390 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



I June 10, 1886- 



was a youngster of twelve. The last of our party was in 

 the bow. 



We had scarcely been anchored a moment before I heard 

 an exclamation from the hoy. 1 turned around and saw 

 him tugging at his hand-line. He was in a state of great 

 excitement and his eyes stood out like saucers. He immedi- 

 ately began hauling in line with astonishing rapidity. Before 

 I could remonstrate a two-pound bass broke water. The 

 boy took in line so quickly that wheu he broke he was no 

 more than four feet from the boat. In his course in the air 

 the bass accurately described a right angle, for at the very 

 top of his leap the boy, hy a vigorous jerk, swept him hori- 

 zontally through the air and to the boat. 



He fell, full of vigor and fight, directly into the middle 

 compartment and at once unhooked himself. The first inti- 

 mation of the sport that Van received was a dose of water. 

 He smiled grimly and never stirred. The water was just 

 deep enough to swim in well and the fun began. The boy 

 made several vain efforts to catch him and then retired with 

 me to the stern. We grinned securely and awaited events. 



Pretty soon Van got a teacupful of water down the back 

 of his neck. His ire began to rise. The bass made another 

 circuit and Van got another ducking. This time human 

 nature could stand it no longer and he went for him. Round 

 and round went the fish, Van chasing. The bass was so 

 quick and slippery he could not get hold of him. Mean- 

 while he was getting wetter all the time. At last, full of 

 wrath, he seized a stretcher, and on hands and knees in the 

 water, hunted that bass into a coiner, got him between his 

 knees and fast and clubbed him till he was dead. When he 

 arose he was a streaming and sorry spectacle, but he calmly, 

 without noticing us, went on with his fishing. As for us, 

 we laughed till we were tired and then resumed our sport, 

 but we had uo luck. I think the fish must have heard 

 that fight in the boat and concluded- that it was a dangerous 

 neighborhood and retired from it. 



But oh! these boats; what has the great band of outers not 

 suffered from them. It is all very well for the canoeist who 

 totes his dainty craft with him to smile, but we are not all 

 canoeists and we cry — who shall deliver us from the curse 

 of this bondage? Percyyal, 



TROUT FISHING ON CEDAR RIVER. 



[The following relation takes the place of Ihe "Camps of the King- 

 fishers" this week. After reading it, the reader will perhaps reflect 

 that in no respect was the composition of the camp more felicitous 

 than in its possession of two such chroniclers as "Kingfisher" him- 

 self and "Snake Root."] 



I HAD never creeled a trout. Bass I knew and salmon I 

 had worried to the death. The silver perch, rock bass, 

 the naughty pickerel and the whole horde of mongrels, to 

 say nothing of the sucker tribe, were familiar to my hook; 

 hut trout— the beautiful trout — was with me a stranger. 

 Hence, when Jecms Mackerel, the mighty "Kingfisher," 

 quietlv remarked one night by the camp-fire that there were 

 trout in Cedar, I mentally concluded the day was not dis- 

 tant when Cedar and myself would become acquainted. 



The opportunity was not delayed. We had encamped 

 last August — eight, of us, including the cook — on Central 

 Lake, Michigan," at the mouth of Sweeney's Creek. At fish- 

 ing we were a dismal failure. Neither bass nor mascalonge 

 noticed our presence. We caught pickerel, and even deigned 

 to watch the blue gills and rock bass swallow our bait, for 

 we were getting desperate. Old Knots swore once or twice 

 in a moment of absentmindedness, a thing so unusual with 

 him it startled the boys and caused Uncle Dan to lose his 

 halance on a log and fall over backward. The old "Suck- 

 ermoogen" was so dazed by the continued succession of ill- 

 luck that he couldn't see a big deer that trotted on the oppo- 

 site side of the lake one morning, and offered to bet "the 

 beer" that it was an Alderney cow. You see Bill is a cattle 

 raiser. Another one of the party lost his appetite feeding on 

 pickerel bones, and still another began to talk sentiment. 



This thing couldn't last. So one night I nudged Jeems 

 Mackerel in" the side, and suggested that "to-morrow would 

 be a good time to try the trout on Cedar." He swallowed 

 the bait. 



