stores.

I do not often look into our kitchen: Seeing Fabian wipe my
silver-plated fork upon his pantaloons, between courses, cured me of
this. “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” I did, however,
look into the kitchen to-day to see how our excellent bread was baked.
It was properly made with “raising powder,” kneaded and formed into
loaves. A trench was dug in the ashes and sand, forming the bed of our
camp fire, wide and long enough to admit of three loaves. They were put
into the trench, without any covering except the hot sand and ashes,
with which they were surrounded on all sides, top and bottom. Live coals
were raked over the mound, and it was left for time and heat to do the
rest. An hour or so after I saw the bread taken from the ashes. It was
brushed slightly with a wisp broom, which removed the little of ashes
and sand adhering; and the bread was as clean as if it had just left the
baker’s oven, and was of a uniform rich brown color. Lamb and green peas
(French canned) formed one course at dinner to-day. The flavor of fresh
mutton is much improved by non-intercourse with the butcher for two
weeks.

_Sunday, Aug_. 16.—Another bright and beautiful day. It would be
pleasant to hear “the sound of the churchgoing bell, which these rocks
and these valleys ne’er heard,” It is now near two weeks since we
entered upon our camp life, and we have seen no signs of civilization,
save in our camp; nothing but forest, rock, water and sky, all as they
came from their Great Creators hand. No sounds have been heard to carry
us back in thought to the world of life and labor, save the occasional
booming of the fog cannon at a government station on the south side of
the St. Lawrence. How strangely did the warning voice of this gun,
telling us of danger to the mariner, break upon the silence of the hour
as we sat watching the fairy forms and fantastic shapes in our first
evening’s camp-fire!

Pleasant as it is to the writer to live over again the days of which
he has written—to dwell upon the scenes in which he was an actor, so
vividly presented to his mind’s eye as he writes of them—pity for the
too-long suffering reader has prompted him to close the lids of his
journal and restore it to its place in the book-case.

It only remains to write somewhat of our success in fishing. The season
was a very dry one, our river very low, and no rain sufficient to affect
it fell during our stay, consequently the trout did not come up in
as large numbers as usual, and the clearness of the water rendered
successful fly-fishing more difficult. We caught on this occasion but
two hundred and forty-three trout, of the aggregate weight of three
hundred and four pounds. All these fish were taken with a fly, save one:
thereby hangs a tale heretofore untold. At Tadousac, on our way out, I
saw a gentleman, to whom I had been introduced, making something in the
construction of which he used three snelled hooks and about three inches
in length of thin white rubber tubing. I asked,

“What is it?”

“A devil,” he replied. He gave me materials, and while sailing down the
river I made one. One day at the Home Pool I saw ten or a dozen
large trout. They paid no heed to my flies. “Try the devil,” my guide
whispered. In a moment of weakness I yielded to the tempter and put it
on. The first cast caused commotion in the watery camp. At the second I
struck and soon drew out on the beach a pound and a half trout. I looked
upon the beautiful fish with compassion, cursed myself for resorting to
such unfair means, removed the cruel hooks as tenderly as I could from
the mangled and bleeding mouth, and taking off the _devilish_ invention
threw it as far as possible into the woods.

                           ... “The beasts of game

               The privilege of chase may claim.”

I have not since used, and shall not in the future use, this rightly
named instrument, and hope no angler will. I have narrated this only
unpleasant feature of my bout to illustrate the _devilish_ ingenuity of
“pot fishermen” and the curiosity of sea-trout. I wonder what was the
gender of the fish!

With a view of showing the capabilities of our river in the production
of fish, I have aggregated the scores from 1872 to 1882 inclusive. In
one of these years three rods were in use, in three others two, and in
the other years but one. The average time of fishing in each year was
about three weeks.

Number of trout taken, 5,525; aggregate weight, 6,625 pounds; average
about one pound three ounces. In the year 1881 the average size of
two hundred and thirteen trout taken with a single rod in eight days’
fishing was one pound fourteen ounces. Not one of these fish was wasted.
A few were eaten upon the stream, but most of them were given to the
guides, who salted and packed them in barrels for future use. A sack of
coarse salt and empty fish barrels were always included in the anglers’
stores.

Three days after the last date mentioned we were again on board our
_chaloupe_ “homeward bound.” The loss in weight in our stores was made
good by the barrel of salted _anadromous salvelinus-fontinalis_ which
were to supplement and eke out the pork barrel of our honest and worthy
guides during the long ice-bound winter before them.

Tadousac was reached about sunrise on a bright morning. At nine o’clock
we were in citizen’s dress and seated at the hotel breakfast table. A
glance around the room showed that summer birds and Cook’s tourists had
mainly migrated to more southern latitudes. Our trunks were re-packed,
our guides paid $1.50 each per day, and the captain $2.00, gold, and
bade adieu. We took the Saguenay steamboat for Quebec, the Grand Trunk
Railroad from Point Levi to Montreal, where we passed the night. The
next morning we travelled by rail to Rouse’s Point and by boat down
that charming Lake, Champlain. At the various landings many persons,
including several friends, came on board.

Nearly all carried snugly-cased fishing rods, whose summer work was
ended. The Chateaugay, the Saranacs, Paul Smith’s, Baker’s, Martin’s,
and various other familiar names met our ears. We envied none of them.
Our cup of joy, happiness and contentment was full to the brim. There
was no room for “envy, hatred and malice,” but a feeling of gratitude
and thankfulness to the Author of every “good and perfect gift,” welled
up from our hearts.

“Every angler has his own peculiar notion in regard to the best fly; and
the difficulty of presenting a perfect catalogue will be very apparent,
when it is considered that the _name_ of the fly of one writer bears a
different name and description from that of another, and it is more than
probable that the name and description of some of the flies in my list
may not be in accordance with the views and opinions of many old and
experienced anglers.”—“_Frank Forester_.”

“After staying in a village parlor till the family had all retired,
I have returned to the woods, and partly with a view to the next day’s
dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by moonlight,
serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, the
croaking note of some unknown bird close at hand.”—_Henry D. Thoreau_.

“He sat down on a lump of granite, and took out his fly-book. It is a
sport, he added, as he was selecting the flies, that there is less to be
said against than shooting, I imagine. I don’t like the idea of shooting
birds, especially after I have missed one or two. Birds are such
harmless creatures. But the fish is different—the fish is making a
murderous snap at an innocent fly, when a little bit of steel catches
him in the very act. It serves him right, from the moral point of
view.”—_William Black_.

“There is much diversity of opinion about the manner of fishing, whether
up or down the stream; the great majority of anglers, both In Europe and
this country, favor the latter method, and very few the former.”—_John
J. Brown_.

“‘Beautiful!’ Well you may say so, for what is more beautiful than a
well-developed pound trout?”—_Charles W. Stevens_.

[Illustration: 0092]

7. Ferguson,

8. Abbey.

9. Royal Coachman.

10. Seth Green.

11. Professor.

12. Montreal.

“Reader, did you ever throw the fly to tempt the silvery denizen of the
lake, or river, to his destruction? Have you watched him, as it skimmed
like a living insect along the surface, dart from his hiding-place, and
rush upon the tempting but deceitful morsel; and have you noticed his
astonishment when he found the hook was in his jaw? Have you watched
him as he bent your slender rod ‘like a reed shaken by the wind,’ in his
efforts to free himself, and then have you reeled him to your hand and
deposited him in your basket, as the spoil of your good right arm? If
you have _not_, leave the dull, monotonous, every-day things around you,
and flee to the Chazy Lake.”—_S. H. Hammond._

“I now come to not only the most sportsman-like, but the most delightful
method of trout-fishing. One not only endeared by a thousand delightful
memories, but by the devotion of many of our wisest and best men for
ages past; and, next to my thanks for existence, health, and daily
bread, I thank God for the good gift of fly-fishing. If the fishes are
to be killed for our use, there is no way in which they are put to so
little pain as in fly-fishing. The fish rises, takes your fly as though
it were his ordinary food; the hook fixes in the hard gristly jaw, where
there is little or no sensation. After a few struggles he is hauled on
shore, and a tap on the head terminates his life; and so slight is the
pain or alarm that he feels from the hook, that I have over and over
caught a trout, with the fly still in his mouth which he has broken off
in his struggles an hour or even half an hour previously. I have seen
fish that have thus broken off swim away with my fly in their mouths
and begin to rise at the natural fly again almost directly.”—_Francis
Francis._




RANGELEY BROOK TROUT.

By James A. Williamson, Sec. Oquossoc Angling Association.


About twelve summers ago, when spending a delightful vacation at
Manchester, Vermont, under the shadow of Mt. Equinox, my attention was
called to a little book which gave a description of the exceptionally
large brook trout inhabiting the waters of the Rangeley Lakes.

Never having heard, heretofore, of a fish of that species that weighed
more than three pounds, and never having caught any over a pound and a
half (although I had dropped a line in many waters and exerted my utmost
muscle in casting a line for fingerlings), I could not bring my mind
to believe that such fish as were described really existed, and at
once pronounced it another fish story. Although much interested in the
narrative I finally threw down the book in disgust, and as I did so,
observed for the first time that the author was Robert G. Allerton, a
very old friend, whom I had always esteemed a man of veracity. I at once
took a new interest in the subject and determined to investigate
the matter personally. I came to New York, had an interview with Mr.
Allerton, who was the Treasurer of the Oquossoc Angling Association, and
by his advice joined the club, and in due time started for the
promised land of mountains, lakes, and large trout, and after the usual
vicissitudes of travel reached my destination at Camp Kennebago about
the middle of September.

The forests were just developing their autumnal hues, the air was fresh
and bracing, and all nature seemed to conspire to make one realize that
there was health in every breath inhaled, and beauty in every phase of
land and water. Having secured a first-rate guide and boat, and partaken
of a trout breakfast, which was relished immensely, such as can only be
appreciated by one who has left the haunts of civilization and gone into
the wilderness for recuperation, I considered my first duty was to pay
my respects to Mr. Allerton, who was in camp at Bugle Cove. From this
location Lake Mooselemeguntic lies spread out before you, while Mt.
Washington in the distance rears its snowy peak, overtopping Jefferson,
Monroe, and the other giants of the White Hills of New Hampshire.

