816 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



f July 7, 1887. 



TROUTING IN NORTH CAROLINA. 



DURING the past three years ray attention has been 

 attracted in various ways to the climate and y ear- 

 around healthfulness of western North Carolina. Last 

 October an article written by E. A. Gatchell, M.D., and 

 published in the New York Medical Record, fell under my 

 notice and that settled it. Nov. 5 I packed up my grip, 

 bade good-bye to wife and family, and went to Asheville, 

 N.O. My ob jective was Highlands. I made the acquaint- 

 ance of Dr. Gatchell and his partner, Dr. Hargan, both of 

 whom are gentlemen of bigh standing in their profession, 

 and they gave me much valuable information and assist- 

 ance. I crossed the Balsam Range to Webster, and went 

 thence by stage twenty-one miles to Franklin. High- 

 lands is but nine miles from the latter place; however, I 

 went no further. After a few days sojourn I returned to 

 Asheville, made more inquiries, enjoyed the delicious, in- 

 vigorating air, the clear sky and the wonderful moun- 

 tain scenery. I mentally pledged myself the pleasure of 

 a longer stay in this section at some future time to par- 

 ticipate in some of the delights of forest and stream, and 

 also to give this climate an opportunity to cure the abom- 

 inable catarrhal and laryngeal affection which had caused 

 me so much pain and money for several years. The mem- 

 ory of this three weeks' trip gave me food for sober re- 

 flection during the long, dreary and sunless days of the 

 Northern winter. In due course of time May came, and 

 I Made up my mind to go to Asheville, spend three or 

 four months, study its summer climate, breathe the 

 fresh, pure mountain air, put myself under the direction 

 and oare of a good physician, and enjoy all I could. I 

 came and am still here, 



Naturally I very soon instituted queries regarding fish- 

 ing opportunities, for how could one brought up and 

 trained on the famous Caledonia Creek, restrain bis pro- 

 pensities when in the neighborhood of a trout stream? 



I discovered that the streams in the immediate vicinity 

 of Asheville were devoid of my favorite fish, but by retir- 

 ing from this vain world to the mountain fastnesses, one 

 could find an abundance of trout. 



One day a young gentleman— patient of the Doctor's— 

 came into the office and reported having spent three days 

 on a mountain stream and brougbt home 270 trout. Said 

 I: ''You are sure they were 'speckled trout'?" He looked 

 offended and said he thought he knew trout. I felt afraid 

 I had at last come into the august presence of a veritable 

 "trout hog" and I mildly asked, "How large was the 

 largest one?" "About 12in. long." "And the smallest?" 

 "Six inches." "Well, I looked at Dr. H., who, by the 

 way, is an enthusiastic sportsman, but had never seen, 

 much less caught, a trout, and he looked at me. "We 

 must go a-fishing," said I. "We certainly must," he re- 

 plied. 



Canvassing the subject we found that in the headwaters 

 of the Pigeon River good trout fishing could be had. The 

 Doctor had some patients in Waynesville, who needed 

 attention, and we planned to start early Thursday morn- 

 ing, consult with the afflicted until after dinner, then 

 drive sixteen and one-half miles over the mountains to 

 the east fork of the Pigeon River and seek shelter with 

 one Jim Osborne. 



The air was warm and the town sleepy. We had a 

 platform-spring Avagon, two good horses, and a colored 

 Jehu to hold the reins. There were four of us, Dr. H., 

 Lis son Guy and a young friend, "Doc" N., and the sub- 

 scriber. We started at 1 P. M, in good spirits and with 

 the assurance of all that we should have plenty of trout. 

