Aug. 3, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
135 
In Quest of the Red-Eyes 
By J. B. THOMPSON, Author of “The Tale of a Quail” 
I T has always been my practice in spring, after 
the last cold spell, or at least after what is 
imagined to be the last, to make my obeis¬ 
ance to the small-mouth of Current River, Mis¬ 
souri. This had so long been the case that I 
considered it really a necessary procedure in 
order to propitiate the fish gods in my favor. 
Personally, I have always believed it to be the 
through mountains, right in the maple sugar 
camps of Shannon county. Big Creek; that is 
the one. 
I remembered once a visit there without rod 
or fishing tackle of any kind. Yes, that was the 
place where I cast the early grasshopper on the 
hastening waters and the great rush of red-eyes 
after it. In a few days I had arrived at Emi¬ 
BIG CREEK. 
best red-eye stream I have come in contact 
with, while its fish were the strongest battlers 
I had ever engaged with, its waters the coldest 
and by far the clearest, and the fish ran larger 
in size. I have had only one complaint to register 
against it—the late period in spring before the 
bass rose to flies; sometimes they remained until 
the latter part of May before offering battle with 
the light fly-rod. 
Other nearby streams offer fishing a month 
before, but as with the exception of Eleven Point 
they contain the less belligerent big-mouth. They 
have been unable to lure me from my favorite. 
But my favorite stream takes the melting snows 
from so many formidable chains of hillsides. 
The water is very late before it has enough 
warmth to bring forth the little bronze warriors 
from their lair of rock. However, a month’s 
idleness from a stream in spring is unthought of 
by the angler, so I planned a little sortie to 
one of the tributaries, reasoning that where the 
water warmed earlier, fishing would be of some 
consequence. 
Nevertheless I had to think of an ideal place. 
There were Buffalo and others, but too many 
big-mouth in them to suit me. Then I began to 
count over acquaintances of the kind from Cur¬ 
rent River’s source, and I knew only one creek 
would fit my wants. It must of course be a 
tributary of Current River, have its start from 
springs in the mountains, rock and gravel bot¬ 
tom, fairly deep and particularly swift, nearly 
all its length, as a mill race. Then as suddenly 
came to my mind a small stream way up, cutting 
nence, the county seat on the Jack’s Fork of 
Current River. 
While I had gained this little town, plas¬ 
tered by some miracle on the side of a hill, and 
by a greater miracle it remained there, I had 
only passed a few of the terrors incident to the 
journey. The undesirable train service looked 
almost like comfortable traveling, when I re¬ 
alized that the remainder of my journey was to 
be made on foot over steep acclivities, numerous 
waterways, and not the least among the native 
element hostile to visitors if they bear any re¬ 
semblance to their conceptions of certain State 
officers. Unfortunately I came within the latter 
classification, and the well-meaning prosecuting 
attorney had warned me at the last moment 
against exposing my identity and protested 
strongly my making the trip on foot and alone. 
But an angler has little consideration for 
other than the subject of his quest. I was 
anxious to be off. However, Jack’s Fork had 
taken a sudden rise and was too deep to ford 
and not a boat in sight, so I remained a day 
in the terrace-situated town and watched a snow 
storm chill my prospects, but not my ardor. 
Fortunately the following day broke clear, and 
in an hour the sun, under the influence of a warm 
southern breeze, had vanished. Somewhat rest¬ 
less I took a stroll down the stream and found 
a small boat moored to a clump of leather wood. 
There was only one way to acquire its services; 
that was to appropriate it without asking. So 
I ran hastily to town, gathered my scanty lug¬ 
gage, threw it in the craft, and after a hard 
struggle poled her across the rapids. I left her 
fastened for some other wayfarer. 
Knowing the depths of the main streams I 
decided to avoid them. Keeping close within 
touch of them I could tell my whereabouts 
wherever I happened to be. I knew the river 
routes well, but back in the untouched wilder¬ 
ness of the pine, where houses were not to be 
met up with, I was dependent on those signs 
of direction which nature posts in the wild coun¬ 
tries. I got my course as I passed the last farm 
and swung along the bluffs for a short distance 
and left the stream right at the point where the 
river makes its horseshoe bend. 
A trail was discovered across the first hill. 
It was followed to the northeast until it reached 
a rapid creek, whose bed of flat rock made quick 
falls in its haste to the river. It was Sheldon 
Creek. While its water was clear and it pos¬ 
sessed the desirable swiftness, it lacked the depth 
of the typical small-mouth stream. I pursued it 
for a mile or more before I discovered a cross¬ 
ing. 
Evidently the cold had still a grasp on the 
CURRENT RIVER. 
