July It, 1889.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



507 



action to word, and then I bade them a hasty good-bye, 

 and wading out into the cold water proceeded with my 

 fishing lest I also should be "snowed under." I turned 

 and looked back at them before I passed the bend just 

 ahead of me that would shut them out from my view, 

 and there I beheld them both standing on the log intently 

 watching me, with the little girl gracefully wafting 

 kisses, to which I sincerely responded, and then the little 

 romance of the stream was ended, but not forgotten, for 

 it will always live in delightful memory as one of my 

 rarest pleasures of trouting on the Boardman. 



"Ah!, what the world would be to us 



If the children were no more. 

 Wo should dread the desert behind us. 



More than the dark before." 



In sweet succession came groves and meads, hill and 

 dale, brush and brake, pool and shallow, banks of ver- 

 dure and, rippling tails until I again overtake Fred sitting 

 like Patience on a monument in the stern of the boat 

 awaiting my approach. He gently chided me for my 

 delay, and insisted on hurrying along as we were sure of 

 arriving late at the bridge where the team was to meet 

 us for our return. His success this time had not been so 

 good as mine, and when he looked into my creel he 

 mournfully threw his hands up declaring that his catch 

 would be sadly in the minority at the termination of the 

 day's sport. With serious look I asked him if he had not 

 lost time in looking for blind bear. 



"See here," says "he, "you appear to doubt that little in- 

 cident of mine with the blind bear." 

 "Not at all, 1 am perfectly frozen to it." 

 The swift current soon brought us to the guide who 

 instead of angling was sitting on the bank indolently 

 smoking a pipe. We agreed to make but one more stop, 

 as the sun was sinking fast and we had fully six miles of 

 teaming from the bridge. We took the boat along about 

 a mile, leaving the guide to pick it up from its final an- 

 chorage. I found the water quite deep at the last stretch 

 of the river we were fishing, and the current so swift as 

 to wash the sand from under my feet. The trout were 

 evidently not now on the feed, as I caught but few. It 

 being quite cloudy at this time I concluded I would dis- 

 card the trout fin' and put on some flies, and once more 

 take rank as an artist of the angle. I selected a white- 

 miller for the stretcher and a yellow-May for the dropper, 

 and then commenced whipping the stream quite indus- 

 triously. After numerous casts I secured a rise and a 

 half-pound trout. Thus encouraged I kept on, and after 

 fifteen minutes of steady work got another fine rise and 

 swung a beauty to the lure that gave me a pleasant little 

 play. He was a full pounder and highly improved the 

 appearance of my basket. I was satisfied Fred was not 

 doing much more with the bait, and so as an apology for 

 stepping down into the ranks of the plebian-minded 

 baiters, I stuck to the flies till the boat reached me, with 

 only a record of three more, but had the satisfaction of 

 knowing they were caught on high art principles. 



I am an iconoclast as regards fly-fishing, not being yet 

 confirmed after forty years angling in the belief that 

 some special imitation is necessary for each day of the 

 year or for every lake or stream. I could cite numerous 

 examples of the most expert trout anglers, that go to 

 prove beyond a doubt that such particularity as a theory 

 is in a great measure a fallacy. Five years ago when 

 trouting on the Nepigon I used a white- miller — an angler's 

 delight between sunset and dark — in the middle of the 

 day and under a bright and glaring sun, and caught trout 

 till I was sated. W. M. Cameron, the second angler from 

 the States who ever visited the same stream, and from 

 whom "Cameron's Pool" is named thereon, had. a similar 

 experience; and so with Col. L. A. Harris, one of the 

 Board of Commissioners of the National Soldiers' Home, 

 and also H. C. Culbertson, one of the most expert trouters 

 in the country and a veteran on that famous river. I 

 give these names by permission, as I think such practical 

 facts should be duly authenticated. 



