242 
Highways and Byways.— IV, 
Two o'clock, a clear morning, the end of August! The 
alarm goes off as I put on my togs. Over the eastern 
mountains the spangled belt of Orion rests upon the 
pines and in the far north the Great Bear treads lightly 
upon the misty horizon. My footfall re-echoes from 
brick walls, and the feverish breath of a summer mid- 
night lingers sullenly about dim-lighted corners. Even 
the lone policeman has crawled from his beat into the 
coolness of some unfrequented alley. Sidewalks give 
place to dusty roads, where giant poplars stand like 
specters waiting for the dawn. From farmhouses, hid- 
den in the gloom, comes the barking of dogs that my 
whistle has aroused from slumber. 
Three o'clock! The highway crosses the river. It 
is a low song that the river sings as it ripples over the 
stones. Then comes a hill that leads up to the bench, 
where the wheat stubble looks a ghostly white beneath 
the stars, where the fragrance of ripened apples and 
peaches fills the air, and the breezes that come from the 
mouth of the canon give promise of cooler weather than 
we have known for many a week. This travel- 
ing at such an unearthly hour, after having been 
up for two consecutive nights with the sick, is some- 
thing of a hardship, but what boy does not work harder 
in the field, what man does not put in lighter-hearted 
hours at the desk when he thinks of a glorious day's 
fishing just ahead? 
Four o'clock! A faint flush of false dawn, the crowing of 
a distant cock, and then, most welcome sound, the 
challenge of Reid's faithful Ginger, who would first 
tear me to pieces and then satiate me with canine caresses. 
My tackle and a change of raiment had been sent out 
the night before, and Reid and I put in the horse and 
load with hay, while Mrs. R. fixes our lunch. Down 
the lane and out on the pike! Now there are lights in 
the farmhouses, and the sparks begin to fly from the 
smokestacks of engines that are getting ready for the 
day's threshing. Anon comes the twitter of birds, and 
daylight steals into the valley. 
Five o'clock! It is chilly. We draw our coats about 
us, cross the river bridge and enter the canon. Far 
behind us the first rays of the sun sparkle upon the 
Oquirrh Range. It will be three or four hours before 
they touch the pools and reaches where we expect our 
day's sport. On we hasten. There are seared leaves 
where two months agone the wild roses sported and the 
dust, ii>ce a fog, hides the hubs from view. The campers 
along Provo River are kindling their morning fires. 
They should have been casting a full hour ago. Then 
we turn into the yard of the Telluride Power Co., where 
the waste water from the giant flume makes a cataract 
90ft. in height, where a net-work of copper wire carries 
the subtle force to the mining depths of Tintic and of 
Mercur — full fifty miles away. We unhitch and feed 
our steed, fix our casts and start through the under- 
brush for a long reach of inviting water just above the 
plant. 
Six o'clock! We step into the icy stream. Before 
us a solitary peak, like Curicanti needle, cuts the won- 
drous azure of the morning, and beyond that the massive 
Wasatch rises tier upon tier, but of that we must not 
think. The river is full of loose boulders and deep 
holes; a mis-step means complete immersion, and we 
shall fish all day in waist-deep, water. Hip boots are 
only an aggravation, as a sudden plunge must be expected. 
I make mine very early, in "fact before I am ready for 
it. Thereafter the stream has no terrors for me. Of 
course it was done by too great eagerness to reach a 
promising pool. Meanwhile Reid, casting from waist- 
deep water toward the further bank, scores one. I fol- 
low, and the sport, albeit the trout are small, grows 
fast and furious. Reid lands three to my one. I have 
rises enough, and apparently make honest strikes, but to 
no purpose. Alas, for the fisher who brings no fine 
file! My hooks are dull, and it is necessary to change 
the cast. Queen-of-the-waters is the favorite. I have 
only a No. 4, which is a little too large, so I use profes- 
sor, with but moderate success. At length, after fish- 
ing up for a couple of hours, we decide to fish back. 
The sunlight comes down upon the crystal water. Rises 
are few. Then there step into the water a couple of 
grangers, out for a day's sport. The chivalry of fish- 
ing is unknown to them. One is an old man with long 
gray beard. He is new to the business. With a worm- 
baited hook he angles in the shallow waters. His son, 
of robust cast, hurls a minnow and a heavy sinker into 
each pool, rushing along at a four-knot rate. This is 
no place for us, so we go back to the buggy and to 
breakfast. 
