AN EARLY TROUT. 



JAMES D. ERMSTON. 



We had been going to Carp Lake, Mich., 

 for a number of years. We fishecl the lake 

 and had such success that any desire to 

 try the river for trout was quelled by the 

 delight we experienced with the bass. Be- 

 sides, the thought of fighting our way 

 through the forest, down the river, over 

 logs, through brush and muck, was a fur- 

 ther damper on such a desire. 



It was not until 1887 that we were 

 aroused to the fact that the gamiest fish, 

 for its inches, that swims, was within a few 

 miles of our hotel. One day, Mrs. Russ 2 

 of San Antonio, Texas, came in late 

 after a hard day's battle through the brush, 

 over the logs and in the muck, with half 

 a dozen trout that weighed one to \ x /z 

 pounds each. She had taken them on a 

 Parmacheene Belle. Our admiration for 

 her skill was great. We decided to go 

 trouting the next day, to an old beaver 

 dam, which had been built years ago, and 

 which was yet inhabited by a few descend- 

 ants of the original owners. 



Such a digging of worms, which are 

 especially hard to get in sandy Michigan; 

 such catching of grasshoppers and solici- 

 tude for the proper fly to be used by ye 

 fly fishermen; such testing of lines, joint- 

 ing and unjointing of rods, oiling of reels 

 and selecting of hooks and leaders, was 

 never before known in the old house. 



The sun did not rise earlier that day 

 than any of the party whose ambition was 

 to enjoy the beauty of a perfect day and 

 to excel the catch of the lady whose suc- 

 cess was honestly envied by us all. 

 Taking the line of the old mail route be- 

 tween Petosky and Mackinaw, we struck 

 off through the woods. The pathway, be- 

 neath towering pines and giant hemlocks, 

 was lined on either side with beautiful 

 ferns, and running hemlock, robbed by us 

 of its red, red berries, and was carpeted 

 with leaves, pine needles and evergreen. 



We were all well winded when we 

 reached the stream. As we passed 

 down the hill, we were rewarded by the 

 sight of a noble buck plunging through 

 the water to the opposite bank, and startled 

 by the flight of a covey of grouse that had 

 been feeding on the raspberries which 

 grew in profusion on the hillside. The 

 golden rod nodded majestically in the light 

 breeze. The white maples swung their 

 slender bodies gracefully back and forth, 

 and high above use the eagle of Carp lake 

 lay in the air on motionless wing. 



Picking our way through sand and brush 

 and briars, we separately selected the best 



spots within, above and below the dam for 

 our casts. It was not long until a suc- 

 cession of shrieks from the women and 

 hurrahs from the men, with here and there 

 a grunt of disgust at a failure to land, in- 

 dicated their varied success. Standing on 

 a log below the dam, with a fair sweep 

 for the swing of the line, I made my 

 first cast, with a coachman, toward a 

 swirling pool of water that washed around 

 the end of a huge pine log and sucked 

 beneath some laurel bushes and under the 

 bank. As the fly gently tipped the water at 

 the head of the pool there was a splash, 

 and, shooting out of the water with the 

 fly in its mouth, came the largest trout 

 that had ever been taken from the stream. 



As the sunlight fell on the body of the 

 royal fellow, the colors of the rainbow 

 faded into insignificance. Feeling the 

 hook, he rushed up the stream with a speed 

 that prevented my fully recovering the line, 

 although I was using a quadruple multi- 

 plier. Seeing me, he turned, and his in- 

 credible speed burned my thumb on the 

 reel as I sought to check him gently in his 

 headlong course to his refuge. Sudden- 

 ly I brought him to a turn as he started 

 under the bank; and around and through 

 and out of the clear water he spun and 

 threshed and pumped until, with a 

 sight of despair he capitulated, and \ 

 brought him to my boot leg. By that time 

 I was in the water, having slipped off the 

 log. He turned over, lay quietly on his 

 side, and permitted me to lift him out 

 of the water without further struggle. 



What a beauty he was! He measured 

 i6yi inches in length and weighed 2^ 

 pounds. Built like a racehorse from the 

 tip of his nose to the end of his tail, he 

 was a perfect specimen of the genuine 

 brook trout, Salmo fontanalis. His red 

 spots were numerous and irregularly 

 placed, his side lines well defined, his 

 eyes expressive, his jaws powerful, and 

 there was no blemish on him to mar his 

 beauty. Do not blame me for exulting at 

 this late day over my good luck in taking 

 him. Miss Russ, who was an artist, took 

 his dimensions and his markings, and af- 

 terward painted and presented me with a 

 faithful oil likeness of his majesty of the 

 brook. 



We were all in luck that day and a happy, 

 tired party gathered around the supper 

 table. I have fished that stream every year 

 since then and have taken uriany a trout 

 from its clear, cold waters, but none so 

 brave as my first. 



