Au«. 17, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



13 8 



that was too seductive to be successfully resisted by us, 

 and so we went. 



In fact, we were both very glad to go, and now one of 

 us at least is very glad that we are back in reasonably good 

 condition, ordinary wear and tear excepted. Mead in- 

 jured one of his legs pretty seriously, which affords me 

 considerable quiet satisfaction. He has less to say about 

 fat people in general and "the old man" in particular. 



We each took a pack; Mead said his weighed 501bs. and 

 mine 30, but I did not see them weighed and am dis- 

 posed to raise a question of pivilege. However, I will 

 acknowledge that I afterward found that some things 

 had surreptitiously found their way into my pack that 

 were more bulky than weighty. I like a nice little 

 harmless joke as well as anybody, but carrying a great 

 big -stuffed duck over a long mountain trail to a trout 

 creek is not such a joke as I can fully comprehend or 

 appreciate. If it had been a nice, fat, edible duck, 

 properly stuffed, or even a sleek mounted specimen for 

 the Molalla children to admire, I might have borne my 

 burden with fortitude if not with Jpride. 



Bat the idea of carrying a great big, measly, moth- 

 eaten taxidermic miscarriage, stuffed with cotton and 

 old rags that had been booted and batted about Mead's 

 office for years — and carrying it too over the Cascade 

 Mountains one of the hottest of hot July days, with the 

 honest perspiration cutting gullies along down my back- 

 bone, with the perpetrator of the outrage at my elbow 

 condoling and sympathizing while maliciously enjoying 

 and knowingly adding to my distress— this was a little 

 too much for human nature to bear complacently. ^When 

 I reached for my six-shooter Mead declared that Billy 

 Newman did it, but I shall always think that Mead 

 was an accessory before the fact. Billy had gone back to 

 Scantogrease when we returned, which looks bad for him 

 and adds weight to Mead's argument. 



By starting early and driving hard we reached the 

 Molalla early in the afternoon, and found Fay awaiting 

 us with a fresh team. In half an hour we were off down 

 across the Molalla River and up over the divide in a direc- 

 tion never before taken by me. Fay thought that we 

 ought to take some "crawlers" or husk-worms from the 

 rivef , as we could find no kind of bait in the North Fork 

 and there was no use fishing there without bait. That 

 was an old story with us, and so we decided to go with- 

 out the "crawlers." Naturally we thought that a trout 

 that wouldn't take a fly in a stream where there were no 

 "crawlers" or other "bait" was too poor for use. We 

 drove about eight or nine miles over a fair mountain 

 road, until at last we had to leave the team and take to 

 the brush. In packing in we frequently lost the dim old 

 deer trail, but finally, after a four-mile tramp, arrived at 

 Our destination on the banks of the North Fork of the 

 Molalla. We struck the stream further up than I had 

 ever been before, and the surroundings were delightfully 

 entrancing. The Molalla is the prettiest trout stream I 

 ever saw, and this was the prettiest part of the Molalla I 

 had yet seen. It seemed hardly possible that we could 

 have left Portland in the morning to find ourselves at 

 early evening in such a country. Heat and.dust had dis- 

 appeared as if by magic, and the sweet, " balsam-laden 

 ozone seemed so deliciously invigorating. With packs 

 and trappings off we laid ourselves down ion the mossy 

 rocks and drank deep of the icy waters of the lovely 

 North Fork. 



Then we sat there in the cool evening air and surveyed 

 our surroundings. Great precipitous inountains covered 

 with gigantic pines, spruces and firs almost shut out the 

 Bky, while the North Fork danced among the boulders at 

 our feet merrily and buried itself in a sleepy pool below; 

 and then, as if awakening from a midday dream, started 

 fretfully off around the bend, soon lost to us except in our 

 imaginations and misty anticipations. We could only 

 guess whether there were trout hidden there; but we were 

 both ready to gamble on it, for such water must of neces- 

 sity bear fruit. While pretending to enjoy the grand 

 mountains and magnificent scenery my eyes constantly 

 reverted to that sleepy pool, and Mead's quick eye soon 

 detected me. There are some good points about Mead. 

 He is self-sacrificing and generous to a remarkable degree 

 and besides he evidently regarded this as a good chance 

 to square himself on the duck question, the which he 

 can't. "Well, old man," said he, "it is getting late, and 

 while Fay and I unpack and start a fire may be you had 

 better yank a few trout out of that pool down there for 

 supper." 



Mead is the best man on earth, I know he is; bless him. 



