282 



RECREATION. 



with a few strokes of the knife will have 

 for a rod a slender fir sapling, long and 

 not too limber. After tying on a good line 

 he is ready for a day's sport that is worthy 

 the name. 



One beautiful morning we started from 

 the cabin for a day on Railroad creek. We 

 worked our way around the end of Dump- 

 kies lake and headed through the heavy 

 cedar thickets and musty, damp-smelling 

 hollows among the appropriately named 

 devijl's clubs and rotten, moss-covered 

 logs, until we struck a deer run that took 

 us down the slope to the creek. Holding 

 on by any stray branch we passed we grad- 

 ually let ourselves slip and slide down the 

 rough slope, and after another hollow was 

 crossed we came out on ia narrow hog- 

 back. There through the tall fir and pine 

 trees we got our first view of the creek 

 valley and the glaciers at its head. 



The angry roar of 'the creek below was 

 carried up to us on the chilly winds that 

 moaned as they forced themselves through 

 the dense woods and underbrush. After a 

 few more slides and scratches we reached 

 the cold, damp rocks of the creek bed. The 

 creek above us took a sharp bend around 

 a rocky point and made one think it sprang 

 from the cliff itself. 



We put on a good bait and worked the 

 most favorable looking whirls and eddies. 

 The trout take spells of biting and not 

 biting. Whether they run up the creek 

 or just refuse to bite, I was unable to 

 learn. It really seemed for a while that 

 it would be one of their days of indisposi- 

 tion. A good pair of shoes, plentifully 

 supplied with hob nails, or, better still, a 

 pair of moccasins, will save you from a 

 plunge into the icy water. The rocks are 

 worn smooth and round, and do not offer 

 secure footing. The path up the creek is 

 barred in manv places by precipitous, rocky 

 bluffs, and there is no way but to climb 

 over, sometimes up ioo feet or more. 

 There is chance enough for a good fall to 



make the sport exeiting, but by careful 

 work you can reach the creek again, only 

 to find that after a bit the same 

 performance has to be repeated. This 

 feature keeps many anglers from attempt- 

 ing the 4 or 5 miles on the lower end of 

 the creek, but it is well worth the climbs 

 and tumbles to haul out unwilling trout 

 from the eddies and whirls. The creek 

 rushes and tumbles through dark, somber, 

 chilly places and suddenly reappears in a 

 bright, sunshiny bend. In those places 

 we never failed to add another trout to our 

 string. 



About 4 o'clock, after loafing up the 

 creek a mile or more, we had trout enough 

 for a good supper. We untied our lines, 

 threw our poles away, and made ready to 

 tramp back home. We had 8 trout, each 

 about io inches long. Although not a 

 large string, I , never saw a lot of such 

 even size or of finer appearance. Bona 

 fide catches of 150 in a day have been 

 made farther up. People salted them 

 down in kegs for winter use, and even do 

 it yet. Mr. Cool has made catches of 55 

 to 70 in about 2 hours. Catches of that 

 size are not considered large. Up the can- 

 yon farther the creek broadens out and is 

 much easier to fish. 



We climbed up along the mountain 

 again and turned toward home. We could 

 realize the countless numbers of goats 

 that had lived along these mountains as 

 we walked a long distance over their broad 

 trail and saw their old wallows and licks. 



We crossed the creek on a huge fallen 

 pine and soon struck the trail of a large 

 cougar, as he tramped up the mountain 

 side in the direction of Dumpkies lake. 

 We had also seen fresh bear and cougar 

 tracks in the dust on the opposite side of 

 the creek. 



That night at supper with 8 well cooked 

 trout between us, a Dutch oven full of 

 dough gods, and ravenous appetites, we 

 felt repaid for our day's work. 



LIFE'S CIRCLE. 



W. H. NELSON. 



Above the city's clash and roar 



I hear the whisper of the woods ; 

 The violets spread their purple floor, 



The nymphs are beck'ning from the 

 floods. 

 My boyhood's paths were on the hill, 



The brooklet sang ray lullaby. 

 And there beside a murmuring rill 



I'll lay me. when T come to 4ie. 



