630 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[July 14 1887. 



he tgpartmttan %mmU 



Arldrc&s all commitntealiom to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



PIONEER FISHING. 



THE leading varieties of fisli associated with my sport- 

 ing experiences correspond in number with the 

 Muses of antiquity, and I am confident that the tuneful 

 nine were never more affectionately remembered by the 

 Greeks than I remember the flowing waters associated 

 with my earlier years. Of course the big fish, or "whop- 

 pers," whicb I have captured are not to be ignored in my 

 memories of forest and stream; but many of the pleas- 

 antest places where my line has fallen are associated with 

 my earliest exploits. Until I had attained my sixth year 

 the pin hook and the small rock bass of the River Raisin 

 afforded me all the sport that I could then appreciate; but 

 it was not long after that important era before I had ex- 

 pended a few pennies for i-egular ' 'hooks of steel" and 

 had captured my first black bass. That event took place 

 under an old mill, where, when the big wheel was at rest, 

 the fish had a habit of hiding themselves, as they thought, 

 under a submerged timber, and where they were wont to 

 delight my eyes as they floated in the amber-like waters. 

 It was on Saturday; I was alone, my pole was of hickory, 

 neatly trimmed, and after putting two or three worms 

 upon my hook, I seated myself in a convenient corner of 

 the shadowy mill and threw out my bait. The troubles I 

 had experienced the day before in trying to straighten out 

 the hard words of my spelling book were all forgotten, 

 and just as I was watching a conflict of authority between 

 a wren and a swallow over my head I felt a severe tug at 

 my line and found that I had actually hooked a large 

 bass. The fellow sprang out of the water, scooted about 

 in a frantic manner, then, burrowed his way among some 

 jagged sticks, as if very angry with me and the whole 

 world: and on finding that he could not move out of his 

 hiding place. I plunged into the water, waded to the spot 

 where the fish was hidden, caught him by the gills, 

 dragged him out and carried him to a grassy spot near 

 the old mill and sat down to contemplate my prize and 

 then the magnitude of my victory. The weight of this 

 fish in reality was probably not over 21bs. , but to my eyes 

 he seemed perfectly enormous, and the wonder was with 

 me why I was not dragged down to the bottom of the 

 pool under the mill, and how I should manage to carry 

 such a huge creature to my home. This feat was duly 

 accomplished, however: nor did I omit to see that my 

 prize was properly cooked, and, when upon the table, that 

 it was judiciously divided between the various members 

 of the family. And when, on the following Monday, I 

 heard the boys at school descanting upon my exploit, my 

 vanity was excessive, and 1 felt that I was a boy of mark 

 in spite of my inability a few days before to spell the 

 proper noun Syracuse. 



From that time fishing for black bass became a decided 

 hobby with me, and I have since taken them with worm 

 and minnow and fly, in the Upper Mississippi and St. 

 Lawrence rivers, Lake Champlain and Lake George, in 

 many of the tributaries of Lake Michigan, in the streams 

 of Florida, and along the entire valley of the Potomac, 

 my biggest haul in a single day having been made on the 

 St. Joseph River, when I captured about fifty specimens 

 in one afternoon; and my largest, weighing nearly ?lbs., 

 having been born in Lake George. 



It was also in the waters of my native Michigan, at the 

 mouth of the river Raisin, that I captured my first nius- 

 calonge. I was then in my teens and was fishing from 

 my canoe in the vicinity of a sylvan island, not far from 

 La Plaisance Bay. My companion was a good old Potto- 

 wattamie Indian, and it was, doubtless, to his experience 

 and judgment that I was indebted for my success. My 

 bait consisted of live minnows, and it was after I had 

 caught a large pickerel, or pike-perch, as the books 

 properly designate them, that I hooked something which 

 I thought was a sturgeon, but which proved to be a inus- 

 calonge. The fellow swept backward and forward 

 under the canoe as if preparing himself for a dinner of 

 man meat, and before he could be secured he had dragged 

 our canoe a goodly distance in the direction of Lake Erie. 

