FINDING A NEW TROUT STREAM. 



R. FOUCH. 



In August, 1893, Prof. Bates, Prof. 

 Groome and I, were camped on the Peda- 

 gogue, a famous trout stream, in Idaho. 

 Our camp was the most convenient and 

 picturesque I ever saw. Our horses never 

 got farther than 200 yards away, in the rank 

 grass. Hundreds of cords of fallen dry 

 wood was right at hand. Within a rod of 

 our camp a mess of the finest mountain 

 trout could be secured. We had been told, 

 by hunters, of a much larger stream in the 

 vicinity, and we wished to visit it. Fishing 

 in the Pedagogue was too good. The trout 

 were so plentiful and voracious — though 

 small — that we could in a short time catch 

 all we could use. So for a little change, I 

 proposed to Prof. Bates we drop down to 

 the river canyon, and follow it to the mouth 

 of the other stream; fish up that to the level 

 of our camp and then return across coun- 

 try. 



The trip was soon planned. Mr. Groome 

 elected to stay and keep camp; so we left 

 him with the warning not to be alarmed if 

 we failed to return at night. The abrupt 

 descent of 1,000 feet to* the Payette river 

 was quickly traversed. Bear and deer sign 

 were plentiful. We started one bunch of 

 deer on the way, but we were armed with 

 fish hooks only. For 2 miles we followed 

 the beautiful canyon of the Payette. The 

 water was low and in places scarcely 20 

 feet wide; flowing through great rifts in 

 the solid rock. In the clear water we saw 

 innumerable white fish, some of large size. 



Bates's instinct to catch everything seen, 

 in the fish line, led him to try a cast, 

 and as usual he was successful. An im- 

 mense white fish shot across the stream 

 taking his light trout fly with it. An in- 

 ventory of our pockets revealed but one 

 plain kirby hook; so we were reduced to 

 the ignominy of using grasshoppers the 

 rest of the day. The new stream, a rushing 

 torrent, half waterfalls, ran down a wild 

 glen to the river. We at once named it 

 Glen Wild creek. Half a mile from the 

 river, the banks rose abruptly to the height 

 of 500 feet, and were clothed with a dense 

 growth of huckleberry bushes and tall 

 feathery tamarack. The creek averaged 

 one 6 foot waterfall to each 100 yards, and 

 its bed was filled with fallen trees and 

 bowlders. Below each fall was usually a 

 pool, 4 to 6 feet deep and frequently 30 by 



75 feet, which ebbed and boiled and sent 

 miniature waves against the moss covered 

 banks. 



Trout swarmed in those pools. So many 

 would rise at each cast of my fly, they 

 seemed to crowd the first that rushed, out 

 of the water. It was awe inspiring to look 

 at the long line of falls and dashing water, 

 hemmed in by the high mountains which 

 kept much of it in deep shadow. Through 

 the notch ahead we could see Mt. Collins, 

 piercing a cloudless sky 3,000 feet above 

 us. Its great banks of glittering snow 

 shone brightly, only 3 miles away. The 

 roar of the falls rendered talking impos- 

 sible. 



While Prof. Bates was searching for 

 grasshoppers I gradually got far ahead. 

 The sport was so exhilarating I did not 

 note the lapse of time until warned by the 

 deeper shadows of evening. My compan- 

 ion was not then in sight. I ascended a low 

 point to get a farther view and found his 

 track cutting. across the point to head me 

 off. I then began a wild chase up the creek 

 to find him, fearing he would suppose me 

 ahead of him; so, valuable time was lost 

 which we should have used in returning to 

 camp. In this way the head of the stream 

 was reached. The gloom of night was set- 

 tling over the great forest, making it diffi- 

 cult to see any way except up hill. Soon 

 the banks of snow shone out, l /i mile away, 

 in the light of a fast declining moon. Then 

 I knew where I was. Camp was 3 miles 

 away, down a rugged mountain. 



Under such circumstances I camp. A 

 mountain rill, in a burnt area, across which 

 a dead pine had fallen made a splendid 

 camp and a rousing fire all night. I roasted 

 trout oh a stick and had a hearty laugh over 

 the situation. The boom of the signal guns 

 at camp could not traverse those interven- 

 ing miles of pine and fir. Six miles away 

 and 2,000 feet below, a forest fire was rag- 

 ing. It was a weird scene. 



After a fairly comfortable night, I quickly 

 made the descent to camp. 



My companions were yet sleeping when 

 I arrived. After all my scrambling through 

 brush and timber, in the dark, there re- 

 mained 86 trout on my string. Many pro- 

 lific and beautiful trout streams are treas- 

 ured in my memory, but none that can ap- 

 proach the rugged grandeur of Glen Wild. 



