FOREST AND STREAM. 
THE UPPER CLACKAMAS. 
The Clackamas Kiver rises in the crest of the Cascade 
Range and empties into the Willamette Elver two miles 
below Willamette Palls and about ten miles above Portland. 
It Is a wild mountain torrent, and one of the largest tributaries 
of the Willamette. At no season of the year have 1 been 
able to wade it at any point for thirty-five or forty miles. It 
is an ideal salmon stream, and the U. S Fish Commission 
have two hatcherits on it, one about six and the other forty 
miles frora its mouth. In the spring of the year and some- 
times in the fall the salmon readily take the spoon or salmon 
roe, partictilarly at the dam about a mile from the mouth, 
ily friend Sidney Smyth and myself in one half day's fish- 
ing two years ago caught twelve Chinook salmon with both 
spoon and bait below the dam. As regards whether the 
Salmon in Oregon take the fly or not, I will say that as a rule 
they do not, but I know of two cases where a Chmook has 
taken the fly, one of which I witnessed myself. I have the 
honor of being the originator of the Mead fly, upon which 
they were taken. The trout fishing is very good in the upper 
tiver and its tributaries during tbe summer months. Salmon 
trout are caught at most all seasons of the year. 
Shortly after my return from Roaring River, of which 
trip my friend S. H. Greene has so well written, while en- 
joying a much-needed rest, I was persuaded much against 
my will (?) to take to the mountains agaiu by a friend who 
wished to get away from business cares and incidentally do 
some fishing. On a bright, sunny afternoon in September, 
R. R. floge. Dr. Bradbury and the writer left Portland for 
Oregon City by the electric car line, loaded down with rifles, 
•fish rods and everything that goes to make life enjoyable in 
the mountains. After engaging a man for camp work, etc., 
we retired, but not to sleep, for anticipation kept us awake. 
We were up bright and early, and left Oregon City at 5 
o'clock, and after a fourteen-mile drive we arrived at the 
end of the wagon road without any mishap other than the 
breaking of the rear axle, which our cook John quickly re- 
paired with a small tree, which he lashed to the front axle 
and rested the rear upon it. 
We found Mr. Willis and his son at home, atid engaging 
the latter with two pack horses we proceeded down the trail 
as far as horses could go. We then shifted the packs to our- 
selves. I had a 401 b. pack, the Doctor the same. John 
carried the cooking utensils, etc.,. while to make it easy for 
our tenderfoot friend Hoge we gave him the rifles, fish rods, 
baskets, boots, etc. His load was the hardest of the lot to 
carry down that steep trail, but ignorance was bliss, etc. 
All went well until we came to a bid part of the trail known 
as "Jacob's Ladder," which is so steep that a rope has to be 
used in making tJie descent. The Doctor, John and myself 
made it all right, but Hoge was troubled with vertigo* and 
could not make it; so I carried his outfit down, and then in- 
structing the doctor and John to go on down to th.^ cabin at 
the bottom of the canon, about one-half mile below, with 
the outfit, I returned to Hoge and found him no better, so 
we decided to return to Willis's and spend the night, then 
get down by a lower and easier trail which reached the river 
a mile below the cabin. 
We started early the next morning with young Willis to 
help us and reached the boat in good order. The river is 
very swift at this point, and we had to get up by means of a 
Tope. The boat leaked badly and Hoge did most of the bail- 
ing, while I waded and scrambled over rocks, etc. , and WU- 
lis acted as pilot. We reached the cabin about noon and 
found the Doctor putting things in order and John off up the 
trail after the last load. It began raining just as we arrived, 
and here let me say that it rained almost steadily for five 
days, leaving us one dry day in camp. 
After a lunch and a rest I decided we needed fish, I bor- 
rowed a sweater of the Doctor, and putting on heavy hip 
-- boots I took my steel rod and spoon and started for a large, 
deep pool below camp. It was from 15 to 20ft. deep and 
full of dangerous swirls and eddies. I started wadmg out in 
the riflie above. More intent on fishing than as to my sur- 
roundings, I suddenly found myself swept off my feet. I 
hung on to the rod and regained my feet, only to lose them 
again. I then dropped everything and struck out for the op- 
posite shore in order to avoid a large eddy, but the force of 
the current was such that I was carried right into it, and 
was drawn down till my feet struck bottom. I was doubled 
up so that I could not swim, so 1 tried to pull myself up the 
steep sides of the bottom by catching hold of the rocks, but 
could not get a hold. I finally straightened out enough to 
kick and swam out and to the surface, only to be taken under 
again by a smaller one further down. On coming to the 
surface again I struck a back current, which carried me in 
to shore, where 1 had just enough strength left to crawl out. 
I found my boots, which fitted tight around my thighs, were 
stripped down below my knees by the force of the first eddy. 
