Angling in the Siskiyous 239 



peared and the coach left the grade and went 

 rolling off into space, landing in the chaparral. 



" It did n't break Jack's back, but it broke his 

 nerve," said a passenger, who knew him, " and 

 so the line lost one of the best and nerviest 

 drivers in the Cascade range." 



Late in the afternoon we dropped down from 

 the sky into the little town of Keno, which be- 

 lied its name; a peaceful little seaport, at least 

 a flat-bottomed stern-wheeler reached it through 

 the tules from Lower Klamath. Near Keno 

 the forest bade us farewell, and we tooled 

 through an open country along the great tule 

 lands and lake of Lower Klamath, opposite 

 which the Modoc Hills rose, bathed in tints of 

 old rose and vermilion indescribable; then we 

 bowled along the lake edge and into Klamath 

 Falls, a flourishing town half a mile above the 

 sea, between two lakes thirty or more miles 

 long, and now reached by the Southern Pacific 

 Railroad. 



Some of us were bound north to the William- 

 son and the region over the eastern slope of the 

 Cascades on the important business of fly 

 casting, to lure certain rainbow trout. Others 

 were travellers, eternally travellers with goods 

 to sell the Klamath ians. Others again were 

 land boomers who distracted your thoughts from 

 the mountains, the scenery, and the road to sordid 

 propositions of corner lots in Pilpot's extension 