Last year while trouting on Buck Creek, in Michigan, 

 in the month of July, and using bait, I found that in the 

 middle of the day I was unable to secure a single bite. 

 The guide suggested a change to a fly. I put one on, a 

 brown-hackle, and the trout took it with avidity. Shortly 

 after I had to resort to bait to secure them. Why this 

 sudden change? At another time I made a fly from 

 some coarse red flannel only, and a clumsy piece of fly 

 architecture it was, and it proved a decidedly killing 

 lure. Again I tied on my hook a piece of white linen 

 cut from my pocket handkerchief, another clumsy affair, 

 and it also proved an enticing decoy. A.nd so I might 

 continue ad iniftnitum with examples. 



There is more, however, in the skillful fluttering of the 

 fly than aught else, though I fully realize that certain 

 conditions in fly-fishing should be strictly observed, and 

 that it is always best to have the most perfect of flies and 

 the very best of tackle. There are times, however, when 

 it requires the most artistic casting, with perfection in 

 feathery lure, to "superinduce widowhood and orphan- 

 age" among the brilliant tenants of the murmuring 

 brook. Pennell, who is always practical, recommends 

 but three flies for trout the entire year, a green, a yel- 

 low and a brown, the size of the fly alone being varied. 



It was a mile yet to the bridge, but this was soon 

 reached, and we found the driver with the team and 

 wagon. The clumsy boat, though an excellent one for 

 floating, was soon hoisted on to the bed of the wagon, 

 and then after getting in, the team started off at a brisk 

 pace, creating suqh a lively jolting as would have cured 

 the worst case of dyspepsia extant. My clothes were 

 perfectly dry when I pulled off my wading trousers, but 

 Fred and the guide, who had turned up their noses at my 

 dandy outfit, began to wish that they had also resorted, 

 to such a comfortable protection. They were wet up to 

 their waists, and, with the cool air of the evening that 

 was then setting in, they felt miserable, indeed. On a 

 count being made of our finny spoils, it was ascertained 

 that I had 45, Fred 38 and the guide only 25. The latter 

 had evidently idled his time away during the afternoon, 

 pouting, doubtless, because I had expressed a desire for his 

 trout. He was evidently a contemptible churl, Fred 

 had, however, worked with unflagging industry, and 

 was greatly surprised when he found I had so badly 

 defeated him, not only in numbers but in choice and 

 heavy trout. I again twitted him by telling him that he 

 was toodiiigently looking for blind bear instead of tempt- 

 ing the trout. He laughed, but it did not well out freely 

 from the heart. He was keenly cut and knew that 1 had 



him down fine, and that his corner on sightless bears had 

 gone glimmering. 



Our drive home was entirely through a wooded coun- 

 try that did not show a single field gleaming with Ceres' 

 yellow sheaves. It was in its primitive aspect, with the 

 exception of a few spots that had attracted the lumber- 

 man's axe. The soil was thin and sandy, and I doubt if a 

 farmer could scratch a living from it by the most indus- 

 trious toil. The deer at times freely ambled there; the 

 common black bears frequente<f*it; the partridge and 

 woodcock haunted its thickets in great numbers; the 

 song birds warbled from bush and brake the livelong 

 day, while streams and rills ran through it in the sun- 

 light like ribbons of silver. 