 Such roads, such climbing, such forest-crowned moun- 

 tains, such views of peak and valley, such rugged slopes 

 and rich bottom and cove lands! I had never traveled 

 such rough, tortuous lanes before. However, I confess 

 my utter inability to give an adequate description of the 

 varied scenery through which we passed. • Had I the pen 

 of a ready writer like "Nessniuk" or the chronicler of 

 "Uncle Lisha" and "Sam Lovel," what pen pictures I 

 could portray. He who anticipates riding to his head- 

 quarters in a parlor car and casting the dainty fly from a 

 luxuriously cushioned boat with fish tank inclosed, and 

 a polite, skillf ul oarsman to relieve him of all unnecessary 

 lalx>r, need not apply. Such men know not the exulta- 

 tion from overcoming difficulties in pursuit of this 

 favorite pastime. It has graciously been ordered that 

 keenest enjoyments and grandest successes shall be the 

 legitimate outcome of obstacles sm-mounted and sharpest 

 struggles. I do not remember how many times we forded 

 the Pigeon, but it seems to me it was about twenty. 



Our journey was one long emphatic exclamation point. 

 At 5:30 we drew in sight of Jim Osborne's house, beyond 

 which it was impossible to go a mile with a wagon. For 

 the last three miles of our journey the sound of the roar- 

 ing stream smote our ears continually, and my fingers 

 itched to test every good pool and riff which came in 

 1 t. 



e came unannounced, and consequently found things 

 unprepared. Mrs. O. said that she did not keep boarders, 

 but she "reckoned" we could stay. Tumbling our grips 

 into a square room uncarpeted and unfurnished except 

 for two beds, a bureau and a sewing machine, we rapidly 

 assumed our fishing toggery and prepared for the con- 

 test. I had to furnish experience for the party. The 

 three "tenderfeet" went together to that portion of the 

 stream directly in front of the house, while I went up 

 stream about a quarter of a mile. Ugh! how cold the 

 water is even through my wading boots. How swift the 

 current. No casting from the bank here: too much 

 laurel, rhododendron and other stuff. After a time a 

 few small trout rise and are deposited in my creel. The 

 water is deeper than I thought, and so clear. I come to 

 a bend, and just below is a most inviting pool, shady, 

 cool, still and deep. I cannot reach it just as I wish, try 

 as I may. However, one good one is hooked and landed 

 safely. How handsome he is! Working along slowly 

 and carefully, occasionally picking up a trout, until dark, 

 I finally beeonie. aware of someone fishing just below me 

 around a rock and log dam. Soon he comes in sight, 

 wading in the water minus rubbers and fishing with a 

 short willowy tip of an ordinary cane. I say "good 

 evening." "Howdy" comes in reply. "How far is it to 

 Jim Osborne's?" "About a quarter you way. I reckon 

 I'm the man you'r lookin' for." I introduce myself, and 

 after a few moments spent in watching him we take a 

 Short cut to the road and then cross lots to the house. My 

 "tenderfoot" friends are seated on the wide porch await- 

 ing my return. I was quite disgusted to learn that they 

 had beaten me badly, having a score of about forty, 

 while I, who prided myself on my ability, had about ten. 

 They all used bait. 



Entering our sleeping room I found a stranger, seem- 

 ingly quite at home, enjoying the blazing fire in the huge 

 fireplace. He was introduced as Mr. Kimball, of Boston; 

 coming from Savannah a week previous, shaking with 

 chills and fever, he had retired to this mountain region, 

 since which time he had not suffered from fever, chill or 

 cold, although wading in the water every day. 



Our supper consisted of trout, bacon, inevitable com 

 bread, coffee and milk. When supper was ended we all 

 gathered around the fireplace and indulged in fish talk, 

 while incense from the fragrant weed filled the room. 

 Plans for the morrow were freely discussed. Jim O. 

 could not accompany us, being obliged to attend assessor's 

 meeting down the river, much to his disappointment. 

 Kimball and I agreed to go up the stream four miles to 

 the junction of Pigeon and Shining creeks and fish down 

 to the house. (Kimball is very deaf and persists in calling- 

 it "Chinese Creek." Jim shouts "Shining Creek, Mr. 

 Kimball." "Yes, yes," with a nod, "Chinese Creek," 

 whereat Jim laughs.) 