It was no use to try to disguise the fact that, until the 
shadows grew longer, few trout would reward our 
efforts. After loafing an hour, we went back and Reid 
scored a couple of beauties. Then our friend with the 
minnow came up stream. How many miles he had been 
down the river we could not telL The father tried to 
cross the stream where we had been. It tossed him 
like a cork, and it seemed for a while as though he 
would not make it. Reid and I stopped, ready to go to 
his relief, but at length he felt the shallows. He fell 
exhausted on the bank, and we decided to drive down- 
to Carter's ranch for the afternoon fishing. 
Long stretches of water, with deep pools below, the 
river running 5ft. deep beneath willow-hung banks, a few 
fish and then the shadows fell across us. A slaty point 
appeared a hundred yards down stream. A small boy 
saw us heading toward it, and tried to get there first. 
He succeeded, drew out a trout and was gone. Under 
water the slate was in terraces, making a succession of 
pools. Reid waded into the upper pool. I took the 
lower. There, standing knee-deep and on a very slip- 
pery footing, we cast across and slowly drew our flies 
athwart the current. For each of us at the same in- 
stant the water broke. The twist of the wrist, the bend- 
ing rod, the music of the reel, betokens that the even- 
ing sport had begun in good earnest. Six beauties 
where the lad had secured one, and then, casting here 
and there as we go, we hasten back to the buggy, for 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
we have yet two good pools to fish. They are a full 
mile below, and the day is -far spent. 
Seven o'clock! We tie up for the last time at the 
mouth of the canon. On either side rise the perpen j 
dicular portals 600ft. in height; below them 150ft. of 
slaty talus slope, a willow-dotted valley, and the river 
itself, not rushing and boiling with the fury we have 
seen since dawn, but widening, meandering peacefully 
out of its rocky confines toward the lucerne fields and 
orchards, and the setting sun. Here are taken out the 
six mighty irrigating canals that make possible the cul-' 
tivation of seventy square miles of the most fertile land 
in the great West. The dams that jut out into the 
stream make miniature lakes, and in their depths lurk 
the largest trout that apparently cannot be enticed save 
at the twilight hour. Reid has fished these waters sev- 
eral times during the season, and with rare courtesy 
gives me the better place. He uses the cast with which 
he has fished all day, but I change mine for white and 
light gray. Below us and just where we expect the 
best results are eight fishermen. One uses flies, the rest 
have bait and sinkers. They are fishing for a livelihood, 
but they have not learned that success is certain after 
sundown, so as we approach they one by one' disappear; 
and we are left sole masters of the field. 
My first cast brought to creel the largest fish of the 
day, and after that each cast brought rises. It grew too 
dark to see the flies, but tht welcome splash and the arm- 
thrill assured us that good work was going on. 
As we were about to give up, I had a strike of more 
than usual force. My rod bent almost double, I was 
hampered by being in breast-deep water, and at first 
the trout had everything his own way. If he sulked at 
the bottom I could scarcely budge him. If he fought 
I was afraid "he would tear himself loose. For full ten 
minutes we pitted ourselves against each other. Then 
his struggles grew more feeble, and I slowly backed 
toward the shore. How I needed a landing net! At 
length I was on terra firma, reeling in my captive, now 
only 40ft. away. A last break, and as the giant leaped 
high in air he showed that above him w r as also hooked 
a trout about a foot in length. Slowly I drew them 
toward my feet, swinging them a little up stream. The 
smaller one measured his length on the sand, the larger 
grated on the pebbles. He felt them, shook himself 
convulsively. The hook tore out, and he was gone. I 
was defeated, but happy. 
Ten minutes later we were changing clothes at the 
buggy, and in another hour a good curry supper at 
Reid's ranch warmed the inner man. After supper we 
both fell asleep over a game of cribbage, which sufficient- 
ly indicates the condition of mind and body. 
Three evenings later I rode to the same spot, and 
about 8 o'clock, just as the full moon came over the 
crest of the Wasatch, the pool was musical with silvery 
splashes and brilliant with opalescent circles. In an 
hour I landed a dozen good fish. One of these I caught 
in a singular manner. My dropper was a No. 10 Queen- 
of-the-waters, and I felt that I had securely hooked a 
fingerling. As I hurriedly drew him in, I felt a sharp 
strike without a rise, and when I reeled up discovered 
that a large trout had seized the smaller and had drawn 
him so far into his gullet that disgorgement was im- 
possible. 
