#12 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June 22, I8r5. 
THE FIRST OF MAY. 
Of course I went out after grayling on the First of May. 
I .spell first in this instance with a capital F, as there is 
no day in the whole year of so much importance to the 
angler. With what impatience the "crank" awaits its 
tardy arrival. With what loving care he inspects his 
fishing tackle against its coming, and with what bound- 
ing spirits and joyful anticipations does he sally forth 
when it finally dawns. Blessed is anticipation. The 
reality may fall far short of it, but all the same it has 
brightened many a day of eager waiting. 
In order to be on hand early in the morning, I started 
on the afternoon of the day before, my destination being 
Bear Creek station, where our line— the Manistee & North- 
eastern R E — crosses Bear Creek. This is the tributary 
of the Manistee River which I described in my "Week 
with the Grayling," which was published in Forest and 
Stream last winter. Man never cast a fly on a prpttier 
stream. With me went Mr. Robert Porteous, our Audi- 
tor, and Mr. Robert S. Babcock, a Manistee lumberman. 
There were many other fishermen on the train, bound 
for various points, and of course there was much talk 
over the probabilities of the morrow, discussion as to the 
merits of worms as bait against the artificial fly, and not 
a little swapping of fish stories, not to say fishing lies, 
which are always in evidence when a number of anglers 
get together. 
I was talking with a traveling salesman when I noticed 
a party coming down the aisle whose unsteady gait and 
watery eyes betokened a too familiar acquaintance with 
the flowing bowl. His painful efforts to maintain an 
upright position and appear sober attracted instant atten- 
tion, and all hands ceased talking to watch him. Stop- 
ping at our seat he rested both hands upon its arm and 
thrust his bleary countenance close to that of my com- 
panion, weaving backward and forward with the motion 
of the car. After a long inspection of my friend's 
features he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, and in 
tones that were audible to all in our vicinity, "Shay, 
friend, d'yc-u know this ole face?" 
"It seems to me that it looks familiar," answered the 
salesman, with an indulgent smile that he tried hard not 
to make something more than indulgent. 
"S'pose not. No, I reckon not. Shaw you first time 
sheventeen .years 'go — sheventeen or fifteen years 'go — 
(hie). Mighty rough road, ain't it, down t' Baldwin, ye 
know? Used ter know (hie), used ter know all the Grand 
Rapids dudes 't come to Bald'n fishin'. (Suppressed 
snicker from the crowd.) Sho' yer don't 'member this ole 
face?" 
"Can't say that I do." 
"Can't help it (hie), can't help it. I shay, sbaw yer first 
time sheventeen year 'go. LoDg time, that is, to 'member 
(hie) man's face. I 'member you all right, you don't 
'member me 'tall. Can't help it. Sheventeen years good 
while. P'r'aps 'twasn't but fifteen. That's long time, 
too. Shorry you don't 'member me, but I can't help it," 
and with a sorrowful shaking of his head he stumbled 
back to his seat. 
The crowd restrained their mirth over this incident 
as best they could and nobody knows to this day who the 
fellow was. 
Arriving at B^ar Creek station, where lives a section 
foreman who has two or three rooms for the accommo- 
dation of fishermen, we left our duffle and went over to 
the creek, some eighty rods distant, to see if the grayling 
were rising. 
At the first glance I knew that the chances for any 
luck were against us. The creek was booming along, 
bank full, its current turbid and discolored with the wash 
from the many clay banks along its course. We had 
been having summer weather for several days and I had 
expacted to find it down to a decent level. Silting down 
on a log we lit our pipes and watched for a rise, but nary 
rise did we see. 
"Our names are Dennis, Mud and Pants!" exclaimed 
Bob B.— Bobbie for short, "You.fellows can take which- 
ever one you like, but we shall have to divide them up 
between us for certain." In our hearts we felt that he 
was right. Many and many a time had we sat on that 
log, in seasons gone by, and well we knew that the 
absence of rising fish in the stream below us augured ill 
for our fishing on the morrow. 