We take an early start. The rising sun illumines the 

 tips of the mountains with molten gold, while our way 

 leads us through laurel and rhododendron thickets, inter- 

 spersed with giant hemlocks (spruce pine here) sycamores, 

 oaks and birches. The stream roars and dashes on our 

 left, and the grass and bushes are wet with the heavy 

 dew. Involuntarily I stop to admire the seething water, 

 the laurel blossoms, the opening buds of the rhododendron, 

 the flaming mountain pink; to measure a mammoth hem- 

 lock, which by my rod measures 5ft. in diameter and 

 towers without a limb for 60ft. The forest-covered 

 mountains rose on either side at an angle of 50 degrees, 

 and the stream rushed down an incline of two feet to the 

 red at a 2:40 gait. I wondered how I could ever with- 

 stand that current. We follow the sharp curves and 

 tumbling rapids for nearly four miles, when Kimball an- 

 nounces that in his opinion we had gone far enough and 

 will be sufficiently weary by the time we reach home. I 

 concur. 



Now I am an ardent fly-fisherman, and dislike the use 

 of any other bait. We both put on flies. I cast and cast 

 and stumble and slide and stagger and catch a few trout, 

 when K. comes to me with several good ones and puts 

 them in my basket. He wades without the slightest 

 attempt at keeping dry. An old pair of pants and broken 

 shoes suffice him. At eleven o'clock we are tired and 

 hungry, and as the trout do not rise well we conclude to 

 rest, eat and smoke awhile. We sit on a. huge boulder 

 and examine our lunch. Soda biscuit (soggy), fried trout 

 and bacon. Well, I eat the trout, nibble a piece of bacon, 

 take one bite of the biscuit, groan and reach down for a 

 drink of the ice cold water. If I had eaten all the biscuit 

 I would have had the grim satisfaction of knowing there 

 was a solid accident policy in the safe at home. One 

 good purpose the biscuit might serve, viz., as ballast. 

 We produce our pipes and proceed to talk fish, travels, 

 art, and of the ever present scenery. Having come so far 

 as this to catch trout, I conclude, as did "Piseco," that I 

 must while in Rome do as the Romans do if I wish to 

 save my reputation; and noticing Kimball slipping on 

 bait I follow suit. This on, the queen as stretcher seems 

 to suit, and I gather in the trout. Out of one pool I take 

 five, the heaviest fib. and the smallest about ^lb. See 

 Kimball standing on that great flat rock which obstructs 

 the middle of the river. He fishes the pool below and the 

 rapids on either side, then concludes to cross to that tail 

 race. He must jump to that dome-shaped rock about half- 

 way across and a foot under the rushing water, and then 

 leap to the gravelly shore. The water below is about 10ft . 

 deep, that on the right and above is about 4ft. and going 

 like a quarter horse. He pauses a moment and then 

 jumps. That rock was slippery, and he slid with a splash 

 into the shallower water with full pockets. I lean against 

 a rock and laugh. The roaring flood and his deaf ears 

 defend his sensibilities, and he does not look backward. 

 "Let him that standeth take heed lest he fall." My turn 

 soon comes, when I slip and fill my boots. That was 

 the longest and most wearisome four-mile journey I ever 

 tramped. The basket grew heavier every hour, my arm 

 grew tired, my ankles were bruised and my boots weighed 

 a ton. But we had over fifty good trout. Kimball was 

 disappointed. A few days previous he had caught 81bs. 

 alone over the same ground. But trout are a "precar- 

 ious" fish. 



At the house we found "Doc" N., who had been feeling 

 badlj all day and took no interest in fish or fishing. After 

 a time he wandered up to Strawberry Hill and returne d 

 with a handful of strawberry stems and the luscious 

 fruit hanging from them. K. and I eagerly devour them. 

 "Doc" said he had had all he wanted. Dr. H. and Guy 

 soon returned with about twenty-five fish and the whole 

 catch are readily cleaned and we await supper. Jim 

 Osborne returning from the "listing place" concludes he 

 will see what he can do in the "aidge of the evenin'." I 

 give him some flies and he departs. 



Before supper is announced he walks in with eleven . 

