Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1 50. 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.-No. 18. 
127 Franklin St.. New York. 
A Fishing Trip on the Upper Sacramento 
Row, boys, row, for Cal-i-for-ni-o, 
There's plenty of gold 
So I’ve been told, 
On the banks of the Sacramento. 
HAT is the chorus of a sailor’s ‘'chantey” 
which I once heard sung by a lot of 
apprentices on board a deep sea vessel, as 
they were hauling the ropes. Whatever truth 
there may be in the information conveyed in 
these crude lines I have no means of judging; 
I suspect rather that there is a great deal of 
virtue in the “I’ve been told,” and those who 
may go to the banks of the Sacramento in the 
hope of finding “plenty of gold” will probably 
return disappointed. But they will find there 
something that is better than gold; they will find 
the best fly-fishing trout stream in the State of 
California. There also they will find magnificent 
scenery, snow-capped Mount Shasta and the 
fantastic domes and spires of Castle Crags; 
mineral springs bubbling up out of the granite 
rock, virgin forests of pine trees, whose health¬ 
giving aroma might (according to Mark Twain) 
restore a mummy to life; an atmosphere pure 
and invigorating by day and cool and refresh¬ 
ing at night. Instead of gold, let one go there 
in search of health, and his must be a hopeless 
case if he does not find it in this grand and 
delightsome region. 
To reach the Upper Sacramento at the best 
point for fly-fishing, get a “camper’s” ticket to 
Castella, and take the train that leaves San 
Francisco at 8:20 p. m., thereby avoiding the 
long, hot, dusty day trip through the Sacramento 
valley, which is monotonous in the extreme. 
Miles upon miles of waving grain may be an 
inspiring sight to an economist or a financier, 
but we are neither, so we prefer to spend that 
part of our journey in our berth and wake up 
as the train has passed Redding, and is entering 
the canon of the Sacramento. The copper smelt¬ 
ing works at and around Keswick might appeal 
to the instincts of the aforementioned classes 
of humanity, but to us they seem dreary and 
grim, and this impression is heightened by the 
strange lack of vegetation in the neighborhood; 
caused, we are told, by the fumes of the copper 
ore. However, we soon leave this uninviting 
region, and as we advance up the canon, the 
mountains on either side begin to assume a 
ruggeder, grander form, the thickets of shrubs 
and the trees take on a livelier shade of green, 
and the air as it blows in at the open windows 
is laden with the perfume of pine needles and 
flowers. And there is the river, now smooth as 
a lake, now racing and boiling in foam, the spray 
almost dashing up to the steps of the cars as 
By GEORGE ST. J. BREMNER 
we go skimming along. Now we plunge into a 
tunnel and emerge on top of a fifty-foot bridge, 
whose massive granite piers seem to have been 
built to last for all eternity. Here and there 
the canon broadens out into a little valley, and 
we catch a glimpse of rows of fruit trees laden 
with fruit, and recumbent cows enjoying the 
shade. We cross and recross the river several 
times, and the morning is still young when we 
alight at our destination and lift our hats to 
lofty, snow-clad Mount Shasta, towering away 
to the north, gleaming in the strong sunlight in 
a setting of dark pine woods with the weird, 
fantastic mass of Castle Crags to the left—a 
most magnificent picture. 
Accommodations to suit the most fastidious 
can be had here, but we prefer camping in the 
beautiful shady grove known as Sweetbrier 
Camp. Here under magnificent pine trees we 
can sling our hammocks and enjoy our mid¬ 
day siesta, lulled by the music of the river as 
it races over its pebbly bed, and at night enjoy 
a sweet refreshing sleep in the open air on the 
bosom of Mother Earth. 
Stevenson, in one of his outdoor rambles, 
speaks of his waking up at some hour of the 
night, as if the earth had gently nudged him, 
and he remarks that this is a common experi¬ 
ence with all outdoor sleepers. On three suc¬ 
cessive nights I awoke about the same hour. 
Vega was almost in the zenith, seen through 
a rift in the branches overhead, and so clear 
and calm was the atmosphere that the small 
double star near it could be plainly separated. 
I was never sufficiently interested to strike a 
light and ascertain the time at which the earth 
gave this particular suspiration. Perhaps some 
of the astronomically inclined can say at what 
hour Vega was in the zenith at the end of June. 
There is a fine genial fixity of life around 
Sweetbrier. No one ever dreams of earthquakes 
or strikes. The dread of dynamite is unknown. 
You have come from the city where there is 
the perpetual danger of a smash-up. To live 
gS gjfe .'“THERE ARE MANY OPPORTUNITIES FOR FLYFISHING.” 
