THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 15 
being there lurks still the hope, nay, the conviction that some day he 
will actually find the fishing of his dreams. 
And so it was with me that day on Crane Prairie. I was realizing 
the fishing of my dreams. Literally every cast brought a strike. But 
every strike did not bring a fish by any means. Sometimes it was the 
hook that would go—sometimes the whole leader—while more often 
the tiny flies would tear out of the fishes’ mouths. And the trout were 
big. They were huge. They fought as I had never known rainbows to 
fight before. Many times I was compelled to run up or down the bank 
for a hundred feet before I could check and finally land my fish. 
How long this lasted I do not accurately remember. Probably 
about two hours. At any rate, when Gibb found me and pulled me 
away, urging that it was then past the hour of our departure, and that 
I had eaten no lunch, I discovered that my wrist was played out, that 
my legs were wobbly and that I had more fish than I could conve- 
niently carry. 
The rest is brief. A hurried gathering up of our duffle after a 
king’s feast of trout, bacon and coffee. Congratulations all around for 
the other members of the party had shared very much my experience. 
Then the big Chalmers snorted a good-bye to the river, the green pines 
and the silent prairie and trundled us back across the forty-three miles 
of forest to Bend and the night ride home. 

