Angling in a Crater 39 



Where the mysterious waters lave the cor- 

 roded banks of the cone, they are green, and 

 the bottom is a delicate tone outlined in dim 

 shapes; but it drops suddenly and the green 

 merges into vivid blue. In the borderland the 

 angler has a strike, and the volcano trout, the 

 trout of Mazarna, the trout with the strangest 

 home in all the world, is away, the reel filling 

 the air with the music the angler loves, and 

 precipitating all thoughts of the uncanny sur- 

 roundings. No trout ever had such water to 

 sulk in; a clear rush down the sides of the 

 crater for nearly half a mile is the theoretical 

 possibility, and the dash of the trout down- 

 ward seems born of a desire to put it into 

 execution. But lines half a mile long are not 

 used even in Mazarna, and like many another 

 trout, this one sounds for fifty feet, then is slowly 

 rounded up and rises, coming up out of the blue 

 depths in a great circle which keeps the boat- 

 man busy; now on the surface, to roll over in 

 half a leap, and plunge again at the sight of 

 the boat profaning this sacred shrine. 



There may be some peculiar life to this placid 

 water that is imparted to the trout, as this one 

 challenges the angler to a thousand rushes, and 

 plays with rod and line until at last it is 

 netted, and, fighting still, is lifted into the boat. 



Some day when Crater National Park is the 

 mecca of tourists, angling in this cup of Mazama 



