SALMON AND TROUT MEMORIES 



mountain-ranges of the Great Divide. South and west of 

 the National Park, in the north-west corner of Wyoming, are 

 a series of rocky, snow-clad peaks and deep canons, with 

 mountain, forest, lake and river in between, that will always 

 remain a more or less happy hunting and fishing ground. 

 Near it is the National Park, whence overflow the wild game 

 from a preserve, the sanctity of which is absolutely and strictly 

 maintained. From its streams and lakes, 6000 feet above 

 the sea, amid the wild fastnesses of this great rough country, 

 the speckled mountain-trout will never, as I imagine, be fished 

 out ; and here it was, in a splendid bracing climate, that I 

 found myself towards the end of August in that year. 



I had driven for 150 miles in a buck-board from Opal 

 Station, on the Oregon Short Line railway, to a hunting camp 

 near the source of the Green River, in the beautiful, wild, 

 mountainous country south of the Wyoming National Park. 



The day after our arrival, I rode about four miles up the 

 river with one of the boys of our party, for an afternoon's 

 fishing. On the way up from Opal, I had caught a few trout 

 in the creeks tributary to Green River, but this was my first 

 attempt in the river itself. None of the boys in the camp 

 knew anything of fly-fishing, and my tackle was at first regarded 

 by them with some contempt. A stiff fishing-pole, with stout 

 line and hook baited with a " hopper " (grasshopper), was 

 good enough for the local angler, and when a trout was hooked 

 he was promptly heaved on to the bank or over the angler's 

 head without ceremony. 



So we came to our fishing-ground. Andy took charge 



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