After supper the guide came to me and said that I could 

 have the trout that he had caught. I presume he had 

 had a talk with the landlord, and that he very graciously 

 condescended to let me have the fruits of my em- 

 ploye. It was in order to arise and embrace him as a 

 "mossback" upon whom at last had dawned a vision of 

 common sense and even-handed justice. The world does 

 move, even in the wilds of Michigan, and there is yet 

 hope that the reform may spread to other benighted 

 regions. I gave instructions to have a few of the trout 

 saved for my breakfast, and the remainder I had shipped 

 to one of my friends in Grand Rapids. The next morn- 

 ing I concluded to start for the Lake Superior regions, 

 and on calling for my bill was surprised to find toat the 

 landlord had charged me for the entire trip to the Board- 

 man. I kicked savagely at this and demanded an expla- 

 nation, wanting to know why my companion had not 

 been charged with half of the bill, as he was not invited 

 by me, and further, was an apparent stranger. He stated 

 that he only sent him along to keep me company. Very 

 kind and considerate of him, but I emphatically gave 

 him to understand that the bill must be corrected. He 

 then threw off a few dollars, being much less than half 

 the expense of the trouting trip, and rather than fret 

 myself into a feverish rage over it, I settled the remain- 

 der of the bill, satisfied that I had been imposed upon. 



This was the key to the familiarity of the twain, and 

 the supposition was that I was to pay for the entertain- 

 ment that Fred had endeavored to give me in his elabor- 

 ate narratives and his clever vocalism. No wonder blind 

 bears are found in the verdant banks of trout streams, 

 and that cheeky guides demand two dollars as a royalty 

 for fishing for themselves. I tried hard to find the genial 

 and festive Fred, the Ananias of the purling brook, that 

 I might read the riot act to him, but he kept well out of 

 sight until I had departed. Long may he wave. 



After all these trivial annoyances had faded away, as 

 they soon did, I fully realized that my trouting on the 

 South Boardman had proven a pearl of pure delight. Its 

 sunny brightness, its stirring pleasures and its clearness 

 of glorious nature all appear again in dreamy reverie. 

 There are the lovely haunts of the jeweled princes of 

 the brook; the peaceful stretches of the dense woodland; 

 the rippling water with its sleeping shadows; the waving 

 grasses with their lovely flowers ; the lively flutter and 

 sweet melody of birds; the waving charms of hill and 

 dale, dell and dingle; the dewy sweetness of forest fra- 

 grance; the beautiful skies with soft breezes; the sweet 

 innocence of the pastoral children and all the charms 

 that smite the simple heart. Alex. Starbuck. 



TROUT AND BIG GAME IN COLORADO. 



AS the summer heat comes creeping upon us, it brings 

 more forcibly to my memory the several vacation 

 trips I have made to the grand trout streams of Colorado; 

 and believing, as I do, that no part of this continent 

 affords greater pleasure to the sportsman than can be 

 found in the Rocky Mountains, I think a short account 

 of my experience may be of interest to your numerous 

 readers. 



With the present railroad facilities, any parts of the 

 Rocky Mountains are now as easy of access as are the 

 vast prairies which we cross in our journey to these mag- 

 nificent and wild mountain scenes. 



Leaving Kansas City at 10 o'clock A. M., or Salina at 

 4:30 P. M., by the Union Pacific Railway, we are rolled 

 across 639 miles of almost unbroken prairie. A long dis- 

 tance of this route on my first trip, in the summer of 1869, 

 was covered with wild buffalo, and their dead carcasses 

 strewed the country for hundreds of miles, many with 

 not even their skins taken off — the noble game ruthlessly 

 slaughtered for no other purpose than the insatiate desire 

 for destruction of life. It was sorely the work of batch- 

 era and not of sportsmen. The sight was enough to make 

 a man sick at heart. But all this is past and beyond 

 remedy. 