In less time than it takes to tell it I was at the head of 

 that sleepy pool with a string of three flies and my 6oz. 

 rod. There is a sensation peculiar to anglers. It is the 

 thrill of anticipation that comes with the first cast into 

 unknown waters. One's rod seems to stand out like a 

 great big interrogation point and a strange medley of 

 equivocal answers seems to lie buried in the pool, held in 

 abeyance by the mute waters, until the interest and 

 anxiety of the angler is drawn so taut that he fairly 

 quivers all over. On this occasion my suspense was of 

 short duration. I needn't tell you how I cast, or where I 

 cast, or anything about the gold-sprinkled living arrows 

 of the white water. You've all been there. A double 

 rewarded my first cast and my second, and then singles 

 until fifteen lovely mountain trout lay in my basket, 

 plenty for supper and breakfast, and all out of that one 



S»ol. I like pool fishing. It's just about as my friend 

 ead says: anybody can catch trout in riffles, but it isn't 

 everybody that can catch them out of still pools, with the 

 fly. However, in waters like the North Fork anybody 

 can catch trout any place, for they haven't yet learned 

 that "all is not gold that glitters." The boys were just 

 ready to cook the trout when I returned to camp. That 

 made it nice, for trout never taste better than when fresh 

 from the stream. And then, too, bless the man that in- 

 vented bacon! Is there anything else that can give fried 

 trout such a delicious flavor? 



Mead had arranged our packs in pieces of sail cloth, 

 each about two yards square, with eyelets at each end; and 

 these joined together made a very decent tent, open at 

 both ends of course, but a good protection from the heavy 

 mountain dews. With plenty of nice cedar browse for a 

 mattress and two pairs of double blankets for a bed, we 

 were well fixed for the night; and after the usual smoke 

 and chin music we turned in, happy and contented as 

 only anglers on a pretty mountain stream can be, and full 

 to the muzzle of sweet anticipations of the morrow. The 

 pjd, ojd etory, But neither Mead nor myself went„ off to 



sleep, as we pretended to, for there is always a charm and 

 enchantment about a strange forest at night that keeps a 

 fellow awake unless he is very tired. We talked but lit- 

 tle, but doubtless we were both thinking about the same 

 thoughts. 



A dying camp fire always gives the forest a sort of 

 ghostly, ghastly appearance that sets a fellow to thinking 

 sober thoughts. Never yet have I lain down at night on 

 the banks of the Molalla without pondering on the past, 

 the present and the future of that lovely country. And 

 when the flickering camp fire paints its images back in 

 the forest among the shadows, how easy it is for the im- 

 aginative mind to draw mental pictures of the drowsy 

 past. One can almost hear the stealthy tread of the 

 moccasined feet and the smothered voices of the dusky 

 races that once roamed there, but are now gone forever. 

 The night wind that steals softly down the dark canons 

 and through the great treetops seems to moan a sort of 

 gentle requiem over the ashes of the half-forgotten tribe 

 of the Molallas. And sometimes I find myself wishing 

 that the great mute boulders had tongues, that they might 

 tell us of the joys and the sorrows, the hopes, the loves, 

 the fears that have passed in life's solemn review at their 

 feet. But they are silent. The book is sealed, "Out of 

 eternal silence did they come! into eternal silence have 

 they gone!" We doze off into dreamland, when a sudden 

 surge or eddy in the atmosphere brings all the voices of 

 the night to our yet listening ears from far down the mys- 

 terious, dreamy caiion, and again we are wide awake. 

 The roar of the waters sounds like the coming of a mighty 

 wind, awe-inspiring, and the confused and commingling 

 sounds of the night impress one with the notion that all 

 nature has awakened in dread of some dire, impending 

 calamity. But softly and almost imperceptibly the tumult 

 and commotion die away, and again nature and you are 

 asleep. 



"Get up, you lazy rascal, if you are going to fish with 

 me," is the next thing I hear, and I roll over and glance 

 out to see broad daylight and Mead with the steaming 

 coffee-pot in his hand. Mead never over-sleeps. I often 

 wish he would. Particularly did I wish so this morning, 

 for I didn't feel very skookum. But after a good bath in 

 the Molalla and a good breakfast placed where it would 

 do the most good, I was ready to give him the best I had 

 in my shop. That was a great day we had with the trout 

 among the pools and rapids of the North Fork. It was 

 one of those days that a fellow embalms and puts away 

 in memory's abode for future reference. Everything was 

 at its best — air, water, trout, fishermen. The boulders 

 were larger and more frequent than on the lower Molalla, 

 and the stream was, of course, wilder, more rapid and 

 more difficult. But all these difficulties and disadvan- 

 tages were more than offset by livelier rapids, prettier 

 pools and more numerous trout. And the trout were all 

 fine and fat. They didn't need "crawlers" in their busi- 

 ness, for there was never greater variety nor more prolific 

 insect life. All the winged insects of the country and 

 some that were not winged seemed to have gathered at 

 the North Fork for a picnic, and the trout seemed to be 

 having the best of the picnic. Twenty dozen, in round 

 numbers, of lovely mountain trOut running from Tin. to 

 nearly 1ft. in length rewarded us for that day's work. 

