102 AN OPEN CREEL 



fly-books, gut-cases, and other miscellanies showed 

 equal attention to order and sense of what was fitting ; 

 while his flies, mostly his own patterns, were very 

 subtle imitations of the real thing, much more lifelike 

 than those to which one is accustomed. His outfit 

 would be a conclusive reply to those who assert that 

 wet-fly fishing is a chuck-and-chance-it affair. As for 

 justification of such nicety, let old Tom, the watcher, 

 speak. " Indeed," he said to me confidentially later in 

 the day, " there's none of them can catch 'em like 

 Dr. P. He's the best fisher that comes here, far and 

 away." 



My own humble preparations took no long time, the 

 only problem being a choice between two six-ounce 

 ten-feet rods, and the thought of the promised wind 

 helping me to decide on the stiffer. An hour later we 

 were standing by the Flood ready for the first cast of 

 the season, a momentous thing in anticipation, but 

 usually disappointing in reality. To be candid, my 

 first cast produced nothing but a tangle, and a great 

 many other casts followed before there was any result 

 in the shape of fish a silvery little two-ounce trout 

 which I returned, since the Flood trout are of fine pro- 

 portions for a mountain stream, and one can afford to have 

 a quarter of a pound limit. To be candid once more, I 

 did not enjoy the first hour or two nearly so much as 

 I had expected. The day was cold in spite of a bright 

 sun, the water was icy, and the wind was downstream. 

 Oh, the wind in that valley ! Volumes would not do 

 it justice. It ruined our day's sport by increasing in 

 violence just as the fish began to move soon after 

 lunch, and making it impossible either to see or feel a 



