April, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
161 
porizing. Turning his back he walked 
rapidly away from the stream with the 
rod bending over his shoulder. The 
struggling fish was hauled ignomini- 
ously to shore and dragged out upon 
the rocks where he flopped off the hook. 
Davy promptly got between him and the 
wfttsr 
“Sucker!” he yelled wrathfully. “A 
darned sucker!” 
“No, no,” said Charles in soothing 
tones. “That’s a mountain herring, and 
a mighty fine fish — just as good as a 
trout. He’s a dandy, too; must be close 
to a two pounder!” 
Charles’ creel held twice as many fish 
as Davy’s and mine together when the 
pangs of hunger turned us back toward 
the car and lunch. We decided to put 
to the test Charles’ claim for the qual- 
ity of the herring by frying it in a 
separate pan. The trout Davy and I 
had taken we managed to crowd into 
two large pans, leaving Charles his 
catch to take home to his family. Like 
the true sportsmen we claimed to be we 
wasted nothing. We could detect no 
difference whatever between the her- 
ring and the trout — and that is speiak- 
ing mighty well for the herring. 
The big spread disposed of we started 
on the forty-six mile run down the val- 
ley of the Du Chesne to Myton where 
Mr. Charles makes him home. He had 
sent his little car back by one of the 
district supervisors. 
“These streams along the main road 
are a good deal fished, of course,” said 
Mr. Charles. “Now, if you could take 
the time to go into the mountains with 
saddle and pack horses you would find a 
wonderfully attractive country. 
- Almost countless beautiful lakes, clear 
and cold, with tall pines growing close 
to the water’s edge, and swift streams 
choked with beaver dams, all teeming 
with big trout. I can’t go on the trip 
with you, but I have to go over to the 
mouth of White Rocks Canyon at the 
north side of the Basin where one of 
our canals heads, and I believe I can 
make arrangements for you with my 
friend Jim Wilkin at the Crossed L 
Ranch.” 
“Davy,” I exclaimed. “Are you 
awake?” 
“I don’t think so,” Davy replied. “But 
if I am I want to make that trip!” 
W E slept in Myton that night. I 
remember pondering upon the 
significance of a sign I had seen 
upon a closed door near the hotel, 
“Myton Free Press. Don’t knock!” And 
then it was morning again and the sun 
was shining. 
The government roads in the Uinta 
Basin are excellent. Less can be said 
for those maintained by the Indians and 
occasional white settlers. With the two 
cars hitting smoothly we quickly cov- 
ered the ten miles to Roosevelt, where 
we laid in additional supplies, and after 
continuing five miles farther on the 
main highway turned north twelve miles 
to the Ute town of White Rocks. Six 
miles of sandy road took us to the 
Crossed L Ranch. 
Dark clouds were gathering over the 
mountains to the north as we drove up 
to the ranch house, which was tucked 
Three pound cut-throat 
in a sheltered cove against the base of 
the Uinta Range. Three men were 
hastily topping out an enormous stack 
of alfalfa hay against the coming of 
the storm. We were just in time for 
dinner, and although we voiced some 
mild statements about having provisions 
in the car we were forthwith ushered to 
the table. 
“Jim,” said Charles to Mr. Wilkin, 
the boss, “can you fix up these friends 
of mine for a trip in the mountains?” 
“Sure,” the boss replied. “We’ve got 
some saddle horses and a pack mule that 
would just enjoy some mountain scen- 
ery.” 
Fred Sargent, a partner in the ranch, 
sat across the table. He was a tall, wiry 
young fellow with a month’s curly blond 
beard on his chin and face deeply burned 
by weeks in the hay fields. Anyone 
could see he was entitled to a vacation. 
“Why don’t you go with us, Mr. Sar- 
gent?” I suggested. 
“What do you think, Jim? Can I 
get away for a few days?” 
“Sure,” Jim replied. “Maybe you 
better stop at Walt’s place as you go by. 
Probably he’ll want to go. Gene and I 
can finish the hay.” 
The storm clouds surged down across 
the shoulder of the mountain and the 
wind freshened as the thunder began 
to roll and mutter overhead. Gene and 
the boss climbed upon a load of alfalfa 
standing at the end of the long stack 
and hastily began flinging it aloft as 
Fred galloped out across the pasture to 
run in a bunch of saddle horses. 
Half a dozen wiry cow horses and a 
pair of big mules soon came thundering 
in at the gate. 
We had three of the horses saddled 
and tied under a shed and were packing 
one of the mules when rain began to 
fall in torrents. Gene and the boss 
joined us under the shed. The pan- 
niers were loaded with stuff from the 
ear and we were heaving up the bed 
roll wrapped in a tent. 
“Who’s going to throw the diamond 
hitch on that outfit?” the boss enquired. 
We severally admitted our ignorance 
of its mysteries. 
“Then I guess I’d better go along for 
chief packer. I haven’t been fishing this 
summer.” And he proceeded to secure 
the pack with what, for all any of us 
knew to the contrary, was the genuine 
simon-pure diamond hitch famed in 
song and story. 
Just before sundown the rain clouds 
cleared away and we started up through 
the cedars for the mouth of White Rocks 
Canyon. Fred stopped for Walt, and 
as darkness closed down we forded the 
river and started up what seemed to be 
the roughest trail in existence. By the 
light of a dim new moon I could see 
Davy ahead with his feet out of the 
stirrups, ready to leap if his horse 
should fall over a cliff. Sargent had 
given me his favorite horse and saddle, 
and as the old cow horse seemed to 
know more about where he should go 
than I did I left the matter entirely to 
his judgment. Whenever we crossed 
any water he put down his head and 
stopped. 
“Don’t let Ginger fool you,” Fred 
called back. “He’s just hunting for 
bullfrogs.” 
We made camp and prepared our mid- 
night supper where Paradise Greek 
empties into the White Rocks. 
A T the break of day we rolled out. 
Twenty minutes after it was light 
enough to see a fly upon the water 
Davy and I had trout enough for break- 
fast. The morning sun was gilding the 
lofty crags and pinnacles to the west 
of the narrowing canyon when we ford- 
ed the stream and pushed on up the 
trail. In the middle of the forenoon we 
went into camp at a grassy spot and 
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