212 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 5, 1911. 
fish that were four to the pound. As we took 
our trout we had only to turn and put them in 
a fish box at the side of the float. 
After a fine fresh trout supper with other 
good things, a pipe before a big roaring fire¬ 
place and a few big fish stories, we were ready 
for the bed early in order to be prepared for a 
strenuous tussle with the Salmo gairdneri beards- 
lei on the morrow. • 
The day broke beautiful, but with some wind. 
Also there was something else broke which was 
not so fine. Day left his stock fly-book out on 
the porch and his setter pup found it early in 
the morning. That pup certainly must have 
thought he had found a new kind of bird, and 
he dissected that book thoroughly, ruining it and 
scattering the flies all about. 
We got after the most exclusive and most elu¬ 
sive trout in the world about 8 o’clock. Each 
took a separate boat. While Day’s boats are 
things of beauty, they are no joy at any time. 
Did you ever hook a large fish in a round bot- 
ton tippy boat when you had to turn round until 
you could almost see the back of your neck 
when you did not dare stand up, as the water 
was rough and a strong wind blowing? Such 
was my case when I hooked my first Beardsley, 
and lost it. I blessed my host and his boat. I 
had two lines out, a surface troll or rod line 
and a deep water monstrosity with a hundred 
yard copper wire and a dishpan, or something 
■very similar, for a spoon. My first fish, which 
I lost, was a good sized one and was hooked 
un the surface troll. However, I had not gone 
far when zip went my reel, this time on my 
rod line. And I got him, a four and one-half- 
pound Beardsley. I had a beautiful time. You 
can believe me that the last word in game trout 
is a Beardsley. 
My first fish was blue on the back, bright 
silver on the belly, short in length, but very 
broad on back with a specially tempered chrome 
steel backbone. I was so proud of him that I 
had no hesitancy in wrapping him up in my sole 
and only clean handkerchief and wiped my nose 
on my sleeve the rest of the day. 
After two hours’ trolling I hooked another 
one, this time on the dishpan or deep troll. I 
knew it to be a Beardsley, and a big one. This 
fish was boat shy. It took me three-quarters of 
an hour to get him in. I might have gotten h m 
in thirty minutes, but on looking around the 
boat for a gaff found none, so he had to be 
lifted over the side. Then I fell on him like 
a long lost brother. My next act was to whoop 
like an Indian, for had I not taken in a fore¬ 
noon two Beardsleys, and did not the last one 
weigh something over ten pounds? 
Some twenty minutes later a boat came up be¬ 
hind me and its occupant sang out: “You’ve 
■got a Beardsley, haven’t you? So did we.” I 
told him I had him beat. He came alongside 
and we compared. He looked at my fish and 
said: “Why, we are using that kind for bait 
in this boat!’ He then dug down in a gunny 
sack and showed me a Beardsley which weighed 
eighteen pounds. I very magnanimously offered 
to trade with him, but he was one of those mean 
fellows and would not. After exchanging com¬ 
pliments of the day with my successful competi- 
tor —^e lake water is very cold and makes a 
good chaser—I trolled for an hour longer and 
then made for the house, as the wind had come 
up very strong. 
Sunday morning I intended fishing in a dif¬ 
ferent part of the lake, so made an early start, 
but by 9 o’clock the wind came up so strong that 
it was impossible to manage the boat and lines. 
I was beginning to get peeved, because we had 
to leave on the morrow, and I did want just one 
more Beardsley. By this time the wind had be¬ 
come a gale and we could not get home, as we 
were on the lea shore and had to cross the lake 
to the house. Day said: “Well, we can’t go 
home, so let's fish a small creek which comes 
into the lake just above here.” We got no fish 
to speak of in the creek, but just where it 
empties into the lake we struck a bonanza. We 
did not go over twenty feet either side of the 
stream, and filled a twenty-pound basket with 
cut-throats or crescentis, all of about an aver¬ 
age size of three or four to the pound. 
At 5 o’clock, the wind having gone down some, 
we started for home, a hard pull of two miles, 
W ITH the passing of the rift fishing in the 
hot days of early July, one is tempted 
to think that the fly fishing for the year 
is all gone. The best of it is gone of course, 
but in the Adirondacks there are intervals when 
the fisherman may get a good mess of trout in 
a fair way. Probably it is better to be able to 
catch trout when they are hard to catch than to 
get them when anyone can get a number. 