The crystal waters of the lake tempt us to cast a fly, and a suitable
place having been secured, we proceed to business. After making several
casts in a manner more or less scientific but without success, my former
unbelief came creeping over me, and, as my arm became tired and almost
refused to do its duty, a sense of despondency overcame me, which I am
sure sensibly affected the beauty if not the efficacy of my casts. But
suddenly I am awakened to the realization of the fact that a big fish
has seized the fly and is making the reel hum in its frantic endeavors
to secure its liberty. Fathom after fathom of the dainty line disappears
beneath the water, and at last prudence dictates a gentle snub, which
finally terminates in a decided check to the mad career of the quarry.
Having succeeded in turning his head in a different direction, another
rush is made across stream, making the line whiz as it cuts through
the water; then suddenly he takes a downward course and ceases from
all apparent effort to free himself. He now sulks for a long time, and
impatience begins to take the place of the excitement with which the
fight began. The guide, who, during the fray had hoisted his anchor, got
ready his landing-net, and was now holding his boat in position with the
oars, suggested that I had better send him a telegraphic message, which
was accordingly done by striking the rod with a key. The first few
strokes seemed to make little or no impression, but presently he
convinced us that he was still there, although we had some forebodings
that he had escaped by winding the line around a log or some other
object at the bottom of the stream. He was up and alive in every sense,
and performed the same tactics for liberty with apparently more vigor
than at first. These were kept up for about half an hour, when he again
took a turn of sulking, but this time of shorter duration, and when he
again began his rushes it was with an evident loss of strength, but no
diminution of determination and pluck.

A friend who was watching and timing me from his boat came over to
inquire how the battle was progressing, and pertinently asked, “Whether
the fish was going to take me or I the fish.” At last the strength of
the tackle, the pliability of the rod, and the determination of the
rodster overcame the pluck and strength of the fish, and he was brought
to the boat turned upon his side and was beautifully landed by the
guide. The scales were at once applied, with a result of eight pounds
full weight.

My inquiring and interested friend informed me that I had been two hours
and twenty minutes in the fight, and as I sat down in the boat I, for
the first time, realized that I was tired.

Now, my dear reader, do not think that this kind of sport is of common
occurrence, for from that time to this, I have taken but two fish of
equal weight; the average, however, has been much larger than trout from
any other locality in which I have fished. Any fish under half a pound
is considered unfit to land, and is again committed to the water to grow
larger. The number of trout does not seem to be falling off; but this
can be accounted for by the annual plant of fry from the Hatching House
of the Oquossoc Angling Association, who have for years past turned
about one million fish into these waters, and now contemplate increasing
the amount to five million; still I think there is a sensible diminution
of the size of the catch, which now run from one-half to four pounds,
and anything over that weight is the exception. This would seem to
confirm the supposition of Professor Agassiz, made many years ago, that
these large fish possibly may have reached an age of from 100 to 200
years, as they were evidently very old.

Any one who has been thrilled with the vigorous strike of one of the
ordinary sized fish would be almost beside himself when one from three
to five pounds rose to his fly, and if his tackle was good, the sport
derived therefrom, would serve him a lifetime; and when the shades
of night had fallen upon the camp, and he with his fellow-fishermen
collected around the great fire, point and vigor would be given to his
recital of how he caught and played the monster he that day had brought
to his creel.

“Let it be seen that a love of the ‘gentle art’ openeth first the heart,
then the fly-book, and soon the stores of experience and knowledge
garnered up through long years, wheresoever we meet a ‘Brother of the
Angle’; and that to us ‘angling is an employment of our idle time,’;
that therein we find ‘a rest to the mind, a cheerer of the spirits, a
diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a moderator of the
passions, a procurer of contentedness, and that it begets habits of
peace and patience in chose that possess and practice it.’”—_Thaddeus
Norris_.

“Fly-fishing holds the same relation to bait-fishing that poetry does to
prose. Not only the fly, but every implement of the fly-fisher’s outfit
is a materialized poem.”—_James A. Henshall, M.D._

“Between the tyro and the proficient grayling fisher there exists a
wider gulf than is the case with the experienced and inexperienced in
any other branch in the whole art of fishing. Practical skill and
general artistic bearing are more fully exemplified in fishing for
grayling, than for trout and salmon, whilst upon the same ground
the unskilled efforts of the bungler stand at a yet more glaring
contrast.”—_David Foster_.

“Hooking a large grayling, I had good evidences of his plucky qualities;
the pliant rod bent as he struggled against the line, curling his body
around columns of water that failed to sustain his grasp, and setting
his great dorsal fin like an oar backing water, while we cautiously
worked him in, his tender mouth requiring rather more careful handling
than would be necessary for a trout; making a spurt up stream, he
requires a yielding line, but after a time he submits to be brought in,
rallying for a dart under the boat, or beneath a log, as an attempt is
made to place the landing net under him.”—_Professor Milner_.

[Illustration: 0102]

13. Bee.

14. Tomah Jo.

15. “No Name.”

16. Blue Bottle.

17. Grasshopper.

18. Canada.

“Do not despair. There was—alas! that I must say there was—an
illustrious philosopher, who was nearly of the age of fifty before he
made angling a pursuit, yet he became a distinguished fly-fisher.”—_Sir
Humphry Davy_.

“Fly-fishing for grayling and trout are not altogether identical. Both
are frequently found in the same water, and are to be taken with the
same cast of flies. Finer tackle, as a rule, is required in the case of
the former, as also smaller and brighter flies.” —_David Foster_.

“The grayling generally springs entirely out of the water when first
struck by the hook, and tugs strongly at the line, requiring as much
dexterity to land it safely as it would to secure a trout of six times
the size.”—_Dr. Richardson._

“Grayling will often take the fly under water, rising so quietly that
you will scarcely see any rise or break of the water at all. It is
desirable, therefore, to watch the line narrowly, and to strike whenever
you think it stops or checks, and you will now and then be surprised,
although there is no break in the water, to find a good grayling on the
hook. For, as is often the case with trout, the big ones are very quiet
risers.”—_Francis Francis._

“To be a perfect fisherman you require more excellencies than are
usually to be found in such a small space as is allotted to a man’s
carcass.”—_Parker Gilmore_.

“The trout has, so to speak, a Herculean cast of beauty; the
grayling rather that of an Apollo—light, delicate, and gracefully
symmetrical.”—_H. Cholmondely-Pennell_.




THE GRAYLING.

By Fred Mather.


The very name of my beloved fish calls up a host of recollections that
form themselves into a picture that, above all others, is the most
cheerful one adorning memory’s wall. We old fellows live largely in the
past, and can afford to let younger men revel in the future; and in my
own case, I can say that, having filled Shakespeare’s apothegm of “one
man in his time plays many parts,” there are often retrospects of life
as a boyish angler, an older hunter, trapper, and general vagabond on
the frontiers; a soldier; and a later return to a first love. Of these
glances over the shoulder of time, a few trips to Northern Michigan and
its grayling streams mark the journey of life with a white stone.

When Prof. Cope announced, in 1865, that he had received specimens from
Michigan, the English anglers in America were incredulous, and there
was some spicy correspondence, in the sportsmen’s papers of those
days, concerning the identity of the fishes. As usual, the scientist
discomfited the angler, and proved his position. The fish had long been
known to the raftsmen and natives of Michigan by local names, but had
never been identified as the historic grayling. Some eight years
after the discovery of Prof. Cope that we had the grayling in American
waters; Mr. D. H. Pitzhugh, Jr., sent some of them to Mr. Charles
Hallock, then editor of _Forest and Stream_, and they were shown in New
York to the doubters, who even then were not convinced.

Mr. Pitzhugh took great interest in the new fish, which, as a lumberman
and an angler, he had long known as a “Michigan trout,” but had never
recognized as the gentle grayling, and he has since done more than any
other man to popularize it and introduce it to anglers.

He invited Mr. Hallock, Prof. Milner, and myself to come up and fish for
it, and we each extolled its attractions in the press. As a consequence,
the fish has been nearly exterminated by vandals who fish for count, and
the waters where we fished at first are nearly barren.

Of all game fishes the grayling is my favorite. It is gamy but not
savage; one does not feel the savage instinct to kill that the black
bass or the pike raises in him, but rather a feeling of love for a
vigorous fighter for its life who is handicapped with a tender mouth.
To me the fish is always thought of as the “gentle grayling,” and the
“golden-eyed grayling,” although the latter epithet is not always a
correct one, owing to the changes in the iris.

In fishing for grayling it is well to use a mediumsized fly of a subdued
color; a yellow body and a brown wing is the fly that should be used
if only one is recommended; it is a most killing combination. Brown
Hackles, Bed Ibis, Professor, Queen of the Water, and other trout flies
are also killing; but the first-mentioned fly, whose name I do not know,
owing to a defective memory and the vagaries of fly nomenclature, is the
most killing, and a cast into the upper edge of a pool below a rapid is
usually most successful. *

* Oak-fly.

The beauty of the grayling is of a kind that is better appreciated after
some acquaintance. The bright colors of its “magnificent dorsal,” as the
phrase went a few years ago, are not its chief claim to admiration. Its
shapely contour, striped ventrals, iridescent caudal, and its beatific
countenance win the heart of the angler and make him love the grayling,
and feel that it is a fish to respect for the higher qualities expressed
in its physiognomy, and not one that it is merely a satisfaction to kill
as he would a savage pike. True, we kill the grayling, but we do it in a
different spirit from that in which we kill some other thing. It was
not only my good fortune to know “Uncle Thad” Norris, but to have fished
with him. The dear lovable old man, who long since paid his fare to the
grim ferryman, once said: “When I look into a grayling’s eye I am sorry
I killed it; but that feeling never prevents me from making another cast
just to see if another will rise.”