'All right," said he, "we'll get up early, gather a nice lot 

 of clams for bait and be off. " 



Now this was contrary to my orthodox views of trout. I 

 had read in divers publications of ihe exquisite and thrilling 

 pleasure experienced in luring the gamy trout from their 

 lurking places in the sheltered pool. 1 had heard how arti- 

 ficial flies, deftly constructed, had been lightly d ropped on 

 the water, only to be caught up by a gleam of gold spangled 

 with spots and alive with electric activity. To my mind 

 trout fishing was encircled with a perfect halo of angling de 

 light — a dream of picturesque beauty and loveliness, of syl- 

 van shades and shadowy pools, of delicate and deft handling 

 of willowy rods and enticing flies. To submerge all this 

 imagery in the cold and clammy proposition made by Jeems 

 Mackerel to gather "clam bait" to catch trout with gave 

 a shock to my nerves that was paralyzing. I was sorry after- 

 ward the shock didn't confine me. to camp. 



Next morning I rose early, and following instructions, 

 occupied the half hour hefore breakfast in boating about the 

 shallow water in front of camp, searching the bottom for 

 clams, or "mussels," as we called them down in Kentucky. 

 To catch a clam requires some art where the water is three 

 or four feet deep. They rest on the bottom with the shell 

 slightly ajar, and the prospector gently protudes a sharpened 

 stick toward this orifice. If the aim is good and the approach 

 gentle and the thrust made at the right time the clam shuts 

 his shell on the stick and is lifted into the boat "just as 

 easy." But if the stick touches the shell too soon or the aim 

 is imperfect the jaws of that clam close quickly and its 

 prospect of being used as bait is gone, perhaps forever. • 



When passing through Cincinnati, en route, I had bought 

 a small red box in the shape of a new moon, as something 

 likely to prove useful on our trip. This red box was now 

 brought forth and partly filled with clam, chopped into 

 small pieces like hoarding house hash. Tying this around 

 my waist with a twine string, that other beautiful theory of 

 landing trout with a "tapering willowy rod" was exploded 

 hy equipping myself (again at J. M.'s suggestion) with a 

 short, stout, stiff cane pole— just such a pole as the darkies 

 use to catch suckers with in Elk Horn Creek. Jeems 

 Mackerel condescended to inform me, when these arrange- 

 ments were completed, that I "now appeared the beau ideal _ of 

 a trout fisherman— sans pew el sans reproche," or some gib- 

 herish of that sort. Strongly suspicioning that he was at- 

 tempting to grease me with doubtful compliments, I cut 

 short his foreign phrases hy remarking, in the most sarcastic 

 way, that anglers, like poets, were horn, not made. 



There was something more in the shot than chagrin at the 

 despoilment of my preconceived notions of the implements 

 essential to trout fishing, for every soul in camp is an ardent 



believer in Jeems Mackerel as a "born fisherman." The tacit 

 recognition of his proficiency in that line, whether perceived 

 iu my retort or not, at least silenced his hatteries. 



Half an hour after sunrise we glided down the lake, skirted 

 the wooded points jutting the swamp where the eagles built 

 their nests, rounded the three pretty islands below, threaded 

 the patches of weeds that grew thickly in the shallow waters 

 adjacent, entered the mouth of Intermediate River, and glid- 

 ing rapidly down its crooked stream, soon landed a half mile 

 above Bellaire, at the head of the rapids. This growiug 

 village we reached after a few minutes walk, and at once 

 began inquiries among its inhabitants touching Cedar, its 

 trout qualities, and the best place to strike it. Sifting the 

 information gained, we concluded our best course would be 

 to reach the coveted stream at a point some three miles 

 away, at the intersection of the township road, then follow 

 its meanderings until close to Bellaire, by which time we 

 estimated the sun would be low and our creels heavy. 



As we left the village by a road that led straight away to 

 the east, piercing the center of a broad avenue cut through 

 the dense forests, we fell in with a hrother angler, a native, 

 hastening in the same direction. A glance at his outfit sent 

 another shock to my notions of trout fishing. A bamboo 

 pole, fully seventeen feet long and an inch and a half at the 

 butt, lay on his shoulder, and we judged its elasticity as 

 scarcely discounting a good-sized fence rail. The line 

 attached to its small end seemed large enough and strong 

 enough to haul a cow out of a sink hole. Matching this for- 

 midable equipment was a stout canvas bag slung from the 

 shoulder, close and compact, and capable of hiding a bushel 

 of trout. 



