280 THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 
blue water that they do not understand, at a creation of a force 
which even the mind of man cannot control, and that force properly 
directed is the greatest of all forces. If the lake has a soul, and it 
would seem as though she had, it must be amused at these children 
of men who come from afar to see her—and to try and understand 
her. Crater Lake, the inexplicable. 
We did not know if she had a soul or not. We did know that she 
had fish. And that was enough.. The boss had never hooked a 
trout. She had declared that she would take her first trout from 
Crater Lake and she did. Long years of married life has taught me 
that when the boss wants to do a thing, and I am to be the goat 
to do it, that the easiest thing to do, is to do it, and argue the finer 
points later. So when she woke me at 4:30 in the morning and told 
me that she was consumed with two insatiable desires—First, to see 
Crater Lake at sunrise and second to catch her first fish from its 
blue depths, well, however cold and chilly the atmosphere may have 
felt when I slipped into my B. V. D.’s, however full of unexpected 
oratory I may have felt regarding the occasion, I did the proper 
thing—got dressed and started down the trail to the water edge. 
If one were asleep when he started he soon woke up. The path 
leads down the side of the precipice in hair-raising descents, twists and 
turns. Over the snow beds, down ladders, hanging onto ropes, splash- 
ing through water, crossing springs—it is certainly no place to grow 
somnambulant. We made the descent in 21 minutes, which we were 
afterwards told was good time. From the waters’ edge we were 
repaid for the trip—but that is superfluous—for from whatever angle, 
whatever point, however hard the climb, Crater Lake is always new 
and worth while. There is no monotony to Crater Lake. 
We found several good boats at the landing. Choosing a safe look- 
ing one we pushed off toward Wizard Island. The blue became inten- 
sified. We had expected it would fade’on close approach. The hand 
immersed in the water looked as though it would be dyed that inex- 
‘pressible blue. The water is clear as crystal when held up to the light. 
But we are fishing. I almost forgot that there were two spoons troll- 
ing behind the boat, one hand line and one on a light Bristol. The 
Boss attended to both while I played the galley slave—and looked at 
the blue—can’t help it, it is the bluest thing you can even imagine. We 
had agreed to troll for an hour. The moments passed quickly. 1,500 
feet above us we could see the hotel with all the inmates sound asleep. 
Of all the world we two were the only human beings on Crater Lake. 
It was an hour of silence. And then there was that everlasting, eternal 
blue. 
I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes of the hour. “Just row 
down to that point and back and we will go up to the hotel. I know 
there is a fish there.” I did as told. Five minutes passed. Not a 
strike. Four minutes only remained as I turned the prow of the skiff 
from Phantom Rock and headed for the landing. Three minutes. Four 
lazy gulls, coming from God knows where, floated on the water near 
by. The sun was just rising over the Eastern rim bathing the wails 
in flames of living copper fire. The blue became—and just then he 
struck! From where I sat I saw two feet of magnificent rainbow 
break four feet into the air. The splash sounded like a rock dropping 
from Eagle Point, 1,800 feet above our heads. The yell that delicately 
nurtured, refined helpmate of mine let loose would put to shame a 
squaw on the Quinault reservation under the influence of the cup that 
cheers. 
“What shall I do? What shall Ido? Tell me quick!” “Pull him, 
darn you, pull him; don’t you know anything? He’ll get away in a 
