6o A YEAR OF SPORT AND NATURAL HISTORY. 



To anyone accustomed to fish the rapid and swift-flowing streams 

 of Norway and of the Scottish Highlands, the Thurso is by no 

 means a tempting-looking salmon river, a fact which struck me 

 very forcibly the first day I ever threw a fly upon its somewhat 

 sullen waters. It was a bitter morning in early February ; many 

 of the pools were covered with ice, and a bitter " norther " was 

 blowing, which made it a matter of no small difficulty to keep 

 warm. However, I was in Caithness to fish, not to sit by the 

 fireside, so, accompanied by my gillie, I started off for the Cruive 

 Pool. 



The Cruive Pool is some forty to fifty yards in width, deep and 

 slow-flowing, and I was glad to find it fairly clear of ice ; so, 

 putting up a four-inch fly, I proceeded to fish it over. At the 

 fourth or fifth throw there was a dead pull, and in a very brief 

 space I hauled ashore a long, lanky kelt, which had bit the tinsel 

 clean through and spoilt a good fly. Another kelt, and yet a third, 

 succeeded, and I was getting very sick of pulling out the ugly 

 brutes, when during an extremely watery "blink" of sunshine 

 I noticed a sharpish boil in the neighbourhood of the fly. 1 

 struck hard, and found I was at last in a clean run fish. A beauty 

 he proved, as bright as a new shilling and in perfect condition, 

 1 6 lbs. ; but his play was by no means what one would have 

 expected from such a fish. He gave me the impression of being 

 deadened with the cold. Happening to look at the fly that the 

 kelt had destroyed, and which I had stuck in my cap just as 

 it was, I found the feathers stiff" and hard, the wings being a mass 

 of ice. In fact, several times that day I had to put the fly I was 

 using in my mouth to thaw it. My next capture was another kelt, 

 and then what was evidently a clean fish took well under water. 



