176 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 27, 1904. 
brought in, and one by one they are packed with every-, 
thing that is not needed the next morning, and finally, 
late at night, we all take our last sleep in camp. 
The alarm clock turns us out an hour earlier or so the 
next morning, for the team is to come early in order 
that we may catch a day train and not be obliged to wait 
at the station until night. A hasty breakfast follows, and 
then the last of the dishes and the cooking utensils are 
packed. Then all the bedding and clothes, excepting 
those that are to be rolled in the tents, are stored away, 
and the chests all securely roped and carried outside. 
Finally the stove-pipe is disconnected, and with the aid 
of two sticks thrust through the holes on top, the little 
sheet-iron stove is carried outside, emptied of its con- 
tents, and rolled around in the snow until cool enough 
to be handled. Soon it goes into a box, and with_ it most 
of the cooking outfit and the stove-pipe, which is made 
to telescope, then on goes the cover. While this has 
been going on, others have stripped the canvas roof from 
the camp, and it, with the supply tent, which was struck 
the night before, are rolled up with some clothing and 
blankets. An old carpet is wrapped around the bundle, 
and then all is ready to load. Some of the surplus wood 
is used to build a fire, and so we wait until the team 
comes. Now comes the tug of war, for our chests are 
heavy, but soon all is aboard with the deer thathave. not 
been sent out tied on top, and away we go, bidding good- 
by to our hunting ground until another season. 
The road is bad. It is hilly and rough, and the sleds 
slide and slew in a way that is almost as bad as. a ship 
at sea. Once we experience a sudden fright, for without 
warning the bobs, while on the edge of a hill, slide 
quickly to one side, and in an instant, striking the trunk 
of a tree, tip over. The Old Trapper, sitting on the back 
of a big buck to hold him on, is thrown several feet, and 
goes rolling over and over himself down the hill, but the 
Colonel is caught between the load and the tree, and 
we catch our breath as we hurry forward, thinking he 
has been crushed between the heavy chests and the tree. 
It is a great relief for us to find him sitting there laugh- 
ing, not hurt in the least, as two high boxes, one each 
side of him, each struck the tree and left him in between, 
not even pinched. The Old Trapper, too, escaped with 
a bruised shoulder, and after righting things up, we reach 
the station without further accident, in season to catch 
the desired train. Then we enjoy for the first time in 
three weeks a civilized meal, and that we all do justice 
to it goes without saying. The victuals suffer, and the 
landlord suffers, for he says he never makes a cent out 
of a gang of hunters, and we do not believe he does. 
Then we enjoy a good cigar, something we have not 
had for two weeks, and we con all the old papers to see 
what has been going on in the outside world while we 
have been away, and are astonished at things which have 
ceased to be talked about on account of being old and 
crowded out of notice by some more recent occurrence. 
After a time the train rolls in, and we board it to find 
the cars filled with hunting parties from all parts of that 
section of the State and upper Michigan returning home 
after a fall outing. Then we have to exchange expe- 
riences and swap yarns, and if the average hunter cannot 
keep up with the average -fisherman in telling a big story, 
he is, at the worst, a very close second. As midnight 
.draws on, one by one they curl up and drop off to sleep, 
and in the wee sma' hours we are lrnded in our native 
burg. Then one must become acquainted with his family 
once more, learn all that has been going on since he has 
been away, and find that he has a thousand and one 
things that must be attended to and at once. Then there 
are the threads of business life to be taken up once more 
■ — "working into the harness" some call it ; old f riends to 
see, and everyone you meet must know just how the hunt 
resulted, just what you did personally, and of course you 
"bought the deer," or someone else shot them for you, 
or you didn't get a one, and so on. Finally we find that 
we have come home with a ravenous appetite and that 
we are not nearly as fastidious about the cooking and the 
selection for the table as we used to be, it having been 
reduced more to a question of quantity than quality than 
formerly. We find — though at first we are a little home- 
sick for the, old life, the trails in the woods, the boon 
companions, and all the surroundings of camp life — after 
all it is good to be home again. Everything tastes better 
than it did before ; the opera and the theatre have im- 
proved wonderfully ; the dance, the reception, and the 
card party have become more attractive; business seems 
to slip along a good deal easier than it did before. There 
seems to be more ozone in the air; it is a pleasure to get 
up early and breathe deep draughts of it. In short, "life 
seems more happy and hope more bright," and we all feel 
as we settle back into the old grooves that we have been 
greatly benefited. 
During the following months we meet occasionally, and 
when we do it is in the nature of a reunion to talk over 
the hunts of the past : to live over the scenes of camp life" 
ence more; to plan for the next hunt, and to kill more 
deer — in our minds — than were ever shot before by our 
party, or ever will be bagged. Caroltjs. 
