204 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May, 1919 
I 
caught from a shaded pool, or from 
under a log is almost black, and one 
taken from an open pool in the swift 
waters is silver in shade? Again, the 
shading may be streaked. This is the 
protective coloration that the Creator 
provides for all wild life. 
The various ways in which different 
game fish take the bait is interesting. 
A bass or pickerel lunges forward and 
strikes a fly or a moving minnow with 
a viciousness that often snaps the line. 
They strike from the side and strike to 
kill. It has always been a question in 
my mind as to whether a bass strikes 
an artificial minnow to procure it as 
food or thinks that it is an enemy. 
Sometimes I have known them to strike 
a surface bait and knock it several feet 
in the air. A bass swallows a minnow 
at once. I am positive that the brook 
trout jumps at a fly to get food. The 
movement is hardly vicious notwith- 
standing the fact that the fight that fol- 
lows, if the trout is hooked, is quite the 
contrary. They practice all the cunning 
that the most experienced fisherman is 
capable of combatting. A brook trout 
jumps from the rear of the bait and 
usually comes clear out and greets you 
with a slap of his tail. In fact, they 
slap onto the water. The Brown trout 
approaches from the side and slowly 
sticks his nose out and draws the fly 
under. Unless you see him, you are 
liable to mistake the strike of a big one 
for a little fellow or perhaps a snag. 
The Rainbow usually jumps clear out, 
but with little display or spirit. One 
curious feature of their habits is that 
they are feeding at almost any time of 
the day. The Brown trout does not 
care for the colder water of our moun- 
tain streams and if plentiful, they mi- 
grate to slower currents and warmer 
water. 
Let me tell you how I got the fever. 
for such is the irresistible desire that 
comes over one with the coming of 
Spring, angle worms, and warm, quiet 
days. I think I was about ten years of 
age when my father sent me to spend 
the summer with my grandfather. 
Grandfather’s farm was a bit of culti- 
vated land, cut out of one of the wildest 
spots that is left here in Eastern United 
States. Why he had continued to live 
there on the threshold of civilization, as 
it were, was then beyond my sophistic- 
ated comprehension. Now I believe I 
know why; he loved the solitude of this 
quiet place. I can see him now on the 
porch rocking quietly in the dusk, listen- 
ing to the plaintive call of the whip- 
poor-will and gazing out over the Sinna- 
mahoning into the dark forest of heavy 
pine that bordered the house. 
O NE evening, as we sat there, I 
guess he realized that I was get- 
ting pretty homesick. “Boy,” he 
said, “looks a little like rain for tomor- 
row. I guess we’ll let the corn go, and 
go fishing.” 
In the morning the sky was lowering 
and the air was thick and heavy enough 
to cut. It was an ideal day. Grand- 
father scraped the chips from some dark, 
moist soil around the wood pile and dug 
some solid white angle worms. Then he 
got a couple of lines and some hooks 
from the woodshed and we set out across 
the “timber” back of the house. I re- 
member the infinite care he exercised 
in selecting two slender saplings for 
poles. Even today I never go through 
a patch of woods without estimating the 
possibilities for fishing poles of every 
young tree I see. He cut the poles, 
carefully wound the lines around their 
tips — starting two feet or more from 
the handle and winding to the top — in 
case the pole broke one would still have 
the line to fall back on and save the fish. 
After a mile’s walk, we came to Lush- 
baugh Run, a small mountain stream 
that had its source five miles up the val- 
ley. He baited my hook and his own 
and we started right in to fish. He 
always kept a little ahead of me, which 
I have noticed is one of the weaknesses 
of the seasoned nimrod. Well, I fished, 
and fished, and fished^ and only suc- 
ceeded in landing a small crab. I final- 
ly ran ahead and caught up with him. 
There was no fun here that I could see. 
He let me look in his basket which was 
half full of nice sized trout. Nothing 
there to appeal to me. It was beginning 
to sprinkle, and I wanted to go home. 