Common sense, backed by past experience, said to us, 
"Go home and wait for a better time." There was a 
train coming in a few minutes which would take us 
there. A few weeks later, when the keen edge of our 
fishing desire had been worn off by a few good catcher, 
-we might have obeyed the dictation of common sense.' 
Now desire was strong within us and hope whispered, 
"What, go home and not fish on the First! Miss a day 
on the creek, in this beautiful, balmy weather, which 
you have been looking forward to all winter! To be sure, 
the grayling are not rising now, but they are there with- 
out doubt and will rise to-morrow. Stay and try them." 
While we were silently debating the question I chanced 
to cast my eye into the top of a water elm, standing on 
low ground across the creek, and spied a large brown 
bunch upon a limb, which seemed to move. After 
watching it for a few minutes 1 saw that it was a porcu- 
pine and pointed it out to my companions. Tnat porcu- 
pine settled the question of our staying or not slaying, 
for while we were vainly pelting him with stones, the 
distance being so great that we could barely reach him 
by the utmost effort, the train thundered by and our 
chance to return to the city was gone. 
Secretly, I think that each of us was glad to have the 
matter settled in that way. 
Bobbie and myself had a room together that night, 
while B )b P. had one to himself. It was very warm and 
when we turned in we found, to our horror, that we must 
sleep on a feather bed. Now I abominate feather beds, 
even in cold weather. On this one I turned and twisted 
and perspired, and sleep came not, while Bobbie snored 
peacefully for two or three hours, much to my disgust. 
Finally, unable to endure it any longer, I furtively 
punched him in the ribs until he woke up. "Whew!" 
said he, sitting up, "I'm about melted." I thought he 
might be a little warm, as I had doubled all the clothing 
except the sheet over him. He began- to throw off the 
clothes, while I lay perfectly still. Bobbie is tolerably 
fat, and when he once gets warmed up it takes a long 
time for him to cool off. He squirmed about for awhile, 
cussing the feather bed under his breath, and then 
awakened (?) me. 
"I don't see how you can sleep on this blamed old 
feather bed, with all the clothes over you, when I am 
roasting!" he exclaimed, somewhat testily. "There is a 
mattress under the feathers, let's throw the old thing off." 
"All right," I answered, that being just what I had in 
mind to do myself. 
So we lit the lamp and fired the feather bed. We could 
hear Bob P. snoring away in his room and it occurred to 
me that he might be cold. So I gathered up the discarded 
article, stole quietly into his room anrl gently laid it over 
him. We then remade our bed and turned in again. 
Bob P. said next morning that he had an awful night- 
mare — that the devil was holding him down all night. 
We were up with the lark — the lark in this case being a 
little bird which says: "Plant your corn, plant your corn, 
plant your corn; cover deep, cover deep, cover deep; pull 
it up, pull it up, pull it up." After a cup of coffee and a 
bite we started off up the creek, taking a path which led 
first through old choppings, then through some half- 
cleared farms, and finally wound through a hard-wood 
forest. It was a beautiful morning, and we were in the 
highest spirits, notwithstanding the fact that the pros- 
pects for sport were anything but flattering. Jogging 
along in Indian file, our long mackintosh wading boots 
thro vn. over our shoulders and dangling behind us, we 
startled the crows and the little "corn planters" with 
bursts of song, and waked the sleeping inmates of the 
farm houses with "Good Night, Ladies." 
After going a couple of miles, we again struck the 
creek, donned our boots and commenced the serious busi- 
ness of the day. Serious, indeed, it proved. Hour after 
hour went by without a rise, either to our counterfeit 
presentments or to the natural fly, a few of which were 
on the water. 
The plebeian but usually attractive worm, used as a last 
resort, brought no better success. Finally Bob P. got a 
trout and a grayling out of one hole, and bragged about 
his superior ability for the next two hours, albeit they 
were poor little things which should have been put back 
to grow. I got "snagged," and the snag proved to be a 
lOin. trout, which simply sucked the bait into his mouth 
and settled to the bottom. There was none of the trout 
vigor in his bite. 
