A SUCCESSFUL FISHING TRIP. 



F. HIBBARD. 



What constitutes a successful fishing 

 trip? Is it the fish you catch? Is it the 

 getting up at 3 a. m. when you would 

 rather sleep and wish heartily you had not 

 promised to go? Is it the early, hurried 

 breakfast or the starting off without one? 

 Is it the long, cold ride or the wet grass? 

 Is it the contents of the lunch basket? Is 

 it the briar and bramble and wet feet? Is 

 it the return trip? No and no. Yet you 

 are ready to go again and have planned 

 your next trip before you reach home. 



We were up at 2.30 June 29th, Ray and 

 Bill and I, and with the usual hurried cup 

 of coffee, the lunch, the worms and the 

 tackle we started. The improvised team, a 

 mate and an odd one, were hitched to a 

 light rig, the pole of which did not fit, and 

 were toggled on with hay wire. The links 

 on the heavy tugs were toggled on to the 

 light whiffletrees in the same way. Visions 

 of all kinds of trouble flashed through my 

 mind. The word to go was given and 

 the trouble began. The odd horse plied 

 ahead and the mate plied back and refused 

 to go. With ears laid back and cussedness 

 in his eye he began to back until the rig 

 was cramped against the gatepost. We 

 all got out. It was growing daylight and 

 there were 10 miles to go. We waited a 

 minute, which seemed an hour. Gradually 

 the ears of the balky horse resumed their 

 natural position, he took a reluctant step, 

 then 2. We yelled "whoa," and they were 

 off. With a lively spring we caught on 

 and away we went. 



The woods, so lately bare, were clothed in 

 green and all nature was at its best. Our 

 cigars were lighted and we bowled along. 

 A mile from town in an open glade a deer 

 was quietly grazing. He knew he was safe, 

 and after a good look, to see if we had a 

 gun, he continued his breakfast. Down 

 the long grade we went at a lively gait, 

 crossed the stream and climbed the bluff 

 past the deserted houses of the old Cale- 

 donian mine. The Flint Steel valley lay 

 below us on the left, grandly beautiful in 

 the morning light, and rocky bluffs rose 

 high on our right. 



Greenland was reached and left behind 

 asleep, and we plunged into the woods 

 again. We were shivering with cold but 

 anticipation stirred our blood as we neared 

 the end of our trip, and 5 o'clock found 

 us at the high trestle where the Mineral 

 Range road crosses the stream. 



We put up the horses _ in _ an old shack 



by the roadside, rigged the tackle with 

 fingers so cold it was difficult to string a 

 squirming worm on a hook, and plunged 

 into the wet woods and grass, each trying 

 to score the first fish. The brush was so 

 thick I had to trim the knots off my rod 

 in order to draw it ; iter me endwise. I 

 stumbled over logs and snags. My hook 

 was fast in a snag at the bottom and then 

 in a bush overhead. 1 was wet up to 

 my knees, I had a stick in my eye, a bug 

 in my ear, and several mosquitoes on my 

 neck, but I was having fun, had several 

 bites and got one or 2 small trout. Then 

 I wondered how many the other fellows 

 had. Ever just behind the next bend, a 

 little farther up, seems to be a better place.. 

 I tore through the brush and over the 

 logs, I slipped, slid and stumbled to get 

 ahead of those other fellows. I was no 

 longer cold. My collar was wilted and my 

 shirt was up my back. I was getting hun- 

 gry, but I was having fun. 



At last I found time to look at my watch 

 and it was 8 o'clock. Great Scott ! I 

 thought it was almost noon ! The folks at 

 home were not up yet and my breakfast 

 would not be ready if I was at home. I 

 seated myself on a log, lighted a cigar, 

 baited my line in the pool, wondered 

 "where I was at," and how far it was back 

 to the wagon. It would not do to let the 

 other fellows beat me ! Desk and business 

 were forgotten. Troubles of yesterday and 

 of tomorrow cut no ice. The change of 

 scene had cast its spell and I did not care 

 whether school kept or not. 



I impaled another struggling worm and 

 tried for that big one I had not yet caught. 

 For an hour more I fished industriously 

 for count, and then made a break for the 

 wagon. As I crashed through the brush I 

 wondered how I ever got there and how 

 far it was back. 



I found things as I left them. We ate 

 lunch, lighted our pipes, counted our fish 

 and for an hour lay on the grass, rested 

 and compared notes. 



The afternoon was passed in much the 

 same way only not in such a hurry. To 

 be tired, hungry and to reach home are the 

 3 things essential to a successful hunting 

 or fishing excursion. One trout that 

 weighs a pound and 19 more that weigh 

 another pound make a proud and happy 

 angler. He has planned another trip for the 

 earliest possible day. Who says it is not a 

 success? 



