CHAPTER XXXI 



THE SPAWNING OF THE SALMON 



THE scene is the uppermost reaches of the Dee, with 

 great hills rising abruptly from the river, and far- 

 extending primitive forests of Scots fir, in which 

 stags roar during the season of early winter. An intense 

 frost holds hill and glen in its grip. Close on two feet of 

 snow cover the ground, and the fall is extraordinarily even 

 — no drifts even in the most exposed situations. Each fir 

 tree is heavily weighted with snow, and where the sun has 

 shone full on the forest the snow has been half melted 

 and transformed into icicles, which hang from the dark 

 branches. The sky is cloudless and of a deep clear blue. 

 Eastwards, Lochnagar is an unbroken expanse of white, for 

 even on the precipices that rise from the lonely and gloomy 

 Dubh Loch the soft feathery snow has gained a lodging- 

 place. North of the river, Beinn Avon and Beinn a' Bhuird 

 show scattered specks of black against their virgin expanses; 

 in reality herds of deer searching for food along their lower 

 slopes. Through the snowy valley the Dee runs as a dark 

 broad line. Its waters, shrunk by the frost, bear seawards 

 broken masses of ice. At one point the river divides into 

 two, forming an island in mid-stream, and in the shallow 

 water near the banks many salmon spawn. It is only the 

 spring fish that have their spawning beds at the head waters 

 of the Dee. The autumn run of salmon, heavier and more 

 sluggish, do not penetrate nearly so far inland. There is 

 nothing that hastens spawning so much as a spell of frost, 

 and to-day the river seems alive with fish. During spawn- 

 ing, salmon lose much of their timidity, and one can approach 

 near to the fish by careful stalking. 



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