A Little Miss and a Big Fish 



freshets sweep down the river in the Spring. It is the 

 Mecca of the still-water trollers who court the lordly 

 Royal Chinook during his invasion of these waters dur- 

 ing the months of April, May and June. 



One Decoration Day, five years ago, my father, my 

 sister, and I sallied forth in our rowboat, the Raft, 

 fully determined to bring home with us all the salmon 

 which would deign to strike our hooks. I was then 

 fourteen years old, small and slight for my age, and 

 with no great strength. Despite my stature, I was 

 born with the love of solemn forests, inaccessible moun- 

 tains, rushing brooks, and wide rivers. There was 

 something about the ride on the river, the cool breezes, 

 and the swift excitement of the fight with one of those 

 kings of the deep that filled me with an ecstatic happi- 

 ness I have never found duplicated in any other way. 



As befitted my strength, I was given a trout rod, 

 with a three-ounce tip, a small trout reel, a twenty- 

 pound test line, and a light lead to hold the No. 3 or 4 

 salmon spinner to the bottom of the river. Even 

 the slow strain of trolling in a gentle current with 

 this light tackle made my arms and shoulders tired. 

 My father and sister both had sturdier tackle, of 

 course. 



We were trolling as near the island as we could and 

 yet not snag our hooks, when there came a swift jerk 

 at my sister's line. The reel sang its deliriously happy 

 song, and the rod bent lower and lower. 



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