I walked back to camp feeling very weak, minus rod, reel 
and hat, nor have 1 seen them since. With my sweater and 
boots full of water, I seemed, in my weak condition, to weigh 
a ton. and I was very glad when the boys stripped and rubbed 
me down. I rolled up in blankets, slept for a while, and 
awoke all right. 
The next day, in spite of the rain, we had some good 
fishing. The mountains on both sides of the river near our 
camp were very steep, those on the opposite side being al- 
most perpendicular. John and I decided there were deer 
across from the camp, so on Saturday morning early we 
crossed the river, and finding a deer trail climbed up, and on 
reaching the last bench John went down and I up the river. 
I hunted till about 10 o'clock without seeing a deer, although 
I found plenty of fresh signs, and then started back. It took 
me two hours to find a way down, and when I did I dropped 
the last few feet, and found myself a half mile below camp. 
1 was very tired when I reached camp, so I lit my pipe and 
sat down to wait for John. In about an hour he came 
along. He claimed he was not tired, but from the way his 
feet dragged behmd him I have my doubts. Sunday we. 
loafed around telling yarns, etc. 
About midnight who should walk in on us but Sidney 
Smyth and Huatly, from Oregon City, and a gentleman 
whom Sidney introduced as his father. I did not know he 
had one living, but said nothing. They had come down 
that steep mountain trail after dark with nothing to guide 
them but a lantern. As the bunksjwere occupied, ihey turned 
in on the floor. The mxt morning I heard Huntly as well 
as Smyth address Mr. Smyth as "Pop," whereupon I be- 
came suspicious and finally discovered that Pop was none 
other than O. O. S. Immediately there was an uproar. 
From that time on Pop was more than welcome to my 
bunk, gun, rifle, fish rod and my time. We fished around 
all day and caught a nice mess of trout to take home. 
\ Tuesday morning Pop, the Doctor, Huntly and Sidney 
took ia portion of the outfit up the trail, and Hoge, John and 
myself took the balance down the river in the' boat. I, as 
usual, took to the water, and was in it, six-shooter and all, 
before we reached the lower trail. We reached Willis's all 
right, and found the others there. After putting on dry 
clothes and eating a hearty lunch we took the team for Ore- 
gon City, where we arrived at dark, and after a dinner such 
as only campers can eat without ill effects we returned to 
Portland on the electric car. 
We Went into the mountains for rest and recreation. I, for 
one, never worked harder in my life; but we voted the trip 
a success, and vowed we would go again. "All's well that 
ends well." ' J. Robebts Mead. 
Portland, Oreson. 
MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH, 
XXXVIL-William Morton Locke. 
All the old gunners and trap-shooters in western New 
York remember Morfc Locke. No matter where or when 
the event was to be pulled off, nor what the demands of 
business might be, it was certain that Mort -would turn up 
and enter in every shooting contest. When you know this 
and also that Mort was a poor man, dependent upon a 
small salary as station agent, telegraph operator, baggage 
master and sole representative of the New York Central 
R. R. at Honeoye Falls, N. Y., on that branch of the road 
which extends from Oanandaigua to Batavia, runs two 
trains per day each way, and is called "the peanut road" 
by the trainnien, you get an idea of his love of field sports 
and of shooting. Then, if you can imagine a short, very 
stout, bald, blue-eyed man of thirty-five, you will know 
him as I first met Mm, thirty years ago, kind-hearted, 
genial and jolly. That's the best pen-picture I can draw of 
£im. 
Most of the summer had been spent in travel, seeking 
springs and brooks for the purpose of trout-breeding, and 
some man on the train said: "Get off" at the nest station 
and ask Mort Locke; he knows every spring and stream 
for twenty miles around." And it chanced that I bought 
a farm for its spring, and came into the friendship of as 
genial and warm-hearted a man as we seldom find. He 
had only one limit, and that, unfortunately, was his purse, 
for he had the tastes of a man of wealth; here the thought 
come.s in that if the figures of the census gatherer should 
include this class there would be an appalling lot of impe- 
cunious fellows in it, and Mort Locke and I would be lost 
in the mass. 
