A DAY WITH QUINAULT TROUT. 



F. J. CHURCH. 



Reader, have you ever had the fortune to 

 cast a fly upon waters practically unknown 

 to man — so thoroughly unknown that no fly 

 had ever been cast there before — no hook 

 ever dropped into the transparent depths of 

 the azure pools? If so, you have enjoyed a 

 treat given to few of us in this world; and if 

 your success was equal to your natural 

 anticipation, you have had a banner day in 

 your career. If you have been thus fortu- 

 nate, and have not already done so, I beg of 

 you, in the name of all true anglers, to tell 

 us about it, in the columns of Recreation. 

 I have had such an experience and here is 

 the story of it. 



During the summer of '96, 3 of us under- 

 took a trip never before attempted, in its en- 

 tirety — i.e., to cross the many ranges of the 

 Olympic mountains, that lie in tumbled, 

 jagged, forbidding masses in the extreme 

 Northwestern part of our country, in the 

 State of Washington, reaching the Quin- 

 ault river within a mile or two of its source 

 in the great Lindsley glacier; then down 

 the river, across the beautiful lake of the 

 same name to the sea. Then a long ocean 

 voyage on the huge billows of the Pacific, 

 around Cape Flattery in an Indian dug-out 

 canoe. This journey occupied 2 months, 

 being full of adventure of various kinds, and 

 in future articles I hope to tell you of the 

 most interesting features of the trip. 



In this present paper, I shall tell you of 

 the incidents of a day of days, or rather of 3 

 hours on such a day, when I had my first 

 and last introduction to the Quinault trout, 

 which appears to be a species by itself. 



We had been tramping down stream for 

 " 3 suns," as the Indian would say, carry- 

 ing packs of over 70 pounds each; follow- 

 ing the elk trails when we could, or walk- 

 ing the gravel bars along the river, wading 

 when necessary. The river was milky, from 

 glacial action; but otherwise, as far as ap- 

 pearance went, was an ideal stream for 

 trout. We camped each afternoon about 4 

 o'clock, and industriously whipped the 

 pools and rapids; but with no success at all, 

 not even a rise. To say we were disgusted, 

 but mildly expresses it; for in addition to 

 our camera, tent, provisions, blankets, rifles, 

 etc., we had packed along 2 split bamboo 

 rods, in their stiff cases, and if there is any- 

 thing on earth that will drive a man to 

 drink, it is trying to crawl through a vine 

 maple jungle, on a scorching July day, with 

 a heavy pack, above which projects, for 2 

 feet, a trout rod in case. 



All the morning we had been working 

 along the ridge above a superb, but forbid- 

 ding canyon, the elk trail being in places 

 as wide as an ordinary road, but very steep, 



giving us much tough climbing. About 2 

 p.m. we reached the river bottom again, 

 where a large stream came into the main 

 river from the South, and at the junction, 

 ye gods, what a pool! Fifty yards long 

 and 30 across! Clear as crystal, with an ex- 

 quisite tinge of blue and plenty of foam 

 flecked eddys and riffles that must contain 

 trout. 



With one accord we hunted up a good 

 camping place, pitched our tent and cooked 

 a hasty meal. We were all eager to try the 

 unknown waters. Drawing lots for the big 

 pool, at the forks, my companions were the 

 fortunate ones and I took my way down 

 the river, which, except at rare intervals, 

 was too deep to wade. The air was cold 

 and raw, the rocks slippery, the water liter- 

 ally ice-water, being nothing but melted 

 snow and ice; yet the eager anticipation as 

 to what the few remaining hours of day- 

 light might bring forth, made us careless 

 as to cold or fatigue. 



For nearly a quarter of a mile below 

 camp the stream ran swiftly between rocks 

 and bowlders, without a sign of a pool. I 

 cast my flies right and left, as carefully as I 

 knew how, changing them once or twice. I 

 fished in rapid waters, and in the swirls be- 

 hind the rocks, but all to no purpose; not a 

 rise could I get. After I had almost made 

 up my mind there were no more pools in 

 the river I came to a beauty — grander, if 

 possible, than the one above, wher^e my 

 companions were fishing. The river ran 

 against a long rocky ledge, which turned 

 it almost at right angles, forming a mag- 

 nificent pool, with just below it another 

 slightly smaller. With the mental comment 

 that " if there are trout anywhere on earth, 

 they are in there," I cautiously crept up be- 

 hind a big rock and made a cast. The line 

 straightened out,, the flies settling on the 

 water as gently as a falling snow-flake, ex- 

 actly in the spot I had intended to reach. 

 My heart was in my mouth. I must con- 

 fess I fully expected a strike, and a good 

 one at that. 



But no, the foam bubbles sped merrily 

 by. A little water ouzel bobbed up and 

 down on a stone, chirping away in his own 

 merry fashion; while a pair of stellar jays, 

 in an under brush, were making all the row 

 they could. I cast and recast in that pool. 

 Then I tried the other one; but not a sign 

 of a fish did I see. Then I tried a trolling 

 spoon; then naked hooks, baited with 

 bacon; but I might as well have been fish- 

 ing in a bucket of water, as far as results 

 were concerned. 



Looking at my watch and finding it was 

 6 o'clock, I made up my mind to make one 



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