In another century Norris will be more read and appreciated than he is
to-day. Of all American angling writers of this century he will stand
foremost, and yet he never wrote as fully as he intended of the fish
that he told me had afforded him more pleasure than any other. He had
not revised his “American Angler’s Book” for some time before his death,
and so his remarks on Back’s grayling must stand as he wrote them before
the era of the Michigan grayling. He there says of the Arctic grayling:
“The grayling being a fish in the capture of which the American angler
cannot participate, we give no account of the manner of angling for
them, but refer the reader who may have interest or curiosity on that
score to English authors.” He intended to revise that sentence and
give his own experience, but the Reaper judged him ripe for the harvest
before he did it. In my opinion he was one of those who should never
have been ripe for that harvest, and his loss to our angling literature
was a severe one.

That the grayling will take bait, truth requires the admission; would
that it were not so. I would prefer that its food was the soaring
insect, or even the floating thistledown, with an occasional feather
from an angel’s wing dropped in the moonlit flood; but science has
laid bare its interior with the searching scalpel, and the Caesarian
operation has brought forth the lowly caddis-worm and other larvae, and
the bait-fisher has taken advantage of the knowledge and pandered to the
baser appetite of the fish.

That the grayling does not eat other fish is proved by its small month,
as well as by its known habits. It is not a leaper, like the trout, but
takes the fly from the surface with merely an exposure of a portion of
its head. When struck, it makes a rigorous rush, and, if it does not
fight as long as the trout does, it gives much resistance at the last
moment by the sidelong movement it makes when being reeled in, which is
due to the size and curvature of its dorsal fin. It inhabits only the
coldest of streams, and while the grayling of Europe is found in the
trout streams, it is not to be found there in Michigan.

We have several species of grayling in America. Two of these only are
accessible to anglers, the Michigan grayling, _Thymallus tricolor_, and
one at the head waters of the Yellowstone, the _T. Montanus_, The other
species are Arctic.

The Michigan fish is reported to grow to nearly two pounds weight; I
never saw one that I thought would weigh much over a pound, and I have
taken them in spawning season for the purpose of procuring their eggs.
Whether this fish will bear acclimatization to other waters, I cannot
say. I raised a few until a year old at my former trout farm in Western
New York, and when I left them I opened the pond and let them into the
stream below, but none have ever been taken there, as far as I know. It
seems a pity to allow this elegant fish to become extinct, as it will in
a few years in its limited habitat, and if opportunity offered I would
again try to domesticate it.

The trout-fisher needs no special directions nor tackle to fish for
grayling; he may cast in the usual manner, only remembering that the
fish has a very tender mouth, and must be treated with this fact ever
in mind. The Michigan grayling streams are not suited for wading, and,
therefore, fishing from a boat is the rule. This may not suit some
anglers, to whom I can only say, every one to his fancy, but no wading
for me; dry feet are more comfortable than wet ones, and boat-fishing or
bank-fishing are more suitable to my taste, than to be immersed up to my
hips in cold water for half a day.

I have killed, I believe, every game fish in America east of the Rocky
Mountains, except the salmon, for which I have a rod in readiness, that
I hope to use soon, and I can say that while I do not think the grayling
the superior of all of them for gameness, yet there is something of
romance in the remembrance of the grayling, a kind of sentimental
retrospect, that endears the fish to me above all others. Whether it was
owing to the pine woods and the genial companionship, I do not care to
consider; but each year there comes a longing to repeat the pleasant
experiences of the Au Sable and its delicate grayling.




TROUT FLIES


“The trout-fly does not resemble any known species of insect. It is a
‘conventionalized’ creation, as we say of ornamentation. The theory is,
that, fly-fishing being a high art, the fly must not be a tame imitation
of nature, but an artistic suggestion of it. It requires an artist to
construct one; and not every bungler can take a bit of red flannel, a
peacock’s feather, a flash of tinsel thread, a cock’s plume, a section
of a hen’s wing, and fabricate a tiny object that will not look like any
fly, but still will suggest the universal conventional fly.”—_Charles
Dudley Warner_.

“When you fish with a flie, if it be possible, let no pary of your line
touch the water, but your flie only.”—_Izaak Walton_.

[Illustration: 0112]

1. Coachman.

2. Leadwing Coach.

3. Royal Coachman.

4. Coachman red tip.

5. Gilt Coachman.

6. Cowdung.

7. Fern.

8. Blue Jay.

9. Abbey.

10. Red Ant.

11. Black Ant.

12. Seth Green.

13. Professor.

14. Blue Professor.

15. Dark Stone.

“A combination of English Jay is one of the most effective flies in the
world, as it can be put into as gay a fly as you please, and also into
as plain a one as you like.”—_Capt. Peel (“Dinks”)_.

“When I think of the great secrets of Nature locked up from our
knowledge (yet under our eyes at every turn of your daily duty), and
imagine what a mine of intellectual wealth remains to be opened out
by quickness of sight, clearness of intellect, and the pickaxe of hard
work, a great panorama opens before me. How ignorant—how terribly
ignorant—are we of God’s great laws as applied to the creatures
that live in the element in which we are forbidden to exist!”—_Frank
Buckland_.

“The ancient belief in the stoppage of sport during a thunderstorm is
not strictly true.”—_David Foster_.

“A fish will _hook himself only_ in cases where the fly first touches
the water at the end of a straight line, or when the line is being
withdrawn smartly for a new cast. In all other cases the skill of the
angler must be employed.”—_Charles Hallock_.

“We had determined on a feast, and trout were to be its daintiest
dainty. We waited until the confusing pepper of a shower had passed away
and left the water calm. We tossed to the fish humbugs of wool, silk
and feathers, gauds such as captivate the greedy or the guileless. The
trout, on the lookout for novelty, dashed up and swallowed disappointing
juiceless morsels, and with them swallowed hooks. Then, O Walton! O
Davy! O Scrope! ye fishers hard by taverns! luxury was ours of which ye
know nothing. Under the noble yellow birch we cooked our own fish. We
used our scanty kitchen-battery with skill. We cooked with the high art
of simplicity. Where Nature has done her best, only fools rush in to
improve. On the salmonids, fresh and salt, she has lavished her
creative refinements. Cookery should only ripen and develop.”—_Theodore
Winthrop_.

“As a general thing, it is a waste of time to be forever changing your
flies. If the trout are not rising, it is entirely useless to fling an
assortment of flies at them.”—_T. S. Up de Graff, M.D._

“In taking the fly, I award the palm to the trout, as he usually throws
himself out of the water to do so. The salmon does not, he scarcely more
than shows himself; but after being hooked the sport commences, and it
is all activity to the death, rarely any sulking.”—_Charles W. Stevens_




A TROUTING TRIP TO ST. IGNACE ISLAND.

By W. Thomson


Towards the end of August, 1877, I had become pretty well fagged out
with office work and felt that I must have a week or two of out-door
recreation or sport of some kind, so I naturally decided upon a
troutfishing expedition; and I selected, as the scene, the island of St.
Ignace, in Lake Superior, of which I had heard most excellent accounts
in regard to fish products. I had, it is true, caught a great many brook
trout throughout the summer, in small streams close at hand; but these
were mostly fish of inferior size, few indeed reaching one pound in
weight; while I was assured by an ancient fisherman of repute, that at
the Island, the real _Salmo fontinalis_ often attained to four, five,
and even seven pounds.

This was the kind of ground I had been, for many years, anxious to find,
and I made up my mind to try it at all events.

The first thing to do was to secure two suitable companions, and a man
or boy of all work. The former I quickly enlisted in the persons of a
genial M.D. and an overworked limb of the law. The latter opportunely
turned up in the shape of “Jim,” a colored youth of sixteen, as black
as the ten of spades, but no less celebrated for his culinary skill
than for his impish tricks and imperturbable good humor and honesty. To
banish formality once for all, and put things upon an easy and familiar
footing at the start, I christened the M.D. “Squills” and the lawyer
“Bluffy,” out of compliment to his usual style of treating witnesses
in court. In deference to my advanced age and _general good looks_, the
boys called me “Governor,” I being then about fifty-three and neither
of them thirty. Our supplies, consisting of a ten by twelve tent, three
camp beds and bedding, two small boats, a stock of provisions for
six men for two weeks, one rifle, two fowling pieces, and our fishing
tackle, were soon got together, and in twenty-four hours from the first
proposal, we were ready to take the cars for Collingwood. At that point
we secured an ample supply of ice; and then embarked with our traps on
board a steamer bound for Duluth and intermediate ports, and touching at
St. Ignace on her way.

This island is situated in Canadian waters, about thirty-five miles from
the mouth of Nepigon River, forty-seven miles east of the famous Silver
Islet and some seventy from Thunder Bay. I say island, but there are in
fact _two_ called St. Ignace; the largest being about sixteen miles
long by ten wide; with generally bluff shores and high headlands, one
of these rising to a height of thirteen hundred and fifty feet above the
lake level. The smaller island, at which steamers touch and upon which
we camped, is separated from the larger by a channel of from fifty to
a hundred yards wide, and is about two miles by a half a mile in size,
having one bold headland five hundred feet high. Neither island is
inhabited except by occasional Indians and other fishermen; nor do
either of them, so far as I observed, contain any agricultural land, the
formation being rock. Both, however, as well as contiguous groups, are
mostly covered with a thick growth of spruce, balsam, birch and mountain
ash. This last is so plentiful that in the autumn its brilliant red
leaves may be seen from quite a distance at sea, framed in a background
of dark green spruce, and presenting a most charming view. The larger
island contains in itself numerous small lakes which abound in pike
(_E. Indus_), and what we Canadians call yellow pickerel (_Stizostedium
vitreum_), really pike-perch. No one bothers catching these, however, as
the surrounding waters yield an enormous supply of choicer fish,
among which are said to be ten varieties of the salmon family; besides
whitefish, some of which attain to seventeen pounds in weight! I took
some trouble to ascertain the local names by which the various species
of trout are known, and the greatest attested weight of individuals of
each. I am indebted to Mr. Wm. Boon, of Barrie, Ontario, a professional
fisherman who spends four months of every year upon the island, for the
following list, which I give without vouching in any way for this queer
addition to the salmon family:

1. Salmon trout, weight up to                      70 lbs.

2. “Siskowitt,” weight up to                       12 „

3. Half-breed Siskowitt, weight up to               5 „

4. “Potgut,” very inferior fish, weight up to      12 „

5. Rock or black trout, weight up to               40 „

6. Large gray or shovel-nose trout, weight up to   70 „

7. “California trout,” yellow spots and flesh,
      weight up to                                 10 „

8. “Half-breed red trout,” weight up to            15 „

9. Common brook or speckled trout, weight up to      7 „

10. “Red trout,” weight up to                       42 „

All of these, of course, are local names, but the fish are all true
trout; crossed and re-crossed, I presume, _ad infinitum_. The brook
trout is the only species found here with a square tail, those of all
the others being more or less forked. The “red trout” is far superior to
any of its confrères, and is called by the Indians—Pugwashooaneg, that
is, Paysplatt—District-fish, as it is taken only in this locality, and
only in the fall of the year as a rule. The Indians come from Nepigon
expressly to fish for it, and care for no other trout in comparison.
It is much more highly esteemed than the brook trout. This very day on
which I write this article, I had a salted piece of one of these “red
trout” for dinner and found the flesh of a bright pink, and the flavor
exquisite. I shall refer to it again.