 We fished back to camp in time to properly clean and 

 care for our catch before dark. We had no difficulty in 

 keeping these trout and bringing them home in excellent 

 conditipn. Carefully cleaning them, we packed them in 

 fresh, damp moss, and placed them at the shaded mouth 

 of a shallow cavern where the air seemed to draw in and 

 out like the breathing of the ice king. 



There were many pretty scenes and happy incidents of 

 this day's fishing that I cannot ask space to tell about or 

 attempt to describe. Wherever there was sand enough to 

 show the imprint of feet there were deer and "varmint" 

 tracks. Judging from appearances there was plenty of 

 big game as well as fish in that neck of the woods. Mead 

 can get along faster than I can and often does so. On one 

 occasion he had forged ahead to a considerable distance, 

 clear around a big bend. While intent upon my flies, for- 

 getful of my surroundings and unconscious of the fact 

 that I was alone, there came a succession of resounding 

 shots that nearly startled me over into the pool. Bang, 

 bang, bang!! bang, bang, bangll! 



Hurrying forward as fast as possible, expecting to find 

 something dead — even if nothing more than Mead — I soon 

 heard his voice, which in the noise of the stream and the 

 rattle of my boots on the gravel sounded like a call for 

 help. I strained every muscle and soon rounded the bend 

 out of breath and my heart thumping against my side as 

 if it would burst through. There sat Mead on a log. "Ha, 

 ha, ha; he, he, he," the villain yelled as I came up, "you 

 ought to have seen his nibs run." 



"Nibs what? nibs who?" I asked as fast as I could get 

 breath enough. 



"Ha, ha, ha; he, he, he! I'll back him against anything 

 in the Cascade Eange in a ten mile up-hill heat. Ha, ha, 

 ha," was the answer I got. 



"Now look here, Mead," said I, getting serious and a 

 little mad, "out with it or I will throw you in the drink 

 and no more foolishness about it." 



"Well," said he, "I found that I had got ahead of you 

 and sat down here on the bank to wait for you, when I 

 heard a crackling in the brush over on the other side of 

 that deep pool. I watched and listened when pretty soon 

 a bear, a little fellow, stuck his snout through the brush 

 and looked around. Then I quietly got out my six-shooter 

 and cut loose. At the first shot he started back up the 

 mountain as if the devil himself was close after him. At 

 the second shot he let out another notch, at the third an- 

 other, and so on clear up the mountain, and as he went 

 over the crest he had quit running and had commenced to 

 fly. I tell you that fellow is a dandy in a hurdle race. 

 You just ought to have seen him go; ha, ha, ha; he, 

 he, he!" 



The prettiest scene of the day was right where we 

 turned back toward camp. At the foot of a long, tumul- 

 tuous rapid was a lovely cascade. Eight out in the center 

 of the cascade, right where the water started in its 

 descent, sat an immense boulder that would weigh many 

 tons. It divided the stream and quite a body of water 

 went each side of it. On the perpendicular face of that 

 boulder, overlooking the falls, a couple of water ousels 

 had built their peculiarly formed nest of moss, clear out 

 of reach of prowling varmints. It was nearly as large as 

 a bushel basket and the old birds seemed to appreciate the 



fact that their fortress was impregnable, for they were 

 very bold and seemingly fearless. It was a delightful 

 place to raise a family of young ousels, for they had such 

 a good opportunity to study the beauties of nature before 

 they left the home roof. I wish somebody would tell me 

 how the little fellows get out of such places when it 

 comes time to shirk for themselves. I have seen them 

 after they have got out and before they could fly, but 

 have never yet learned how they do it. Perhaps they 

 slide down into the swift water and wade out on the 

 bottom as the old birds can and do. A wonderful bird is 

 the water ousel. I should think he would get lonesome 

 away in these solitudes, but they seem to enjoy their 

 hermit-like life. Wherever you go on these mountain 

 streams you will find him and he always seems glad to 

 see you. His harsh twitter is music and his impudent 

 manners entertainment to the lone fisherman on the 

 romantic stream. 



Fay had gone back home and was to come up and help 

 us out next day. We passed a pleasant night and Mead 

 fished next day until about noon with good results, but I 

 lay around camp and took it very easy. Yes, I can endure 

 more rest than Mead can, but he'll get there by and by. 

 As it was, we had all the fish we cared to carry out and 

 were both well satisfied with our trip to the upper waters 

 of the Molalla. 



