FISH AND FISHING. 



FISHING ON LITTLE BEAVER. 



A. R. FR1SBIE. 



" Lay aside your business for a few days 

 and take a trip with me to Little Beaver. 

 I have an idea we can catch a trout or 2, if 

 conditions are at all favorable." 



Thus spoke my friend, George C, on a 

 beautiful evening early in June. At about 

 that time of the year one always has a 

 burning desire to seek some trout brook, 

 anyway; and as I knew George to be a 

 capital companion and a skillful fly caster, 

 I accepted his invitation with alacrity. 



Since the opening of the season on June 

 1st, several good catches had been reported 

 from the Beaver and its tributaries. The 

 weather was fine, the light spring rains hav- 

 ing left the creeks in good shape for fish- 

 ing. So with light hearts and great ex- 

 pectations we set out the following day for 

 Fancher's, 18 miles distant, where we pur- 

 posed spending the night. Then we were 

 to make ready for the hard trip of the suc- 

 ceeding day, which we knew must be made 

 before good fishing grounds could be 

 reached. 



Fancher's place, well known to anglers 

 in this vicinity, is a beautiful ranch nestled 

 in the mountains at the head waters of the 

 Beaver proper, a short distance from where 

 Little Beaver and West Beaver unite, and 

 within sight of the majestic Pike's Peak. 



Before the days of Cripple creek these 

 streams afforded good fishing; but since 

 the advent of mills and prospectors, which 

 now cover the hills, reminding one of bee 

 hives, the trout have left the main stream 

 for more secluded haunts. 



We made a few casts that evening but the 

 willow fly, or " yellow Sally " {Chloroperla 

 viridis), on which the trout feed, were just 

 beginning to move, and the fish were too 

 well fed to be tempted by our artificial flies. 



We induced Mr. Fancher to accompany 

 us as guide, on the morrow, after agreeing 

 to implicitly follow his instructions, and 

 long after we retired for the night we could 

 hear him about the old camp house, mak- 

 ing ready the paraphernalia for the trip. 

 By 4 o'clock the following morning we 

 had eaten a hearty breakfast, and just as 

 the sun was peeping over the hills and il- 

 luminating the mountains with a brilliant 

 light, which betokened a clear day, we 

 started on our journey. Each of us rode a 

 hardy broncho and carried necessary equip- 

 ment, which included a jointed steel rod 

 with an assortment of flies, leaders, etc., 

 and a small supply of provisions, coffee 

 pot and frying pan. 



For 5 hours we struggled over the 

 mountains, now and then following an al- 



most obliterated cow trail, but a, greater 

 part of the time allowing our animals to 

 pick the way, until by dint of hard riding 

 and considerable walking we arrived at 

 East Beaver. This we found a beautiful 

 brook, between high mountains, lined on 

 either side by willows and quaking asp. 

 The industrious beaver had taken posses- 

 sion of the stream and had, in places, trans- 

 formed it into deep pools of clear, cool 

 water, the ideal home of the big brook 

 trout. As we reached the top of the divide 

 overlooking the valley through which the 

 stream ran, and beheld the beautiful pano- 

 rama spread out before us, so grand and 

 yet so desolate, we were filled with ad- 

 miration at the delightful view. 



While 2 of us made camp and cared for 

 the tired animals George rigged his tackle, 

 with a royal coachman and a brown hackle, 

 and in less time than it takes to tell it had 

 landed a fine trout, thus solving the prob- 

 lem of fish or no fish. It was the work of 

 but a few moments to capture enough for 

 our noonday meal, to which we were in 

 condition to do ample justice. Dinner over 

 we started in for fun, and for the next few 

 hours had the most lively sport any of us 

 had ever enjoyed. We soon learned that 

 nothing but the royal coachman would 

 tempt the capricious trout and accordingly 

 used no other that day, stringing our lines 

 with 4 foot single leaders and 2 flies. The 

 trout were ravenous and on several occa- 

 sions, when casting from 20 to 30 feet into 

 one of the beaver ponds, I caught 2 nice 

 ones at one time. 



They stopped rising, however, at about 

 4 o'clock, a cool rain having set in, and, on 

 comparing notes when we reached camp, 

 we found we had 80 trout, ranging in 

 length from 6 to 12 inches. 



The beaver dams and the heavy growth 

 of willows and quaking asp made fishing 

 difficult, in places, but the gameness of the 

 trout more than repaid us for the bruises 

 and wettings we got- Where is the man 

 who has ever cast a fly, and enjoyed that 

 thrilling sensation experienced when a 

 gamy trout strikes it, who would not bear 

 fatigue and privation, for a repetition of 

 that pleasure? 



We bivouaced that night on the soft side 

 of a log, after disposing of a goodly num- 

 ber of our catch, and on the following 

 morning started out to finish our sport. 

 The fish did not bite at all until nearly 10 

 o'clock, when they started in with a rush, 

 and for the next 2 hours we were kept busy 

 crawling over logs and brush and unhook- 

 ing our trout. 



When we were ready, that afternoon, to 

 start on the homeward trip we had a fine 



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