On our passage from Collingwood we touched at the following ports and
“landings,” viz.: Meaford, Owen Sound, Killarney, Little Current,
Bruce Mines, Hilton, or St. Joseph Island, Garden River, and the Sault.
Thence, via Michipicoton Island to St. Ignace. I may say here, before I
forget it, that among the useful productions of this last are incredible
quantities of huckleberries and “sand cranberries.” The former were just
in season at the date of our visit, and after the first day “Jim” always
gave us capital puddings and pies made from them.

We found many pleasant people on board the steamer, with whom we picked
acquaintance in that free and easy manner peculiar the world over to
anglers.

After a delightful trip of four days, we made the landing on our Island
at about five o’clock on a beautiful evening, and, having got our whole
outfit ashore, selected a charming spot in the midst of a spruce grove
as a camping ground. The tent was put up, beds and bedding arranged,
supplies for present use unpacked, a table improvised and things
generally “set out” in a most orderly manner by the Doctor and “Bluffy,”
while I employed myself in the construction of a fish corral, the use
of which will be seen further on. Meantime, “Jim” had, with a few loose
stones, made for himself a very passable fire-place, and soon had tea
and coffee prepared, several appetizing dishes cooked, and called us to
supper at 6.30. After a hearty and enjoyable meal, we proceeded to put
the finishing touches to our work; sorted out and overhauled our fishing
tackle; caught a few minnows and placed them in a perforated bucket
in the lake; and before dark were all in ship-shape and thoroughly
comfortable. “Jim” slung his hammock between and beneath two umbrageous
trees, and by eight o’clock, with a full stomach and clear conscience,
was roosting in it, happy as a lord! From this coign of vantage, with
the gathering darkness to hide his _blushes_, he favored us with several
choice negro melodies rendered in a style and with a pathos which any
“professional” might have envied. As the night deepened we drank in with
appropriate senses all the delights of our surroundings. The great fire
before which we three sat, lighting up with weird and fantastic effects
the sombre foliage of the adjacent forest; the plaintive cry of the
distant loon; the harsher notes of the bittern, and the even, gentle
murmur of the softly lapping waves, all united to inspire us with a
sense of freedom and happiness unknown to the busy world. Serene and
contented, we “turned in” at ten, with blissful anticipations for the
morrow. We had not forgotten that prime necessity of a well-ordered
camp, light, but had brought with us several pounds of sperm candles,
two gallons of oil and a good swinging lamp, which, suspended from the
centre-pole, not only rendered the tent cheerful, but gave facilities
for performing with ease and comfort the thousand and one little jobs
which precious daylight could not be wasted upon. Reader, did you ever
“camp out” in the midst of a dense grove of pine or spruce trees? If
not, you have yet to enjoy the luxury of the most balmy and refreshing
sleep which can bless mortal man. There is a something in the delicious
aroma of the resinous woods which induces a perfect repose, obtainable,
in my experience, through no other means. A sound, sweet, wholesome, and
yet not heavy sleep; quiet and dreamless, and from which you awake, not
drowsy and cross, but with a buoyancy of spirits, a strength of body and
clearness of mind which make even hard daily toil seem a mere pastime.
And so, with thankful hearts sank we to rest on this our first night at
St. Ignace. There are no black flies on the Island, and the season was
too far advanced for mosquitoes to be troublesome; facts which added
not a little to our serenity of mind and took away the last excuse for
ill-humor.

The next morning, after partaking of a breakfast which fully sustained
Jim’s reputation as a cook, “Squills” and “Bluffy” agreed to go out in
the larger of the two boats, leaving the small one for me. They were
provided with various kinds of bait, including frogs, worms, grubs,
grasshoppers, and minnows, as well as a goodly supply of spoons and
other lures. I had decided upon trying flies for the first day, and if
found effective I intended to stick to them. The boys anchored out at
about a hundred yards from shore and went to work; and I moved slowly
along the coast-line, closely examining the bottom and the lay of the
submerged rocks, as well as the trend of the contiguous land. When an
angler is in strange waters he will find this preliminary survey to be
always a paying operation. By and by I found a lovely-looking reef which
extended from the shore to deep water. This reef or ledge was broad and
smooth on one side, but the other dipped down sharply, and presented
a rough, jagged, and cavernous face. Here, if anywhere, I judged
_fontinalis_ would be sure to lurk; so I anchored within twenty feet of
the precipitous edge of the reef, with water apparently about ten feet
deep under the boat, but of profound depth a few yards from the ledge.
At that time I had no split bamboo rod, a fact which I have ever since
regretted, but I had an excellent ash and lance-wood, which had killed
myriads of fish, and is still to the fore. I never was and never will
be a skilful fly-fisherman, or perhaps I should say—as too much modesty
savors of affectation—a skilful fly-_caster_.

That is I never could, nor can I yet, make an effective and proper cast
of over forty-two feet from reel to fly. I have always found, however,
that I _take as many fish_ as those artistic anglers who can cast more
than double that distance. On this occasion I tried a white miller as
tail fly, and a common gray hackle as dropper, and they succeeded so
well that I only thereafter changed them as a matter of experiment. I
never at any time during this trip used more than two flies at once, as
that number gave me quite enough to do.

Well, this morning of which I am now writing, was one to make glad
the heart of an angler. A southwest wind blew softly, and the sun was
obscured by warm gray clouds. No fish of any decency or self-respect
could _help_ biting on such a day! I felt so sure of good luck that I
put overboard a wicker-work basket, with a hole in the lid, so arranged,
with a falling spring door, that fish could be put in but could not get
out. This floated astern and would keep fully a hundred pounds of fish
alive, if necessary, for any length of time. Having fixed everything to
my liking, I stood up and made my first cast along the edge of the reef.
No result! but I thought I saw a faint suspicion of a shadowy form or
two, and a slight movement of the water just behind my flies. Have been
too quick, I thought; and so tried again, letting the flies this time
rest until they sank an inch or so below the surface, when I _attempted_
to draw them slowly in. I say attempted, because they had not moved
six inches when first the dropper and then the tail fly were taken in a
rush, by two large trout which didn’t draw towards me worth a cent, for
some fifteen minutes at least. On the contrary they darted away as if
the Old Hick was after them with a red-hot frying-pan; pulling in unison
like a pair of well-broken colts and severely trying my rather too light
tackle. Any decided check was out of the question. I could only put
on such pressure as the single gut leader would bear, and that was
sufficient to make a half-circle of my rod. I had beautiful open water
in which to play the fish, but as they rushed along and down the face
of the submerged cliff, I did not know what hidden dangers might lurk in
the unseen depths, nor at what moment a sharp, jagged rock might cut the
line, or some profound recess furnish a retreat from whence it might be
impossible to withdraw my prize. So far however, all went well. The fish
in their terror had sought deep water and not touched rock at all. Soon
the distraction of the heavy, ceaseless strain caused them to forget
the glorious maxim that, “in union is strength.” and they began to pull
different ways. Now I was sure of them! and very gradually and gently,
inch by inch, I coaxed them away from the dangerous ground, and got them
safely above the smooth bottom of the plateau on the farther side of
the boat, where I could see their every motion and watch their brave
struggles for life. A prettier sight I never witnessed than the curious
way in which the movements of one fish neutralized those of the other.
If one sought the bottom, his mate went for the surface; if one rushed
away seawards, the other came towards the boat. They literally _played
each other_, and I was for awhile a mere spectator! After looking upon
these cross-purposes for some minutes, I noticed that the fish on
the tail fly became entangled with the line above his comrade on the
dropper, and both then began to whirl furiously round and round after
the usual manner of trout in a like predicament. When the wildest of
this flurry was over, I drew them cautiously to the boat and dipped up
both at once with my landing net. An immediate application of my pocket
scale proved their weight to be twenty-nine and thirty-three ounces
respectively, the heaviest trout being that on the drop or upper fly.
They were evidently a mated pair, and both were broad-shouldered, deep
fish, but not very long, the largest being only sixteen and a half
inches. Their backs were beautifully clouded and mottled, but the
carmine spots on their sides were not quite so vivid as those of dark
river-water trout. Fortunately they were merely lip-hooked, and being
at once placed in the floating creel, soon revived. Now I began to feel
big, and thought myself quite an expert, but in less than five minutes
the conceit was taken out of me with a vengeance, for on my very next
cast I struck a magnificent fish and lost him, and half my leader,
instanter. On feeling the hook old _Salmo_ went like a shot over the
brow of the declivity and (I suppose) into a hole, and cut the line
short off. After that mishap I became more careful, and never dropped my
fly more than six inches from the edge of the reef; and whenever a
fish was struck I drew him at once, at all hazards, away from the risky
ground and played him on the plateau.

