Among the Trout of Oregon. 



343 



From the time we strike the Brighten- 

 bush as long as we choose to ascend 

 the river we pass through the most 

 beautiful mountain country to be found 

 anywhere. Giant firs, cedars and pines 

 cover all the mountains, while gorgeous 

 rhododendrons and the graceful vine 

 maple fringe the streams and canyons. 

 The trail leads us sometimes along 

 the water's edge, sometimes back into 

 the forest and sometimes along the 

 precipitous side of a mountain, hun- 

 dreds of feet above the turbulent river. 

 Here and there we come upon a de- 

 serted cabin and a "foot-log," which 

 spans the river, at frequent intervals. 

 Here the river spreads out until it is so 

 shallow you may ford it if you are 

 sure-footed and do not mind wading in 

 ice-water up to your waist. But just 

 over yonder it winds between towering 

 cliffs that look to be unsurmountable. 

 A brisk scramble will bring you over 

 the difficulty, however, and on regain- 

 ing the water level you gaze back over 

 a narrow slit in the mountain of rock, 

 where the water flows deep and dark, 

 for the sun hardly penetrates here, and 

 although you can see every pebble at 

 the bottom, the water is 20 feet deep. 

 I was tempted to drop a fly from the 

 cliff above into this pool, a hundred 

 feet below, and before it had fairly 

 reached the water I had hooked a two- 

 pounder. I was then made aware of 

 the fact that I had "caught a tartar." 

 I was leaning far over the cliff, with 

 one leg and one arm around a friendly 

 tree, holding my rod at arm's length. 

 My fish soon had all my line off the 

 reel, but luckily he had also reached 

 the end of the pool, and concluded to 

 return. The moment was critical. I 

 must let go of something, so I let go 

 of the tree, and, clinging with one leg, 

 began to reel in the slack. My fish 



was now directly under me and he 

 tried all his arts, sulking at the bottom, 

 leaping wildly out of the water and 

 rubbing against boulders, but he was 

 well-hooked and fortune favored me. 

 After nearly breaking my back and 

 getting a kink in my left leg that has 

 never been entirely straightened out, 

 he gave up and floated on his side 

 without a struggle. During the 

 anxious moments of reeling him up he 

 never moved again, and I finally un- 

 wound myself from the tree and flung 

 myself on the moss-covered rocks to 

 gloat over my prey and rub the kinks 

 out of my leg. As we proceed up the 

 river the wa}^ becomes more difficult. 

 Sometimes we walk along the river's 

 edge without difficulty, while at other 

 times we creep carefully along the face 

 of a perpendicular wall, which towers 

 to the sky and only affords occasional 

 toe-holds for our passage. There is a 

 trail further back from the river that 

 is comparatively easy, but we cannot 

 resist the fascination of the water 

 route. 



Let us camp for the first night on 

 Humbug creek, near where it empties 

 into the river. If you should search 

 the world over you could not find a 

 more ideal camping place. There is 

 nothing to suggest that there is a 

 goods box or a millinery shop within 

 a thousand miles. Humbug Flat is a 

 strip of level country several miles in 

 extent, covered with great firs, cedars 

 and sugar pines, any one of which con- 

 tained lumber enough to build a house ; 

 and, thank fortune, it is far enough 

 removed from the railroad to render it 

 safe from devastation by the devil- 

 inspired sawmill man. 



Then, too, all this country is in the 

 "Cascades reserve." There are indi- 

 viduals without the love of nature in 



