®08 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. % 1904. 
On Capon Again. 
With the plaintive cry of the catamount, the musical 
murmuring of the riffles, and the splash of the bass still 
in our ears, the Shenandoah Rod and Reel Club, com- 
posed of Charlie Brown, Carson and Dorsey Yeakley, 
Al. Cline, and our mascot, little Jack Greenwalt, better 
known as "double hitter," are yet dreaming of their camp 
on Capon this year. 
We left Winchester town on August 1 from Grant's 
livery, where we had been discussing camping and fishing 
for the last month. It was after 10 o'clock, P. M., when 
we got out of town and on to the blue pike, and as we 
jogged along recollections of our former trip to Capon 
two years ago came to our minds. We all distinctly re- 
membered what a big time we had riding on the hay 
ladders, and how we had to get off every now and then to 
get our inside machinery in the right place again. Arriv- 
ing at the river, we saw that it was muddy, and knew 
there would be no bass fishing for a few days anyhow. 
Going on_ up along the river we stopped at old Break 
Neck Spring, our camping site. Before long the smoke 
from our stove was mixing with the Capon River fog, 
and the delicious odor of coffee perfumed the atmosphere 
about us. After breakfast we got the camp in shape. 
Some were driving tent pegs, others making tables and 
benches, and Dad Yost, who came up with us to take the 
team back, wanting to test his piscatorial abilities before 
starting back, had taken "double hitter" and gone up the 
river. Before long we heard the kid yelling at the top 
of his voice, and looking up we saw Dad coming, hold- 
ing at arm's length an enormous turtle. The old fellow 
was snapping and kicking like a steer, but Dad had him 
hooked fast, and brought him on to camp, and put him 
into a box. We told Jack if he didn't be a good boy now 
we'd put him in with the turtle. Jack was a good boy. 
After supper that evening Dorsey Yeakley got out the 
cards and said. "Come on, let's have a game of pitch." 
mto the main river you could see them. Off from Calico. 
Rock Billy Ryan and Lou Winkley could be seen, and 
just below them Carson Yeakley and Charley Brown were 
trying it from the bank. Maury Patterson had gone 
up the river a short distance, and running across Uncle 
Johnny Hiett, had stopped a few minutes to listen to one 
of his famous hunting trips. Dave Patterson was in his 
glory out in the riffles nearby, and Harry Hardy was 
somewhere — you couldn't see him— but when he did show 
up, he had some. Away down the river, almost to Maple 
Landing, you could distinguish Mr. Affleck (better known 
to the boys as Uncle Scott), working hard out in the 
riffles. Mr. Affleck says the only way to get them is to 
go out after them. 
Sunday had rolled around, and Quartermaster Dorsey 
Yeakley gave his ultimatum that there was to be no fish- 
ing. That settled it, although I do not mean to say any- 
one would have fished had it been otherwise. Even the 
telephone office was closed, and from the appearance of 
the receivers the next morning there must have been a 
good many calls that day. 
On Sunday we had a visitor in the person of Mr. Gran- 
ville Chapman, of Slanesville, W. Va., who is what you 
might call an honorary member of the Shenandoah Rod 
and Reel Club, from the fact that he so seldom gets to 
go with us. He is a member of our camp, but only gets 
with us when we go to Capon, which is about eight or 
nine miles from Slanesville. We are always glad to see 
Granville, because he seems to enjoy himself, and is so 
glad to be with us. "Talking about 'white people,' " as 
one of the members of the camp below us said, "Granville 
Chapman is as white as snow." He' came down to the 
camps several times while we were there, and always 
filled up his buggy before leaving. In the afternoon Mr. 
Chapman, Charlie Brown, and Carson and Dorsey Yeak- 
ley made a trip to a diamond mine — at least they started 
for it — where it was said you could get diamonds as big 
as your head. Well, they started out, each with a long 
soon asleep, with nothing to disturb our slumber, save the 
rolling of the riffles, bidding us a last farewell, and seem- 
ing to say : 
Come back, come back, some other day, 
When the bass can see and want to play. 
We pulled out the next morning about 9 o'clock, and 
stopped: at the telephone office to answer a long distance 
ring from a big turtle on the other side of the river. 
