122 Fish Stories 



Indeed the San Lorenzo is a hard river to fish; one is 

 more than apt to forget fishing and look at the scenery ; but 

 the lure is tied on with that magic knot where the eyed-hooks 

 are used, a diminutive Royal Coachman made for dark 

 nooks and corners of redwood forests. A look behind to 

 navigate the line, a bend of the wrist and the fly drops 

 languidly down into the long musical ripple among the 

 amber shadows, back and down again a foot or two, then 

 over into a little snug harbor where a vagrant sycamore leaf 

 has dropped and is sailing away, back, and then, a silver 

 band catches a brilliant sunbeam, the reel sings an answer- 

 ing note to the brassy throated bluejay that is following you 

 down stream, and as you instinctively strike, up into the 

 air dashes your trout, a glorious fellow built for these 

 chambered halls, these alcoves of green. Down the stream 

 he goes, gathering in your line, a master of resources, mak- 

 ing perhaps for some deeper pool. He carries you around a 

 turn, where a new vista spreads away, a little series of 

 mountain lakes, held by the canon, and here in the open, 

 the trout makes its fight, hammering on your line like a 

 salmon with the wonderful strength of a grilse, and its sea- 

 born vigor; leaps to show you its beauties and to lure you 

 by its charms to some open stretch, circles the pool, comes 

 in on you faster than the line can be reeled, then up into 

 the air in a splendid leap he goes and deftly flips the fly from 

 his mouth, and sends it whirling at you ; or did some Lorelei 

 of the deep pool, or some naiad of the wind, play the trick? 



Beyond the next turn in a deep and dark pool I lured a 

 fish which went into the air so quickly that I was sure it 

 was a rainbow, but the glint of the sun on its silver sides 

 told the story of another steelhead fresh from the sea, a 

 fall runner full of life, a ground and lofty tumbler which 

 went head over tail into the air, three pounds of animated 

 silver that lunged, rushed, tumbled, laid broadside on and 

 played so many tricks with the four-ounce rod that I could 

 not but believe that it would escape. 



