348 
FOREST AND STREAM 
August, 1921 
tributory streams. He loves the gen- 
tle ripples, deep, dark haunts beneath 
the roots of overhanging trees, the cata- 
combs of drift piles, the errosion cham- 
bers of the banks and the shade of 
overhanging bushes. The rainbow is 
quite another trout. He is the aristo- 
cratic buccaneer of big waters. His her- 
itage is the deep, boiling rifts, swift 
currents, and dancing whirlpools. An- 
gling for rainbows in the vortical tu- 
mult of racing water is trout fishing 
raised to its supreme eminence. 
It was in such water that I had my 
initial experience, and I have ever since 
been a devoted member of the rapidly 
growing rainbow cult, but let me de- 
scribe it in detail, then you will have a 
keener knowledge of the surroundings 
which the rainbow loves. 
Q UITE by chance four of us were 
enticed by one of those rugged 
beauty spots nature has so often 
wrought in unexpected places, into 
pitching our camp on a broad tongue of 
land, purple with fragrant pennyroyal 
in full flower, which lay like a thick 
carpet before a spruce and balsam for- 
est, bordered by a wide band of grey- 
waslied cobble, where an occasional 
mullen shot up its lusty spike. Lapping 
this stony border the tireless, insatiate 
waters of a wild little river raced along 
the base of a curving ledge which 
reared upward a sheer three hundred 
feet and drifted back in a terrace of 
evergreen hills. It was an imposing- 
spectacle. At one point a jutting 
thumb of rock stuck out into the river, 
and the arch of a cavern showed black 
and sinister. At another a spring 
leaped out of a crevice near the top and 
poured down in a noisy trickle, keeping- 
alive a soft, velvety band of lichens 
which lent the only touch of color to 
its sombre, sunbaked face. High up on 
its rim a scrawny line of cedar scrub 
fought with storm, and frost and sum- 
mer drouth for a precarious existence. 
There is something about the might 
and majesty of churning, tumbling 
water, unfettered and unconquered, 
that tingles with the very essence of 
outdoors, impressing man with his own 
unimportance and arousing a profound 
admiration for the wonders of nature. 
The sun went down behind the hills 
in a great sheet of bronze and copper- 
colored lights which glowed in the west 
like the reflection of a gigantic mid- 
night fire. The mountain air grew cool. 
Drift logs were kindled and for a long 
time we lounged about on the purple- 
flowered pennyroyal within its dancing, 
mellow circle, saying little, contented 
to be alone in a bit of kindly wilderness, 
where the heaving, tumbling water, 
roaring its lullaby song, drowned out 
the droning, nocturnal voices of the 
night. What better setting could a 
tired outdoor -wanderer find for his 
hour of rest? 
I awoke with a start. The hills were 
silver grey. Dawn was swiftly driving 
shadows before it. Here and there a 
brilliant star still glittered faintly in its 
filament of velvety blue. Our night fire 
was a grey heap of smouldering ashes 
from which thin little ribbons of smoke 
curled lazily upward; its acrid aroma 
smothered by the heavy, sweet perfume 
of the dew covered pennyroyal. In the 
spruce and balsam overshadowing our 
tents the feathered musicians of the 
forest were raising their voices in a 
twittering welcome to the coming of 
day which was all but obliterated by the 
wild little river’s rampant rush. 
I crawled reluctantly from my blank- 
ets and tossing fresh fuel on the dying 
embers stood for a moment looking out 
over the purple flat at the cerculean rap- 
ids. With startling suddenness a fish 
left the water right in the midst of the 
whirling spume. Hastily I secured my 
rod and dashed for the river. 
For half an hour I sent my flies 
swinging here and there over the white 
boiling water, seldom succeeding in 
placing them exactly where I desired, 
with never a strike. I had about decid- 
ed that I was wasting my energy upon 
a phantom and might just as well go 
back to camp and mix up a batch of 
flapjacks and nrt the bacon over the 
fire. Reluctant to leave I made a final 
cast and a breeze catching my flies sent 
them down into the vortex ten feet 
from where I had intended them to 
drop. Caught in the rush they were 
whirried over a bit of submerged rock 
that pounded the water into a seething 
spray. Unexpectedly there was a shim- 
mer of silver in the spume and spindle 
and I struck with all the strength that 
I dare use. My rod shook and vibrated 
under the strain of a tremendous rush 
which ended in a magnificent leap and 
I saw a rainbow for the first time. A 
mile down stream I took him out of a 
quiet pool. He was not so large as the 
fish I had seen leave the water but plen- 
ty big enough for an amateur rainbow 
angler to practise on. 
Right there I learned something dif- 
ferent about trout fishing and was 
cured of all desire I ever had to go to 
California and manhandle a broadbill 
shark with light tackle. To me it was 
a novel experience. I tempted fate a 
dozen times, took a partial morning 
bath, risked my life and limbs all with- 
in a mile. What more could an adven- 
turous spirit ask in the shape of ex- 
citement and novelty on a fishing trip? 
T HERE may be people who have 
caught rainbows out of placid 
pools and gently flowing creeks, 
but I never have. It is not their natural 
environment. What they like best are 
streams of moderate depth and size like 
the Ausable of Michigan and those of 
the Keene Valley, New York. They pre- 
fer rough, swift water, full of rocks 
and rifts and boulders, where the best 
and most suitable clothing for the an- 
gler to wear is the aboriginal breech 
clout of Poor Lo and a pair of caulked 
boots heavy enough to keep his feet 
down and his head up when he falls in 
the water. 
Although exceedingly active and com- 
paratively free from disease and fun- 
gus, the rainbow likes the same little 
bugs and flies and what-nots of the 
water which appeal to the more dainty 
brook trout. It goes without saying 
that there are days when he seems to be 
fasting but generally speaking he has 
the appetite of a hard working black- 
smith. He -will eat a gill of bugs, a 
gross or two of flies, a mess of scuds 
and aquatic caterpillars, and top it off 
with a fingerling or two, and still rise 
Yeely to any of the standard trout flies, 
which he seems to prefer when tied to 
a No. 8 Sprout hook. The good old re- 
,; able coachman is the most acceptable, 
vith the March brown, and brown hac- 
kle as second and third choice, although 
’-e is whimsical and fickle enough to want 
Parmachene Belles the very day that 
you happen to have only one in your 
fly-hook. 
Now and then some lucky angler 
takes a brook trout which will tip the 
scales at five pounds. A walloper of 
that size is rightfully regarded as too 
noble a prize to grace the frying pan. 
He is no longer a mere fish. He is a 
trophy, so his skin is stuffed with plas- 
ter of Paris, given a coat of shellac, 
mounted on a varnished board and is 
carefully preserved for the angler’s wife 
to dust. 
Five pound rainbows are without dis- 
tinction. They are just common eating 
fish. As a trophy they are as devoid 
of merit as a cod fish or haddock. In 
Northern New York and as far west 
as the Pacific Ocean anglers catch speci- 
mens weighing up to eight pounds and 
never raise a ripple in the local papers. 
One would hardly expect to find good 
rainbow fishing south of the Mason and 
Dixon line, however, if you want a rain- 
bow of ten or twelve pounds to mount 
and happen to live in the region of Key 
West, the most convenient place to find 
him would be in the mountain streams 
of western North Carolina. 
On the other hand if your are pos- 
sessed of plenty of time and money, and 
have an unquenched thirst for a taste of 
the wildest angline in the world, try the 
Grand Raoids of Saint Mary’s River, 
(continued on page 368) 