We got him, put him into a big bucket, and brought his 
turtleship on to town. Al. Cline. 
Winchester, Va , Sept 21. 
Fly-Casters and Bait-Casters* 
Pittsburg, Va— Editor Forest and Stream: Mr. Ken- 
neth Fowler's communication^ which, with its title, "Bel- 
grade and Some Digressions," was published in Forest 
and Stream of October 1, I read with some amusement. 
The amusement was derived from the exceedingly comic 
pen picture which he drew of those who presumably en- 
joyed his society during his fishing trip, and who were 
unconscious of the public ridicule with which Mr. 
Fowler's pen would glorify them later. I have also 
learned from Mr. Fowler that your true fly-fisherman, dis- 
tinguished from his fellows by "the great line of demarca- 
tion" * * * "which divides the fly-fisherman and the 
bait-fisherman" by virtue of much self-laudatory vain- 
glory, is warranted in having the quintessence of sport 
with fly and fish and also with his pen, with which he im- 
pales his companions, and holds them up to public ridicule. 
Humor and wit, or the attempt at such, have their 
proper times and places among friendly groups. However, 
the publication of the peculiarities of one's companions 
for the edification of the world at large, seems to me to 
be an act of doubtful taste and ho wisdom. 
But my purpose was to dissent from Mr. Fowler's class- 
HARDY CAMP. 
The old torch was lighted, we gathered around the table, 
and once more we were enjoying a game of cards in 
camp. The members of the club never play cards only 
when they go camping, and then we really do enjoy a 
game under the light of the old camp torch. 
There was no fishing the next day, the water was still 
muddy, and it stayed muddy the most of the time we were 
there. "Well," said Carson Yeakley, "let's stretch the 
telephone line across the river; if we can't catch bass, we 
can catch other kinds of fish." - We got out the wire and 
stretched it across, putting the receivers about six feet 
apart, and kept open office both day and night, but we 
missed a great many night calls, because there was no 
one to answer them, and the callers got restless and rang 
off. We worked it all right during the day, and collected 
quite a good deal of fare. 
Thr.rsday another camp from Winchester was expected, 
composed of Messrs. David and Maury Patterson, Louis 
Winkley, Flarry Hardy, Will Ryan, and S. A. Affleck. 
About 6 o'clck we heard the rumble of their wagons, and 
pretty soon the procession came in sight. They stopped 
a few minutes at the spring to refresh themselves, and 
then proceeded on down the river, expecting to pitch their 
tents about five miles below us, but they found the road 
so rough that they had to turn back. They put up camp a 
short distance below us, so we were practically all one 
big, jolly camp. 
And I must not forget another camp, that of the Idle- 
wild Fishing Club from Paw-Paw, W. Va., who were 
stopping about a mile above us, composed of Misses 
Huldah Gross, Lillie Robinnette, Minnie Gross, Mamie 
Loy, Lillian Moser, Mr. and' Mrs. Joseph Largent, Carl 
Conway, R. J. Largent, Oliver Wentling, and Charles 
Moser. We had the pleasure of several visits from this 
camp, and it is needless to say that the Winchester 
bachelors often found time to lay aside their beloved 
fishing tackle to call at the Idlewild camp and enjoy the 
company of these charming girls from West Virginia. 
They were all good anglers, and could cast a bait with the 
ease" and grace of Harry Hardy. They had been there 
abouf a week before we earns, and were tQ leave th§ fol- 
lowing Sunday, 
The vm .nionving both mmp= weffc out mhlng, and 
Pfft TwM& Ipfifif timt % tM fvfii M4 Pi) Mfa 
SI 
club with which to keep off the wildcats and rattlesnakes, 
and as a helper in climbing the mountains. Along about 
6 o'clock they straggled into camp, and a more disgusted 
lot you never saw. About 4 o'clock a terrific thunder- 
storm had come up, which made their trip all the more 
disagreeable, but they kept on, climbing mountain after 
mountain, expecting every moment to have their eyes 
dazzled by the glittering gems of the diamond mine. They 
finally gave up the search and retraced their steps, soaked 
to the skin by the rain, and footsore and hungry. It 
wasn't safe to say anything about diamonds the next day. 