 The weight of that fish I never knew, but as I remember 

 him, he was at least 3ft. in length and as savage in ap- 

 pearance as an alligator. The place where this fish was 

 taken was only a short distance from the bark camp of 

 my Indian friend, and on his motion — made by the hand 

 — we paddled for the camp, and while the sun was setting 

 we enjoyed a decided feast, composed, principally, of the 

 pickerel we had captured. It was almost 9 o'clock before 

 1 reached home on that eventful day, and the scolding 

 onslaught made upon me by my parents for having been 

 gone so long was only the prelude to their astonishment 

 on seeing my stupendous muscalonge. My subsequent 

 exploits with this fish occurred in the river St. Lawrence 

 and Lake Champlain. 



As time progressed and I was toiling as a merchant's 

 clerk in New York city, my vacations were all spent at 

 Norwich, Conn., where my parents then resided. I had 

 read "Izaak Walton," and also heard something of a very 

 old man living in Voluntown, near Norwich, who was 

 reputed to be a noted fisherman. I was now the owner 

 of a Conroy rod, a trout basket and a book of flies, and, 

 equipped with these, on a bright Apiil day, started on 

 horseback for Voluntown, a region inhabited chiefly by 

 charcoal burners, and noted at the time for its wild and 

 rocky hills and miniature trout streams. I found the old 

 fisherman's home, was kindly received, and in a short 

 time was piloted by him to a half level region through 

 which a small brook, with many turnings, was hurrying 

 on its way to the Quinnebaug, near Jewett City. ' On 

 producing my book of flies the old fisherman expressed 

 ids surprise and told me to drop such nonsensical things 

 and to cover my hook with worms. 



I obeyed orders and started down the little stream with 

 my guide following slowly in the rear. At the very first 

 bend of the brook I picked out my first trout, weighing 

 about 4oz. , and I met with similar success at almost every 

 turn of the stream for the distance of half a mile, the 

 average weight of the fish proving to be about half a. 

 pound. They seemed to me the most beautiful creatures 

 I had ever seen. My enjoyment of this purely Waltonian 

 sport, barring the worms, was simply exquisite, and yet 

 it seemed to me that my venerable companion was quite 

 as happy and enthusiastic as his pupil. Of course, as the 

 afternoon was waning I was invited to his home, saw his 



wife and children, had a good talk about the fish to be 

 found in other streams, enjoyed a bowl of bread and milk, 

 gave the old man half of my supply of money, and 

 mounting my steed, like the solitary horseman of the 

 novelist, returned to the banks of the Thames. In due 

 time I made several additional visits to the wilds of 

 Voluntown, which I have elsewhere chronicled, catching 

 many trout, and watching with interest the labors of the 

 charcoal burners and making many friends among them, 

 until the time arrived for me to return to my employ- 

 ment at the mouth of the Hudson. In May of the follow- 

 ing year, I was permitted to revisit the trout streams of 

 Voluntown; but my old friend was not there to greet me 

 with his cheerful words ; he was gone, and so also were 

 all the trout in the neighboring streams, as if they did 

 not care to remain where the voice of their friend could 

 never more be heard. And years afterward, whenever 

 it w»s my privilege to catch trout with the fly, among the 

 White, Green, Alleghany and Carolina mountains, in the 

 region of Lake Superior and the wilds of Canada and 

 New Brunswick, I never failed to recall with rarest 

 pleasure my experiences among the hills of Volun- 

 town. 



The heaviest common trout I ever caught — weighing 

 41bs. — and the largest I ever saw, weighing 71bs., were 

 taken in New Brunswick; the greatest number I ever 

 caught in one day was among the Catskill Mountains— 

 140, but they were little bits of things, and it required 

 about forty to satisfy the hunger of the laborious fisher- 

 man. My most exciting sport for trout took place at the 

 Sault Ste. Marie, where I fished from a canoe managed 

 by a Chippeway Indian; and I have long claimed that I 

 am the citizen of Washington who first caught trout in 

 Difficult Run, within sixteen miles of the metropolis. 