"Say, Kentuck, how's that for high?" said my Kingfisher 

 comrade as we closed up on our new friend. 



"Well, I should say nearly twenty feet," I replied.* "Do 

 you think he can travel on Cedar with that rig?" 



"Oh, yes. You see he takes all the stiffenin' cut of the 

 trout when he jerks 'em with that pole. Just breaks the 

 spinal column at the first snatch, and saves any further 

 killin'. And then, you see, when the stream is too deep to 

 wade, he just lays his pole down, one end on each bank, 

 and snakes across to the other side. Bet yer life, though, 

 that canvas bag will cook his trout before night." 



The explanation and prediction were both satisfactory, 

 for if there is anything Jeems Mackerel can't explain, or any 

 aching void of human inquiry he can't fill, and do it in a 

 way that fills you chuck full of satisfaction, it is not going 

 to be found lying loose around camp. 



Overtaking the angler with the big bamboo, we suggested 

 inquiringly that "perhaps he was going fishin' — perhaps not." 



"Well, I reckon perhaps you are right," said he, "least- 

 ways I calculate on ketchin' a few trout out of Cedar before 

 1 get back." 



"Thar ain't nothin' like tryin'," said Jeems Mackerel (who 

 had a way of dropping naturally into any style of vernacular 

 that he chose — a peculiarity that more than once upset the 

 gravity of the camp of the Kingfishers, "for if old Bill 

 Hess hadn't a tried he never would a strangled that wild cat 

 up in Canady. That cat gin him a powerful tussel, though, 

 but Bill ain't the feller to squeal when a cat is tryin' to 

 scratch a hole in his bread-basket." 



With this quaint allusion to an unknown episode in Bill 

 Hess's adventures (unknown proDably to Hess himself), Jeems 

 Mackerel relapsed into silence. 1 looked away through the 

 woods at something that wasn't there, and our new com- 

 rade, after waiting apparently t© hear how Hess got away 

 with the cat, wisely concluded the matter was postponed, 

 and changed the subject. 



"Thar's a friend of mine going to jine me out here by the 

 Fair Grounds, and we are goin' to fish together. Three 

 other fellows," he added, "went troutin' on Cedar early this 

 mornin'. Gut'ss they'll get the best of the luck before we 

 hev a chance." 



By this time we reached the inclosure denominated the 

 Fair Grounds. Two or three acres of weeds and stumps, 

 surrounded by a plain board fence, and supplemented by a 

 few board shanties, it had more the appearance of a deserted 

 clearing than a spot dedicated to an exhibition of the pro- 

 ducts of industry. At the further end of the inclosure our 

 new acquaintance raised a loud hello, which was quickly 

 answered from the other side of the clearing, and bis ex- 

 pected friend was seen wading across the field. A half mile 

 further on they turned sharply to the left, and bidding us 

 good bye disappeared in the thick woods. 



The sun was now getting higu in the tops of the trees 

 above us, and not yet having compassed more than half the 

 distance, we fell into a long Indian lope and "lit out" for 

 our destination. Jeems Mackerel is long-winded and tough, 

 and despite that constitutional weakness for water that pre- 

 vented him from passing a brook without imbibing a goodly 

 portion of the crystal fluid, he managed to keep a good 

 second. A half hour more brought us to a point where we 

 detected a faint path, nearly obscured by fallen leaves, di- 

 verging to the left. As we had been instructed to follow the 

 left fork of the path about this distance out, I halted, and 

 studying the "lay," asked Jeems Mackerel what he thought 

 ahout it. Circling round and examining the faint traces of 

 travel, then taking an observation by the sun of the direc- 

 tion in which both forks of the road pointed, the old vet- 

 eran, whose instinct was equal to the scent of a deerhound, 

 and seldom was at fault in an emergency, finally remarked, 

 "Well, I guess we'll take the left hand path. It aims right 

 anyhow, and a feller that aims to be right and fails, ain't to 

 be blamed much." 



