IN THE CATSKILLS 



could catch glimpses of the mountains in whose 

 laps these creeks were cradled, but it was not till 

 after many years, and after dwelling in a country 

 where trout are not found, that I returned to pay 

 my respects to them as an angler. 



My first acquaintance with the Neversink was 

 made in company with some friends in 1869. We 

 passed up the valley of the Big Ingin, marveling at 

 its copious ice-cold springs, and its immense sweep 

 of heavy-timbered mountain-sides. Crossing the 

 range at its head, we struck the Neversink quite 

 unexpectedly about the middle of the afternoon, at 

 a point where it was a good-sized trout stream. It 

 proved to be one of those black mountain brooks 

 born of innumerable ice-cold springs, nourished in 

 the shade, and shod, as it were, with thick-matted 

 moss, that every camper-out remembers. The fish 

 are as black as the stream and very wild. They 

 dart from beneath the fringed rocks, or dive with 

 the hook into the dusky depths, an integral part 

 of the silence and the shadows. The spell of the 

 moss is over all. The fisherman's tread is noiseless, 

 as he leaps from stone to stone and from ledge to 

 ledge along the bed of the stream. How cool it is ! 

 He looks up the dark, silent defile, hears the soli- 

 tary voice of the water, sees the decayed trunks of 

 fallen trees bridging the stream, and all he has 

 dreamed, when a boy, of the haunts of beasts of 

 prey the crouching feline tribes, especially if it 

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