There has been during the season an unusually large 
catch of good-sized trout below the dam of the power 
plant, but very few have been caught above. The lad- 
der put in by the company is so steep that the fish were 
unable to ascend and spawn. This may have a very 
serious effect on next year's sport. In conversation 
with President Kingsbury, of the University of Utah, 
and an ardent fisherman, I learn that last week he fished 
the waters of the Upper Provo, some forty miles_ above 
my favorite ground. He found the river dynamited to 
death. There were no large fish, and around each pool 
hundreds of small trout in all stages of putrefaction 
testified of the illegal practices that had been resorted 
to. Well, there is no use of complaining. Such is 
bound to be the case until forests and fisheries are taken 
off from the list of political spoils, and men who under- 
stand that they owe a duty to the people of the State for 
the salaries which they draw are given an opportunity 
to enforce the laws that are now a dead letter on the 
statute books. Shoshone. 
A Mountain Thunderstorm, 
It is a hot day in the mountains. Wereit as hot in the 
city the weary people would be dragging themselves 
painfully through the oven-like streets between the 
monster office structures in a pitiful state of lassitude and 
suffering. But here in the mountains things are dif- 
ferent. There is not that humidity, that heated breath 
from the ground, which causes people to flee to the 
mountains, shore or woods for relief. Instead there is 
still the clear, bracing air for which the mountains are 
noted, and one can move about with comfort. 
It is late in the afternoon, and the sun is shining 
brightly, but away off to the west ominous black clouds 
climb over the mountain tops. Soon the sun is lost to 
us behind these clouds. The mountains in the next 
rido-e to the east are still streaked with the sun's rays, 
making a beautiful picture in light and shadow. Faintly 
at first, then more distinct, sounds the deep rumble of 
the thunder, rolling and reverberating from mountain to 
mountain. Grayer and grayer, dimmer and dimmer 
grow the mountains in the direction from which the 
storm approaches. The lightning is yet mild, coming 
now and then in zigzag flashes that light up the distant 
mountains in a weird, white light. The wind has ceased. 
The mountains appear to have assumed a melancholy, 
gloomy air that seems contagious to man and beast 
alike. It is the calm before the storm. 
"Clear for action! Batten down the hatches! Shorten 
sail on yonder hammock!" B.'s voice bellows out orders 
and I hasten to obey. Windows and doors are soon 
fastened; fragile articles are safely stowed away, the 
ladies retreat indoors, and we men install ourselves 
comfortably on the porch to watch the progress of a 
mountain thunderstorm. A more beautiful and impres- 
sive spectacle I have rarely witnessed, 
The. wind begins to blow, first in sudden, fitful gusts, 
then increasing in its fury till the young pine trees be- 
[Sept. 24, 1898. 
fore the cabin are bent almost to the ground; loude* 
rolls the thunder, a sudden clap, a blinding streak, an 
the storm is upon us. Everything looks big and gra, 
and spectral in its mistiness. The rain pours down i! 
torrents, and bounds off the gables of the house in lili 
tie rivulets. The lightning plays among the trees i 
fantastic streaks of fire and light, now in a quick, straigl 
line that buries itself in the ground or in some tree, the 
in a series of broken, blinding flashes. The mountaim 
as revealed momentarily by the lightning, look grande 
arid" more majestic than ever. 
Contentedly we sit under shelter of the porch an 
watch the passing of the storm. The thunder grow 
more distant, the lightning fainter, the rain cease: 
the storm is over. The leaden-hued clouds break int 
waves of blue and white, and the sun peeps timidly ot 
from behind a thin cloud, then at last bursts fort 
in a glory of light. 
Heavy white clouds, resembling so many big so 
blankets, rest lazily on the tops of the mountains, an 
lap down over the sides as if threatening to slide dovvi 
and engulf in their misty haze the valley beneath, the; 
slowly they dissolve into the bright, fresh atmosphere. 
Down beneath the rustic bridge, where, before tl 
storm, a little brooklet had playfully rippled over tlj 
rocks, is now a roaring, rushing, irresistible flood. O 
the mountain across the road small streams fall dow, 
over the ledges and rocks, making one of the charmhii 
sights of this beautiful country. 
