GILBERT AND GOLDEN TROUT 185 



places that as we lean back the horses' heads are 

 almost lost to view. It is slow work, and the sun 

 sets while we are still two hours from the camping 

 ground. A chilly, gruesome ride that last hour is 

 now in the darkness of the forest. No trail could 

 we see, and so on the judgment of the horses must 

 we entirely depend, while we devote our attention 

 to avoiding stray overhanging branches which 

 frequently whip our faces smartly as we pass. 

 Sore and tired after the long day's journey of 

 nearly fifty miles, we reached the wild pasture near 

 which was to be our camping ground. Scant time 

 was spent in preparing a meal. Some cold water 

 and dry food were good enough, after which we 

 rolled ourselves in our blankets and, though the 

 ground was hard, were soon sleeping peacefully, 

 beneath the murmuring of the tall forest trees, 

 dreaming of the sport which the morning promised. 

 If we accept the theory that the pleasure of 

 fishing lies more in the surroundings than in the 

 actual catching of the fish, then I would proclaim, 

 without fear of contradiction, that no form of 

 angling can compare with fishing for the rainbow 

 trout of the roaring mountain streams of California 

 and Oregon. In the wildest imaginings of the 

 most fertile brain it would be impossible to make 

 even a mental picture of the wonders of this 

 western scenery; and surely no setting could be 

 more inspiring to the lover of the gentle art of 

 angling. Snow-born streamlets, trickling down 

 from the lofty peaks, join one another as they work 

 their way downwards. A dancing, merry gang 

 they are, yet daring, too, for no obstacle may stay 