[to be concluded.] 
m 
AND MVXK FISMN 1 
Colorado Streams. 
Denver, Colo., Aug. 18. — I am often asked by tourists 
how far from Denver one must go to find good fishing in 
Colorado. "Only a matter of 275 to 350 miles," is the 
reply. Then the inquirer elevates his eyebrow, whistles 
softly, and proceeds to make up his mind that the dis- 
tance is too great. But it is a fact that the good fishing 
streams of Colorado are the distance named above from. 
Denver, and sometimes even more remote. However, 
this is a country of great things; great distances, great 
wealth, great railroads, and magnificent scenery, not to 
speak of the size of the trout. One contemplating a trip, 
from Denver to the western slope where good angling 
abounds need have no anxiety on the score of cost of the 
trip. Three railroads reach the principal points for 
anglers, and either of them will set you down at almost 
any spot designated at a cost of less than $10 for the 
round trip. And the time consumed in going is less than 
a day. Furthermore, there is no less than $1,000 worth 
of scenery scattered along every mile of the inspiring 
trip. . 
G. Gordon Pickett, who has the reputation of getting 
'em" when he goes out, came back from Billy Welch s 
lodge near Lyons— which is only 55 miles from Denver 
on the Burlington, and a most charming place to put in a 
day at angling and studying nature — after, a two days 
stay with 57 rainbow, native, and eastern brook trout 
to his credit. This is a phenomenal catch— far better 
than may be hoped for by the average angler— and Gor- 
don 'fessed up that he came pretty close to climbing over 
the legal limit in his enthusiasm. He is solidly arrayed 
in the forefront of those who counsel moderation in all 
lines of outdoor life. 
The Eagle and Frying-pan rivers on the western slope 
are now at their best. It is no trick at all to kill forty or ; 
fifty good sized trout in either of these streams m a days 
casting. I regret to say that trout are so plentiful that 
oftentimes more are taken than the angler is entitled to ; 
it is also regrettable that such achievements are heralded 
by the local papers as though something to be proud of. 
But— in line with the suggestion of Forest and Stream s 
not inapt little editorial in last week"s, issue— I read an 
item in a country exchange a day or two . ago which an- 
nounced that some "game hogs" had boasted of killing, 
100 trout in a few hours' time. The game hog was, 
named by name, and his achievement was rated j ust as it 
deserved to be. Unfortunately the office cat mislaid this 
article which I had intended using as "copy" this week. 
From which it is to be seen that the leaven of moderation 
is working in more places than one. 
But to return to the Frymg-pan and Eagle rivers. 
There is excellent fishing along a great stretch from 
Thomasville to Basalt on the Frymg-pan, and I saw 
several good fish, running from 2 to ^pounds, dressed, 
which were shipped to friends in Denver. As the gentle- , 
man who caught them went on a business, not an 
angling, trip, but fell into temptation, because of that 
peculiar itching that comes to one when he gets close to 
a good trout stream, I withhold his name. From Rudi 
down to Hopkins' Spur, the river is all that the most 
persnickity angler could desire— just a succession of long 
riffles and deep pools, with here and there broken wafers 
that tempt the big old chaps to guzzle on the flies that 
hover in the spray. 
Homeslake Creek— a tributary of the Eagle — is a 
beauty spot of nature, and a lurking place for the most 
provoking of good sized fellows. It has not yet been 
fished a great deal, and those who have taken the trouble 
to trail its course to its origin are enthusiastic. _ The 
stream is simply ideal for trout ; the beauty of it is, the 
trout are there, too. This creek is offspring to the Mount 
of the Holy Cross— or rather that range — and the waters 
are almost frappe. It flows past the old town of Gold 
Park, and empties into Eagle River a few yards below 
the Rio Grande depot. Gold Park is a deserted town 
of 500 "ghosts," and the angler will find all kinds of 
accommodation from a two-story plastered mansion, rent 
free, to an unpretentious blacksmith shop, or a grocery 
perdu. The place is reached by teaming fifteen miles 
from Leadville or from Pando. Start in about a mile 
and a quarter below the deserted town, and he who fishes 
down will find a number of little parks — natural gems — 
where (lie stream widens and deep pools are found. Then 
he wades into little canons, deep pools, and some rough 
waters. From the pools an expert, nay, one not so expert 
as might be, even, will pick out from the recurrent pools 
nice little chaps that will stretch his pocket scales to the 
pound, and even the two-pound notch. 