I was disgusted. Then the great hour 
of my life came. He dropped his pole 
and took me by the hand. We started 
away from the stream, making a cir- 
cle of about 200 feet. When we came 
within about ten yards of the stream 
again, we got down on our hands and 
knees and crawled through some rank 
ferns to a hidden pool. He cautioned 
me not to say a word, as the trout would 
hear us, which by the way, is a mis- 
taken idea. I peeked through the ferns 
at a still pool of dark water that lay 
below an old log. I looked more in- 
tently from my hiding place, and I saw, 
it seems now, a dozen big trout lying 
about two inches from the bottom, fan- 
ning themselves with their fins. My, 
but they did look wonderful. Then 
Grandfather carefully poked my pole 
over the trout and dropped a squirming 
angle worm into the pool. There was a 
splash and the next thing I knew we 
were grabbing at a big red and white 
fellow that was fiopping in the ferns. 
That was my first degree and although 
I have fished a great deal since that 
day long ago, I’ve never needed another 
lesson to show me the method or to con- 
vince me that there were thrills in catch- 
ing mountain trout. 
SHEEP HUNTING IN MEXICO 
A SHORT HUNT IN THE DESERT COUNTRY SOUTH OF THE ARIZONA 
BORDER RESULTED IN THE CAPTURE OF FOUR SPLENDID RAMS 
H aving killed most all kinds of big 
game found in this country except- 
ing the Rocky Mountain sheep or 
“Big Horn,” the most sought after of all 
our big game, I decided to try Mexico. 
Securing the name of a guide, I was 
soon in touch with him and on December 
26th, I started for a small station on the 
Southern Pacific, 50 miles East of Yuma, 
Arizona. On my arrival I was met by 
the guide with the outfit, excepting such 
portions as I had taken with me. I 
usually carry my own bedding, which 
consists of a light cotton mattress and 
three pair of woolen blankets and a 
pillow, all rolled in a tarpaulin made for 
the purpose. This tarp is made about 
18 inches wider than my bed and about 
14 feet long and is a heavy grade of 
canvas. I spread it out on the ground, 
make my bed on one half of it and 
pull the other half up over the bed; on 
By E. N. REQUA 
the sides I have rings and snaps to keep 
the wind from blowing it off. The heavy 
tarp on the lower side prevents damp- 
ness getting through and the tarp on top 
protects me from rain. On the road I 
fold the sides and roll it in a compact roll 
and tie it with a rope. My bed is always 
made. The guide’s bed consists of a few 
pairs of blankets. Our cooking outfit in- 
cluded a Dutch oven, frying pan, stew 
and bread pans, coffee pot, few tin plates, 
knives, forks, etc. Our stock of groce- 
ries consisted of a small sack of flour, 
one-half slab of bacon, coffee, sugar, salt, 
pepper, baking powder, lard, prunes, 
strained honey, condensed milk, canned 
peas, com and tomatoes. The rest of our 
outfit consisted of a small dun pony, and 
a Spanish mule hitched to a light spring 
wagon. Not a very elaborate outfit, I 
grant you, and it did not compare very 
favorably with the outfits usually fur- 
nished by the Northern and Northwest- 
ern guides, but it was all sufficient for 
the section of country in which I in- 
tended to hunt. 
It seldom rains in Southern Arizona 
and that portion of Mexico during the 
winter season and the thermometer rare- 
ly if ever reaches the freezing point. 
Besides it is necessary to go light, as one 
has to haul all feed and water for both 
man and beast, there being no vegetation 
and very little water in that locality. 
A ll day we travelled toward the 
Mexican border across a barren 
waste with nothing to see, except 
giant cactus and scattered greasewood. 
About eleven P. M. we arrived at a pot- 
hole in the rocks, where we camped. This 
watering place is known all over South- 
ern Arizona and Northern Mexico. 
Around this place were hundreds of 