With supper at Ellis, the half-way station from Kansas 

 City, we find ourselves in the beautiful growing, thrifty 

 city of Denver at 7 A. M. for breakfast; within an hour 

 we can take our departure for almost any part of the 

 Centennial State. On our last trip we chose the Denver 

 & South Park Railroad and took tickets for Leadville, 

 leaving Denver at 8 A. M., Aug. 2, arriving in Leadville 

 at 6 P. M. the same day. This in many respects is the 

 greatest mining camp (as it is called) in the State, It is 

 really a well and substantially built city of about 20,000 

 inhabitants, situated near the summit of the showy range 

 at 10,200ft. elevation and but a few hundred feet below 

 timber line and in some direction not more than six 

 miles to the everlasting snows, it affords a fine cool 

 bracing air, unsurpassed anywhere during the summer 

 months. With its present railroad facilities, the Denver 

 & South Park, the Rio Grande & Colorado Midland, run- 

 ning out in six directions, Leadville is one of the best 

 points in the mountains in which to make headquarters 

 for fishing and hunting. There are here several dealers 

 who keep excellent stock of everything required by the 

 sportsman. There is not an arttcle from a No. 12 fly- 

 hook to a tent or a whole and complete camping outfit, 

 even to pack animals, that cannot be had in Leadville, 

 and of the best quality of goods and at reasonable prices. 



We had a good night's sleep between blankets— which, 

 by the way, are necessary to comfort every night of the 

 year, as is also a fire morning and evening at this eleva- 

 tion. Our party consisted of my brother, A. D., and his 

 family, who reside at Leadville, my wife, son and two 

 daughters. We spent the first few days on the streams 

 near the city. The headwaters of the Arkansas River 

 pass just outside the city 1 units. Tennessee Creek, Lake 

 Creek, Rock Creek, Half Moon and Twin Lakes, all are 

 easy of access and can be reached within two horns. The 

 fishing is fair in all these waters, and we are rewarded 



every day with trout. In these streams are found both 

 the native Colorado and the eastern trout. 



The best fishing, however, is found in the Eagle River 

 and Frying Pan districts. These streams and their trib- 

 utaries cannot be surpassed. Eagle River is reached by 

 the Rio Grande R. R. From Leadville, after six or eight 

 miles of high-up grade, we reach Tennessee Pass, and at 

 once began the descent from the very headwaters of Eagle 

 River. The road extends down the entire length of this 

 magnificent stream, crossing and recrossing it to its con- 

 fluence with the Grand River. Every few miles is a 

 station, from many of which we could cast a fly into the 

 stream from the depot platform, and trout are plentiful 

 everywhere. From Red Cliff down the road has been 

 open but a few seasons, and the stream has not yet been 

 whipped to death. 



One of the large tributaries, Gore Creek, enters Eagle 

 one mile below the station of Minturn, and is most excel- 

 lent fishing from source to mouth. On this creek we 

 spent several days at two different times, and filled our 

 creels each day to our perfect satisfaction, not with fin- 

 gerlings but with large, gamy, fighting trout from 8oz. 

 to 35oz. each, and we left several after hard, long tussel- 

 ing that we estimated at not less than 71bs. There is a 

 wagon road extending up this creek about ten miles. 

 From four miles up is a pack trail leading over to Piney 

 Lake and Creek, a distance of six miles, and here the 

 trout are said to be too plentiful for sport. We did not 

 go over, but met a party of three who had been there for 

 three days, and they had on then packs 1,300 trout and 

 two deer. Elk, deer and small game are plenty in the 

 upper Gore and Piney district, and occasionally a bear 

 is found. 



A few miles further down Eagle River is another tribu- 

 tary, Brush Creek. For this stream get off at Eagle 

 station (Castle P. O.), which is one mile above its mouth. 

 It takes its rise near the Mountain of the Holy Cross. 

 The creek is equally as good as Gore, and we spent 

 several days along the stream with great success, captur- 

 ing as many fine trout as we could use and all any sports- 

 man could desire. A few miles further down we reach 

 the mouth of Gypsiun Creek, and this, too, is alive with 

 trout. We spent several days on the Eagle River between 

 these and other stations with very good luck. While the 

 fish are not quite so numerous in the river in July and 

 first of August as in its tributaries, they are plentiful 

 enough for good sport, and there are lots of whoppers 

 there. We left many after a slight examination at the 

 distance of the length of our rod and line, thinking them 

 "too big to eat." We do not admit that a bigger trout 

 swims than we can capture, but we did find some that 

 were very "long-headed" and would take some undue ad- 

 vantage of us, and would say "good-by," just when we 

 thought "we had 'em." 