The Eagle River below Wolcott is noted for its big 
ones, and the water is now low enough for the big pools 
and long riffles that there, abound to be reached. This 
particular stretch of water is from Sherwood's to Bill 
Livingstone's, on the D. & R. G. R. R., and it takes a 
pretty good angler to come back with scales, because the 
old fellows are on to all the wiles of the best casters in 
the country. It is all a matter of patience and skill If 
the fish are rising there is likely to be "something doing,^ 
and there is plenty of broad and deep water to "do it in." 
In rainy weather this ideal spot for. the fisherman should 
be avoided, for the reason that Milk Creek which comes 
in at Sherwood's partakes of the color of its name and 
renders the river opaque also. If one carefully covers 
this stretch of perfect water for a day, he should return 
with a basket filled with lunkers. 
The writer and two friends are leaving to-night for the 
Green River in Utah. There are stories of fresh water 
salmon of forty pounds and under — with the emphasis 
on the "under," probably— who simply lie in water to 
grab any old sort of bait cast at^ them. These fish are 
also known as giant minnow, whitefish, and squaw fish. 
The object of this, trip is to capture a few specimens of 
these old hummers and send a photo or two to Forest 
and Stream. The result of the expedition will be made 
known at a later date. J. D. C. 
A Potomac Shark. 
Washington, Aug. 19.— A shark 9 feet 4 inches long 
was captured in the Potomac last week, four miles below 
Alexandria. F. A. Tyler, a farmer, and his hired man, in 
a trap net set for the common run of catfish in' the river, 
found the shark. The big fellow, who had gorged him- 
self on catfish, did not make much resistance, and the 
fishermen succeeded in getting a cable around him, towed 
him- ashore, and held him there until he died. He weighed 
328 pounds, and was 6 feel 7 inches around the girth. 
The shark 'will be stuffed and placed in the National 
Museum. 
My First Attempt at Fly-Fishing 
It was back in — well never mind, I was a lad at the 
time, born as all healthy country boys should be, with 
innate love for nature and all things pertaining thereto. 
In company with my father and grandfather, I had ac- 
quitted myself with honor among the hordes of school 
weakfish and striped bass; and one day at the mouth of 
a small estuary that ran through my : native village, I 
made fast to a big yellow-finned tide-runners — but, as 
Kipling says, "that is another story." 
At that early age I was a constant reader of Forest 
and Stream — that was when the outer covers were of 
pale green paper — and each week I saved my pin- 
money and purchased it from my newsdealer; also 
another paper, edited- by the renowned Wm. C. Harris, 
entitled, "The American Angler, Hook and Line." A 
slight digression will make it necessary to crave the 
reader's indulgence— it is strange" what a creature of 
habit man 1 becomes — somewhere I have read "the 
childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day" 
■ — and so after the lapse of all these years, I still cling 
to the old habit of purchasing my periodicals weekly 
from the newsdealer, instead of subscribing to them 
annually; and first and foremost among them all 
comes my childhood's friend, Forest and Stream, 
breathing its soothing influence into my ears when I 
am warmly ensconced in, gown and slippers, away 
from the city's broiling, festering streets. Each week 
I renew my acquaintance with my boyhood days, and 
so I hope, providence willing, gradually to grow a 
young old-man. I feel stronger and better after read- 
ing it, and find a partial answer to Eugene's Field's 
little poem: 
"O trees and hills, and brooks and lanes, and meadows, do you 
know 
Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? 
You see, I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; i| 
I'm looking for my playmates; I wonder where they are!" 
And then I take up Forest and Stream, and life 
seems less lonely as I indulge in retrospection. But, 
enough, I renew my acquaintance weekly with my 
former friends, and now to the point of my story. 
An old fellow's mind is apt to dwell on past events. 
In the columns of the mentors of my youth I read of a 
mode of fishing, different from any I had ever seen — 
it was the art of fishing with the artificial fly. It ap- 
pealed to me more and more as I read and reread the 
article, and so I determined to master this new- mode 
of fishing. My mother's duster suffered accordingly, 
as well as old Buck, the cat, and the old rooster, 
whose hackle feathers assumed a new importance. My 
first attempts resulted in a combination of hook, tinsel, 
feathers and sjlk that instilled anything but confidence 
in' my youthful breast — but blessed childhood, how 
hopeful and trusting they are! I persevered and took 
old flies apart and re'tied them until my eyes and 
fingers ached; but perseverance has its own reward, 
and mine came in time. 1 gradually became able to 
cut down the size of the feathered "Wabs," until finally 
the flies resembled somewhat the patterns of those I 
had seen. My first cast consisted of a red-ibis, a hlue- 
bottle and a red-hackle. I tied my own leader — a six 
foot, single gut, with one loop for the hand-fly. 
