AFTER BIG-GAME IN WYOMING 207 



These beaver-pools always held the best trout, but 

 the fish occasionally preferred a meat diet. Bob 

 Snell, the long-haired, buckskin-clad old trapper who 

 was one of our party, looked with scorn on my 

 ten-foot Farlow rod, gut cast, and loch-trout flies. A 

 willow-pole, string, and eel-hook were good enough 

 for him, with a chunk of bear-meat in his pocket, 

 whence he cut his baits. On our first fishing picnic 

 we had a friendly contest. I was simply not in it. 

 Half the water was unfishable with fly, owing to the 

 thick brush surrounding it. I was hung up at every 

 other cast. But the old trapper was in his element. 

 His bait was slung with a splash into a beaver-pool, 

 the smartest trout would promptly seize it, and the 

 next moment find himself jerked violently on to the 

 bank, or perhaps into the top of some tall pine-tree. 

 The trapper caught as many pounds as I did ounces. 

 After this, except in open water, the Farlow tackle 

 was discarded for the fishing-pole and bait Where 

 the water was open, the fly more than held its own. 



Among other incidents of our trip, I once was 

 unwillingly compelled to spend a night out on the 

 mountain -side. It happened thus : Bob Snell, our 

 second guide, and the writer were hunting on the 

 west side of the range, in a country intersected by 

 the deep and steep -sided canons characteristic of the 

 Rockies. We had spied two good rams feeding on 

 the far side of one of these canons, which we had 

 spent the whole morning in crossing. The far side 

 was flat, and offered no convenient cover for a stalk, 

 except high grass. I managed, nevertheless, to effect 

 an artistic stalk. 



By the time we reached the flat on the far side of 

 the canon the rams had lain down, and I could just 



