FISHING IN THE MOUNTAINS OF MARYLAND. 



I2 5 



lunch on sonic big rock, in the middle of 

 the stream, and more than all, the thought 

 of making a fine catch — all these and a hun- 

 dred other pleasures make you forget the 

 laborious return trip. 



The laborious return trip! I was pictur- 

 ing it in my mind as on the dark side. Let 

 us see if it is. A few miles from home, 

 tired, wet, and hungry. Your fish, basket, 

 minnow-bucket, wet clothes and heavy 

 shoes pulling you down; now wading the 

 river, picking you,r way through laurels, 

 over logs and rocks, with perhaps an oc- 

 casional fall on the smooth bowlders; then 

 home, a steaming supper, and to bed. 

 " Hard work, and we will never go again," 

 we say. The next morning, however, finds 

 us seining minnows preparatory to another 

 trip. So it is, and always will be. The dark 

 side? Come to think of it there is none. 

 It dwells only in imagination, for when 

 memory takes its flight to other days, these 

 2 sides blend brightly into one. 



Some days, when I tire of near surround- 

 ings, I get on the train at Friendsyille, ride 

 2^2 miles to Manon lands and walk a mile 

 or so up the tram road that follows along 

 the river. The scenery is picturesque: the 

 river has more fall, making many pools; 

 and bass are more plentiful than below. 

 Then down to the river, with my Bristol 

 steel rod, and usual trimmings, to give the 

 finny tribe of the Youghiogheny an argu- 

 ment; fishing first those places that can be 

 reached from the shore, before going into 

 the water. Without wading you cannot 

 hope to be successful. It is well feo note the 

 places where the large fish are li*kely to be. 

 Then cast the tempting bait; let it sink to 

 a depth of 2 or 3 ieet, and as you lead it 

 here and there, should you lure from his 

 haunts and hook a 2 pound bass, it will 

 behoove you to use your finest art to land 

 him. When you get a strike, out runs the 

 line, your prize seeking the deepest part of 

 the pool. Not relishing the barb, with a 

 sudden plunge, he darts along, the reel 

 making sweet music all the while. He 

 shows his glistening sides, then, resisting, 

 still, allows you to reel him in, and the 

 struggle and excitement are over. 



You are thinking of a tale to be told of 

 his capture, when you are again awakened 

 from your reverie by the whirr of the reel. 

 Ah, another. No! he hardly bends the rod. 

 Gently he is disengaged from the hook' and 

 thrown back. Let your work and sport be 

 for a few large fish. They are worth many 

 small ones. 



Of the many fishing excursions to the 

 Youghiogheny, one of 2 hours, with a 

 friend at Frederick's Dam, is often brought 

 to mind. We went one evening in August, 

 just at twilight. While we sat on the bank 

 enjoying a lunch, the moon rose above the 

 hill, shedding a silvery splendor over the 

 valley. W r e could see the bass rising to the 

 surface, making little swirls in the still 



water. After fishing 2 hours, we waded 

 ashore with 17 bass. Within an hour, we 

 were home and in bed, lulled to sleep by 

 the murmurings of Bear creek. 



One who has fished during the day only, 

 has yet a new experience to undergo. To 

 move along in the semi-darkness, feeling 

 your way over the rocks, you must be 

 something of a gymnast to escape a wet- 

 ting. Trees, logs, and rocks assume gro- 

 tesque figures in the shadowy foreground. 

 The noises of the day have given place to 

 those of the night. Bats flutter overhead, 

 with soft whirr of wings, uncomfortably 

 close, at times, occasionally striking rod 

 or line; while from some neighboring pine, 

 on the hillside, come the doleful notes of 

 the owl and the whippoorwill. 



Flowing into the Youghiogheny river 

 are 15 or 20 tributaries; Bear creek is the 

 largest. Its source is a small spring, in the 

 Maryland hills, at an elevation of 2,000 feet 

 above the sea. As it rushes down the 

 mountain, numerous small creeks, clear and 

 cold, flow into it. Here brook trout are 

 found. In times past this stream abounded 

 with them, but during the last year the de- 

 velopment of timber resources along its 

 course, has almost spoiled trout fishing. 

 The forest is being cut down; saw-mills 

 have been erected on one of the branches, 

 and the deadly sawdust turned into the 

 stream. To catch the logs, dams have been 

 built, while dynamite was used to clear the 

 creek of projecting rocks. So, during fresh- 

 ets, thousands of saw logs are sent rushing 

 down the stream to be piled in a jam at the 

 mill, at the mouth of J;he creek. 



In spite of all this, trout may still be 

 taken in the branches above the mills. 

 Sawdust does not appear to affect bass. 

 They run up the creek, from the river, oc- 

 cupying the largest holes and growing fat 

 on the minnows, mullets, and cray-fish. 



I was enjoying Bear creek breezes last 

 July, when a party from Altoona, Pa., came 

 to visit us. They had been looking forward, 

 all winter, for this 2 weeks' outing. When 

 the time arrived for their coming, my min- 

 novv box was in the creek, filled and ready. 

 My visitors brought with them a trunk full 

 of photo apparatus and fishing tackle, but 

 this world is full of disappointments. It 

 was the summer of their discontent. The 

 pleasures they expected in fishing, and the 

 views they would take back, picturing the 

 scenes and happy hours, were dreams that 

 did not materialize. The sun hid himself 

 the day they arrived, and the rain de- 

 scended thereafter, for 10 days. The 

 streams rose to a height never before 

 known. Thousands of saw logs, parts of 

 bridges and drift of every kind filled the 

 streams. It was a beautiful sight but. poor 

 comfort for the disappointed sportsmen, 

 who had looked and hoped for better 

 things. 



Determined that our visitors should at 



