310 
FOREST AND STREAM 
The Time of My Life 
A Thunder and Wind Storm Dampened Things Up Some, and Gyrating Minnow-Pail Smashed the Dishes— 
But We’re Going Again 
I T WAS four in the afternoon when we clam¬ 
bered off the train laden with rods, tackle and 
baggage, but with hearts light in expectation 
of sport to come. We soon had our liveryman 
around to the station where the baggage was 
loaded on the wagon, and with our little party of 
five munching crackers and bananas we started 
on the hard though beautiful drive of twelve 
miles over the mountains. 
In a few minutes we were out of town and 
starting up a mountain brook which made an easy 
ascent possible. Just about dark we reached the 
summit, having thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful 
scenery presented all along the road which closely 
followed the stream as it went tumbling along 
beneath the young timber that had sprung up 
since the lumberman and subsequent fires had 
ceased their devastation. At the top of the moun¬ 
tains we saw great banks of fog below and off 
to the north of us. Into this we soon dropped, 
and shortly afterward stopped to light a lan¬ 
tern. 
The drive down the mountain that night proved 
very interesting in certain limited senses of the 
word, for the lantern was continually going out 
as we jolted along, whereupon we would have to 
stop and relight it, for the fog made it dark and 
dangerous going, little flurries of rain livening 
us up meanwhile. 
We reached the hotel without further incident. 
There we were heartily greeted by the landlord, 
whose acquaintance we had made on previous 
trips. After a good, plain supper we pumped 
the good-natured fellow to the limit concerning 
the fishing, which he said was fair and seemed to 
be getting better every day, and retired to our 
rooms. 
The next morning bright and early—all but 
the bright—we had.an old character named Peter 
haul us to our camp site of the previous year. 
Peter, who, so far as we ever found out, had no 
other name, was a lumberjack of the old days, 
who was now spending his last years in seeming 
contentment, tinkering around the inn-keeper’s 
little farm for his board, drinks and a meager 
salary. Once at the grounds we lost no time in 
getting the tents up and baggage under cover, for 
the rain which had been threatening all morning 
now was apparently at hand, but it held off, and 
by noon camp had been made and everything put 
in order. 
The site was ideal. A few rods from the river 
bank we had pitched our two tents with a dining 
fly between, under which we made a table from 
a board door that had drifted up on to the bank. 
Back of the tents there was a grove of great 
sycamores and water birches with a fine sod 
beneath, and good water at a farmhouse not far 
distant. The view up the river was a sight to 
thrill anyone; the forested mountains on both 
sides of the river covered with second growth 
hardwoods, with a grand old pine which had 
escaped the lumberman’s axe growing here and 
By Gilbert S. Watts. 
there, and in the distance another mountain loom¬ 
ing up in the river valley where the stream 
forked. 
After an excellent dinner, topped by the finest 
of huckleberry pies—compliments due the lady at 
the farmhouse—we caught some minnows from a 
tiny meadow brook exquisitely and elaborately 
bordered with dainty wild forget-me-nots, and 
A Likely Spot. 
set about to secure the morrow's breakfast. This 
proved an enjoyable task, for the gamy small¬ 
mouthed black bass with which the stream is 
well stocked were ready for anything. That 
evening at camp we emptied from our baskets 
plenty of fish for breakfast. 
During our two weeks’ stay in camp we had 
all the fish we could use all the time, and many 
which we took were returned, the wiser for their 
experience, I hope. True, we caught no mon¬ 
sters, but, nevertheless, we had some exciting 
times. One evening as father was returning to 
camp, rather disgusted with his luck, he noticed 
a small pool not over three feet deep, and think¬ 
ing that he might possibly make an addition to 
the small company in his basket, he cast a min¬ 
now into the most likely place. The bait had 
hardly touched the water when several bass 
jumped at it. At the end of a few minutes fa¬ 
ther had nine bass safe in his basket, and then 
the biting, or rather jumping, ceased. 
Many times after this incident we tried the 
same pool, but only twice did we meet success; 
then I caught eleven and my brother eight. The 
fish taken from this pool did not run as large 
as in deeper water, but they were the finest ever 
for the frying-pan. When done up brown, with¬ 
out any flour or meal, in lots of frying fat heated 
just to the smoking point, those little fellows 
made a dish fit for any mortal. They were also 
not hard to eat after a few minutes in the re¬ 
flecting baker. It was real fish, not merely so 
much foodstuff made tasty by seasoning. 
We could do no successful fly fishing on ac¬ 
count of the unfavorable condition of the water, 
but according to reports fine catches had been 
made just before our arrival by night fly-fishing. 
The particular stream which we were on is 
usually ideal for fly-fishing, as it drains a tim¬ 
bered region and is almost always as _clear as 
crystal, with but slight rises at any time. 
Our last day in camp began with a steady rain 
falling from a dark sky. As there were no indi¬ 
cations of the rain’s stopping, I threw a poncho 
over my shoulders and started out to try my 
luck, while the others stayed in camp awaiting 
better weather. At eleven I returned with no 
fish of any account, and, as the sun was then 
shining in a clear sky, we ate dinner and started 
out immediately afterwards, hoping to make a 
nice catch to take home. 
I went down stream and father up, while my 
brother fished near camp. During the after¬ 
noon I had the time of my life, as also did fa¬ 
ther. Immediately after leaving camp I landed 
a lively little fellow from under a sunken log, 
and moved down stream to one of my favorite 
pools. On the way I tried several others, but 
with no success. Having arrived at the pool, I 
fished it all over with minnows, but took nothing 
until I tried pulling the minnow over some beds 
of moss in about two feet of swift running water 
at the lower end of a smooth stretch. I took 
but one fish in this manner, so I went back to the 
pool and fished it again, this time with small 
crawfish, but I got no better results than before. 
I went on in this way until I had tried min¬ 
nows, crabs, crickets and large grasshoppers, 
then the spell was broken by a tiny toad, who 
made the mistake of his life when he jumped 
down the bank at that particular moment. I had 
fished him all over the pool, and was nearing the 
upper end, when I got a half-hearted strike. 
After giving some time I struck as hard as my 
rod allowed and hooked my fish. The fight he 
made was beautiful, as much of the play could 
be seen through the clear water. He glistened 
and shone in the late afternoon sun as he leaped 
repeatedly, gallantly fighting to free himself from 
his unknown enemy. For a small-mouth a foot 
long plays a good game for the angler with a 
five-ounce fly rod. 
Next day this fine creature was cooked, served 
and unceremoniously eaten. And remember the 
fate of the countless chubs, minnows and even 
promising young bass that crossed his path be¬ 
fore you criticise the angler as being hard¬ 
hearted. 
