THE OR NG ONY SP.OR TS MAN 23 
FLY FISHING ON THE ROGUE 
By J. N. Jounston, Grants Pass, Oregon. 
It is a long time from the first of November, whey fly fishing is 
about over, until the warm days of spring cause the “fishing bug” to 
awaken from its slumbers, and we become so restless that we simply 
must get our feet wet in Rogue River to satisfy the cravings of the 
“bug.” Before this winter, I have passed through this period of the 
year and been content to occasionally (oftener if possible) get my feet 
upon my desk and proceed to bore my friends by telling them about 
the big ones I caught last summer. 
But about the middle of November, after my fishing tackle had 
been carefully stowed away in the cases and boxes and my left-over 
flies were hibernating among the mothballs, two prominent citizens 
of Grants Pass, I am not at liberty to mention their names, but one is 
the manager of a local picture show and the other a capitalist, came 
to my office and insisted that I go with them and be introduced to 
winter fishing. After some argument as to whether it was sportsman- 
like and whether it was worth the trouble, I consented. Was it worth 
the effort? I will tell the story and you can judge. 
The morning for our trip arrived and I arose quietly so as not to 
awaken the rest of the household and went to a restaurant where we 
were to meet. Upon my arrival I found my two companions waiting 
for Me and we soon made away with our hot coffee, ham, etc., and 
were on our way to the banks of the beautiful Rogue, as happy and 
gay a trio as ever started out for a day’s sport. 
At the river we found our boatman ready for us with a nice dry 
boat and plenty of bait, I mean salmon eggs) and soon we were float- 
‘ ing down the river, fishing as we went, but on our way to the mouth 
of the Applegate River where we expected to do the most of our 
fishing, 
Everything was ideal for the trip. My companions told me the 
water was just right, and soon the sun seemed to realize the impor- 
tance of the occasion and shot its welcome rays over the mountains 
and stayed with us throughout the day. The boat had not gotten well 
out into the stream until we had our hooks baited and in the water 
ready for the hungry inhabitants. My friend the capitalist was the 
first to give the signal, “I got ’im.’”’ When I looked around his rod was 
forming a half moon and down the river about one hundred feet from 
beneath the water was a something making a desperate effort to 
wrest from my friend his entire outfit. We were in a nervous strain 
when all at once a beautiful steelhead leaped out of the water at the 
end of the line and shook himself desperately in an effort to free 
himself from the hook. When the fish came back to the water with 
a splash he was still a prisoner, for it seemed that with all his remain- 
ing strength he started for the ocean. Presently the rod straightened, 
the line sagged into the water and a more disgusted look I never saw 
on so a ak face than was displayed by the man who hooked the 
irst fish. 
From this time on we were hooking and losing or landing fish all 
the time. Before noon we were where the Applegate empties into the 
Rogue. About 1 o’clock we made a fire and after making a pot of 
coffee we partook of a bounteous lunch. About this time a brother 
attorney of mine arrived with his automobile to join us in our fishing . 
and to haul us and “the catch” back to town. . 