By ten o’clock I had secured fifteen beauties, some running close upon
three pounds. Eleven of these were as lively as ever, but four had been
hooked in the throat and soon died.

As the day was now becoming bright and hot, I thought it time to look
after my boys, who were out of sight around a point. I soon came up with
them and found “Squills” asleep in the bottom of the boat while “Bluffy”
sat smoking, with his rod lying idly across the gunnel with the line in
the water. “What luck, boys?” I shouted. “Squills” awoke and replied,
“What luck yourself, Governor? Not one blessed fish in this region.” I
settled on my sculls, ready for a quick start, and said, “Why,
Squills, you don’t know _how_ to fish. Just compound a few of your best
prescriptions and throw them overboard. They have generally proved fatal
to your patients, and will murder the fish sure.”

“Squills” made a wicked dab at my head with his long-handled net, but
a stroke put me in safety, and I added, “And you, friend ‘Bluffy,’ just
rehash that famous trespass-case speech of yours, which gave the judge
fits and nearly killed the jury, and if you don’t have lots of dead
fish, I’m a Dutchman.” The poor boys, however, were past joking; and I
rowed back and examined their ground. They had actually been fishing all
the morning in water nine feet deep; over a bottom smooth as a billiard
table, without a weed, rock or stone to hide them from the fish; all of
which, within a hundred yards, could plainly see them and their boat. So
I said, “Come boys, we’ll go to camp and have an early trout dinner, and
in the evening you shall catch fish to your heart’s content.” Then up,
after this manner, spoke the dolorous “Squills”.

“That is all right, Governor, but it strikes me that in order fully to
enjoy a trout-dinner, it is, above all things, necessary first to have
the trout.”

“True, most sapient medicus, and here they are,” I rejoined, at the same
time lifting the lid of my creel. “Glory to Galen!”

“Thunder and turf!”

“Ghost of Walton! where did you get those, Governor?” both exclaimed
in a breath. “Boys,” said I, “you are hungry, tired, and cross; possess
your souls in patience; come to camp; take some lime-juice and water,
with a little of something in it; eat, drink, and recover your strength,
and you shall have the best afternoon’s sport you ever saw.” These words
of wisdom cheered the fellows up wonderfully, and we all put off for
camp.

That redolent and shiny youth, Jim, soon cleaned two of the dead fish,
together about five pounds, cooked them in a style of his own, and we
sat down at the unfashionable hour of eleven to our first camp dinner.
I will, for once, give the _menu_, merely to show what awful _hardships_
we had to encounter!

Brook trout, fried in red-hot lard, garnished with bread crumbs; broiled
mutton chops; baked potatoes; cold tongue; pickles; sauces and jellies:
aftercourse—pancakes with maple syrup; wind up—Stilton cheese. Didn’t
we just suffer for our country? After the inevitable and welcome pipe
(not cigars), and some choice and (I am happy to say) _chaste_ anecdotes
by “Bluffy,” we laid down for a two hours’ siesta. Oh, the glory, the
happiness of out-door life, away from posts, telegraphs, or newspapers!
Oh, the delight of feeling that every fresh breath of pure ozone-laden
air, adds to health and wholesome animal spirits, and is rapidly
re-invigorating your system, and fitting you to more effectually take
part in renewed and honest work!

At four o’clock the sun was again obscured by kindly clouds and we all
went out to the reef; the boys, as before, in one boat, and I in
the other. And then occurred sport such as is seldom seen in genuine
troutfishing. My friends stuck to their minnow and grasshopper bait,
while I retained the fly. I induced them to anchor quite close to the
edge of the reef, so that they might, if necessary, drop their lines
perpendicularly down its face. They had not fished five minutes when
“Bluffy” gave a whoop, which might have awakened a petit-juror or scared
a witness out of his boots. I glanced that way, and found the man of
law standing up in the boat with curved and straining rod and a glow
of intense satisfaction pervading his jolly countenance. “I’ve got
him, Governor! He’s a whopper; an old he fellow! None of your three
pounders,” he yelled in great excitement. Sure enough, he _had_ him, and
after ten minutes of skilful play, landed a trout of over four pounds.

This beat me all hollow! Indeed the largest _S. fontinalis_ I took on
this trip weighed three pounds, one ounce, being two ounces lighter than
the heaviest I have ever yet caught.

“Squills” now got his hand in and brought out a dashing fish of three
and a-half pounds, in a manner so pretty and artistic as to elicit a
warm eulogium from the “Governor,” who, of course, had not meantime been
idle himself. In fact, I had taken a double and single while the boys
got their two; but these outweighed my three. All through our excursion
the _largest_ fish were invariably taken by bait, but not so many of
them as by the fly. However, the fly was so much less trouble and so
much prettier, and cleaner to handle, I did not care to change, seeing
at once that we should catch more fish than we wanted anyway.

It was a great treat to me to watch the enjoyment the boys had in their
sport. Neither of them had been out before for years, and no student at
the beginning of a long vacation could have manifested such unbounded
delight at his freedom, as did they with their fishing and its
accompanying pleasures. It is a fact worthy of note that while I, using
the fly, took only speckled trout (_S. fontinalis_), my friends, with
bait, secured several of other and larger kinds.

Well, amid laughter, joke and repartee, the afternoon wore away, and
evening shades came all too quickly.

Our sport had been almost unique in its exhilarating success and
joyousness. When the sun sank below the waters we had taken in all
seventy-six fine trout, none under one pound. Of this number my fly was
responsible for thirty-two, “Squills” had taken twenty-one, and “Bluffy”
twenty-three. A lovelier lot of fish was never seen; and with the
exception of eight dead ones, we transferred them all safely to the
corral, built in the edge of the lake near our tent, with large stones.
Here, about eighty per cent, of all the fish taken on this trip remained
alive during the whole time of our stay. Whenever one showed signs of
failing we dipped him out for present use. This corral, hacked up by our
supply of ice, gave us full assurances that our good luck would not be
followed by reckless waste.

But I had almost forgotten the chief incident of this memorable day.
As we approached the camp we saw “Jim” on the shore dancing a double
“Virginny break-down” and grinning all over from head to foot; his
shining ebony face and gleaming teeth fairly illuminating the coming
darkness. On seeing us he yelled out, “I got him, gentlemen; I beats you
all; takes this nigger to catch fish!”

The imp had actually made for himself a raft of drift-wood, paddled it
out to deep water, and taken with bait a great salmon trout of twenty
pounds! and it was now swimming about in the corral like a very
leviathan among my morning’s catch. This tickled us all so immensely
that we then and there bestowed upon “Jim” an extra “quarter” each. This
boy was indeed a treasure; a first-class cook and care-taker; willing,
faithful, and honest; while his store of songs, exhibits of dancing, and
never-failing fun and good-humor, would have sufficed to keep cheerful
any camp in the world. Poor fellow! he was drowned two years later in
Lake Michigan, while bathing.

If I did not fear to spin out this already dull narrative to an
inordinate length, I should like to give a detailed account of each of
the twelve days we fished and shot in this vicinity.

_Twelve_ days only, mind you, for not a line was wet on Sunday.

Our one rifle proved a useful adjunct, but we found no use for the
shot-guns, the season being too early and the weather too fine for
ducks. The delicately sighted Winchester, however, procured us several
fine specimens of the loon or great northern diver, and one or two large
blue cranes, all of which, I presume, now adorn “Squills’” sanctum in
British Columbia.

Almost every day we had choice sport, and we limited our catch only by
the facilities we possessed for saving and carrying away the fish.

One particular day we devoted to salmon and red trout, which we fished
for away off in very deep water, all of us using either spoons or
live herring bait, in trolling. We had plenty of wholesome exercise in
rowing, and very fair luck as regards fish; taking in all, seven salmon
trout and five red trout.

The honors of this day fell to “Squills,” who captured with his spoon a
salmon trout of nineteen pounds, while I got a red trout of ten pounds.
This last named fish is as pink in the flesh and as fine flavored as
_Salmo salar_. It is said by local fishermen to be in fact the same
fish, and they suppose that in ages long past sea salmon had some means
of reaching this lake, and when the waters subsided some were left,
and that from them the red trout is descended. As I have myself no
scientific knowledge whatever I cannot offer an opinion upon this point.
I can only say that if a skilled fisherman, or even a scientist, were to
receive one of these fish from, say Quebec, he could hardly distinguish
it from the veritable _Salmo salar_, though it bears even a more exact
resemblance to the salmon of Frazer Fiver, British Columbia.

I am told that this red trout will rise to the fly, but I cannot vouch
for the fact, as all we took were captured with bait or spoon.

A rather curious, though frequently occurring, thing happened one
evening as we were all fishing, with our boats not more than fifty feet
apart. I had hooked, and was playing a medium sized speckled trout, when
it was seized and gorged by a sixteen-pound salmon trout. I realized
the situation instantly and gave line freely, so as to allow the poacher
lots of time to swallow his stolen prey. The rifle was in the other
boat, and I asked the boys to come alongside, as we should probably have
to use cold lead, the fish being too large for our landing nets. By the
time they were in position, about sixty feet of my line had gone slowly
out, and I judged that the large fish had got the small one fairly in
his stomach. I then began to reel in very gently, and was surprised to
find that the big trout followed my lead with great docility until I had
brought him quite near the surface. Then he became alarmed and dashed
off—a proceeding to which I made no resistance, as I feared pulling the
bait from his throat. Being apparently satisfied that all was right,
my unknown friend soon became quiescent, and I could only feel a slight
tremor of the line as he settled his supper satisfactorily in his maw.
Again I coaxed him slowly and cautiously towards the boat in which
stood “Bluffy” with poised rifle. This time I ventured to make him show
himself within twenty feet of the muzzle of the gun, when “Bluffy” very
neatly put a bullet through his head, and he turned belly up and was got
on board. “Well done, “Bluffy,”” said “Squills;” “your _practice_ could
not have done greater _execution_ if you had been making out a bill of
costs for a client.”