"Double Hitter" caught his first bass this year, and it 
was a sight to see him land his fish. He was figurating 
around on the rocks off Break Neck as to where he 
should throw in. He finally concluded to try .it by an 
old tree which had lodged in the riffles. After putting a 
nice big fat worm on his hook and spitting on it, he said : 
"Now, I guess I reckon that'll get you," and quietly 
waited for developments. Presently Jack's cork disap- 
peared. He grabbed his pole and commenced to pull, but 
having right smart line out, he couldn't manage it, so he 
threw down the pole and tried it "nigger" fashion. He 
got himself, line and fish tangled up in the branches of 
the tree, and when he finally extricated himself, he was 
slightly disfigured, but he had his fish. 
Several parties in the lower camp brought then- 
cameras with them, and dozens of pictures were taken of 
the scenery along Capon, which in later years will serve 
to take us back to the scenes of our younger days when 
we fished and camped together. Our camp is greatly in- 
debted to the Messrs. Patterson for several photographs 
of our camp. 
Time was now drawing near to leave, and we all hated 
to think about it, for we were having a good time, fishing 
a little, resting a little, and recuperating, after a long 
season of work in the city. The last day in camp every- 
body fished hard in order to have a bunch of fish to take 
home, and strict attention was paid to rings -at the tele- 
phone that day, which helped us qu| considerably in in- 
creasing the size of our strings. 
Dad arrived about 6 o'clock Thursday night, and after 
looking after the team, w e sat down to supper for the 
\m time en fiapofli f&r tbt rims being* fttitwrti We 
\m sHr m M m$ ™ Hw wpi m pr« 
JANDOAH SOD AND REEL CLUB. 
ification of fishermen. I specify it as Mr. Fowler's classi- 
fication for the sake of identification. It is, however, 
merely a repetition, in a way, of what has been oftentimes 
the ipse dixit of other fly-fishermen. 
I have fished with both fly and bait. In my experience, 
the art of fly-casting, as duly enjoyed by the guild, con- 
sists essentially of two factors. The lesser factor is to 
fish with more or less success with the fly. The greater 
factor is to swell, strut, and vaingloriously boast of the 
fly-fisher's superiority over every other class of fisher- 
man on earth, the bait-fisherman in particular. 
Read this modest self-appreciation gravely set forth by 
the skillful authority, as follows : "The gentlemen who 
have reached this high estate (fly-fishing) can climb no 
higher in piscatorial altitudes; they can breathe no more 
rarified atmosphere ; they stand on the summit, and look 
down with pity on their brethren who are groping below." 
I think it real nice of Mr. Fowler to acknowledge so 
kindly and humanely that those so far below his rarified 
piscatorial altitude are "brethren." The "brethren" have 
a source of never-failing enjoyment in casting their eyes 
upward, and reverently gazing on the "gentlemen" far 
skyward on the summit of Mr. Fowler's personal idea. 
The gentle Izaak Walton, on whom Mr. Fowler, from 
his nebulous heights, bestows profound honor by a mere 
mention, was a bait-fisherman, and perchance something 
of a "plain plugger," if one may do him further honor by 
fitting him to the Fowler classification. Therefore he had 
no just right on earth to take wings into the piscatorial 
altitudes, and I now move you, Mr. Editor, that the name 
of that fishy deceiver, Izaak Walton, be crossed from the 
Hall of Fame, and that hereafter he be known as Ike the 
Plugger. A benighted world has mistakenly revered 
him through many generations for his heartfelt words, 
which he so quaintly bestowed on the gentle art, uttered 
for the good of all his fellows, and not for the purpose 
of self-glorification, a trait from which he was commend- 
ably and pleasingly free. Nor did his acts imply that by 
debasing the sport of his fellows he exalted his own. 
Now, I have seen some fly-fishermen who were "plug- 
gers." I have seen some who were not gentlemen, I 
have seen some whose flv-fishing was limjted by the 
restrictions of the fantastically artistic— pre^y rods, flies, 
Ifasii and Wttw } have seen otbiri wh&si m eensUtei 
In mmi l^mmfi J have igiri stiwt vbm ethisi 