Taken as a whole, I look upon my trouting days as 

 among the happiest of my life. Indeed, it has seemed to 

 me that the trout is ass&ciated with the scenery of the 

 United States to a greater extent than any other variety 

 of fish; first and always, with our wood-covered hills and 

 mountains, with wild and spectral waterfalls, with the 

 loveliest of rivers, brooks and lakes, with charming valleys 

 inhabited by a happy yeomanry, with the continuous 

 woods and their feathered tribes, with free and independ- 

 ent rambles and the kindly hospitality in pleasant farm 

 homes and isolated cabins', with the sunshine and shower 

 which do so much to nurture our love of the grand and 

 beautiful in nature, and more than all, with the riverside 

 philosophy of dear old Izaak Walton. 



For deep-water fishing I have never had any special 

 aptitude, and hence my exploits among the salmon trout 

 of the Great Lakes, and the smaller lakes of New Eng- 

 land and Canada, have been limited. When in season 

 they are all admirable for the table, but their sporting 

 qualities are not as enlivening as the melodies of Thomas 

 Moore, but more in keeping with the sombre story of 

 Homer, as translated by Alexander Pope. The Greek 

 poet and the American salmon trout are splendid subjects 

 to talk about, but life is short, and I, for one, beg to be 

 excused. Let the procession move on. 



The next specimen of my pioneer friends that I would 

 mention is the perch — the yellow perch. He was a stal- 

 wart fellow of half a pound and a native of Gardiner's 

 Lake, in New London county, Connecticut. I formed 

 his acquaintance while attending school in Norwich, and 

 he was associated with one of the most frolicsome sum- 

 mer days of my boyhood. A party of us had gone over 

 to the lake in a wagon from Norwich. We were splen- 

 didly supplied with bread and butter, cakes, pies, lemons 

 and "sugar; we had secured the best boat on the lake, and 

 the calmness of the waters as we paddled to and fro, or 

 anchored where the fish were plentiful, was only equalled 

 by the quiet which surrounded the sylvan homes on the 

 neighboring hills. And it was in one of these country 

 homes, not far removed from the hills of Gardiner's Lake, 

 that Donald G. Mitchell lived for several years on a farm, 

 and where he imbibed those impressions which helped 

 him to write at least two of his most delightful books. 

 The drives in going to and returning from the lake afore- 

 said were delightful in the extreme, and I was recently 

 rejoiced to learn that the scenery of the old time has not 

 yet been blasted by the influences of greed and civiliza- 

 tion. But I cannot let the yellow perch of Gardiner's 

 Lake pass out of my mind without recalling the beauty 

 of those which I have since captured in a hundred New 

 England ponds and other waters; nor without mention- 

 ing the cousin of my yellow friend, known as the white 

 perch. I have fished for them in many regions, but no- 

 where have I ever found them so abundant as in the Po- 

 tomac, where even the great men who make our laws are 

 sometimes tempted to wet a line for them, by way of re- 

 creation. 