At noon we built a little fire, fried our bacon below it 
on a forked stick, and enjoyed a good dinner, which each 
of us had carried in a haversack upon his back. Wading 
ing what I had, but I was too busy to answer any ques- 
tions just then. I could see my fish, and he was a big 
one. The fight was about out of him, however, and I 
towed him up to the bank, lifted his head above the sur- 
face, thrust my left foot under him and threw him high 
and dry among the bushes. 
How happy one feels when he has landed a good fish 
after a hard and desperate battle, especially when luck 
has been against him all day! I fairly gloated over my 
prize, and well I might. Sixteen and a half inches long 
from nose to center of tail. He weighed full 2£lbs., and 
was the prettiest specimen of his kind that it has ever 
been my good fortune to see. As his weight denotes, he 
was exceedingly plump, as well as broad and thick, and 
his markings and coloring were exceptionally fine. Bob 
P., who is an accomplished angler, and has cast his fly on 
many waters from New Brunswick to Washington, 
agreed with me that he had never seen a handsomer 
trout. Bob maintains that my capture was entirely due 
to the fact that he and Bobbie had "smiled" just around 
the bend above me and had dropped a "smile" into the 
creek for luck. "Cast thy 'smile' upon the waters and 
the fellow below thee shall reap the benefit thereof," 
said he. 
Howbeit the "smile" must have exhausted its influence 
very soon, for we got no more fish v that day. 
Going home on the train we found that those who had 
fished the same stream ten or fifteen miles higher up had 
made good catches. So much for the First of May. 
F. A. Mitchell. 
TRAMP TRIPS. 
Every lover of the rod and gun knows how, as the 
proper season approaches, the hunting or fishing fever 
comes with it with almost unerring certainty. 
Bike an exile we mourn until we are in the midst of 
forest and stream indulging our shooting or fishing pro- 
pensities. 
It was in May, 1895, that I began to feel unfit for the 
ordinary duties of life. I was not sick, but was certainly 
in a morbid mood. 
It was early, too early, for fly-fishing. I was not sure it 
was the piscatorial fever, but somehow as often as I 
thought to try the change from work to meandering 
THE LAKE TROUT. 
pants are extremely uncomfortable things to walk in on 
dry ground, and when we are to fish streams which have 
to be waded we always carry a haversack capacious 
enough to hold our shoes and dinners. 
After a good long siesta, we resumed our fishing. Bob 
P. caught another small grayling and a fair-sized trout, 
and Bobbie got one good trout. We had given up the fly, 
and were all using bait, as it had become a ground hog 
case. The water was nearly always waist deep, and ran 
with such force that it was difficult to keep one's feet. 
When it got a little deeper we had to take to the shore, 
as the buoyancy of the air in our voluminous boots, aided 
by the current, would have made it impossible to retain 
our footing. Each of us had several fish on which we 
knew nothing of, there being no vigor in their bite, and 
the extremely heavy sinkers which we had to use dead- 
ening their pull. Several were lost from this cause. 
About the middle of the afternoon I again put on a cast 
of flies and, of course, forged ahead of the two bait fish- 
ermen. Getting no rises, after a thorough trial of differ- 
ent flies, I went back to bait, and in my next pool got a 
trout which repaid me for much of the day's disappoint- 
ments. 
The speckled gentleman took my worm with a rush and 
sank to the bottom when he felt the steel. There he 
stayed, without run or break, for several minutes, resist- 
ing all the strain which I dared to put upon the line with 
bull-dog stubbornness. Some country lad had dropped 
his alder pole on the bank after his fishing was done, 
and with this 1 stirred him up. Then he made a dash 
down stream which caused my reel to fairly scream. 
There were only a few turns of line on the spool when I 
stopped him and turned his head to the current' Slowly, 
slowly, I reeled him back, his weight against the swift 
current testing my rod to the utmost. I was standing at 
the head of a long, deep pool, which I knew was over the 
tops of my boots, over my head, in fact. The bank was 
impassable, shelving down steeply, and covered the 
water's dge with a thick growth of alders. There was no 
other way to save him than to pull him up to me by main 
force. However, my mind was made up to have that 
trout at all hazards, and had he made another rush for 
liberty, which I could not have stopped in time to save 
myself a ducking, I should have been ducked. 
