SULLIVAN COUNTY TROUT 



BY L. F. BROWN 



It is the mountain to the sea 

 That makes a messenger of me; 

 And lest I loiter on the way, 

 And lose what I am sent to say, 

 He sets my message to a song, 

 And bids me sing it all day long. 

 Good-bye, for here my stream is slow, 

 And I have many a mile to go." 



HE above lines, quoted 

 from memory, well de- 

 scribe the monologue of 

 a dozen trout-streams in 

 Sullivan County. Hun- 

 dreds of anglers visit 

 them year after year, as 

 the first notes of the blue- 

 birds are heard among the pussywillows 

 along the rocky banks where the chuckles 

 of the water break and die and live again, 

 while the robins are making short runs and 

 long stops, cocking their heads to one side 

 as they listen for the earthworms crawling 

 just below the surface of the ground. 



The oldest resident and most inveterate 

 angler does not know the trout-brooks of 

 Sullivan. How the localities crowd and 

 throng on the attention and form pictures in 

 memory ! All grace and beauty of outdoors 

 — mountains, wild blossoms, slopes dark 

 with graceful foliage, myriads of ideal camp- 

 ing places, and such wealth of loveliness of 

 sunshine and shadow, and spring voices in 

 and along the forested shores of rapids! 

 Small wonder that we return again and 

 again, although, so often, the trout are either 

 small and shy, or very scarce when large. 

 The writer has fished all day in the Beaver- 

 kill and Willowemoc, enjoyed every minute, 

 and returned with an empty creel, but happy. 

 And he has taken small speckled beauties 

 till the creel was heavy; and, twice, has lifted 

 fish from the Beaverkil that would weigh 

 over two pounds each. 



Nowhere does the time of the angler, so 



precious and full of joy, pass more rapidly. 



A six-ounce rod, three-foot single gut 



leader and cheap reel, with not over sixty 



feet of oiled silk line, a dozen dark flies on 



No. 10 hooks (three each of the Brown 

 Hackle, Gray Drake, Black Gnat and Bea- 

 verkill), a pair of wading boots and a knife 

 and box of matches for building the fire that 

 will roast the trout by the streamside at 

 noon, and we are off, like Jason after the 

 Golden Fleece. It is the very first day of the 

 trout season, April 16. No mention is made 

 here of best clothing — any old raiment is 

 properly comfortable. How to handle the 

 rod, build the fire, dress and cook the fish, 

 need not' be told; it is assumed that the 

 reader is no tyro, and that while he loves the 

 little king of the jeweled coat, he almost 

 worships his environment. 



The leaves are yet hidden in smallest 

 buds — no foliage. The water is probably 

 high; but the first wild birds are about, and 

 some bold anemone or violet may be seen 

 busy with preparations for blossoming. The 

 water is cold and angry, and probably rather 

 turbid. The rocks show no moss as yet — 

 but only the wonderful colors, often the 

 work of a thousand years, showing in brown 

 and gray and ochre, those slow-fingered 

 artists painting and staining the faces and 

 shoulders of rocks and cliffs in quietest hues 

 of tender honor. To the best angler such 

 beauty of environment comes first. Now 

 for something of the trout haunts, and of the 

 fishing that may be very poor, but which 

 often gives the sportsman plenty of ex- 

 citement, and amplest reward for his time 

 and work. If he visits "Old Sullivan" by 

 either the magnificent upper Delaware 

 River, or via the Hudson, and the grand 

 mountain pictures that really begin as the 

 train starts up the incline opposite the 

 Shawangunk Hills at Summitville, he passes 

 station after station that invites him to stop 



