84 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
This is a long way from fishing; but perhaps 
not so far as it seems. The mystery of dorado 
fishing can never be understood if description 
is confined to mere catching of fish. He is a 
part of his surroundings, and his pursuit is 
coloured by them. It is impossible to think of 
it without recalling hot still dawns with the 
last strands of mist quitting the water, or 
blazing afternoons when the surface of the river 
was as metal fusing with heat, and the sun’s 
track could not be looked into. And over it and 
round it are the strange birds, and the tropic 
sky, and the banks of white sand and the dark 
rocks, and at the edge is the sombre forest. 
The first stream tried was too low. In 
October the Parana may fall feet in the night, 
and what was a rushing water in the evening 
be only a languid current at morning. At the 
swirl, right at the head, a dorado did hook 
himself for a few seconds, but soon kicked off. 
So up we went, to a stream near the top of the 
stream-system we were fishing. It was rather 
too high, rough and heavy, and shot away 
almost straight across the river. It began very 
swift, compressed between submerged rocks, 
then widened and steadied, with broken water 
on the far side, and beyond that a racing glide. 
It took two to paddle the canoe across to the 
head, but once there we got into a quiet eddy. 
I had for bait a thin metal strip, five and a-half 
inches long and an inch wide, with a large 