The Mendon Ponds, as they are called, are fine lakes in 
the township of that name some ten miles south of 
Rochester, and there we fished for pickerel. Putting our 
boat on a wagon, we usually made it a two days' trip, 
camping and hobbling tke horses. Here I learned a new 
form of fishing. Mort's rig was a cane pole, selected as to 
proper stiffness, and to this a reel and guide rings were at- 
tached. He used a spoon and cast it from the bow of tlie 
boat, while I rowed slowly. Reeling up to within 1ft. of 
the spoon, he would send it whirling and splashing away 
near the weeds and then play the glittering lure as the fly- 
caster does. Usually the spoon fisher trolls from the 
stern, over water which has been disturbed by the boat, 
but Mort's method was not only new to me, but was very 
Buccessful, 
Like many other all-round sportsmen, fishing was with 
him a trifle slow compared to shooting, and Mort kept a 
couple of foxhounds, and induced me to buy two, so that 
we got up a fair cry, and many a winter day have I stood 
in the snow, almost frozen, and listened to the hounds 
until they were out of hearing, and the next day would be 
told; "If you'd stayed there half an hour longer you'd 
have got a fox, for the dogs brought him back right by your 
stand. I went over and saw the track after the hounds 
passed because I didn't hear you shoot." 
"But the dogs went away off toward Hemlock Lake, and 
sometimes they've gone that way and haven't come back 
for three days. I wouldn't stay there and freeze my feet 
for all the foxes in Monroe county. I don't want a fox 
very bad, anyway; you may freeze your legs off for one, if 
you wish, but I won't." And so we would quarrel over my 
leaving the runway. As I remember it, one day out of 
three we would get a fox; one day out of ten we would get 
two, and once only we killed three. Some days it was 
warm work, running from hill to hill with a lOlb. 9-gauge 
muzzleloader, with its flask and pouch, only to find that 
the fox had passed and was liable to double back on the 
ridge just left. Feet did not freeze then. 
Mort was very proud when he got a fox. If he only 
had a few rabbits he would strike straight for home, but if 
a fox was slung to his shoulder he would skirt the village 
and go up the main street. The day that we killed the 
three foxes we were off to the south, and his home was on 
that side of the village, but he wanted to go around and 
stop in the stores for provisions. 
Mort was always moved by some immediate impulse, 
and never thought of a thing until after he had acted 
upon it, nor did he count the cost unless he was short 
of money; for he paid cash and never owed a man a 
cent. The following incident illustrates this point. In his 
oflSce one winter morning he said: "Yesterday I saw this 
advertisement of a famous kennel of foxhounds in Vir- 
ginia, and by this morning's mail I sent $25 for one. Oh, 
they're rattlers, swifter 'an chain lightning. I tell you 
there'll be fun when this Virginia foxhound gets here!" 
"Mort," said I, "telegraph down to Virginia and counter- 
mand your order. The fox hunters there want swift dogs 
and ride after them, hoping to see them kill the fox and 
to be in at the death. That's no sport for us. We want 
slow dogs, which will bring the fox around where we can 
get a shot at it, just the same as in deer hounding, but you 
don't want a hound to kill a fox. Suppose he kills his 
game ten miles from you and you never know it? The 
conditions are different; Virginia gentlemen ride to the 
hounds on horses, and ladies join in the hunt, but they 
could never follow a fox over the hills and forests of Mon- 
roe county, and besides they think it is murder to shoot 
"Is" that so?" 
"True as gospel, Mort, Sport is an ideal thing. We are 
not horsemen, and see no sport in having a hound kill a 
fox as a terrier kills a^rat, I perfectly agree with you that 
when a fox dies I like to pull the trigger which causes his 
death, and I only look to the hound as a secondary cause, 
just as I do to the bird dog when a woodcock drops before 
my gun. That swift hound is just the kind of dog that is 
useful in Virginia, where fox hunters consider it a crime to 
shoot a fox; but he is of no use here. When the hounds 
run a fox past me, and I can pull a trigger on him and be. 
the immediate causa of his death, then fox himting takes 
rank with the hunting of the stag, A dog which should 
kill either fox or stag before it reached my gun would be 
killed by me in return," 
But the hound came, and Mort was proud of his form and 
kept him close for some days in order that he might get 
acquainted in his new home. In half a dozen hunts we 
only had the pleasure of hearing the hounds start the fox 
and run him until their voices were lost in the distance; 
but no fox came arotind to our posts, and if the Virginia 
hound killed a fox we never knew it. We left him at home 
after that and relied on our old slow dogs. 
If Mort Locke was not the most enthusiastic sportsman 
that I had met, he created the impression that he was, and 
his enthusiasm was contagious. He induced me to go after 
woodcock in a thick and heavy swamp on July 4 because 
the open season began on that day. I loved woodcock and 
woodcock shooting, but had never indulged in it until the 
coming of the brown October days brought relief from the 
burning sun of summer; for even in my young days some 
de gree of personal comfort seemed necessary for enjoy- 
ment of any kind. Not that long and weary tramps were 
dreaded, nor cold feet were thought of, when prospective 
rabbits or foxes were in mind; but the blazing sun of July 
was more enjoyable on lake than in a thicket, and after 
presenting this view of the case to Mort and listening to 
his enthusiastic presentation of the case, we went. 
