GILBERT AND GOLDEN TROUT 191 



casts were compulsory. Selecting a fairly promising 

 part of the stream, I cast two No. 12 flies gently 

 on the clear water. For some minutes there was 

 no reply, then a sudden quick rise, a slight bending 

 of the tip and the fish is hooked. The fight is 

 short and fairly vigorous, and I land my first 

 golden trout, well under a half-pound in weight, 

 but beautiful beyond any freshwater fish I have 

 ever seen, the most exquisite, dainty, and wonder- 

 fully coloured. Words will not describe it, for the 

 colours of fish are nameless, and the iridescence 

 changes each colour like the fire of the opal. This 

 beautiful fish sparkles as though sheathed with 

 tiny scales of the precious metal burnished to the 

 highest degree of brilliancy. The under parts are 

 of the deep orange hues of the mountain sunsets, 

 while a faint, broad band of rose colour tinges the 

 side from head to tail ; and as though to accentuate 

 the brightness of the colours, a few velvety black 

 spots are scattered above the median line. Perhaps 

 it was well that so beautiful a creature should 

 not rank high as a game fish. The flesh is 

 delicious. But it is its beauty, coupled with the 

 strangeness of its peculiar history of isolation and 

 the grandeur of the scenery surrounding its 

 mountain home, that gives it such a peculiar place 

 in the list of anglers' trophies. Beyond that it 

 has little merit, for though gamey for its size the 

 fight lasts but a very short time, and in size it 

 seldom goes over half a pound. Unfortunately 

 immense numbers are killed annually by campers, 

 frequently for no other purpose than to satisfy a 

 disgusting desire for killing. An instance is on 