Here and there are trees cut down or shorn of the 
branches by the lightning. Everything is fresh and co> 
and bright. In the city the streets would be muddy ar 
slimy, the air sultry and heavy, and the people unconj 
fortable and unhappy. But here in the mountains thinj 
are different. In its approach and passing a thunde 
storm is only another of the many wonderful and ii 
teresting incidents and views which go to make an ou 
ing in the mountains an enjoyable and pleasant exper 
ence. G. F. Diehl. 
The Ascent of the Grand Teton, 
The question as to whether the summit of the Grar 
Teton had ever actually been attained previous to M 
W. O. Owen's recent success is one of much interest 
mountaineers. We printed last week a note directit 
attention to Mr. Langford's account of his expedition 
1872. In the Sunday Herald of Sept. 18 Mr. Ow< 
writes on this subject as follows: 
As far as records go, seven previous attempts hi 
been made to scale the Teton, and all had ended 
failure. Of the various parties which have tried the pe; 
there is but one which claims to have reached the to: 
and as the question of first ascent must be settled now, 
am constrained to mention this particular expedition 
greater length than would otherwise be warranted. 
The party referred to is that of Stevenson and Lan; 
ford, of the United States Geological Survey, the a 
tempt having been made in July, 1872. 
They came in from the west, crossed the glacier at tl 
southwest base of the peak, climbed to the Saddle ai 
turned north up the granite hallw r ay which leads to tl 
enclosure on a pinnacle 800ft. west of the Grand Tetf 
and fully 500ft. below it. Their path from the Saddle 1 
the enclosure was practically identical with that of n 
own party. 
After examining the enclosure they descended eas 
ward, as any one must do who desires to climb ti 
peak, and, as near as can be judged from their accour 
of the alleged ascent, struck the icy niche through whi' 
the writer made his attempt last year. The base of tl 
crevice is about 650ft. below the summit and 150ft. low! 
than the enclosure. Passage through it, however, 
impossible. And right here, beyond question, Mess: 
Stevenson and Langford abandoned the climb. 
Notwithstanding the failure, it was given out that t 
top had been reached and was so published in the offic 
reports of the Geological Survey. Mr, Langford ai! 
published an account of his alleged ascent in Scribne: 
Magazine of June, 1873. 
Much as I dislike to provoke a controversy on tl 
point, I am compelled by a sense of duty and obligate 
to myself and companions to make the clean cut stat 
ment that our party was the first to reach the sumn 
of the peak. 
I have in my possession unimpeachable evidence tr 
Langford and Stevenson did not reach the summit 
the Grand Teton. This testimony consists of the al 
davit of Thomas Cooper, of this city,"who was Haydet 
chief packer for years, and who is personally acquaint 
with Mr. Langford, and knew Mr. Stevenson during 1 
lifetime; a personal letter from Mr. Henry Ganne 
chief geographer, United States Geological Survey;, 
sworn statement of the Governor of Wyoming, and IV 
Langford's own written statement in his magazi 
article. 
Thomas Cooper swears that Stevenson admitted 
him that he and Langford failed to reach the sumrr 
but "got so near they called it the top." 
Mr. Plenry Gannett (I quote from his signed letter 
me) says: "The Grand Teton has, to my knowled} 
been climbed twice, although in neither case did t 
parties reach the exact summit. 
"The first is probably the one to which you refer, co: 
posed of Messrs. Langford and Stevenson, in 18;; 
The second was composed of Mr. A. D. Wilson a 
assistant, in 1878. Both these parties went up this c> 
vice and turned to the left, and so reached a po 
which is only about 200ft. distant from the main su- 
nlit, and about 50ft. below it." ' . 
Here is the whole proposition in a nutshell, the 01 
discrepancy being the distance below the summit, 
was 500 instead of 50ft. 
Mr. Gannett says they did not reach the exact su 
mit, and this tallies beautifully with Stevenson's adm 
sion to Cooper. And this is amply sufficient for 
purposes. 
In the Scribner article Mr. Langford describes ( 
alleged route up the peak, and, having reached a po 
125ft. below the summit, says: "Above the ice belt o v 
which we had made such a perilous ascent we saw, in I 
debris, the fresh track of the American ibex, the mm 
tain sheep," etc. 
