July 23, 1904.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
71 
Days on the Gunnison. 
" 'Tis sweet to love, 
But, oh, how bitter 
To love a girl 
And then not git 'er." 
Men love often and recover from their amatory 
lacerations; but show me the man who has hung, and 
played, and lost a ten-pound trout, and I will wager my 
last pound of Colorado radium against a bunch of rusty 
horse-nails that secret melancholy will prey upon' his 
damask cheek till the Great White Horse' gallops off 
with him into the untried regions of the Illimitable Un- 
known. I have suffered thus; I. have felt the feel of 
the lusty beauty at the other end of the silken snare; 
have trembled with ill-concealed; emotion as I .fought 
to turn my headstrong quarry in his fierce tlounderings 
amid the foamy waters of the .noble' Gunnison: I have 
sat in my great weakness upon a friendly smobthworn 
stone and wept salty tears" as I reeled my cast 'in to 
find that my carefully tested O' Shalt "ghnessy w;as be r 
come straight as a hairpin. I have buttonholed sym- 
pathetic friends and told them circumstantially "just 
how it happened," and I have been grievously pained 
to see a look of incredulity play upon their "features, 
for few, even in this region, where big fishes are the 
rule, care to swallow a ten-pound trout on one man's 
estimate.. I regret to say that I had no Opportunity to 
weigh him. 
I "played such a monster last summer— rather should 
I say he played me. And, if my readers will pardon the 
digression, I would like to ask if they do not recall at 
some time in their fishing career having encountered 
a saucy fellow who simply got caught just because he was 
too full of daring. There is a legend along the banks 
of the Gunnison that when a tenderfoot catches a big 
one it is simply due to the "won't-take-a-dare" spirit 
of the graceful, well-fed fellows who lay wagers and 
take , turns at seeing who can come closest to taking 
the bait off without getting pricked. I personally be- 
lieve this to be the case. You have seen small boys 
in skating time try who will do the most daring stunts 
on the thin ice, have you not? Guess I did my share 
of reckless stunts in youth; it was more good luck than 
anything else that saved me from a watery grave 
Same way with the big, overgrown lunkers that inhabit 
the deep waters of the Gunnison. They are never 
hungry; they get their bellyfuls too easily. But they 
are so" full of life, and their lives are so full of excite- 
ment, that the things which round out the joy of ordin- 
ary trouts become stale and flat to them. Born dare- 
devils, afraid of nothing; the very appearance of danger 
arouses them to action. Cast in a dozen of the most 
tempting unhooked minnows and they are spurned 
with contempt. But just you draw a well concealed 
hook within thirty feet of the lair of a big lord of the 
deep pools and he takes it as a stricture upon his 
personal courage as well as skill in skinning hooks. 
It's foolish , this daring, but it is very like the foolish- 
ness of bis air-breathing brother who stakes his all, 
his life as well, on a single throw of the dice. Once 
an Indian prince, becoming attached to a brave man of 
the mountain tribes, offered him a large estate, many 
golden pieces and slaves to do his bidding if he would 
only promise to come and live in the city and dwell 
in peace. "But, master," said the wild man, "I may go 
and seek the tiger in his lair sometimes?" "No," said 
this great lord, "I love you; I want you to live to be 
old and die in peace." "Nay, lord," said this man of 
the forest, "peace and gold and slaves are well, but I 
love excitement better, even though some day a tiger 
shall smash my head and suck my blood," and he re- 
turned to his cave in the mountains. Thus it seems 
to me do the Gunnison trout reck. 
I lost my trout last summer; lost him after seeing 
the iridescent flash of his silvern belly in the falling 
twilight; lost him after feeling the fulness of his great 
strength in mad rushes to escape; lost him after I had 
exultantly exclaimed to myself, "He is mine, mine, 
mine!" lost him because I had never before angled 
for fish that "took to the tall grass." I have angled 
some and fished a good deal in most accessible parts 
of the United States and Canada; killed big striped 
bass with trout tackle; brought ferocious bluefish to 
gaff with four-ounce rod after a fight of thirty minutes; 
had come to think myself anything but a tenderfoot. 
But when my Gunnison friend left the stream and 
started up the steep banks of the river due north, 
covering six feet at a bound, I lost my grip on things 
and my dream was shattered. 
The desire of my life had b^en to try the big waters 
of the Gunnison. Last August the opportunity came. 