But I should not omit in this connection an allusion to 

 another small fish, viz.: the dace, or as they call it in the 

 valley of the Potomac, the fall fish. My first capture of 

 this beautiful and good fish took place in Rock Creek, 

 along whose charming banks I used to wander of an 

 afternoon in the olden times. I sometimes caught them 

 with the fly, but generally with the live grasshopper; and 

 my very first fish was taken in a pool near what was known 

 as Adam's mill, whereby hangs an interesting fact. This 

 old grist-mill, less than two miles from the White House, 

 was once the property of John Quincy Adams, but I do 

 not know whether it was built by him or not. When he 

 was President he used to visit this romantic spot to recre- 

 ate, after the toils of his official position. The contrast 

 between the Executive Mansion and the old mill was cer- 

 tainly very great, but I have no doubt that the rural re- 

 treat on Rock Creek with its beautiful foliage, bright 

 flowers, sweet country sounds and sparkling waters, gave 

 the good man more real happiness than he could possibly 

 obtain from the excitements of society. I know not that 

 he ever condescended to ca%t a line on his little domain, 

 nor has it ever transpired as to the number of barrels of 

 flour he used to dispose of in a single year. The last time 

 that I threw a grasshopper for dace in Rock Creek was 

 during the rebellion in 1862. I was trying my luck in 

 the shadow of Adams's mill on a pleasant afternoon, when 

 a regiment of cavalry came winding down one of the 

 hills near by for the purpose of watering their horses, 

 which duty they accomplished in the very pool where I 

 was "waiting for a bite." That my disgust was supreme 

 can be well imagined, and I never afterward sought for 

 recreation or peace of mind in the vale of Rock Creek. 



The next fish that I would mention is the striped bass 

 or rockfish of the Southern States. My first capture of 



i this favorite occurred at Watch Hill/ in Rhode Island. 



I That event took place when the lighthouse on the point 



and the tavern on the hill were the only habitations to be 

 seen in the vicinity of the surf. I was the guest of good 

 old Captain Nash, who, after keeping me up until a late 

 hour with his fish and sailor stories, roused me out of 

 bed about 4 o'clock on a September morning and piloted 

 me to the boulders surrounding the lighthouse on three 

 sides. We fished with hand lines, using a squid inside of 

 an eel skin, and threw our bait into the surf. My first 

 prize was a silvery and plump creature weighing about 

 51bs. On one of the mornings during my stay with Cap- 

 tain Nash I took about twenty of these fish, and have been 

 a devoted friend of the tribe during all the intervening 

 years. These fish were also taken from a boat in those old 

 days, and I remember seeing a 60-p©und specimen that 

 was captured by a local fisherman in the immediate vicin- 

 ity of the lighthouse; and in the waters north of Fisher's 

 Island I once had the pleasure of killing a 40-pounder 

 from a boat, but with a salmon rod and reel. It is the 

 Potomac, however, just above Washington, which lives in 

 my memory as the best ground I have ever known for 

 striped bass or rockfish fishing. It was there, at the Lit- 

 tle Falls, that I played the cicerone for Daniel Webster 

 and Sir John F. Crampton, and where, under the tutelage 

 of Joseph Paine, the fisherman king of the Potomac, I 

 have taken fish with the fly and bait almost by the ton. 

 But the civilized seines of the Lower Potomac, often 

 measuring miles in length, and the enterprise of the 

 United States Fish Commission have changed all that, 

 and the rockfish have almost entirely disappeared; and the 

 fishing cockneys of the metropolis* who annually assault 

 the nesting places of the black bass in the early spring are 

 doing their best to annihilate that admirable fish in the 

 waters of the Potomac, to which it was originally trans- 

 ported from the Ohio. 



Coming now to the blackfish or tautoug, I must con- 

 fine my recollection's within a limited area along the At- 

 lantic coast, say from Long Island Sound to Massachu- 

 setts Bay. A reef, one or two miles off the Watch Hill 

 Light, had the honor of introducing me to the blackfish. 

 When well cooked they excel almost every other salt 

 water fish, and because of their scarcity, stupidity and 

 disagreeable appearance may justly boast of a kind of 

 aristocracy, peculiar to themselves. Could the great 

 National Fish Commission secure some of then spawn 

 and deposit it in the waters of the Sandwich Islands, I 

 have no doubt that this fish might become common all 

 along the shores of the Atlantic, from Key West to Wood's 

 Holl or Gloucester, where the summers are so delightful 

 for people worn down by official toil. I have always looked 

 upon Marshfield as the northern limit for tautoug fishing, 

 and it was there that I caught them when Mr. Webster 

 was my companion. 



