78 THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 



The fish are now in the open water and you are not hid from 

 them as you were in the morning. A long cast, therefore, is in- 

 dispensable. 



Use two flies. If they do not strike a caddis, try a McGinty. 

 It is a great taker for evening fishing on the riffles. Cast the 

 head of the riffle and work down. As the bait comes quartering 

 in off the current at the toe of the swift water, look out. Tour 

 fly is under the surface. You are handling lots of line. Your 

 footing in the swift water is precarious. This is a test of your 

 nerves. 



Watch the fly — or the spot where you think it is! Any 

 quiver of the waters, any slacking of the line, any lumpy swirl, 

 the faintest gleam of red or silver, is the sign. Strike ! You may 

 miss him — you may be fooled, but you cannot afford to wait for 

 the jerk. If you do, you have waited too long. Your fish is 

 quicker in the swift water than he is in the still places under the 

 willows. The lump, the gleam of silver, the slack in your line; 

 they mean that a fish wants your fly. Try to take it away from 

 him. You will find that he is the quicker. Your very act will 

 send the hook home to the bony substance of his hungry mouth. 



Then the fight all over again, with variations, until your 

 fingers grow cramped from gripping the rod and your shoulders 

 ache from the weight of the heavy creel. 



Finally the shadows lengthen and the light fades from the 

 water. A breeze springs up from the south. The fishing is over 

 for the day. You dry your wet feet and legs by the uncertain 

 heat of a sagebrush fire over which you have brewed a tin pot 

 of coffee and fried a scrap of bacon. The purple shadows gather 

 deep in the hollows formed by the high rim rocks. The ragged 

 summits of the bare hills are silhouetted against a far sky studded 

 with millions of tiny brilliant stars. The day is done. And it nas 

 been a good day. You are tired but happy, and as you doze in 

 the little station building out there in the big, still night, waiting 

 for your train, you offer up a silent little prayer of thankfulness. 

 You are glad to be alive — and you are. not ashamed to be a 

 fisherman. 



