90 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[July 15, 1911. 
I had fished for half an hour or so and had 
drifted in dreamy mood far from the bay into 
the enchanted land of air castles. Suddenly I 
was startled from my reveries by a shrill scream 
from Dick. “Help! Help!” she cried. “I’ve 
hooked a peach.” And looking up I saw her 
line was taut as a fiddle string. She had hooked 
something of considerable proportions and he 
was running hard. Jamming the line down over 
the side of the boat to gain a purchase, she fool¬ 
ishly attempted to hold him, but it was of no 
use. Her line, which was half as thick as a 
lead pencil, parted and a good-sized chunk of 
lead pipe is probably still being dragged over the 
bottom of Long Island Sound', the envy of all 
the elite in fishdom. 
The excitement had subsided and Dick was 
endeavoring to inveigle another big one from 
the depths to swallow a Fire Island or a Noyack 
when Doc had a bite and began hauling in his 
line. His catch was not very big, but the in¬ 
stant the fish came over the side I knew from 
the cut of its jib—that is another sea expression 
and I am gffid it fits in so nice'y here—that it 
was a bottlefish. It was not over six inches long 
and Doc grasped it firmly and endeavored to re¬ 
move the hook. Instantly it commenced to in¬ 
flate the upper portions of its body and swell 
to the bursting point. 
“Ach, Himmel,” he shouted; “look at the 
original briny Zeppelin. A wonder of the seas 
I T was in early summer that, during one of 
his infrequent visits, R. S. told me of a 
trout stream that was one of his favorites 
for day-trips. I begged to be taken along the 
next time he went there, but although he agreed, 
it happened that on the day he named I was not 
free to go, and the next day convenient for both 
of us was in early July. 
Before daylight I was up, and after a hearty 
breakfast was off for the railway station. This 
was several miles distant, and I did not know 
just how long it woukl take me to ride there 
over the hilly roads. There was oidy one early 
train, and on that one R. S. was to meet me, 
so I hustled over the first six miles of good 
road, to find, on stopping on a tree-shaded bridge 
to refill my pipe, that I had an abundance of time 
to cover the remaining two and one-half miles. 
The air was humid, and the day promised to be 
cloudless and torrid; not one to be chosen with 
deliberation as favorable to any sort of fishing 
save possibly with small dry flies. But who ever 
heard of postponing a fishing trip when oppor¬ 
tunities are rare and the fever is in the blood? 
So I ascended the hill from the river bridge 
and loafed along to the little railway station, 
where one small boy was the only person in evi¬ 
dence. Topics of conversation were scarce there¬ 
about, for when I asked him, in order to draw 
him out, if it was his cat that I had seen at the 
crossing, where a night train had overtaken it, 
he inspected and identified the remains, then 
lauiv' (1 into a history of village cat life and 
—it swims and it floats.” 
No one had time to comment, for we were all 
getting bites. We had struck a school of bottle- 
fish and were catching them empty and unhook¬ 
ing them filled. Perhaps we had twenty or thirty 
in the boat when I had a saucy jerk and pulled 
in one of the handsomest fish in color it had 
been my lot to see in many a day’s fishing. Its 
shapely trim body was beautifully marked with 
irregular streaks of brown. We did not specu¬ 
late much as to its name, for others were biting 
and we wanted a few more for breakfast. As 
soon as there was a lull I hailed a passing boat¬ 
man and asked him to name them for us. 
“Them,” said he as he shifted his quid of 
fine cut, “are kingfish. They sell purty good in 
the New York markets as sea perch. Hain’t 
very plentiful hereabouts, but they're masterful 
thick over Noyack way this year. See you've 
got a middlin' mess of bottlefish. They're what 
I call eatin’ when you get ’em slam.” 
He pulled away and Dick cast in his wake. 
As the water quieted down she felt a gentle tug 
and began hauling, in. Here was another sur¬ 
prise. She had captured a crooked-mouthed 
flounder and achieved the distinction of being 
high line of the crowd by landing one more 
variety and seven more fish than any of the 
rest of us. We a'l wanted to stay and catch a 
flounder, but the last call for dinner was being 
sounded in our stomachs and we had to answer. 
habits that lasted until train time and covered 
his vast experience—nine years. 
