LET US GO AFIELD 



basket as we rode, to assure themselves that the 

 breakfast was still there. 



And there was another time, not so long ago, in 

 another of our great wilderness refuges. Near by 

 the beaten trails other anglers had whipped the life 

 out of the stream. One man offered, however, who 

 knew a thing or two. We went out in the after- 

 noon, five or six miles, and caught thirty trout, 

 some around a pound. I was delighted but, as for 

 him, he was scornful. 



"You don't call those fish?" said he. "You wait. 

 Tomorrow I'll show you some real trout." 



The next day we mounted our trusty buckboard 

 and rode to the end of the trail. Then we drove 

 five miles farther, up a canon and across country 

 where a team and buckboard could not possibly go 

 but where they did go, none the less. We came 

 out on a strange mountain meadow. For three 

 miles our mountain river flattened and lay calm. 

 Off to the east rose the notched Absorakas. 



"There's lots of 'em in here," said my companion. 

 "I come here about once a year. I don't believe 

 anybody's been here this summer. There's hardly 

 any little ones in here at all. You won't catch one 

 as small as a pound in weight." 



It sounded like the imagination piscatorial at its 

 best, but it was literally true. In all my life I have 



94 



