176 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April, 1919 
A WASHINGTON TROUT STORY 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
T he busy life of a civil engineer on 
railway construction affords little 
time for trout fishing, although it very 
often takes him to regions where trout 
are plentiful. An elderly native, who had 
the best varment dog in the state, as well 
as a line of bear, deer and trout stories 
that invited extreme credulity, had often 
told me of a certain stream, back in the 
timber. 
Taking advantage of my hard earned 
and carefully arranged for holiday, three 
a. m. found me pumping the speeder over 
the main line, toward a junction with a 
logging road. Four level miles sped by 
in short order and I had arrived at the 
junction. The logging road was a differ- 
ent story. Grades up to eight per cent., 
geared engines being used to haul with, 
for no ordinary locomotive could begin 
to negotiate such grades and neither 
could I with the speeder. For quite a 
few miles of the ten-mile road I had to 
walk and push th« speeder. However, 
dawn was just breaking as I reached 
the end of the road and prepared to 
ascend the skidway, the next stage of my 
journey. A Washington skidway is made 
by putting three logs together so as to 
form a huge trough. Where possible it 
is laid on the ground, and is supported 
by cribbing across draws and very un- 
even ground. It is steep enough to per- 
mit us to descend by gravity. When 1 
had reached the top of this one I was 
willing to rest for a few moments. 
Luck was with me when I hunted for 
the blazed trail, for I found it in no time. 
The trail led for three miles through the 
virgin timber and was fine going. It 
brought me to an old abandoned wagon 
road, which I followed for five miles and 
which ended at a ten acre clearing, long 
since deserted. 
I was now within three miles of the 
stream, but there were no more trails to 
aid me on my way. It was a three mile 
plunge through the jungle. It is difficult 
to convey any idea of the terrific density, 
of a Washington forest to one who has 
never experienced one. Gigantic trees, 
six to twelve feet in diameter, and of tre- 
mendous height, a very heavy under- 
brush, due to the great rainfall, mon- 
strous windfalls which are difficult to 
either climb over or go around, in fact 
such a forest is all but impassable. How- 
ever, I wrestled onward. At times I was 
certain that I heard the roar of the 
stream, but upon listening carefully, dis- 
covered that it was the wind in the tree 
tops. Finally I heard the real music 
of the water, and after a sharp scramble 
I was beside it. 
No beaten fisherman trail along the 
banks here with empty tin cans, pieces of 
paper and remains of lunches to greet you 
at evei'y turn. It was a virgin stream 
and all mine for a time. I hastily jointed 
my rod, and then opened my creel. Dur- 
ing my plunge through the jungle the 
lid had become loosened and my fly book 
was gone. There are moments in one’s 
life that will never be forgotten. To re- 
trace my steps in search was more than 
impossible. I sat down, unpacked my 
creel and discovered imbedded in the 
straw a common old three for a penny 
number six steel or maybe iron hook. A 
blue white diamond would not have 
pleased me as well. 
A search under some stones in a shal- 
low backwater revealed perriwinkles ga- 
lore, and with one of these impaled on 
my hook I was ready to cast. The line 
slowly swirled along with the current, 
hesitated in a little eddy, there was a 
chug and a zip and shortly I was land- 
ing a twelve inch mountain trout. 
Stream of streams, accustomed to the 
well fished waters of the east where one 
or two ten or eleven inch trout make a 
very handsome top for a string, to me it 
was a revelation. 
A sharp rapids, terminating in falls with 
a great pool at the foot, furnished trout 
up to fifteen inches, until I moved on for 
a mere change of scenery. Next a great 
log jam backed the water up. Creamy 
foam extended for ten or twelve feet 
back from the logs. Right at the edge 
of the foam more big fellows awaited my 
hook. So I continued until in an all too 
brief period a creel that tugged heavily 
Two fine Rainbows 
at my shoulder, and thoughts of the re- 
turn journey, warned me to quit. 
With most acute regret, I turned from 
that glorious stream, sliding away 
through the wonderful forest, and dived 
up through the jungle. Over the wagon 
road and across the blazed trail, down 
the skidway lickety-split, by gravity the 
same as the logs, in a jiffy I had the 
speeder on the track and was enjoying 
the “joy-ride” of my life. Nothing to do 
but work the brake, and well before sun- 
down I was back to camp. 
The first person to greet me was my 
elderly friend. 
“Well,” he said, “You have been lost.” 
I displayed my catch. 
“No,” he said, “You didn’t get lost, 
but it beats me how you ever got there 
and back by this time.” 
It does me too, when I think of it. 
A. T. Hooven, Washington. 
THE HUMBLE FROG 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
T HAVE read Forest and Stream for 
^ quite some time and have noticed that 
your contributors write about all other 
game but leave the humblest of them 
without space in your wonderful maga- 
zine on wild game. That is the reason 
for this little letter about the humble frog. 
He has given me many a happy hour spent 
in quest of this wise fellow, for those who 
have hunted him will acknowledge that he 
is quite clever in hiding and disappearing 
when you find him and are aiming at him. 
I will try to tell why I consider Mr. 
Frog good sport. One reason is that he is 
within easy reaching distance of all. My 
second reason is that he offers an oppor- 
tunity for the use of a rifle and my last 
reason is that when fried he makes a 
tempting morsel. By that I mean his 
hind legs and if he is very large his back 
has enough meat to make it worth while 
to prepare sometimes too. 
Mr. Frog is hunted best with a twenty- 
two calibre rifle, using the twenty-two 
short or long cartridge, whichever your 
rifle is chambered for. It has been my ex- 
perience that he is most likely to be found 
in swamps and sluggish moving water. I 
have never had any success in clear, swift 
running water. 
I am sorry to say that like most of our 
large game, even the small frog is slowly 
being wiped out. I speak only for certain 
sections on Long Island, where a few years 
ago I could take my rifle or the red flannel 
and hook and after a short walk reach a 
swamp where in ten or twenty minutes I 
could get enough large fellows for a meal: 
but the inroads of the small boy with the 
rifle and the slaughter of the small frogs 
is slowly cleaning him out, and the ones 
that survive are so wild you can not get 
near enough to see them before they dive. 
C. Mathewson, Brookljm, N. Y. 
ON COOKING WATERFOWL 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
Your inquiry as to the best method of 
cooking strong flavored waterfowl is one 
often asked by sportsmen. There are 
many ways but one of the best is given by 
a British brother sportsman who says: “I 
gladly give hereafter a recipe much appre- 
ciated in Normandy for cooking strong 
and oily flavored birds, such as waterhens, 
coots, scoters, scaups, etc., and making a 
tasty stew: Salmis. — Do not pluck your 
bird, but rather skin it. First, carve off 
the members and cut them into pieces as 
well as the carcass. Prepare a brown sauce 
with a lump of butter about the size of an 
egg and a tablespoonful of flour. When 
your sauce is getting to a flne chestnut 
color, add a saucerful of onion chopped 
very flne; then a bottle of red wine and 
half a tumbler of water. Season well with 
salt, pepper, a little nutmeg or Worcester- 
shire sauce, and a bunch of herbs. Put the 
pieces of your fowl in the stew, but retain 
the liver. Keep it simmering for two 
hours. Then mix in the liver crushed to a 
pulp, along with a tablespoonful of bread- 
crust raspings. Stir well for a couple of 
minutes over the fire and serve. A few 
potatoes added in due time to cook in the 
above stew are often thought to improve 
the flavor.” 
It would be quite easy to get the half 
tumbler of water, but where, after July 
first, will we get the bottle of red unne 
which our British brother speaks of so 
flippantly? — [Editors.] 
