The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



being the weightiest we caught — but infinitely 

 sporting fish, which would rise at any small 

 silver-bodied fly, such as a Dusty Miller, Wilkin- 

 son, or silver-grey. Some sort of a fish would 

 rise at every cast until the sport became monoto- 

 nous. 



I had as gillie one of the crew of the captain's 

 galley, and he had never previously gaffed a 

 fish, but was keen as mustard to do his best. 

 The first try was a hideous failure — he missed 

 the salmon and struck a lump of lava instead, 

 with the result that the point of the gaff was 

 turned and bent. However, it was not long 

 before the " handy man " learned his job, and 

 very soon I had a gillie quick as lightning, who 

 clipped the fish in great style. 



On one day we had the fish piled up in three 



heaps at various parts of the river banks, and 



when the time came to stop, the question was how 



to move the plunder to the fishing-hut a mile 



away. The " handy man " to the rescue ! He 



put his oilskin coat on the ground and filled it 



with shining fish, tying them up with a cord, 



and packed the trouser legs of my oilskins after 



adroitly fastening their ends. It took two trips 



each before we had all the bag brought in. A 



great day's sport, and an experience worth 



having, although nothing like so alluring as the 



uncertainty attached to ordinary salmon fishing, 



when you may kill one or more fish in a hard 



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