When the water begins to warm up, the trout 
go either into deep poo’s or to the “cold beds” 
—the mouths of streams and to submarine 
springs. They are little inclined to bite or strike 
at any kind of bait or lure. Occasionally a 
patient or crafty man will succeed in getting a 
rise. It is hard to tell when the fish will 
bite. 
For a good many years I have had more or 
less cold bed trout fishing. I have tried dozens 
of different kinds of baits and lures, and there 
seems to be very few things which a trout will 
not take sometimes. They will take a helgra- 
mite, artificial minnow, tiny spinner, a troliing 
spoon, a small green frog (a very good all round 
bait), a butterfly and similar artificial and natu¬ 
ral baits which are oftener associated with bass 
fishing than with brook trout fishing. 
The trout fisherman dislikes these coarser 
lures because they in large measure detract 
from the poetry of the sport, and they are ex¬ 
cusable chiefly because a frying-pan needs fill¬ 
ing. They are like the angle worm, only less re¬ 
pulsive. If one were compelled to use these un¬ 
gainly baits there would be but little pleasure in 
trout fishing after the spring fishing is at an end; 
that is, after the water begins to warm up in 
early summer. 
I have seen hundreds -of fishermen wading the 
rifts and skirting the stillwaters. Most of them 
use flies on from No. 5 to No. 7 hooks and few 
use No. 8 hooks. This is proved not only by 
the stream observations, but also by the fact that 
fishing tackle dealers in places like Little Falls, 
Herk mer and Utica, where hundreds of fisher- 
tired, but happy. You can well believe that 
after the day’s work I did not have to be rocked 
to sleep. Day’s big fish stories paled into insignifi¬ 
cance compared with those I dreamed that night. 
Three days at Crescent gave me only the 
smallest look at the beauties of that place. On 
the top of the mountain are dozens of lakes in 
every direction. From these lakes come a stream 
and waterfall of 1,500 feet direct into Lake 
Crescent. I have never before felt that I wanted 
to be wealthy so much as on leaving Crescent. 
I am sure, if I stated my case properly to the 
doctor, he would order me to Lake Crescent 
for all of three months. 
All good things have an end, and so ended my 
first trip to Crescent, and here’s hoping it 
will not be my last. We caught the 2 : 3 o p. mi 
boat at Port Angeles, which put us into Seattle 
at 9 o’clock in the evening. A safe, sane and 
sensible outing for one who enjoys the game. 
men fit out, almost never carry the small size 
fly hooks. 
I found one local dealer a year ago who had 
flies tied on No. 12 and 14 hooks, and this year 
he did not have a third as many of the midges, 
saying that he could not sell them. He had hun¬ 
dreds of the flies on No. 6 hooks, and perhaps 
three score of the little ones. 
As long as I could get a fair mess of trout 
on the flies to be had I was satisfied. I had, 
however, several painful experiences in trying 
to have trout that were jumping on all sides 
take flies that were much too large for the kind 
that were flying. 
On one occasion the experience was most un¬ 
happy. The trout began to rise a little before 
sunset. Most of them were at the head of 
riffles and in smooth water. They leaped in all 
sizes from fingerlings to two-pounders. I had 
on a three-cast of yellow Sallie, black gnat and 
a grizzly king stretcher—all No. 6 hooks. One 
or two fish struck at the yellow Sallie, but it 
did not matter whether I flicked the flies over 
the surface, trailed them on it, or drew them 
through the water, the trout would not take hold. 
I tried ten or twelve different kinds of flies, 
all coarse ones, but they all failed. Then I came 
across a midge on a No. 12 hook. It had a 
yeiiow body and gray wings—a dull queen of 
the water. It was very near the size and color 
of the tiny insects which the fish were taking. 
I took off all my flies and put that one on. In¬ 
stantly the water boiled as two trout leaped to¬ 
ward it. I caught three or four fair trout, and 
then a dandy snapped the old gut. 
It was an old fly, one that I had had several 
years. I shared the common notion that a small 
hook would not hold a large trout. But I never 
could forget that twilight fishing. Some years 
afterward I happened to be in a tackle store 
where six or seven varieties of the midges were 
carried in stock. I laid in a supply, notably of 
a brilliant grizzly king, a misty May fly, and a 
queen of the waters. 
Light Rods and Small Flies 
By RAYMOND S. SPEARS 
