THE AMERICAN ANGLER. 



Vol. 26. 



AUGUST, 1896. 



No. 8. 



FISHING ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 



BY F. C. RIEHL. 



It is all very nice and fascinating for 

 us here in the Mississippi Valley to 

 read in the American Angler the 

 stories of wonderful catches with fancy 

 flies in the trout streams of the moun- 

 tains, and delightful sport in the 

 famous lakes or upon the Atlantic 

 coast; but, to many, if not most of 

 us, this comes as a far-off echo, or 

 dreams, that may never be realized. 

 We dwell in a region where we have 

 only the fish of slow, sluggish waters, 

 that are always more or less polluted 

 from the alluvial deposits of the vast 

 basin that they drain, and from' the 

 great cities, which, at frequent inter- 

 vals, stud the banks of these rivers. 

 We are ignorant of the pleasures of fly- 

 fishing, because none of the finny deni- 

 zens of these waters are sufficiently im- 

 petuous or hungry to go for such a lure. 

 When we make our bravest effort, we 

 supply a pail of live minnows, but often- 

 er catch the festive grasshopper upon 

 the bank, or impale the wriggling angle 

 worm. And yet, oh ye of the trout 

 pool and salmon spray, we manage to 

 while away many a pleasant hour in 

 sports piscatorial, and the votaries of 

 this royal pastime are perhaps as 

 , numerous here as in most any other 

 part of the civilized world. This may 

 seem ludicrous, if not impossible, to 

 you, but if you will listen, and accom- 

 pany me for a little while, I will try 

 to prove my assertion. 



Let us, first of all, enter into the 

 spirit of the thing, and to be able to do 

 this you must understand our situation 

 and surroundings. We are in the city 

 of Alton, the oldest city of importance 

 West of the Ohio Line. We are em- 

 ployed in one of the local professions, 

 and our vacations are limited to a very 

 few days in the year, principally the 

 national holidays. It is the eve of May 

 30. To-morrow is Memorial Day, and 

 we are free for thirty-six honrs. 



One of the finest fleets of power yachts 

 in the land has its home here, and we 

 are so fortunate as to be of a party 

 which is to go in one of these, eight 

 miles up the Mississippi to the rendez- 

 vous of the Nessmuk Club, an island of 

 over 300 acres that is still covered with 

 the primaeval forest and which this club 

 of local sportsmen has taken precaution 

 to save from the devastion of civiliza- 

 tion. We are to leave at 6 o'clock. 

 The larder has been stocked for four 

 meals in the woods. It includes a little 

 coffee, sugar, highland cream, two 

 pounds of butter, six loaves of bread, 

 two pounds of lard, a peck of onions, 

 and the same measure of potatoes, some 

 breakfast bacon, two dozen lemons, 100 

 pounds of ice, a pint of corn meal, salt 

 and pepper, and one fry of fresh steak. 

 All other fare must be foraged for. 

 Fastidious individuals may add some- 

 thing to this list, but it is not allowed 

 to go in with the club outfit, and they 