 More trout, fried bacon, soda biscuit, hot corn bread, 

 coffee and milk. More fish talk, hunting talk, anecdote 

 and smoke. Jim says there is an abundance of bears in 

 the mountains. When he kills a mutton on the mountain 

 the great gray wolves come prowling around for fresh 

 meat. Deer are not plenty but can be shot. But turkeys, 

 ruffed grouse, quail, fox and gray squirrels " till you can't 

 rest." Meanwhile "Doc" has retired and Guy follows 

 suit. Soon we all turn in, Kimball in a tnrndle bed 

 very near the boys' bed, Dr. H. and I in the other bed 

 in the opposite corner. 



The morning found us too sore and lame to attempt 

 any fishing before our team should come for us. We 

 must reach home that night, as the following day was 

 the Sabbath. Doc stated his ability and readiness to go 

 fishing. The rest, even to Kimball, demurred. We 

 packed up and waited for the wagon. Fearing our team 

 would be late in reaching us and delay us over the Sab- 

 bath in Waynesville we decided to walk down the road 

 and meet the wagon and so save what distance we could. 

 Jim furnished a horse, and tying our grips together they 

 were slung across the saddle and Guy was seated on top 

 to direct affairs. Jim Osborne accompanied us to the 

 listing place. We bade good-bye to Kimball with regret. 

 I fancy our coming was a iiteasurable break in the mo- 

 notony of his daily round of fishing, eating and sleeping. 

 Two miles down the road we met our conveyance, trans- 

 ferring our baggage and bidding Jim good-bye we are 

 soon seated and ordered Jehu to drive oh "right smart." 



Dr. H. and Guy both being silent an unusually long 

 time I was informed by Doc in a half malicious manner 



that the Doctor had been trying to smoke some freshly 

 cut plug and after burning half a pipeful he concluded 

 he didn't "enjoy smoking this morning, nohow." Guy 

 sat with Jehu, Doc and I on the middle seat, while the 

 Doctor, who weighs 2001bs. endeavored to make active 

 those heavy rear springs. He couldn't accomplish it. It 

 was very amusing to see him brace himself for each an- 

 ticipated shock, only to be bounced around like a pea on 

 a hot griddle. 



We enjoyed the fishing, the scenery and each incident 

 of the trip. Our total catch reached 150 trout. Surely it 

 is not all of fishing to fish, else the pleasure of pulling fed 

 fish from one's private pond should be the acme of sport. 

 No, the mshing w r ater, the rocks, the trees, the flowers, 

 the birds, the floating clouds, the clear sky, the wealth of 

 foliage, the lofty mountains and the solitude even— each 

 and every one contributes its share to the full measure of 

 the angler's pleasure on a fishing trip. 



There are several streams in a radius of fifty miles of 

 Asheville where good fishing may be had at 'the right 

 time, according to reliable information. On the head- 

 waters of the romantic Swaunawoa, on the Ivy. the Rich- 

 land, the Catalouche and the east and west forks of the 

 Pigeon. 



Space fails me in which to mention the beauties of this 

 mountain region for the tourist and health-seeker. The 

 malarious, the asthmatic, the sufferer from catarrh or 

 pulmonary affections, the rheumatic, the "played-out" 

 business or professional man, and even the healthy sight- 

 seer should come and behold and enjoy for himself. 



P. P. Staunton. 



MY FIRST TROUT. 



I FREQUENTLY see an account of the first deer or bear 

 somebody killed, but I do not remember reading of 

 anybody's first trout; so I am going to tell how I made 

 my first capture in that line. I warn you fly-fishers to 

 shut your eyes and ears to this, for it was all done with 

 bait. It was a long time ago and I had never heard of 

 rods nor anything connected with them except the hook 

 and line; but of course this will be no excuse to the 

 fly man. If it will be any satisfaction to him, know there 

 that I now use nothing but the finest tied flies and a reel 

 that you can hear sing, when I am so lucky as to hook 

 anything heavy enough %q make it sing, above the roar of 

 the rapids. And my heart is made sore hy scoffs and fears 

 of the small boy who sits in judgment and, when I make 

 a "fly" cast that don't cause Father Izaak to turn in liis 

 grave, offers to bet me that I can't do it again, or when I 

 deliberately reel the lord of the pool in and the rod don't 

 break as he predicted, and I am so reckless as to call bis 

 attention to the fact, he vulgarly turns up his nose and 

 says anything would hold that little thing, and expresses 

 surprise that from its small size it was able to bite at all. 