“Well, no,” says ‘Bluffy;’ “but I think perhaps one of _your curative
pills_ would have killed the fish more unutterably dead.”

“Peace, boys, peace,” said the “Governor”; “this is a solemn occasion;
we have used unlawful and unsportsmanlike means to take a game fish; but
as it could not be helped we will condone the offence by giving the fish
away to the first deserving object we meet.”

“And that will be ‘Jim,’ quietly observed ‘Squills.’”

But dear me! what is the use of trying to tell all the fun and glorious
sport we had? The pen of a “Frank Forester” or a Hallock might do
justice to the subject, mine cannot. Suffice it to say that, as the days
went on, each one made me feel younger and younger, until I found it
hard to convince myself that I was over twenty-five. As to my comrades,
we had not been out a week before they were boys of sixteen!

Last days will come, however, and all too quickly, let us bear up never
so bravely. The fifteenth morning saw us packing up and preparing to
return once more to civilized life and “the busy haunts of men.”

I am afraid to say how many trout we had at the finish, but I know that
we packed in ice more than three hundred pounds weight to take home with
us; and gave away, almost alive from the corral, nearly as many more
to the captain of the steamer, thereby calling down upon our heads the
earnest blessings of passengers and crew.

I find, on looking over this MS. that I have forgotten to say that we
discovered several places along the channel edge of the island where
most excellent trout-fishing could be had from the shore; and that, by
the advice of local fishermen, my friends tried the “hearts” of killed
trout as bait, and found such very effective. This “heart” is a piece of
flesh which lies inside the pointed part of the fish’s belly which
runs between the gill covers. It looks much like a genuine heart, and
_pulsates_ for several seconds after being removed from the fish. I
suppose that it is in fact a real heart. Never once did this bait fail
to attract a bite; but, of course, not many hearts could be obtained,
as we extracted the delicate morsel only from such fish as were required
for immediate consumption.

Me finally bade farewell to our two weeks’ elysium, with sorrowful
feelings, but before the lapse of twenty-four hours, kind and loving
thoughts of wives, little ones, and home re-asserted themselves, and
we landed at Collingwood in jubilant spirits and vigorous health, fully
prepared to resume our several avocations, and fight again the battles
of life with renewed courage and hope.

P.S.—We were absent from Barrie twenty-five days in all, and the whole
trip cost us only one hundred and thirty-five dollars, or forty-five
dollars each. Our ice was kept almost intact by being wrapped in
blankets and covered with spruce boughs. Mr. Boon, before referred to,
has built and is this winter (1883) filling a large ice-house on the
small island for his own use and that of any visitors who may fish in
the neighborhood next summer. Mr. Boon took five hundred half barrels of
choice fish on these grounds last season; with nets, of course.




THE ANGLER’S GREETING.

By W. David Tomlin.


Whither away, friend! Your black slender rod-box and the creel denote
you are on fishing intent, but where are you bound?

A momentary glance, a cordial good evening; the question then came—To
whom am I indebted for this greeting? An exchange of cards resulted in
a long and cordial grasp of hands; glad to meet you! Is it possible? The
magic pasteboard revealed two names not unknown to each other through
the columns of their favorite angling journal, and this visitor had
come to the little country station in quest of some of the fishing often
spoken of in the said paper.

The fates had led the correspondent to the railway station to bid
good-bye to a friend when the angler unlimbered himself therefrom; and
was looking around as strangers do.

“Can you recommend a quiet inn near this point where I can find decent
treatment? I am not inclined to be fussy.”

A few minutes’ walk and I introduced him to mine host, who was a genuine
piscator, and nothing pleased him better than to have an angler under
his roof: he took possession of him and considered nothing too much
trouble, so long as he gave his guests good fishing, clean beds, a
square meal, and satisfaction.

While supper was being prepared, we pleasantly chatted over the prospect
of sport, and the angler’s aim and ambition. He wanted a day or two of
trouting, and some roach fishing with a fly, as he had read some letters
giving an experience in fishing for these dainty fish, and intended
trying them. The inspection of a well-filled fly-book showed how
carefully he had selected his stock.

The early supper over, we strolled up the hillsides overlooking this
lovely vale. On the grassy downs we seated ourselves, and I pointed out
to him the various fishing points; yonder is a splendid reach where the
trout are always found; see that sheeny rivulet coming down through
that clump of trees! that is the best trout stream in this section of
country.

Note the different water-courses. The canal runs through the middle
of the valley; see here, clear away to the west, a little brook comes
tumbling in; see just below that point, a silvery-looking stream on
the farther side of the canal—that is a fine trout stream; follow its
course until it loses itself in that big clump of willows: a saw-mill is
hidden in those willows, and the stream, after supplying the mill with
power, drops into a culvert under the bed of the canal; there it is
again in that piece of open moorland; there it is coming out from that
long clump of willows, and finally joining the stream mentioned before
as the best trout stream in this region; thus the two streams, the Gade
and the little Bourne, are swallowed up in the canal; and have always
been splendid waters for roach fishing.

The hills hide the canal and streams in their winding course, or I
would point out to you the best fishing grounds for miles along this
Hertfordshire valley; but I presume there lies under your observation
enough fishing ground for a day or two.

The sun is tending downward like a huge ball of fire, the vale is in a
dreamy shade; how glistening the appearance of the water-courses, like a
big silvery thread winding in and out along the vale! the evening air
is full of music; the bee is humming around you; what a flood of music
comes from the throat of that woodland thrush in yonder thorn hedge! the
strain is taken up, and the very woods echo again with the song of the
black-bird. As he ceases his roundelay, the soft clear note of another
bird strikes on the ear; for the moment’ nature seems hushed; almost
breathless you wait; the notes come rich and clear, as silvery as a
lute, a flood of melody; the sound dies away and instantly the woods
ring again; all the sweet-throated songsters seem as if applauding the
song of the nightingale; we sit and drink in these sounds, until one by
one the songs drop into silence, leaving the nightingale to pour out its
tuneful music until far into the night. At this moment there comes in
the air the quivering boom of a bell ringing out the hour of nine from
the steeple of the church yonder, faintly limned on the evening shadows.
Ah! listen again! there comes the evening chime. How the quivering notes
pulsate up here on these-hilltops! how silvery the tones; as the chords
of the vesper hymn rings out sweet and clear, our hearts beat in
rhythm to the strain! Lovely vale! Israel’s grandest seer, who with eye
undimmed and natural force unabated, even from Pisgah’s lofty heights
gazed on no lovelier scene than this we have surveyed. We descend into
the shadows; promising to meet my angling friend some time during the
following day, I wend my way homeward and to rest.

The evening shadows were again falling ere I could join our angler, but
the flies were on the waters and roach were fairly jumping, the surface
of the stream was alive with fish, both roach and dace breaking water
around us. My friend was no novice; I found him whipping the stream from
bank to bank, and his creel testified to his success. He was using a
tail fly and dropper, a red hackle for the former, and an imitation of
the common blue house-fly for the dropper. These fish are fastidious in
their tastes; they do not rise at flies like a trout, but come to the
surface of the water and just break for the fly and at once turn tail
up. He who fishes for them must have a quick eye and steady hand; then
he can kill readily enough. They are a toothsome fish, but a trifle
bony. Eye and hand must work together, and when fish are feeding they
will readily take the fly. They are tender in the mouth and require care
in handling. They afford good sport in streams where they are abundant,
and are often killed weighing from one and a-half to two pounds.

My angling friend had come well prepared with letters introducing him to
the owners of the fine trout streams, and readily obtained permission to
fish these preserved waters. It was rare sport to watch him daintily lay
out his line across the stream, his stretcher a June fly, or at times a
floating May-fly skittered across the surface until close to the farther
hank. Here lay a big _Salmo fario_. We had been watching him lazily
coming to the surface to suck in a fly or bug that had tumbled from the
trees overhead. A big cockchafer came spinning and buzzing down stream.
All laziness gone in an instant, up came the _Salmo_ showing his huge
sides. A fierce lunge and a heavy splash and the chafer was gone into
the cavern of the open mouth. The fly-book was out in an instant. A
dark brown fly somewhat resembling the ‘chafer replaced the stretcher.
A careful cast a little up stream, a lunge and a miss from the trout.
Another cast close in to the bank, a slight jerk and the fly assumed the
appearance of the buzzing chafer; the same sharp dash, the hand was
as quick as the trout this time, the hook was driven home and the fun
began. Such a dashing, splurging, rushing I had never seen. He was
determined to use every art known to trout-lore before he surrendered.
The rod bent and sprung, the line fairly swished as he tore up stream;
above him lay the limb of a tree, scraggy and ragged; toward this he
plunged, but the line tightened on him; he tugged and jerked, but gained
not an inch; he came to the surface and thrashed the water with his
broad tail. Fatal error! as he did so the line came in as fast as
fingers could fly round, the landing net was slipped under him, a quick
upward movement and Master _Salmo_ was flung high and dry. He was too
big for the net and so was ignominiously flung ashore.

What a noble trout! His silver sides and belly gleamed in the light,
his blood-red spots seemed to glow with indignation at his cruel
death. He had long been a lordling over the other trout and now was
strangling! Kill him! I cannot bear to see a trout gasping. Killed and
scaled he weighs three and a half pounds. A credit to the angler: but
at times, during the contest, it was a question to which the honor
belonged; it was: “Splendid rod!” “Ah! how skilfully he handles his
fish.” “Who would have dreamt that little thing would have stood such a
strain?”

Gentle angler, let us leave our friend to the contemplation of the
beauties of the fairest of all England’s garden landscapes, and the
preserved trout streams, and plunge with me into an American forest.

By a beautiful lake in the famous State of Michigan a little settlement
is springing up. Over in that bay is a trout creek emptying; it is full
of trout—trout _galore_—trout by the hundreds can be seen. Come with
me, I will show them to you. Let me drop a fly into this hole. Ah! there
he is! see him dash for it. He won’t come again, let us push along.