His conclusions' were right, for the path proved to be a 

 sort of cut-off that led into the main township road a few 

 yards over the hill. Following the latter down a sharp 

 descent, we landed on a bridge of logs that spanned a small, 

 clear, rippling stream. The township road was merely a 

 path through the dense woods, and the bridge of split slabs, 

 though evidently long built, had not even the imprint of a 

 wheeled vehicle upon its smooth surface. It was a virgin 

 bridge, and no doubt one of those cases of work ordered for 

 the benefit of the contractor. 



"I guess we ain't lost," said Jeems Mackerel, as he dropped 

 the butt of his rod upon the bridge and peeped slily over the 

 edge into the water. The latter formed a small pool on the 

 upper side of the bridge, and gliding swiftly under its cover, 

 halted in a twirling eddy on the lower side before it darted 

 under the bushes and vanished. 



' 'Call this a trout stream ?" I disgustedly inquired, ' 'why, 

 it isn't big enough to furnish a day's washing for a country 

 hotel." . . 



"You bet it's a trout stream— a genuine orthodox. Equare 

 up and down camp meetin' trout stream," replied Jeems 

 Mackerel, "and I'm going to lift a speckled trout out of the 

 water in about two minutes." 

 He unwound his line, attached a small bit of red clam to 



his hook, and cautiously slipping to the edge of the bridge, 

 dangled the bait temptingly on the surface of the water just 

 under the shadow of a clump of bushes. There were no 

 trout there or they were not hungry, for none sprang to the 

 feast. Changing'to the lower end of the bridge ; he tried the 

 eddy for only a second, when the quick jerk upward of rod 

 and line indicated that something had been developed. 

 "There! I had a bite." 



The eager expression of pleasure that illumined his features 

 at this one nibble amused me greatly, and I encouraged him 

 with the inquiry: "Was it a fly or mosquito bite? Looks as 

 if it was about the same size and strength." 



Covering me with a crushing look of pity at my apparent 

 lack of appreciation of the presence of trout, he caught the 

 bait in one hand, and raising his rod overhead with the other, 

 he leaped from the bridgelnto a fresh pile of "bresh," and 

 waded through while it cracked and bent and switched his 

 legs and body. "Come on," said he, "we'll follow the 

 stream down and fish as we go, for we are 'bound for the 

 happy land o' 'Canaan.'" The "bresh" and logs were "power- 

 ful thick," and I hunted around for a better opening than 

 wading through a thicket. Spying a log covered with green 

 moss that seemed to reach out into the wilderness, I cautiously 

 stepped on it and meandered toward the top. The next 

 thing I knew, the moss being damp and slimy slid out from 

 under one foot, and after trying to make one leg three feet 

 longer than the other, and grasping at the twigs and branches 

 in reach, I gave a free pantomime of hair pulling from a head 

 that wasn't visible, and then went down with a crash into a 

 mass of brush and logs that were not quite as soft as a bed of 

 balsams. The fall didn't hurt me much, but surprised me 

 a good deal. Rising on one elbow, I looked up and listened. 

 I expected to hear Jeems Mackerel express his satisfaction 

 at my style of traveling. Fortunately he had disappeared, 

 and I counted one in my favor. 



Anybody can disappear on Cedar. It is the worst tangle 

 I ever saw. The fallen timber looks as if it had been tied 

 up into knots and "crimps" and "bangs." The standing 

 timber is so close and the shade so dense one can't tell 

 whether it's dinner or supper time. The soil is light and 

 spongy, and affords so little hold for the roots of trees that 

 the latter topple over as soon as they get big enough to catch 

 the wind. Wind-rows are common. In fact, the whole 

 forest seems a wind row. Logs heaped on logs, trees on 

 trees, brush growing everywhere and around everything, an 

 interminable mass of limb, and log, and brier, and brush, 

 until one is dazed with the prospect of getting through it. 

 And right in the midst of this fearful labyrinth, as if ashamed 

 of sun and daylight, the waters of Cedar River steal their 

 way. Into its hidden pools and foam-clad eddies even the 

 flecked sunlight dares not peep. 