The latter part of September is best for angling in the 
Gunnison; then the waters are at about their lowest; 
they are clear as crystal and the temperature is not 
above 60 degrees. October is also an excellent period, 
and Judge J. M. McDougal, who has a personal ac- 
quaintance with every big pool within miles of Gun- 
nison, continues the sport away into November. Only 
one road leads to Gunnison — the Rio Grande; it takes 
somewhat better than a night to cover the. distance 
from Denver. Upon the advice of a friend in Gunnison 
I hired me a room and arranged to take my meals at one 
of the several really good restaurants in the town. The 
early bird catches the worm; the' early angler the trout, 
and he who endeavors to breakfast at a hotel always 
arrives on the fishing ground too late for the cream of 
angling: And a true artgler so likes to linger into the 
shadows that blend the dusk with darkness that he 
is like as not to return to his hotel just in time to 
either get nothing at all or to find everything soggy 
and cold. That, at any rate, is the run of things in 
Colorado. Gunnison cooks excel in the preparation 
of early trout breakfasts' and late ditto suppers; never 
did one of them demur, even when I dragged myself 
off my wheel, wet, and cold, and. hungry, away after 
Old Sol' had tucked his auburn head under the impos- 
sible gray-and-red hills of the Occident. 
•Furthermore and also, the best sport commences after 
twilight and continues long beyond the hour when one 
may" lawfully cast his flies or draw his minnows._ I 
think T may safely say that it is useless to spend time 
"casting flies until the rays of the sun have grown far 
aslant and beam more with red than gold. 
But about, the big fellow I lost. It was in a deep 
pooh just below a pretty wooden, bridge. Heavy teams 
had Crossed and fecrossed till the impudent fellows had 
grown not to mind at all. At infrequent intervals one 
could see a whopping big one emerge from the shades 
of the dark pool, turn his fat side so as to reflect for 
an instant the rays of the sun, and then glide back-into 
the darkness of the silent waters. But stand and cast 
ever so long, ever so carefully, one was never re- 
warded by a single rise. There were half dozen of 
them; I came to know them well. Exclusive, they were, 
swimming deep down whenever seen. The smaller 
fry, of which there are myriads, seemed to sport nearer 
the surface. I soon exhausted both fly book and 
patience. I got down on my belly and crawled to the 
bank from a distance of a hundred yards, and cast so 
that not even the shadow of my tip should fall upon 
the water. Truly, they were a foxy bunch; versed most 
deeply in the arts of the angler; immune, I called them, 
along with other adjectives not so polite. There they 
were — five, seven and ten-pounders — big of girth and 
strong of loin, each in his own particular lair, headed 
up stream and ready to snap up the smallest fly, or 
bug, or worm that the friendly waters swept athwart 
their domicile. 
I quickly exhausted all my fish lore and thought with 
bitterness of the remark of a native who ventured the 
information that "you won't catch nawthin' in a hen's 
aige if you wear them dude clothes," the dude clothes 
aforesaid being a duck coat that has seen service, lo, 
these fifteen years, duck breeches that have forgotten 
all the legends of their youth, a battered homespun 
cap whose pristine colors have long since departed, and 
a pair of mountain boots — distinctly new. I love my 
old fishing togs and would not part from them for 
twice their value in new ones. They become sacred 
the older they grow. The difficulty with the shoes was 
their predecessors had simply "cashed in," making new 
ones a necessity. Old clothes and old shoes, like old 
and tried friends, are too valuable to be discarded for 
the new and untried. 
My vacation was to be a week, and already three 
days were gone. Anglers all about me were taking 
thirty and fifty small fry daily on the fly. I might have 
done so myself, but I was after a "big one." One 
whose pelt I could s.tuff and hang up in my den and 
begin my story with: "That? Oh! that was one I 
caught down Gunnison way in the summer of 1903," 
and so on. So this afternoon I caught me two big 
grasshoppers — dandies, they were, and led me a chase 
—and allowed one of them to float unannexed down 
the pool. There was a rush, a swirl, the waters opened 
and la cigale disappeared. The second, I attached to 
the most invisible of leaders. He was big, very strong, 
and made desperate efforts to recover the land. Cer- 
tainly his struggles must have exasperated my friends, 
watching him from below, but they were "cagy." Not 
a rise. A shot took him to the bottom; same luck. 
Finally he stiffened and died of suffocation. Truly, I 
was up against the real thing. 
"Say, my friend, ye hev no mo' chanst to hook one o' 
them 'ere old hunkers then I has ter walk a tight rope." 
My accoster was so much the worse for libations 
that it was even difficult for him to keep on the bridge. 
He was not an equilibrist; that was plain. Night was 
coming on, I was "cussin' mad" and full of disappoint- 
ment. Carefully attaching a splendid royal-coachman 
to a nine-foot salmon leader, I determined to cast 
that pool till the water was hot with friction. I doubt 
if I ever cast so faultlessly; my fly came floating down 
through the air like a snow drop; not a particle of 
drag; and the moonlight added a beauty to the scene 
that was both mystical and charming. I recovered my 
good temper — replaced it: with determination. The 
jagged comb "o.f the distant peaks were silhouetted 
against the red-flecked sky, the busy mosquitoes were 
out in numbers, and my friend, the lame engineer up 
on the bridge, was indulging in sarcasm at my expense. 