Push along, you say? do you expect I am coming through that brush? Not
much; I am not a crank. If you are so fond of trying to break your neck
for a string of trout, why go. I go! am quite willing to be alone on
this lovely little creek, for it contains some of the handsomest trout
it has ever been my good luck to kill. Here and there I drop in a
fly; sometimes a “Yellow May,” sometimes a “Professor,” sometimes a
“Stone-fly”; once in a while an “Ibis” is fancied by some fastidious
trout. How and then a “Floating May-fly” seems a favorite. Where the
brush overhangs and is a darksome, lonely spot, I drop in a “Royal
Coachman,” and out comes a big trout lusty and fighting; sometimes fancy
flies are spurned and hackles of all colors kill; then a fly composed of
alternate feathers, red and white, of no name, but a favorite with the
writer, will kill when trout will not take any other fly.

I am enjoying the fun, and the creel is getting heavy. Half a mile of
fishing and twenty-five handsome trout is doing good enough for mid-day
fishing.

As the evening falls I take my split bamboo and the fly-book, pull on
the wading hoots, and go down to the mouth of the creek, wading out
until I am as far as the sand runs. I cast out more for practice than to
expect trout. I have on a big bass-fly large enough for a salmon-fly. As
it strikes the water twenty-five feet from me there is a commotion. “Ye
gods and little fishes!” What was the fuss? I cast again, and as true as
I am here if a number of trout did not jump clear out for that fly,
big as it was! Hastily reeling in I put on a dun-colored fly, and cast
again; the same jump and dash, but no trout. Changing my flies until at
last I put on as a stretcher a “White Miller,” I flung out clear beyond
any former cast into the midst of what appeared like a boiling spring.
The fly dropped softly and out came a host of trout. School kept just
then, for I certainly had struck a school of trout. Striking, I fastened
into a fine fish; reeling in, I dried my fly and cast again and hooked
again. The fun grew fast and furious; my little bamboo swished and bent;
hooks were snipped off; I was excited and jubilant, when along came
an itinerant parson. The twenty-five or thirty trout I had, set him
longing; he must fish. Jerking off his boots, pulling up his pants, he
waded into the icy cold water equipped with a stick cut from the forest.
He had nosed out a line and some hooks from a supply I had left on the
bank in my fishing-case, and without so much as “by your leave” began
threshing the water as close to the school as he could get his line;
this was baited with a piece of dead fish. To say that I was disgusted
faintly expresses my feeling. I would have ceased fishing, but my friend
with whom I was staying said, “Ho, don’t stop while sport is so good.”
I put on a “Royal Coachman” and cast out again, hooking and bringing
out trout every second or third cast. I began casting wide, the school
followed my flies. I tried the “Professor’s,” “Dun’s,” “Hackle’s,” “Seth
Green,” “Governor,” and “May-flies,” with good success. With one pure
“Yellow May” I caught a dozen handsome trout, but in this event the
evening shadows were fast falling. As they deepened, the “Royal
Coachman” and “White Millers” were the killing flies. I cast until I
could not see where my flies fell, and even then once in a while hooked
and brought in a trout.

I had been thoughtless enough to leave my creel up in the house, never
expecting to have this run of good luck. All my trout were taken from
the hook and thrown twenty-five feet to shore. I lost many of them in
this way. Thirty my friends claimed, yet when I came to count tails, I
found forty as handsome trout as ever man wished to see, and all caught
from 6 in the evening until dark, about 7.45. I had no net, no creel,
therefore had to lead my trout into my hand. The friend at whose house I
was staying claims I lost more than I caught by having them flounder off
the hook while trying to take them by the gills, and by flinging them
ashore.

I have used flies on this creek many times, but never had such luck
before nor since. My experience has been that the fine fancy flies of
the eastern streams are useless on these Michigan streams; the nearer
the flies approach to a species of small moth found flitting amidst the
foliage of the forest, the greater the success. A word, brother angler,
and I have done. Learn to cast a fly, and you will never go back to
bait fishing from choice. Get good flies, and you won’t regret the
extra money they cost you; don’t buy cheap imitations or trade made
flies—“they are frauds.”

Don’t buy a pole big enough for the staff of a Philistine Goliath;
to fish for trout, buy a fine rod, take care of it, learn to use it
thoroughly. Never buy a cheap rod; a rod fit for trouting must be as
fine as it is possible to make them, and it should not make a shadow on
the water. Cheap rods are like cheap guns, scham-dahms! Good trout
rods cost a good deal of time and labor; cheap rods are turned out in
a rapid-running lathe. They are a delusion. Get the best materials of
everything you need, and buy of a good maker. Never be tempted to buy
“cheap flies because they are bargains”—cheap rods because some one is
selling out; “want to get out of the business, no money in it.” Remember
you are the party who will be sold. Cheap things for trouting are a
“fraud, a delusion, and a snare.”

Almost every angler has been bitten, but the prevailing opinion is: buy
the best tackle your pocket-book can afford and take care of it. And my
word for it, as an angler who learned to cast a line for pickerel at ten
years old, you will love the sport and think it the best way to spend a
summer’s vacation of any amusement under the sun.

“In using the fly the object is to imitate the movements of the natural
insect as nearly as possible. To drop the line naturally on the water,
and then to keep the fly endued with life, is the stratagem. From the
moment the fly touches the water the angler should keep his eye on it.
Trout often feed a little under the surface; they do not always break
when they rise, but quietly suck in the fly.”—_Charles Hallock_.

“‘An angler, sir, uses the finest tackle, and catches his fish
scientifically—trout, for instance—with the artificial fly, and he is
mostly a quiet, well-behaved gentleman. A fisherman, sir, uses any kind
of ‘ooks and lines, and catches them any way; so he gets them it’s all
one to ’im, and he is generally a noisy fellah, sir, something like a
gunner.’”—_Doctor Bethune._

[Illustration: 0148]

16. Silver Black.

17. Scarlet Ibis.

18. Stone Fly.

19. White Miller.

20. Fiery Brown.

21. Yellow Drake.

22. Grir. King.

23. Imbrie.

24. Soldier Palmer.

25. Cha

26. Portland.

27. Ethel May.

28. Pale Evening Dun.

29. Great Dun.

30. Whimbrel.

“Be stil moving your fly upon the water, or casting it into the
water; you yourself, being also alwaies moving down the stream.—_Izaak
Walton._

“When once alarmed, trout will never bite.”—_Seth Green_.

“Fly-fishers are usually brain-workers in society. Along the banks of
purling streams, beneath the shadows of umbrageous trees, or in the
secluded nooks of charming lakes, they have ever been found, drinking
deep of the invigorating forces of nature—giving rest and tone to
over-taxed brains and wearied nerves—while gracefully wielding the
supple rod, the invisible leader, and the fairy-like fly.”—_James A.
Henshall, M.D._

“It is generally true that if a trout is pricked by a fly-hook he will
not rise to it again.”—_W. C. Prime_.

“Christopher North.—Would you believe it, my dear Shepherd, that my
piscatory passions are almost dead within me; and I like now to saunter
along the banks and braes, eyeing the younkers angling, or to lay me
down on some sunny spot, and with my face up to heaven, watch the slow
changing clouds!”

“Shepherd.—I’ll no believe that, sir, till I see’t—and scarcely
then—for a bluidier-minded fisher nor Christopher North never threw a
hackle. Your creel fu’—your shootin’-bag fu’—your jacket-pouches fu’,
the pouches o’ your verra breeks fu’—half-a-dozen wee anes in your
waistcoat, no’ to forget them in the croon o’ your hat,—and, last o’
a’, when there’s nae place to stow awa ony mair o’ them, a willow-wand
drawn through the gills of some great big anes, like them ither
folk would grup wi’ the worm or the mennon—buta’ gruppit wi’ the
flee—Phin’s delight, as you ca’t,—a killen inseck—and on gut that’s
no easily broken—witness yon four pounder aneath Elibank wood, where
your line, sir, got entangled wi’ the auld oak-root, and yet at last ye
landed him on the bank, wi’ a’ his crosses and his stars glitterin’ like
gold and silver amang the gravel! I confess, sir, you’re the King o’
Anglers. But dinna tell me that you have lost your passion for the art;
for we never lose our passion for ony pastime at which we continue to
excel.”




THE LURE.

By “Bourgeois.”


Among the delightful summer resorts of Colorado Estes Park may be justly
considered one of the most attractive. It is now easy of access. Seven
years ago it began to be frequented, the trail having given way to the
wagon road. Before the days of easy ingress, I had cast my lures upon
the waters of the Thompson and Fall River, with gratifying success.

In the summer of 1875, the Governor, the Governor’s mother, and myself,
determined upon Estes Park for a six weeks’ vacation. With this end in
view, in the latter part of July, I sent off the team loaded with the
camp outfit.

Two days after we took the morning train for Longmont, on the Colorado
Central, and had an early lunch at the tail end of the wagon just
outside the town. Before noon we were on the fifteen-mile drive into the
canon of the St. Vrain, for camp.

By sunrise the following morning we had started, with twenty miles to
make over a new road part of the way, and no road at all in places,
and the places were many. However, we had to hitch on to the end of
the tongue but once, to snake the wagon over an otherwise impassable
boulder. The rock stood a foot out of ground, stretched entirely across
where the road was to be, and at an angle of 45°. The team could barely
get a foothold upon the top, when the traces were let out full, and the
double-tree hooked on the end of the tongue. The horses understood
their business, and upon a word settled their shoulders into the collars
together, the breeching gradually lifted as their knees bent a little;
without a slip their iron-shod hoofs held to the hard granite, and we
were up as deftly as a French dancing master would raise his hat to a
lady. In travelling in the hills there is nothing so gratifying as a
team whose pulling powers you can swear by; a balky horse is an engine
of destruction or death; if you know his failing, shoot him before you
reach the foothills.

