942 
FOREST AND STREAM 
FISHING FOR MONTANA GRAYLING 
BEING THE STORY OF A VETERAN BLACK BASS FLY FISHER WHO 
JOURNEYED 2,000 MILES TO CATCH THE “FLOWER OF FISHES” 
By J. L. Phillips. 
A GOOD deal of interesting information hav¬ 
ing appeared in recent numbers of Forest 
and Stream concerning the grayling, it 
seems to be an opportune time to relate my ang¬ 
ling experience with the Montana grayling last 
September. 
After a few days of very fine fly-fishing, wet 
and dry, for the red-throat trout of Snake river, 
in Idaho, I departed for my objective point, Mon¬ 
tana, being desirous of making the acquaintance 
of the Montana grayling. Through the kindness 
of my friend, Dr. James A. Henshall, I was pro¬ 
vided with an “Open Sesame” letter of intro¬ 
duction to Mr. Peter Kersemacher, postmaster at 
Grayling, Mont., in the Madison River Basin, a 
few miles west of Yellowstone National Park. 
I received a cordial welcome from Peter and 
his good wife, and after a bountiful supper we 
talked of the prospects of grayling fishing. Peter 
advised me to lose no time but to begin fishing 
at once, inasmuch as the fish would drop down 
to the deeper water of Madison 
river as the weather grew colder, 
and it was then the first week in 
September. Accordingly, the next 
morning we drove to the head of 
Grayling creek, to the home of Mr. 
Dan M. Halford, deputy game and 
fish warden, to procure a non-resi¬ 
dent fishing license. When he 
learned that I was from Texas, and 
had travelled two thousand miles to 
catch a grayling, he became inter¬ 
ested for, as he said, he was some¬ 
thing of an angler himself. He 
asked to see my tackle, and tak¬ 
ing my three-ounce split bamboo 
baby brook fly-rod in his hand he 
switched it a time or two rather 
gingerly, and somewhat doubtfully 
a quiet smile meanwhile lurking 
about the corners of his mouth. He 
admired Hardy Brothers’ reel, lino 
leaders and flies, and was curious to 
see what the American grayling 
would do to an English fly on a 
number twelve hook, as a man with 
the name of Halford naturally 
would be. Then handing me my li¬ 
cense, he placed his hand on my 
shoulder, saying: “You have come 
a long way to fish, but if it’s grayling 
you are after I don’t blame you a 
bit, for it’s worth it.” Then the old 
gentleman said: “Come along and 
I’ll show you a pool where you can 
take a big one, and I’ll be glad to 
see you do it.” He proceeded to the 
creek where I put on my waders, as¬ 
sembled rod, reel, line and leader, 
and looped on a “heather moth” on a 
hook a little smaller than number 
twelve. Mr. Halford led the way, 
Peter following with lunch basket and 
camera, while I brought up the rear. We had 
not far to go, and Mr. Halford soon said: 
“Here’s the pool; now get to work.” 
The water was ice-cold and absolutely limpid 
and as smooth as a burnished mirror. I then 
made my first cast—I shall never forget it. Then 
I cast again, with no response, but at the third 
cast I saw a shadow rise from the bottom with 
a swiftness that challenged the eye to follow. 
It was like a faint shadow cast upon the surface 
by a swift-flying bird. I felt nothing, but to my 
surprise a grayling had taken my fly and leaped 
from the water before I could realize what had 
happened. I must confess that I was somewhat 
excited, if not a little dazed by the suddenness of 
it all, and then the experience was entirely new 
to me. 
The first move of the fish on regaining the 
water was to make a long sidewise sweep down 
stream, which I permitted for awhile before 
snubbing him, whereupon he made a dash up 
stream for about the same distance as before 
when I again checked him. These movements 
were made with remarkable swiftness. He then 
concluded to try a straight-away dash until I 
stopped him, which he acknowledged by leaping 
several times in quick succession. After playing 
in much the same way for two or three minutes 
I slipped the net under him. 
Wetting my hands I unhooked him and held 
him to my nostrils a moment to detect the pleas¬ 
ant cucumber odor. I then admired his trim and 
graceful proportions, his banner-like dorsal fin, 
unique and beautiful form and coloration. The 
bright sunlight was reflected from the polished 
facets of his small scales in scintillations of in¬ 
candescent hues. It was altogether lovely, and 
the name “flower of fishes” is appropriate and 
well-merited. I could not help noticing how 
fresh and clean it was, and so free from slime. 
In flesh and fins and bones it weighed but three- 
quarters of a pound, but in beauty and loveli¬ 
ness its weight was a score. Return¬ 
ing it to the water I heard the war¬ 
den say, in an aside to Peter: “Not 
big enough, I guess.” Following the 
suggestion of Mr. Halford we moved 
down stream to where he said was a 
better pool and larger fish. Sure 
enough, a larger fish took my fly at 
the first cast, but he leaped at once 
and threw out the hook. After sev¬ 
eral more casts without result we 
moved lower down to what the war¬ 
den called the best pool of all, which 
it proved to be. My first cast brought 
from the bottom the largest grayling 
we had seen. He seized the fly on 
the rise and my baby rod and myself 
soon realized that we had better 
work cut out for us, for he proved 
strong and resourceful. Whenever 
I snubbed him he leaped and sig¬ 
nalled for more line. It was five 
minutes before he showed signs of 
weakening, but at last he was netted, 
unhooked, weighed, admired and put 
back into the stream as a tribute to 
his gameness. He weighed exactly 
a pound and three-quarters. On see¬ 
ing me return the fish to the water. 
Mr. Halford seemed a trifle put out, 
and asked me if I expected to catch 
a whale in the creek. I smiled and 
assured him that I did not visit his 
grand country and crystal streams to 
“kill” fish, but for the sport of play¬ 
ing them to a finish before returning 
them to their native element, perhaps 
to give some sport to another ang¬ 
ler. A short silence then ensued, 
when the old fellow grasped my 
hand and said: “Mr. Phillips, there 
are no flies on you except those lit¬ 
tle, fuzzy fellows around your hat 
Photo by A. R. Dugmore 
In the Home of the Montana Grayling. 
