142 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Jan. 31, 1914. 
Trout-Fishing in Switzerland 
A Journalist Takes a Fishing Trip in St. Moritz 
T HE speaker was a sporting acquaintance who 
had spent some weeks in the Upper Enga- 
dine, and further information yielded the 
intelligence that one might fish at—and around 
about—St. Moritz with the certainty of getting a 
good run for a fractional expenditure. So, say¬ 
ing good-bye to the cares of journalism, and 
leaving the “silly season" to the care of other 
scribes, I found myself one sunshiny August af¬ 
ternoon standing on the platform of the Sama- 
den station, where a red-capped stationmaster 
(with the manner of a field-marshal) assured me 
that my proposed tour of the St. Moritz, Camp- 
fer, Silvaplana and Sils lakes would prove one 
long joy. He also suggested that the Samaden 
river was well stocked with trout, and that, al¬ 
though my luggage and fishing-tackle were des¬ 
tined for St. Moritz—a couple of miles further 
on—I could not do better than break the journey, 
completing it by a later train. “One of the por¬ 
ters will lend you a rod,'’ added the obliging offi¬ 
cial, “and the first village boy you meet can dig 
up a handful of worms for bait. The office of 
the Kurverein is on the way to the river, and the 
official there will give you a license—for two 
francs. Auf Wiedersehn!” 
Hobbling over t)he cobble-paved High Street 
of primitive Samaden was no joke, and the 
quaint, old-world houses, with their tiny, deep- 
set windows, huge projecting eaves, and carved 
wooden doorways, did little to take my attention 
off my suffering feet. But when, after fishing 
for less than five minutes, I had hooked a two 
and a half pound trout, “pain into pleasure’’ 
speedily gave way. Nor did my luck begin and 
end here, for within the next few moments a 
second worm disappeared down the throat of a 
rash two-pounder, two trout of lesser dimen¬ 
sions being added to the bag after an hour’s ang¬ 
ling. Making my way back to the station, I pre¬ 
sented the fish to the friendly station-master, who 
thanked me with an effusiveness in which there 
was a tinge of restraint. The mystery, however, 
was cleared up by a conversation between two 
porters wflio had witnessed the presentation of 
the gift, and from which I learned that in the 
Engadine, fish is not considered of any account 
unless the fisherman delivers it alive to the cook. 
Upon arriving at St. Moritz, the first thing I did 
was to provide myself with a receptacle some two 
and a half feet long, and made to contain water. 
“Now,” quoth the Swiss Whiteley, “you will be 
able to eath fish brought direct from the lake to 
the mouth.” 
A LICENSE FOR FIVEPENCE. 
Everybody at St. Moritz being astir early, 
eight o’clock the next morning found me on the 
hotel terrace, tackling the cr'sp rolls, thick moun¬ 
tain honey, and coffee with an appetite which in 
London is usually denied one till later on in the 
day. Perhaps the altitude (6,090 ft.) and the 
abounding vitality which is in the rarified air 
have something to do with the visitor’s capabil¬ 
ity in this direction, while the coffee is—now that 
the French chicoried substitute has become un¬ 
drinkable—decidedly the best in Europe. Mean¬ 
while there were other things to be thought of 
besides cafe complet. A license, costing the trif¬ 
ling sum of fivepence, but only permitting the 
holder to fish from a boat, had to be taken out; 
and before embarking on t! e day’s sport it was 
necessary to ascertain the best means of luring 
the trout from the pellucid depths. So, strolling 
by the lake-side, I put the necessary question to 
a diminutive, gnome-like Swiss, about four feet 
high, who was flourishing a long, tapering rod, 
all in one piece such as the local sportsmen use. 
The perspiring pedestrian, though willing to help 
me, had to admit his ignorance of fishing mat¬ 
ters:—“True, I carry a rod,” said he, “but it is 
one I have purchased second-hand to present to 
a friend. I am a laundryman, not a fisherman.” 
Rounding a bend of the lake, I nearly fell over 
a swarthy, operatic-looking angler, who, in re¬ 
ply to my friendly “Guten Tag,” eyed me suspi¬ 
ciously, and muttered something rather crossly 
m Romansch, a soft-sounenng, attractive patois 
based on French, Italian, Spanish, and La'in, and 
spoken by some twenty-five per cent, of the in¬ 
habitants. Upon my questioning him in Italian,, 
he said, “Non so ”—“I don’t know”—from which 
it was evident that he had no intention of en¬ 
lightening me in a language which he probably 
knew quite well. 
Another attempt—this time on a French-speak¬ 
ing fisherman—proving equally fruitless, I* con¬ 
cluded that something was wrong with the en¬ 
tente which had always existed between the En- 
gadiners and the confiding stranger. Rising, 
however, to the occasion, I succeeded in adjust¬ 
ing the difficulty by simply asking the uncom¬ 
municative fellow if I might offer him my catch. 
Almost embracing me, he told his tale of woe. 
Rich English milords,” the aggrieved sportsman 
declared, with many a theatrical flourish of his 
attractively sunburnt hands, “give their fish to- 
the hotel managers, who would otherwise buy 
from us.” Within a very short time the accom¬ 
modating man had provided me with a box of 
worms, and as I was rowed fifty yards out in a 
curious green-painted punt, scarcely nine feet 
long, and shaped like a triangle, he reminded me 
of my promise. Between half-past nine and 
half past twelve I managed to land no fewer 
than eight trout, the largest of which weighed 
two and a quarter pounds, and the smallest a 
quarter of a pound less. A monster, looking like 
a ten-pounder, got away owing to my not play¬ 
ing him sufficiently; but a seven pound fish, 
which I caught with a minnow, was safely pulled 
into the funny little cockle-shell, which I had 
hired for two francs an hour. The profes¬ 
sional angler to whom I handed my catch was 
probably enriched thereby to the extent of sev¬ 
eral francs. 
After dejeuner I spent three more profitable 
hours in the squat, triangular boat, the bag con¬ 
sisting of fourteen trout, ranging from three 
pounders to a wretched, attenuated specimen 
weighing ten ounces. These were caught with 
worm bait, and without the slightest trouble; I 
simply baited the hook every ten minutes or so, 
dangled the worm in front of the feeding fish, 
and awaited developments. Thus ended my first 
complete day’s angling, che total amounting to 
twenty-two trout. 
THE “DRY” FLY. 
The following morning I devoted to fly fish¬ 
ing, and, for nearly an hour, without success. 
The trout were plentiful enough; but, although 
T could see them lying behind each other in 
lines, cast after cast was made in vain. Indeed, 
by the time I had tried almost every fly in my 
book, I was on the point of ignominiously re¬ 
verting to the less spor f, 'ng ground-bait, when a 
brother-fisherman—a French visitor—came to the 
rescue. “The ‘dry’ fly,” he volunteered, ‘‘that is 
the. thing.” Selecting a small march brown, the 
amiable sportsman showed me how to make the 
bait float by rubbing it with odorless paraffin, 
and how to prepare the cast and the end of the 
line with vaseline. “In casting your 'dry’ fly in 
A Jolly Bunch of Fishermen—Not Imported. 