The morning was clear and cool when Mort came to tbe 
house as an early breakfast was finished; a three-mile walk 
down the railroad track brought us to the swamp. Mort 
had borrowed a half-broken pointer from the village, and 
my mongrel setter was a dog which preferred chasing rab- 
bits to working woodcock or snipe, and was handicapped 
by the weight of several ounces of bird-shot which had 
been inserted in those propelling muscles in his rear for 
his neglect to obey a recall from a rabbit chase, when his 
owner thought the marking down of one woodcock to be 
of more value than a ton of cottontails. And so we went 
forth after woodcock on the first day of the season about a 
quarter of a century ago. 
While with Mort his enthusiasm compelled one to be 
alert for the promised sport; the day was young, and we 
were with nature when her vegetation was most luxuriant. 
We turned into the swamp, and put out the dogs. Half 
an hour seemed to afford sufficient sport for me as I made 
for the hill, wet through with perspiration, and face burn- 
ing with spider webs. There is an exquisite torture in a 
spider web across a perspiring face that is not to be de- 
scribed, but half an hour in a dense thicket in July was all 
the sport I wanted. There was a broad oak at the foot of 
the hill, a cool spring just at its roots, and a light breeze 
invited repose. Mort's gun at intervals proved that his 
enthusiasm was not lessened by perspiration and burning 
spider webs, while the cool breeze fanned me to sleep. 
Whether that sleep would have rivaled Rip Van 
Winkle's if the panting breath of a dog in my face, as a 
heated tongue licking my forehead brought conscioilsness, 
can never be known. Then Mort said: "Hello! where've 
you been? Didn't hear you shoot but once. How many 
birds did you get?" 
"Been? Been right here having fun under this oak. I 
shot once and got one bird, thousands of mosquito bites, 
soaked with perspiration and face burned by spider webs. 
You've got eight birds, but I wouldn't spend an hour in 
that swamp to kill any amount of woodcock. I've had all 
the July shooting I want, and I doubt if the birds will 
keep until we get home." 
They did keep, and we had them badiy served by Dick 
Case, who was said to be good on oyster stews and other 
game. But when we brought in some October birds I did 
the cooking and served them d la Port Tyler, to the great 
delight of Mort and a few friends. 
It is sad to think how much game is eaten and how 
small a portion of it is properly cooked. At a farmhouse 
in Iowa, years ago, a woman actually stuffed prairie 
chickens with bread, onions and other things seasoned 
with thyme, and said: "Ef I'd a knowed ye was a-comin' 
I'd a had a chicken killed, but the boys shot these an' I 
happened to have 'em in the house!" Some one has said 
that heaven sends us meats, while the monarch of the 
other place sends cooks. 
Mort had not had chances for exercising epicurian 
tastes, but he had them, and once out of range of the cook 
in the rural restaurant, or family, he soon recognized thali 
each game bird or animal had a distinct flavor which 
should be preserved. He readily learned this very im- 
portant part of sportsmanship, for a man should know how 
his game should be served as well as shot. The day's 
sport is not complete with the shooting, but to invite 
friends to an evening dinner at which the hard-earned 
game is to be the central feature and then to have it 
villainously cooked is enough to ruflie the best of tempera. 
With this remark we will leave cookery, for although no 
one has arisen to publish a little book telling the loving 
and well-meaning housewife how to cook the game which 
her sportsman husband brings home, I can't do it, Pre^ 
tending to know when it is done correctly does not include 
a knowledge of all details. 
For eight years IMort was my constant companion on shoot- 
ing and fishing trips. He would get a leave of absence for 
a week or two and we would fish in many of those small 
lakes of central New York or would shoot ducks on Cayuga 
Lake. These ducking trips must be postponed until an- 
other time, but the temptation to tell a cooking story on 
Mort is very strong. He knew, as all gunners know in a 
general way, the edible qualities of the different wild 
ducks, and he had thoroughly learned that a wild duck, 
which was anywhere near the first class, should have no 
"stuffing" of any kind, merely served cm naiurel. We gave 
a farmer some "sawbills" and sheldrakes, strong, fishy 
beasts, who said: "My wife kin bile them ducks with 
inyons an' stuff 'em with summer savory, 'n then roast 'em, 
an' you can't tell 'em fum teal nur wood ducks." 
Mort drew a sigh and remarked: "Yes, and she could fill 
a teal or wood duck with onions and 'yarbs' until you 
couldn't tell it from a hell-diver or a loon!" His culinary 
education was complete. 
Mort Locke was a born naturalist. The Indian mounds 
that he dug into filled his house with relics. He collected 
insects without any special knowledge of their places in 
zoology and he was always busy at something, and that 
something was always the acquisition of knowledge with- 
out a thought of pecuniary reward. 
If William Morton Locke had, in his early life, been 