But he did not make a second run. Slowly, slowly, 
inch by inch, he was drawn upward, sagging back with 
all his might, but still not showing himself for an instant. 
The top of my bait leader showed above the water at last, 
but still I could not see him. He was still close to the 
bottom, still keeping up his bull-dog fight. Having no 
landing net it was now a serious question as to how I 
should land him. Casting my eye over my shoulder, I 
saw that if I could back up a rod or so I could lead him 
into shallow water, where the bank was lower and less 
steeply inclined. It was hard backing up against the 
current, m which I stood waist deep. Keeping my eyes 
fastened upon the line, I leaned hard up stream and 
worked one foot backward with a twisting movement of 
the ankle, the toe dragging over the bottom. Had I 
attempted to raise the foot entirely I should have been 
lifted at once and swept downward. Little by little I 
edged into shallow water, where I could command my 
feet, and then I knew that, barring careless handling, 
that trout was mine. 
The other boys had come up behind me and were ask- 
along trout streams, so often even the thoughts of it 
seemed to brace me up. 
There was no reasonable alternative but to go, and I de- 
termined to try some of the numerous trout streams- 
whose waters finally find comparative rest in the basin of 
Lake Superior, 
Crossing the Strait of Mackinaw, I took a D. S, S. & A. 
train for Humboldt, on the Escanaba River. The trip* 
westward was through a dreary-looking swamp country,, 
broken only by occasional glimpses of a parallel hard 
wood ridge to the south and pine lands to the north of us,, 
the railroad evidently keeping the center of the swamp 
from economic advantages in grading. 
Landing at Humboldt, we made haste to try our luck.. 
We found three or four natives along the banks fishing,, 
and their catch was an occasional fine trout and an almost 
unlimited amount of suckers. 
We soon found that by fishing with a roving bait the> 
suckers could not "catch on". The movement of the rod,, 
we may observe, should not be a broad sweep as with the' 
trolling spoon, but a series of short jerky movements that 
together make the sweep your rod is capable of. An 
hour and a half rewarded me with seven fine fellows of 
an average weight of one pound. 
The sun had sunk out of sight and I was ready to quit. 
And as is not always the case, I was not disappointed in 
having come. There was nothing to regret; 1 felt phy- 
sically as I had not felt for weeks and realized that along 
these streams I would find the panacea I had felt the need! 
of. I was reasonably full of the spirit that I suppose; 
brought poetry and peace to the soul of izaak Walton.. 
That night I could write an enthusiastic and cheering let- 
ter to a dear one back in Ohio, go to bed and sleep the' 
sleep of the righteous, and rise to spend one full day along, 
the Escanaba before extending my tramp trips further- 
west or northward. The day's efforts were equally inspir- 
ing. From inherent modesty I withhold the catch, lest 
some one says it is a fish story and others that it was wan- 
ton waste. I was there to feast my piscatorial soul and 
a feast it watfin fullness. 
More later on^_ N. R. Piper, 
Salmon in the Merrimac. 
Lawrence, Mass., June 10.— The salmon have lately 
began to run, and P. McCarthy, who keeps a close watch 
upon the characteristics of the king of fish, has been wait- 
ing patiently for the time he would have an opportunity 
to add to his reputation as a salmon angler. ' The chance 
came yesterday. Mr. McCarthy, armed with his favorite 
rod, a strong line many fathoms long held taut upon a 
reliable reel, a leader long enough for an ordinary line, 
and his famous Irish salmon fly, went out upon the river 
between the Duck and Lowell railroad bridges. After 
whipping the stream for a time the fly was greedily taken 
by a beauty of about 12 pounds,which gave Mr. McCarthy 
a struggle of nearly half an hour's duration before coming 
to gaff. The fish was exhibited last night at Mr. McCarthy's 
place of business and attracted much attention. 
Here is a Shark Experience. 
Aransas Pass, June 7. — Editor Forest and Stream: A 
party of twenty-three came here fishing from Denison, 
consisting of H. Brooks and wife, F. A. Utiger and wife, 
W. H. Mills and wife, J. W. Creager and wife, Fred Hib- 
bard and wife, F. E. Shaeffer and wife, N, H, L. Decker 
