THE OREGON SPORTSMAN iat 
ISAK WALTON UP TO DATE 
By Bratne Hatrtocx, Portland, Oregon. 
I walked out upon a rude log foot bridge, the only crossing for 
many miles up or down the river. Above, the water threaded its 
crooked way across the widening prairie which stretched to the far 
blue jagged summits of the Cascades. Below, the pines advanced to 
touch branches in some places across the placid flow, and further down, 
the river became more turbulent until it finally tumbled, a mad white 
caseade, into the rocky gorge which it follows for about two hundred 
miles. 
The water was like crystal, and from the middle of the bridge I 
could see, here and there along the yellow sand, big olive green spotted 
trout. 
With high hopes, I sent the flies out over the water. But my hopes 
were soon blasted. Repeated casts showed that the fish were not 
feeding. I crossed the bridge and worked up the other side. The 
same luck. I could not get arise. Finally, on a long back cast, I lost 
my tail fly in a small pine. Rather exasperated, I whipped the stream 
for another fifty yards, which took me well out of the timber where 
there was nothing to impede a long cast. 
Now the fish were breaking water here and there. I could see the 
peculiar lumps and swirls caused by the big trout sucking tiny insects 
from the surface, and up or down the river an occasional flop would 
announce that some over-eager fellow had cleared the water. Still my 
casts availed nothing. The sky had been overcast all day, with a more 
or less intermittent drizzle, and it began to sprinkle again. 
I heard Gibb, the genial owner of the car which had brought us to 
the prairie, give vent to a yell of delight. Looking back, I saw him 
land a good trout. This was encouraging in spite of the rain. A 
hundred feet above, out beyond a partially submerged log, several 
trout rose almost together. Wading as close to the log as my boots 
would permit, | put the flies out to the water along its shore side and 
finally took an eleven-inch trout. Upon being hooked, the fish prompt- 
ly dove into the tangle of aquatic weeds which lined the bottom at 
that point. This resulted in the loss of my fly, though I landed the 
fish. Although but eleven inches in length, this fish was remarkably 
heavy. He was so deep in the belly and broad through the back that 
he looked almost deformed, but he was beautifully colored, being far 
more brilliant than the fish of the lower river. I remember what a 
distinct impression he made upon me at the time, though I have since 
noted that many of the Crane Prairie fish are like that. 
Several other casts brought nothing, although the fish were still 
rising, and I was finally able to drop the flies two feet beyond the log. 
The trout were feeding on bugs so small that I could not see them. 
My fish had struck a number seven Kamloops. Now, I put on two tiny 
dry flies, size 14; a Red Upright, and a March Brown. No sooner had 
these hit the water than they were taken. And I use the word liter- 
ally. A splash! The feel of my leader tightening over the log, and 
then that sickening realization that I was hauling in only the line. 
Another cast, this time with but one hook, a number 12, and as 
promptly another strike. The fish kept the deep water for a few 
moments, but finally darted under the log, and deprived me of an- 
other hook. 
By this time Gibb, who had noted the performance from below, 
hurried to the spot and, not to be outdone, waded out through the icy 
