Farewell, Jinx 



I came to Colorado from Kansas in 1877, a lad 

 of five, and so saw the passing of the great game 

 herds, buffalo, elk and mountain sheep, and in our 

 streams the native trout give place to the Rainbow and 

 Eastern Brook, but the event which stands out above 

 all others to me this afternoon occurred when I was 

 sixteen years old. 



My father kept a fishing resort and hotel at Wagon 

 Wheel Gap, on the Rio Grande, and in those days 

 many a celebrated angler spent a month with us. Sen- 

 ator Edward O. Wolcott, James S. Kirk, General 

 Palmer and many other fishermen well known in the 

 sporting world came for a quiet week or two along 

 what was then the finest trout stream in the West. 

 A meal without trout on the table at our house was 

 almost unknown, and I think I can truthfully say that 

 I caught my proportion of them, but the strange 

 part was that I caught no large fish. No one knew 

 the stream better than I and no one was better 

 equipped. Seldom did a fisherman return the second 

 or third summer without remembering to bring some- 

 thing for me. I had as expensive and as well-made 

 rods and reels as the wealthy sports, and I did not 

 have to stand the chill of icy waters when I fished, for 

 I had no less than three pairs of waders made ex- 

 pressly for me and brought by some generous hearted 

 pal of the previous summer. I was able to repay in 

 a way, for I had a splendid team at my disposal and 



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