394 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Sept. 28, 1912 
The Impulse to Fish 
By COLEMAN RANDOLPH 
The trail topped the raise beyond a small 
“saddle,” and I saw where the lion had stretched 
out on the sunny side of a large boulder and 
taken a nap. Going a few feet further I came 
on to the fresh tracks of two lions following 
up the rim. Following the trail I noticed at 
times blood in the footprints of the big one. 
After trailing about 300 yards the tracks turned 
and went down through the rocks under the cliff. 
Motioning to Jim to come up close underneath, I 
stepped out to a small point and stood looking 
down toward the lower edge of the cliff. As 
I stood watching I heard the report of Jim’s 
rifle, and whirling around I caught full view of 
a large lion as he sprang out of the rocks some 
thirty yards away and throwing up my rifle, a 
•25-35 repeater, I fired just as he cleared the 
ridge toward the timber—a snapshot at his flank. 
Running hastily to the top I was gratified to 
find him down, clawing and biting. As I drew 
on his neck he gave an enormous bound, and 
clearing the edge of the cliff, fell tumbling and 
clawing to the foot, almost on top of Jim, who 
was looking for his lion among the rocks. The 
lion continued down the side of the hill, which 
was very steep at this point, and as he was mak¬ 
ing pretty fair time, although unable to use his 
hind legs, I fired again at about 200 yards, strik¬ 
ing him in the back, when he rolled down the 
hill into a steep gulch, finally bringing up under 
a large sage brush. 
Knowing that he was about “all in,” I helped 
Jim search for his lion, which we found in the 
course of a few minutes at the foot of a large 
rock. It was a female, probably about three 
years old, with a beautiful skin. Dragging her, 
we went clown to where the big lion had stopped. 
He was unable to go far, but still was very much 
alive, snarling wickedly as I adjusted my camera 
and snapped him as he growled at me. Then a 
well-planted shot under the chin finished him and 
his record of deer killing. 
On examining him we found that my first 
shot had struck him in the right flank and rang¬ 
ing forward had entered the backbone near the 
shoulders, paralyzing his hind parts. The second 
bullet had struck him fair in the back and gone 
into the lungs. Jim had shot his through the 
heart as it was slinking around a rock about fifty 
yards away, killing it almost instantly, after 
which it had rolled down behind the rock. 
After skinning them out, leaving the feet 
and head intact, we packed them up and struck 
the trail for home, well satisfied with our day’s 
hunt. 
After arriving at the cabin, eating supper 
and having a smoke, we stretched them out and 
made the necessary measurements. We found 
the smaller one—the female—stretched seven feet 
seven inches, while the male, an old-timer, meas¬ 
ured exactly nine and a half feet. Another thing 
we noticed was that he had lately been having 
a fierce battle, as his head and forearms were 
badly bitten, the holes left by the teeth of his 
adversary being almost entirely fresh, not yet 
having started to heal, and one fore claw was 
completely gone. Judging from the fact that he 
had been fighting led us to believe that there 
must be another large one around, but we will 
reserve him for another hunt. 
Forest and Stream has for nearly forty 
years been a weekly messenger of sporting news 
in hundreds of homes. 
N O one has been able to discover the fountain 
of perpetual youth. The quest is not alto¬ 
gether so vain, however, as some imagine. 
The idea of attaining perpetual youth is a dream 
of a by-gone age which the hard practical sense 
of the present knows cannot be realized. It is 
possible, however, for one to renew his youth 
repeatedly by getting close to nature and living 
the care-free, outdoor life. This is the only 
elixir that rejuvenates and makes over the man, 
giving back to him the health and spirits of his 
BEAVER DAM. 
earlier years. A return to the haunts of wood¬ 
land and stream in a wilderness where the pa¬ 
tience of the sportsman is rewarded, where the 
camera enthusiast can likewise achieve a blood¬ 
less success, will furnish diversion that rarely 
becomes stale with repetition. 
I was actuated by no philosophy such as I 
have just given when I yielded to an inclination 
to visit again the preserves of the Tourilli Club. 
I simply yielded to an impulse, just like a duck 
that takes to the water; he doesn’t reason about 
it, he goes in because he likes it. The philosophy 
will do for those who have drifted away from 
their natural tastes and feel that an artificial life 
is the only kind worth living. When the love for 
outdoor recreation asserts itself, the natural ten¬ 
dency seeks the right course without having it 
prescribed like a sugar-coated pill. 
1 left the great metropolis with feelings that 
could in no sense be likened to that of a two- 
year-old colt just exuberating in excess of ani¬ 
mal spirits. In fact, it was a question in my 
mind whether I would not reach a log cabin 
in a state fit for a hospital. 
The first day’s tramp of ten miles over moun¬ 
tain trails made me fit to enjoy a good square 
meal of whatever might come off the griddle. 
As I surveyed the placid waters of Lake 
Long in the twilight gradually merging in the 
shadows thrown by the wooded promontory that 
overlooked the lake, I saw the surface disturbed 
by the jumping trout. I hungered so for these 
speckled beauties that I almost believed that I 
could have eaten one of them raw. After two 
weeks’ experience, having them three times a 
day, I was convinced that I would not change 
the petition, “Give us this day our daily bread,” 
by substituting trout in the place of bread. 
The first day, Aug. 18, I arrived at my des¬ 
tination, Lake Long, in a condition that enabled 
me to enjoy a night’s repose on a spring mat¬ 
tress of balsam bows hastily gathered and strewn 
over one of the bunks constructed on either side 
of the log cabin. My slumber was finally dis¬ 
turbed by a flapping of wings, and I became 
conscious that a bat had flown in and was shar¬ 
ing the cabin with me. I opened the door and 
without harming him bade him go forth. 
Perhaps the reader recalls the classical quo¬ 
tation from Lawrence Stern, when Uncle Toby, 
catching a fly that had distressed him, permitted 
it to escape from the window, “Go, poor devfl, 
get thee gone; why should I hurt thee? This 
world surely is wide enough to hold both thee 
and me.” Before leaving home a bat entered 
my room one night and I thoughtlessly captured 
him in my fishing net. When I had killed the 
bat, he had torn the bottom out of the net which 
I fixed by tying it up with a string. What motive 
induced me to give the second bat his freedom 
I have not stated. I have presented the facts; 
the reader can draw his own inference. 
It was still too early for the largest fish in 
the lake to rise to the fly. They could not be 
tempted with the dry-fly nor the other kind. I 
had to be satisfied with trout that weighed from 
one to two pounds and a half. When the 
weather gets colder the larger trout come more 
frequently to the surface and take the fly. Dur¬ 
ing the warm spell the large trout no doubt pre¬ 
fer deeper water because it is cooler. 
When the weather is favorable, which is 
generally the case, this lake presents a most pic¬ 
turesque and attractive appearance located among 
well-wooded hills that descend rather sharply 
into its waters. No modern improvements have 
disturbed its primeval slumber. The dip of the 
paddle as one is silently conveyed from place to 
place is in harmony with the natural surround¬ 
ings. The constructions around the lake similar 
to those in other localities in the club preserve 
are of the simplest kind, consisting of a couple 
of log cabins for the members, their guides and 
the guides. No naphtha launch has yet broken 
the primeval calm with its exhaust while furrow¬ 
ing the waters of the lake. 
When the sun had ushered in another day 
crisp with the freshness of early dawn, I lost 