But now the October breezes are beginning to blow, 

 and I would take my reader to the blue waters of Block 

 Island, where the bluefish reigns in his glory. Sixty 

 boats, each with a single sail, were passing to and fro, 

 and in them from 120 to 180 men were trolling with the 

 squid, and all of them as busy as bees. In that crowd of 

 fishermen I was the only one who had never been there 

 before, but my r ght to that privilege was established by 

 the fact that I had ta^ien, with many others, one bluefish 

 weighing I41bs., when, by my enthusiastic conduct, I 

 might justly have been called a wild man. And as a 

 result of that day's sporting, it may safely be stated that 

 I have ever since been a lover of Block Island, have re- 

 visited it on many occasions, and published a history of 

 the domain and its people, who were a thousand fold 

 more interesting in the old days than they are in these 

 later times when flying the banners of modern civiliza- 

 tion. But the grandeur of the cliffs and the splendor of 

 the surf, which have given the island its fame, remain 

 unchanged, and, it is to be hoped, will be perennial in 

 their influence upon the pilgrims who annually visit the 

 island in search of health and freedom from the cares of 

 busy lif e. 



And now the flowers of summer are beginning to fill 

 the air with their fragrance, and those who have experi- 

 enced the joys of salmon fishing in Northern waters are 

 becoming restless and sighing to be off with their rods 

 and reels and artificial flies. It was after I had been read- 

 ing William Scrope's superb book on the salmon that I 

 started upon my first foray after the king of the finny 

 tribes. My first stream was the Esquemain , on the north 

 shore of the St. Lawrence, to which I was piloted by 

 William Price, of Quebec, son of the lumber king of 

 Canada, bearing the same name. It was a lovely morn- 

 ing in June, and after many preliminaries 1 found my- 

 self on a rock, overlooking a pool which seemed alive 

 with fish. I tossed my first fly over the golden waters 

 and fancied that I had hooked a rock, for away went my 

 fine into the air, as I gave a savage pull. One, two, 

 three and even four similar trials followed in quick suc- 

 cession, but every one resulting in the loss of a fly. Then 

 the thought occurred to me that I was making a fool of 

 myself by my undue excitement, and so I attempted a 

 more gentle style of fishing, which resulted in my hook- 

 ing and holding a large salmon. I played him as best I 

 could, when he treated me with marked contempt and 

 bolted out of the pool and started for the St. Lawrence. 

 Afraid that he would rob me of my entire line I plunged 

 into the stream and followed him as best I could. The 

 route of travel was very rough and continued for a quar- 

 ter of a mile, and when the strength of my victim 

 was fairly spent, my friend Price was on hand 

 with a gaff, and my first salmon passed into the 

 history of angling with all the honors of his race. 

 His weight proved to be about 121bs., and Ms beauty like 

 the crescent moon, or any other object in nature which 

 language cannot fully describe. It was on this stream, 

 moreover, that William Price captured his first salmon, 

 and with him I subsequently caught salmon in the Ste. 

 Marguerite, a tributary of the Saguenay, and where, 

 many years afterward, he assisted the Prince of Wales in 

 securing his first fish — with the fly — in American waters. 

 My own exploit took place in 1847, and until about the 

 year 1863 I visited Canada and New Brunswick almost 

 every year, and since that period the Restigouche, the St. 

 John, the Aroostook, the Metapedia, the Nepisiguit, the 

 Mirimichi, the Riviere du Loup, the Jacques C'artier, as 

 well as the Escumain and Ste. Marguerite have been the 

 scenes of many of my most delightful dreams. But like 

 those dreams, the superb realities of my experiences as a 

 fisherman for salmon can never return; and, alas! with 

 them have departed many of my old friends with whom 

 I have thrown the fly and bivouacked in the wilderness. 



The expenses attending salmon fishing are a decided 

 drawback; indeed, I have never had the courage to 



