February, 1922 
FOREST AND STREAM 
89 
The next morning we started early 
and fished upstream a half mile, then 
back to camp, and it was nearly noon. 
The river offered continuous casting all 
the way, and we each took a side, wad- 
ing the riffies. 
We did not keep count of our fish, as 
most of them were returned to the water, 
and we kept only a few of the smaller 
ones for eating. However, a number 
of mine reached the 15-inch wrapping 
on my rod. 
In the evening I caught one which 
scaled an even 20 inches, and several 
other somewhat smaller from the same 
riffle. The next evening, after a day of 
loafing about camp, I fished just an hour 
in a long deep riffle below the lake out- 
let, and took 14 trout weighing better 
than a pound each. Jimmie puddled 
about the lake on a raft, trying for big 
ones, but without success. 
Thus, we soon tired of fishing for the 
time, and decided to travel again, and to 
gradually work up the 30 miles of can- 
yon to a point where a way might lead 
out to the little golden trout lake of 
which we had heard. Always, after the 
mountains have secured a hold, comes, 
sooner or later, the spell of exploration 
and adventure. 
That evening two young fellows, pack- 
ing a couple of burrows, camped near 
us, and later they came over to sit by 
our fire. One was quite a mountaineer, 
with his large six-shooter, sheath k.iiife, 
and enormous hob-nailed boots. Jimmie 
listened, spellbound, to the learned lec- 
ture on woodcraft and kindred subjects. 
Suddenly a terrific animal cry wailed 
out through the canyon ; it was repeated. 
Our woodsman pronounced it a lion, 
and drawing his trusty Colt’s, handed me 
the flashlight. We followed the sound a 
short distance up the trail — and came 
upon Jimmie’s saddle mare nickering 
loudly for the other animals, from which 
she had become separated. 
O UR next day was a leisurely jaunt 
up the river trail, through fragrant 
piney flats and dense river jungles. Oc- 
casionally we would come out into the 
bright sunlight to cross a brush-covered 
talus slope which slanted sharply up to 
the granite canyon walls. 
Lower Funsten Meadow captivated us 
for a period, and we again waxed lazy, 
loafing long hours under the giant pines 
and firs. 
We chatted with the sunburned and 
happy San Joaquin Valley folks, who, 
with many romping children, were 
spending the summer here. We built 
an elaborate camp, with a special stone 
cooking range and a table ; and essayed 
puddings, cakes, and even dried fruit 
pies in the little reflector baker. 
Always the fishing was good, but we 
saved our efforts for the- evening hours, 
when the big fellows would move out 
into the open riffles and play with our 
floating flies. Trout under a pound were 
disdained, and enthusiasm was saved for 
those of 15 inches or larger. The favor- 
ite flies were Royal Coachman, Grey 
Hackle, and Brown Hackle, with Queen 
of Waters, Red Ant, and Black Gnat 
fairly good. I used the double winged 
English dry flies, hut without bothering 
to treat them; a few casts in the air 
Are STFUL sail through 