"Cut it out; let's go home," he adjured. 
"One more cast," said I, discouraged. 
It was faultless; away floated the bunch of feathers 
and barb; fifty feet away it settled on the water like 
a snow drop. That is why I prefer a lance rod; one can 
not cast as far, but the delivery is much better. I had 
drawn the fly almost its limit, (reader, dear, do not 
question my veracity: some things are indelible; com- 
ing face to face with death is one, face to face with 
a ten-pounder is another), then the waters broke into 
a white foam. There was no warning. It was like the 
bursting of an unannounced hurricane. My lancewood 
bent and doubled like a willow switch; something 
leapt three or four feet into the air and broke for the 
depths of the pool. . . . ' ; 
"Oh, lord, he's a big one!" exclaimed my lame 
engineer in his excitment, shoving the hot bowl of his 
pipe into his mouth. He stood on the bridge and 
stumped his wooden leg excitedly, meanwhile shouting 
directions and encouragement to me. 
I am up to my neck in business; too busy to talk; 
just set. my teeth and watch my wand curve as it has 
curved never before. I remember I am proud of its 
action; remember that a thousand thoughts flash 
through my head instantaneously; elation is the regnant 
feeling; also confidence. No fear of my tackle; there 
is none better, that I knew. My one concern is, "Is 
that hook well set? Will it hold?" That is the burden 
of my prayer. Another lunge by my frantic friend, and 
I conclude that only by exercise of utmost care shall 
we become closer, if not better, friends. Here he goes 
up stram, tugging like a vicious bull, literally trying to 
smash the whole tackle. Such strength, such deter- 
mination, such magnificent rushes! 'Tis like nothing 
I have ever tackled before. I have seen bucking 
bronchos — seen them "weave," and "sunfish," and 
throw somersaults, lie down on their riders, even try 
to chew them up with sharp teeth, but the fighting of 
a broncho "outlaw" is as an evening zephyr contrasted 
with the quick, fierce action of a Gunnison steelhead. 
My quarry's turns are so sudden, so unexpected, that 
I can think of no contrast. 
Up the swift stream he rushes, my silken line cutting 
white lightning-like zigzags on the black waters. _ No 
use trying to turn him. I find myself wondering if he 
intends taking the whole line; he suddenly concludes 
he has gone far enough and doubles, coming down 
stream like a cannon ball. My quadruplex responds 
gleefully, beautifully. He fails to get a foot of slack. 
My heart sings a song of joy. Enraged at his im- 
potence the big fellow darts a full four feet into the 
fading sunset, scattering a miniature shower of opal- 
escent pearls over the black pool. On striking the 
surface he again darts away, tugging like a young ox. 
My drag makes a noise like the song of a summer 
locust. Now he has headed down stream, down among 
the big boulders that stick up frightfully high and 
jagged-like, and I, in my vanity, try to turn him. But 
the whirling spool burns my thumb, which I use for 
a brake. I do not heed the pain till long afterward. I 
must, I will stop him, I mutter subconsciously. My 
willowy wand bends nearly double. I give up, I look 
for the crash, when lo! my friend turns back and comes 
charging toward me like a fiend possessed. He leaps 
a clean three feet from his element, and describes a 
perfect parabola in the glowing suntints. I am be- 
wildered at his staying power, astonished at his fierce 
resistance. 
There is never a sparring for time, no taking of 
measures, no sulking at the bottom — only action, and 
more action. Never have I seen such wild rushes, 
such terrific, smashing work- crowded into so short a 
space of time. Not a moment of supineness — all 
brilliant battling. Twice does he journey to the head 
of the pool; twice do I turn him. His efforts to reach 
the dangerous rocky ground at the lower end are no 
more succesful. 
I begin to feel the thrill of the conqueror, to think 
mv noble quarry is marked for my own, that soon I 
shall be reeling him inshore. I. mentally select a con- 
venient beaching place and begin to work my way to- 
ward it — inch at a time. Surely he must be exhausted 
with all this masterful battling. I feel easy at last, and 
say things to my pretty rod. Now I lead my handsome 
catch toward me — slowly. 'Tis nearly dark; I cannot 
see even his. outline in "the water, but he is large and 
oh! so heavy. He comes — unwillingly, it is true— but 
he comes, .fighting stubbornly for each inch lost. He 
is spent, finished, conquered — not another leap left 
in him. • 
"Bully," yells my friend on the bridge, preparing to. 
join me. "You have him now; reel in. I'll help you." 
I look up, my attention is distracted, I hesitate for 
a moment, I relax a single pound of pressure on my 
butt; there is a rush, a whirring sound, as of quail 
taking to wing, and my captive shoots straight up the 
almost perpendicular bank, fully six feet from the 
water's edge. As he rolls back into his native element, 
something causes me to realize that he has won— not I. 
That one unguarded moment has cost me the biggest 
and best catch of my life. 