As the sun dropped behind the range, lighting up the high peaks with
his golden rays, and the pines were beginning to take on tints of darker
green, we reached the head of the Park, and within three miles of our
camping ground. To the right of us “Olympus,” with the dying sunlight
dancing on his granite head, to the left Long’s Peak, with patches of
snow here and there, towering godlike above the surrounding giants.
Before us, Prospect Mountain with its rugged front far reaching above
its robes of green, while around its base and toward us came leaping the
beautiful mountain stream for two miles through the meadow-hued park,
with scarce a willow upon its banks. What a place to cast a fly! Aye,
indeed it is; and what a place it was to catch trout. But we must move
on around Prospect Mountain to Ferguson’s for camp, which we make on a
little eminence near a great spring and close by the cabin where we know
we shall be welcome.

A late supper disposed of, and the Governor stowed away in the blankets,
Ferguson and I fall talking at his broad fire-place about Horse Shoe
Park and Fall River; of course trout are plenty there; he had been up
the day before and knew whereof he spoke; yes, there were quite a number
of tourists in the park, but the streams were not “fished out.” He
rather thought that with “a pole” to every rod of the stream the fishing
improved; at least for him.

Our genial friend who obeyed Joshua in the long ago, was out of bed next
day sooner than I. Dick, the pony, gave me a cheerful good morning as
I put in an appearance and changed his picket pin. I received his
salutation as a good omen.

Breakfast over and Dick saddled, it was eight o’clock. We had five miles
to go. I strapped my rod and creel to the pommel, and with a caution to
the Governor’s mother not to let him fall into the spring, Ferguson
and I were off. There was no occasion to hurry; if we reached the
beaver-dams in Horse Shoe Park by ten o’clock we would be just in time.
Experience had taught me that the two hours before noon, and after five
o’clock were the hours for success.

Our route was a “cut off” without any trail, but familiar; across the
Thompson, up stream, westward for a mile, we turned up a “draw” to the
right, for a swale in the ridge dividing the Thompson and its tributary,
Fall River. By nine o’clock we had reached the summit of the divide.
Before and below us lay a beautiful park, three miles in length, by a
mile in width toward its upper end, where it rounded at the base of
the mountain range, giving it the shape of a horse shoe, which no doubt
suggested its name. To the north it is guarded by an immense mountain
of rocks, where towering and impenetrable cliffs stand out against
the background of blue sky, as though the Titans had some time builded
there, and mother earth had turned their castles into ruins, and
left them as monuments of her power. To the south a long, low-lying,
pine-covered hill, while from the range in the west with its snow
covered summit and base of soft verdure, comes a limpid stream winding
down through the grass-covered park, its course marked by the deeper
green of the wild grass and the willows. A mile away a band of mountain
sheep are feeding; they have evidently been down to water and are making
their way back to their haunts in the cliffs, and whence we know they
will quickly scud when they see or wind us. Ferguson longed for his
rifle; it was just his luck; he had the “old girl” with him the last
time, but “nary hoof” had he seen. To me they were precious hints of
man’s absence, and the wilderness.

Reaching the stream we picketed the ponies in the grass to their knees;
the nutritious mountain grass, the mother of cream so thick that you
have to dip it out of the jug with a spoon. The ponies were happy, and
I became nervous; it seemed half an hour before I could get my tackle
rigged. But after I had sent my favorite gray hackle on its mission and
had snatched a ten-inch trout from his native element, my nerves were
braced. A second and a third followed; I heard nothing from Ferguson
except the “swish” of his old cane pole above the music of the waters.
The trout struck and I landed them so fast that the sport began to be
monotonous, and I followed up the sound of the cane. Going round a clump
of willows I discovered the old gentleman upon the edge of the pool, and
that old rod going up and down with the regularity of a trip hammer, the
owner combining business and sport. I asked him what he was doing; he
said he was fishing, and I thought he was.

Wandering up stream, taking it leisurely, I had by noon filled my creel,
and was enjoying a sandwich under the shelter of some willows, when my
companion came along with his sixteen pound lard-can filled, besides a
dozen upon a stick. I asked him when he intended to quit. He said he had
never seen fish “bite” so; he hated to stop, and yet had all he could
carry, but concluded with me that enough was as good as a feast. Then
he began to banter me about my ash and lancewood, and the excess of his
catch over mine. I told him to wait till some other day. It came in the
course of time, upon the same stream. The trout refused everything I
had, grasshoppers included. Finally I fished up an old fly-book from
the depths of my coat pocket, and in it were half a dozen nameless
blue-bodied flies with a mouse-colored feather upon a number six Kirby.
Upon sight, I remembered to have discarded them in disgust, but I
thought I would try one for luck, and lo! the mystery was solved. I had
been working industriously for two hours and had two trout. Ferguson had
been no more successful, but was in sight when the trout began to rise
to my cast-off fly. He came down my way, wanted to know what I
was using, and I gave him one; he lost that and his leader in some
half-sunken brush, and I gave him another. But his good genius had
deserted him; I persuaded a trout right away from his lure, and he quit
in disgust, while I said never a word. Though a little sensitive upon
the score of success, he was and is a genial and companionable angler,
and one who can make a good cast withal, an he have proper tools.

Willow Park, an adjunct to Estes Park, through which runs a branch of
the Thompson, has afforded me many a day’s sport, and is nearer to camp.
Upon a memorable occasion I had been fishing down stream, when, with a
well-filled creel, I encountered a gigantic boulder on the hank. Just
beyond it was a pool that was suggestive; to reach the base of the
boulder it was necessary to get over a little bayou of about five feet
in width and three in depth. To jump it were easy but for the willows,
yet I must get to that pool. Selecting a place where I think the willows
will give way to my weight, I essay the leap. My feet reach the opposite
hank, my body presses back the brush, but I feel a rebound that assures
me of my fate. I clutch frantically at the swaying bush; it breaks in
my hand, and I sit down quite helplessly, muttering a prayer till the
cold water bids me shut my mouth. Emerging I hear a well defined laugh,
but not being in the mind to fear the spirits that haunt these wilds, I
make for the base of that boulder and the coveted pool. A moment after
I discover a face bedecked with glasses upon the opposite side of the
brook, and recognize the smiling countenance of a genial member of the
guild looking at me through the willows.

“Oh, is that you?”

To this lucid inquiry I reply in the affirmative. “Where’s Ferguson?”

“At home, I suppose.”

“I thought I heard him fall in the creek.”

I told him I did not think Ferguson had a monopoly of the bathing
privileges of the Thompson and its tributaries.

“Well, I thought it was funny.”

“Thought what was funny?”

“Why, I heard the splash, and supposed it was Ferguson; then I
remembered Ferguson was a church member in good standing.”

I took my revenge by competing with my brother for the contents of that
pool, and beat him by one. But to this day he greets me with a smile.
When I got back to camp I learned that the Governor had been trying to
follow in the footsteps of his father, and had tumbled into the spring.
He had been fished out by the combined efforts of his mother and Mrs.
Ferguson, and I discovered him swathed in a blanket by the kitchen
stove, mad as a hornet; I shook hands with him.

Our camp is pitched in a pleasant spot, with two tall pines, a hundred
feet away, for sentinels. _Coup de soleil_ is unknown in Colorado, so I
prefer the sun’s rays to lightning, especially while trees seared from
top to bottom are plentiful in the Park as monitors. To the right is
Prospect Mountain, with its west end a beetling cliff, perhaps two
thousand feet high, where I once had the buck-ague during an interview
with a “big-horn.” To the left and in front, the range, where the
storm-king holds high carnival, while lower down and nearer is a
mountain of towers and pinnacles of brown and red and gray, carved out
by that whimsical sculptor, Old Time. With the sun for my artist, the
range for both his easel and background, I have lounged away many an
hour under one of the old pines. My gaze wandering down the green slope
to the river half a mile away, and with the weird music of the tumbling
waters coming and receding on the summer breeze to help my dreams, we
have together wrought out fantastic ruins and ghostly shapes to people
them. A drifting cloud, perhaps, will change a barbacan to a spire, and
a Doric capital to a Corinthian, or the knight panoplied to a brownie
with a lily for a throne, and

               “......jolly satyrs, full of fresh delight,

               Come dancing forth, and with them nimbly ledd

               Faire Helenore, with girlonds all bespredd,

               Whom their May-lady they had newly made;”

to give place again, as the golden meshes weave, to cowled monks or
ladies, fair, as suits the whim of the artist’s patron. Again, the
goblins of the range begin their game of nine-pins, and the fleecy
clouds that have been slowly drifting, drifting all the day, settle down
upon the mountain top and change from white to gray and from gray to
black as the sport grows furious. Something these elves must have to
light up their frolic, and presently it comes in great flashes of wicked
steel-blue and red, zigzaging down the mountain side, or in straight
blinding bolts that rive paths in the hard granite, scattering the loose
rock and shivering the pines, while the noise of the jolly nine-pins
rattles and re-echoes among the crags, and dies away to come again more
quickly, until the mountain-top is a sheet of lurid flame and the din
unceasing, so closely follows peal upon peal. The game is too violent
to last, but the gnomes love to hug the range in their pastime, and I,
understanding the signs, and having no fear of their electric lights,
watch the fast growing rift of azure that crowds hard upon the driving
blackness. At last the mellow rays touch up my mountain ruins, and they
are arrayed in new splendors and peopled with other phantoms.

So I have dreamed, and might go on dreaming, but this time I am brought
back to the green slope and a little figure. The Governor is toiling
up the trail with a quart bucket, his special chattel, from the spring,
whence he volunteered to bring a drink for his mother. I can see no
impediment in his path, yet he stumbles and falls. Would I had been
there to warn him; but the water is spilled. He does not cry, but
gathers himself and his property up, and goes back to begin his task
over again. Just then there came to me pat, an aphorism, I think, of
“Poor Goldsmith”: “True greatness consists not in never falling, but
in rising every time we fall;” and I took it as an omen of good for the
boy.

The time is approaching when we must break camp and go back to the brick
and mortar and the realities of civilization. Duties to be performed
will be undertaken with better zest when I get to them, but I cast
lingering looks toward my mountain ruins as the day of depar

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