Picking my bruised limbs from the "bresh" and recovering 

 my cap and rod, I crawled through to the other side, where 

 I found just room enough to stand upright. My companion 

 had vanished. The smell of the woods, the tinkle of the 

 stream and the one incipient nibble had fired his soul, and 

 he was off "a-huntin"' for the speckled beauties like an old 

 hound on a hot track. 



Guessing that down stream was my course, I had only to 

 trace the water in the deep tangle and follow, as best I could, 

 its uncertain wanderings. This was no easy job in that 

 wilderness of fallen timber and mazy thickets. Trailing my 

 rod behind me I crawled or climbed from one vantage point 

 to another, until shortly I spied a little quiet pool under the 

 brow of a projecting bank. This I approached under cover, 

 and baiting my hook with a bit of clam gently dropped it 

 into the water. A splash and a quick tug at the line instantly 

 followed. Small as was the evidence of something alive in 

 that hole, it sent an electric tingle through every nerve. 

 Mtchanically I jerked the pole upward, and at once found 

 myself fishing in the leafy branches overhead. I had missed 

 my first bite, or rather my first trout. Recovering my line 

 and a bunch of twigs at the same time, I cleared the hook 

 and again sought to tempt the concealed fish. But it was 

 idle. He let me "severely alone." 



Moving a little further on I tried another pool, about the 

 size of a water-bucket, that lay partly concealed under a big 

 log that covered its face. The clam had scarcely reflected 

 its rosy coloring in the crystal depths,; when a galvanic cur- 

 rent ran up the line and caused me to yield a responsive 

 jerk. The effort tossed a massive trout of about five inches 

 length, backward among the leaves. I searched for the 

 little darling that had dropped from the hook and soon had 

 its diminutive form stretched in the palm of my hand. It 

 was my first trout. Mingled disgust and wonder seized me. 

 Disgust that I had come so far and suffered so much to cap- 

 ture such a wee thing as that, and wonder at the icy coldness 

 it imparted to my hand. Then I began to admire the spots 

 on its sides, coupled with the rich band of gold that melted 

 above imperceptibly into a shade of bronze, and below into 

 a pinkish tint bordering a base of silvery white. And when 

 I recalled what a fierce tug it gave at the hook I was not sure 

 I had any right to get mad about the matter after all. 



One fact at any rate permeated my brain at that time and 

 has never gotten away since and that is— for its weight and 

 appearance, no fish on the "livin' yearth" (as J. M. would 

 say) can equal a trout for an unhesitating solid square pull 

 at the end of a fishing line. There's no dodging about a 

 trout— no sickly, sentimental nosing about the hook. He goes 

 at the bait with a dart like a skyrocket— sometimes leaping 

 clean out of the water— and as he flashes back to his cover 

 with the hook in his mouth, an impression crosses your 

 mind that you have captured a streak of greased lightning. 



Dropping my first trout back into the water— for it came 

 within the guardianship of the law— I now hastened to over- 

 take Jeems Mackerel. Perhaps you know what it is "to 

 hasten" along the banks of Cedar. Well, it means a good 

 deal more than one may care to tell. Plunging to your 

 knees in mud and slime, stumbling over roots, butting 

 against trees, bruising your limbs on logs, scratching your 

 nose on briers, sinking the naked hook to the harb in your 

 fingers, and all this time the flies are sticking their poisonous 

 fangs in the back of your neck and the mosquitoes are tast- 

 ing your ears and making blood pimples on your nose. 

 There nothing like trouting on Cedar. 



After ten minutes of "hastening" I saw the bushes ^shake 

 ahead and getting nearer, spied the old "Kingfisher skin- 

 ning out on a limb that projected over a pool much larger 

 than I had yet seen. He was shoving his rod ahead, and, 

 with knees hugging the slender limb, was balancing the hind 

 part of his body in the air to prevent too much of it from 

 getting on the wrong side, 



1 stopped and watched the maneuvers of the old veteran 

 After getting as far out on the limb as he deemed safe and 

 sufficient, he bent a branch down until he could put it under 

 his left arm as a steadier, and then unreeling about a foot ot 

 line he projected the hook previously baited toward the sur- 



