Down the Rogue River 99 



There is usually some drawback to angling, 

 and here it was the impossibility of fly fishing, 

 as some unconscionable miner was ditching or 

 sluicing, and pouring his muddy water into the 

 main stream far above us, and the Rogue as it 

 came down was copper-hued, against which the 

 steelheads and occasional salmon, stemming their 

 way, flashed and gleamed like silver. A fly of 

 the gaudiest hue was thrown away in such a 

 stream, so we began casting with eight-ounce 

 rods with small salmon egg bait, if you please, 

 tied on with some diaphanous stuff, held in 

 place by a miracle. We first tried the broad 

 stream where the trees on the banks willows 

 and alders shut in the little river, and trailed 

 their drooping leaves, then worked our way up, 

 hoping to get above the mud-maker, in the course 

 of time reaching a big rock by which the river 

 rushed. It then made a violent turn, and look- 

 ing up-stream I saw that for perhaps one hun- 

 dred yards it was compressed between narrow 

 banks and came down furiously, as though slid- 

 ing down-hill. It seemed impossible to fish with 

 the water the tint of Van Dyke brown, but it 

 is the unexpected which happens, and as I walked 

 along the bank a forty-pound salmon made a 

 rush up the rapids, swerved to one side, and 

 floundered in the shallows, tossing the golden 

 water high in air an exasperating sight, which 

 brought out the following story from the boat- 