On the way home next day, road agentB held up the 

 incoming stage less than ten minutes after it had passed 

 ours going out. Everybody seems to think that Mead' 

 big white cowboy hat is all that prevented a double hold 

 up, and it looks reasonable. But appearances are against 

 him. He isn't half so terrible as he looks, and we would 

 have been dead easy game for the agents if they had only 

 known it. S. H. Gbeene. 



Portland, Oregon, July 23. 



WITH A BURRO TRAIN. 



It is not often that a Calif ornian will risk an extended 

 trip into the mountains with an untried "tenderfoot," for, 

 much of the pleasure of a sojourn depends not only upon 

 the staying qualities of a companion during the rougher 

 experiences on the route, but also upon whether he 

 adapts himself to the experiences in a companionable 

 way. I was fortunate enough to enjoy my first mountain 

 trip in the company of one comparatively young in years, 

 but old in mountain experience, and it came about by an 

 accidental acquaintance. 



Judge H. H. Rose, an ardent hunter and mountain 

 climber, whose skillful use of rifle and 12-gauge has 

 placed his name more than once at the head of the list of 

 southern California experts, always on the lookout for 

 anything new in bird life, one day brought in a beautif u 

 specimen of blue grossbeak which found its way into my 

 collection, and at the same time I made the acquaintance 

 of one of the closest observers in California. 



A month later, on June 27, four burros heavily laden 

 with supplies, followed by two hob-nailed individuals, 

 might have been seen winding their way along the old 

 trail which commences at Sierra Madre and ends seven 

 and a half miles distant at the top of Mount Wilson, 

 6,500ft. high. From this point to the West Fork of the San 

 Gabriel River, four and a half miles below, the mountain 

 lies at an angle sufficiently steep to prevent the loose 

 earth and stones from rattling down, and the trail, a 

 mere path in the shape of a continued letter S, allows 

 you and the train to slide down between rows of stunted 

 manzanita, greasewood and mountain lilac, whose jagged 

 points soon wear great holes in the gunny sacking in 

 which blankets and provisions are packed for protection. 

 From the foot of the trail to the mouth of Cottonwood 

 Canon (or Cut-off Canon, as some call it, because this 

 route avoids the older and more indirect trail over the 

 ridge to the west) is a mile, and darkness overtook us be- 

 fore we made camp, fortunately, for there is no knowing 

 what the Judge would have attempted in his ambition to 

 show a tenderfoot what a Californian considers a fair 

 day's work. 



The burros were turned loose up canon to graze, for if 

 allowed to work back they might continue on the back 

 trail and leave us in the lurch. Our camp-fire soon illu- 

 minated the arches of the water beeches which canopied 

 the stream. 



After supper of bacon, hot coffee and bread and butter, 

 we spread our blankets on as smooth a spot in the trail as 

 we could find, and turned in, with the beeches for a tent. 

 We were too tired to sleep; the Judge's hip troubled him 

 and the stones and sticks troubled me, but just as I man- 

 aged to go off into a doze was suddenly aroused by a loud 

 "Get out of that!" from the Judge and addressed to a 

 civet cat, an animal which appeared, in the light of the 

 milky way, to be shaped somewhere between a coon and 

 a fox, that was prowling among the packs for meat, and 

 nearly wandered over my feet. This incident drove away 

 all thoughts of sleep, and we spent until daylight relating 

 incidents of previous trips. 



The finest fishing in the Sierra Madre Mountains is 

 found along the San Gabriel River and its branches, and 

 none furnishes the sport equal to that of the West Fork. 

 Before dinner I wandered along the stream in search of 

 specimens and came across a pool in which ten handsome 

 trout could be counted. A hook and line tucked away 

 in a vest-pocket for just such an emergency was quickly 

 adjusted to a willow wand cut near by. No grasshopper 

 could be found, but a burro near by furnished a tuft of 

 hair which was loosely tied with a white string to the 

 shank of the hook. " This was let down with the current 

 from above, but no bite from the pool after several at- 

 tempts. Casting it into the riffles below, a trout was in- 

 stantly landed, and with the anal fin I soon had five of 

 the beauties out of the pool. 



Following the little feeder up Cottonwood Canon two 

 miles, crossing at intervals on the boulders while the 

 burros splashed through, the trail suddenly diverges and 

 strikes right up a huge spur or hogback leading directly 

 to a high range running east and west parallel to the 

 main range. Hour after hour we plod, stopping every 

 dozen steps to regain breath. Finally the ridge is reached 

 and we have a view of the valley of the Little Tehunja 

 and an entirely different watershed from that of the San 

 Gabriel. This stream flows westerly, finally losing itself 

 in the great San Fernando Valley to the west. The trai 

 continues eastward along the range to the beginning of a 

 spur, down the ridge of which we drop in rapid stages, 

 the last half mile diverging into a dry canon. We had 

 been over four hours exerting violently in an extremely 