Our party on these trips consisted of my brother A. D., 

 my son Oscar and the writer. We took no camping out- 

 fit, but went in light marching order, rubber coat and 

 boots, haversack with one ration and our fishing tackle. 

 We depended upon the ranchmen for lodging and most 

 of our meals and occasionally for transportation, and we 

 were never disappointed; we always found them ready 

 and willing to give us the best they had, and to accom- 

 modate us in every way, and for a very reasonable con- 

 sideration. Occasionally we were compelled to take a 

 tramp of three or four miles, and sometimes to sleep in a 

 stable or milk house or potato cellar or under a pine tree, 

 but it was always the best the ranch afforded, and we 

 were always served at the first table, and the fare was 

 good enough for the most fastidious. In the menu of 

 nearly every meal we had either fresh elk, deer, moun- 

 tain grouse, or squirrels and trout, and we really enjoyed 

 our sometimes crude accommodations much better than 

 the more pretentious city hostelry, for we had every 

 where many very enjoyable incidents, and around the 

 hospitable fire in the log cabin of a frosty evening in 

 August were many occurrences which are cherished in 

 memory. Many of the stories by the mountaineers of 

 their hunting and fishing experiences would be worth 

 relating did space and time permit. 



Should the sportsman be more ambitious and wish for 

 wilder and less civilized sports than can be had on a trip 

 of this description, he has but to go a few miles further 

 down the Eagle to its confluence with the Grand River at 

 Dotsero. From there he can procure a camping outfit, 

 with packs and guide, and take the trail to the Flat Tops 

 and. Trapper's Lake, the head of White River, a distance 

 of thirty miles, and then he reaches the wildest region 

 of the entire Rocky Mountain district in the United 

 States. Here is, undoubtedly, the sportsman's paradise — 

 elk, deer, bear, trout and game of all kinds abound. But 

 as this region has been well written up and described in 

 late numbers of Forest and Stream, we will pass it with 

 this simple description of how to get there; and we leave 

 the Eagle River district, feeling that we have given but 

 a faint idea of its wonderful sources of pleasure to the 

 sportsman and not attempting to give any description of 

 the grand and magnificent scenery, which is beyond my 

 power of pen description, but is to me a source of almost 

 as much enjoyment as the grand sport of trout fishing. 



To reach the Frying Pan and Roaring Fork region we 

 take the Colorado Midland Railroad, running nearly due 

 west from Leadville, climb Mount Massive to above tim- 

 ber line, and through the perpetual snows which can 

 almost be reached through the car windows: are whirled 

 through the great Hagerman tunnel; emerge on the other 

 side and look down uj>on Lake Ivanhoe, hundreds of feet 

 below us; and after a long winding and twisting descent 

 reach the shore of this beautiful little sheet of water, set 

 in a beautiful park high up on the mountain side. This 

 is the head of Frying Pan Creek, which starts out as a 

 little rill, but increases in size at almost every step by 

 little tributaries and springs fed by the melting of the 

 everlasting snows. It soon becomes a roaring, boiling, 

 leaping stream with long riffles, deep clear holes, chiseled 

 out of solid rock, with overhanging granite cliffs appa- 

 rently ready to plunge into its crystal waters, constitut- 

 ing the beau ideal of a trout stream, that even to look 

 upon quickens the heart beat of the fisherman and thrills 

 him with pleasure. Nor will he be disappointed when he 

 casts his fly upon its pure sparkling waters. 



Soon after leaving the lake we reach Hell Gate. As 

 we roll around a point on the side of the mountain a 

 glance out of the car window shows us a scene awfully 

 grand; looking down the canon of the creek a mile below 

 we see the winding track, looking like a faint trail, over 

 which we are soon to pass, but not until we have traveled 

 fourteen miles of iron rail, for this is the distance re- 



