The Trout of the Great Forest 121 



rounded by mountains, a highland hamlet, a charmed spot, 

 and you wonder that you never heard of it before, and a 

 strong desire comes over you to tell the old driver to stop, 

 as you have concluded to remain here forever; but a mile 

 or two further on, another little town appears, thirty or 

 forty homes, houses made of redwood logs, rustic and 

 charming, and beneath the broad veranda of one runs a 

 clear mountain stream, leaping on to join the San Lorenzo, 

 which is now not far away. Again you dip into the trees, 

 and out upon the narrow trail, or road, around big horse- 

 shoe curves, where the incense of laurel or bay, redwood and 

 countless herbs fills the air, and the chatter of bluejays tells 

 the story of forests, dark and dense. Then you suddenly 

 round a curve and see the sheer drop into the canon, and 

 on its sides madrofio trees, their naked trunks with tints 

 of burgundy, and far below, lines of Lombardy poplars and 

 eucalyptus trees. The musical rush of waters comes softly, 

 growing louder and louder. Surely if you catch no fish, if 

 the trout pass you by, you are more than repaid for the climb 

 into the cafion of the San Lorenzo. 



" I reckon you can reach the river through that brush, 

 mister," said the driver, pulling up, as a big ten-in-hand 

 of oxen and bulls came along hauling two teams of shacks, 

 the bulls bearing bells, which chimed in a melodious fashion, 

 and could be heard a long distance down or up the canon. 

 So, following the sound of rushing waters, I made my way 

 down to the little river born of the big trees and still cutting 

 its way down into the rocky heart of the Santa Cruz range. 



The cations of the Southern Sierras are fairly open, but 

 this little stream seemed very much shut in by contrast; a 

 deep cut with a turquoise top, across which vagrant fog 

 flecks were running; sides of emerald, and deep tints of 

 green, waters of silver with shades of amber, where vagrant 

 sunbeams flashed in, music of waters and clanging leaves; 

 surely this was a field for an artist, not a mere angler whose 

 love for color found its expression in a book of flies. 