R. S. was on the train, and we had a pleasant 
visit during the hour’s ride into the moun¬ 
tains. Five miles of uphill work followed, and 
it puzzled me to see how cool R. S. remained, 
even while pushing his wheel up steep grades 
on the rocky road. As for me, perspiration 
oozed so freely from every pore that I was glad 
to pile into the brook at last in my road outfit, 
thankful that heavy waders had been left at 
home. 
The brook is one of the finest I have ever 
fished this side of the Rocky Mountains. Great 
rocks are everywhere, and so strong is the rush 
of water in spring that it would be difficult to 
fill a wagon with earth anywhere along its bed 
in the two-mile stretch that we fished. Conse¬ 
quently the water is very clear, the pools deep, 
and the falls great masses of white water. Taken 
altogether, it is a stream no trout fisherman can 
pass by without a pang of regret, and the time 
taken to set up the fly-rod seemed interminable. 
Although the heat was stifling, great hemlocks 
overhung the pools and afforded some relief, and 
while R. S. went upstream, I put in below the 
place where we hid our wheels, and began a 
slow and necessarily laborious ascent several hun¬ 
dred yards behind him. He started with a coach¬ 
man and a ginger hackle, while I, undecided, but 
resolved to try dry flies on the clear water, 
pinned my faith on a hare’s ear slightly anointed 
with paraffin oil. Somewhere along the stream 
was R. S.’s favorite pool, and in it, presumably, 
the big brown trout he had often raised but never 
hooked. I was curious to know whether I could 
pick it among the many fine pools, hence fished 
very carefully all likely spots. Now and then, 
trout rose, but always beyond reach, and I had 
covered considerable water before there was a 
rise nearby. Dropping the fly in the ring brought 
no response, but another cast above it rose a 
small brook trout, which was re’eased, as it was- 
less than seven inches and fought so prettily it 
deserved freedom. 
As the temperature rose, hopes fell, but the 
place was well worth studying and admiring. 
For a brook the obstacles offered to wading were 
tremendous. In one place there is a fall like a 
grand staircase, with irregular steps. Above 
there is a long deep pool with a smart current 
pouring around a huge boulder and down the 
center. Half way up the fall I paused to survey 
the beauty of the hemlock-shaded basin, confi¬ 
dent that this was R. S.’s favorite, and that 
among the trout in its depths there was one 
worth trying for. Far up among the boulders 
R. S. paused, but shook his head, signifying that 
he too had drawn a blank so far. 
It was ideal water for floating flies, there was 
a clear space below for the back cast, and one 
could stand below the brink and out of sight 
while fishing it. I tried casts to left and right 
near by, then dropped the fly over a ledge in 
the center, and extending the line, searched the 
broken water below, abreast and above the big. 
boulder. Changing then to a leadwing coachman 
while resting in the shade, I next tried the center 
of the pool far up, a difficult cast because the 
current quickly picked up and drew the line to¬ 
ward me, and it was just as I was lifting the 
rod to retrieve that a disturbance near the sur¬ 
face told me a goodly trout had risen but had 
missed the fly. That it was no ordinary trout 
I felt sure, and satisfied that this was the pool 
with the big resident often mentioned by R. S., 
I smoked another pipe and waited patient’y, but 
subsequent efforts were fruitless, and I passed 
on. 
Noon found us seated on a great boulder in 
the shade, eating lunch and comparing notes. 
R. S. was interested in my attempts to raise his 
big trout, for he, too, had failed to entice the 
veteran that morning, even as on previous occas¬ 
ions he had failed. As we ate and rested a 
party of three fishermen passed by, bound up¬ 
stream. They also reported no luck, and thought 
as we did that the heat was the cause. One of 
them carried a fly-rod, the other two short bait- 
rods. Picking the easiest route took them over 
boulders and ledges high above the water, al¬ 
ways in full view of all the trout within range 
of their noisy casts. The reason for their lack 
of success was apparent, while as for ours— 
well, we discussed many theories, agreeing that 
no self-respecting trout would care to come out 
of the cool water on such a hot day. 
In mid-afternoon when we had resumed the 
ascent of the brook, we came to a curious for¬ 
mation. From the mountain projected a great 
granite ledge which at one time blocked the 
brook. On the east side a narrow chute had 
been worn in the ledge, over this hung a great 
rock shelf, and the water was forced through 
as in a siphon, giving the impression that the 
stream had at that place been tilted up on edge. 
Into a basin the water poured. This ended at 
Two Days on a Mountain Brook 
By PERRY D. FRAZER 