 These things all go to make up the fly man's troubles, but 

 I bear it patiently. But to that trout. It was caught 

 long, long ago in a certain river where I expect to catch 

 a good many more. 



In the fall of the year the salmon are on thoir spawn- 

 ing beds and the sea* trout or salmon trout follow them up 

 to eat their eggs and later to spawn themselves before 

 going back to salt water. During this season we who 

 "loved the gentle art" were in high glee, but suffered one 

 very disagreeable drawback; that was, that to insure a 

 good catch we had to be at the river by daybreak, and, as 

 we lived a mile distant, this forced us to leave our beds at 

 a most uncomfortable hour. At this time I had seen but 

 seven sunny summers sandwiched in between as many 

 winters, and my horror of this early hour of rising would 

 have done justice to a person of more mature years; but I 

 generally managed to be on hand. 



There was one favorite place known as the "big log," 

 where the water had made quite a hole around the mass 

 of roots and drift at one end, Where I could generally be 

 found trying to beguile the minnow out from his retreat 

 with a small bunch of salmon or trout roe ou a No. 2 hook 

 fastened to a cotton line, attached in turn to a clumsy 

 willow pole. The log had something about it that struck 

 my fancy that I could never account for, unless that it 

 was so slippery that it was almost impossible to stand on 

 it. I would get up on it and balance back and forth until 

 steady, then make a cast, and then be out of balance 

 again, and see-saw around with my bait part of the time 

 in the water, with the minnows madly chasing it, and 

 then up in the air dangling in front of my nose. Finally 

 I would get settled again and some thoughtless minnow 

 would be reckless enough to take hold, and then, with a 

 jerk and splash, I would be struggling up to my neck in the 

 water, for I never succeeded in maintaining my place on 

 the log after a vigorous jerk. The next thing was to 

 creep off to the fire and try to dry myself and get worms, 

 and declare for the hundredth time that I never would 

 come fishing again. This scene was gone through almost 

 every morning, until once on a time a big trout took up 

 his quarters under the old log. 



I came down as usual, clambered up on the log and 

 went through the usual contortions in getting position, 

 threw in bait, and was standing there cold and sleepy, 

 when presto! jerk! splash! snap! and the water boiled 

 and foamed around me, for I had fallen in, as usual, and 

 a monstrous trout came to the top and flurried and 

 jumped and threw the spray like a young Niagara. The 

 "pole" had snapped at the first vigorous jerk, but luckily 

 the line had been too long, and I had given it a turn 

 around the tip and tied it back near my hand, so the fish 

 was not loose. He took a run out into the swift water, 

 and when the current struck him almost dragged me out, 

 and I really think I would have held on if it had been a 

 whale. He next took a turn up stream, and by that time 

 I had begun to get my senses back, and started for shore 

 pulling and tugging with all my might. Finally he 

 floated into the dead water, lying on his side and show- 

 ing his bright red markings, that to me looked prettier 

 than if it had been pure gold. I pulled him ashore and 

 raised a whoop that brought the other boys who did not 

 know but what I had managed to get out in deep water 

 and was drowned. There he lay gasping away his life, 

 and as for me, I was the high hook of the season. He 

 was 22in. long, and as fat as butter. And wasn't he a 

 beauty with his glistening sides throwing off their shin- 

 ing colors. A section of the rainbow would have paled 

 by his side, had I been the judge. And those spots, how 

 they did shine out like stars in the sky. Surely the trout 

 had never been taken out of water that was his peer. 



After all the boys had taken a look and reluctantly ad- 

 mitted him to be the prize ca tch, I proceeded to dress him, 



