Aug. 19, iqh ] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
317 
COPYRIGHT 1906. BY KISER PHOTO CO.. PORTLAND. OREGON 
BIG GAME HUNTING 
== ON THE -- - ■ 
GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY 
T HE establishment of the Glacier National Park, in the Rockies of Montana, while it has 
closed some portions of the best sheep and goat country to the big game hunter, has in 
reality insured the continued enjoyment of this sport through a large portion of the 
Northwest for years to come. 
<1 With this great Park as an undisturbed breeding ground and refuge, the big game of the 
section are protected from extinction, and the game country on all sides of the Park offers the 
sportsman better opportunities for securing the coveted trophies than ever before. 
•I Browning, Midvale, Belton, Columbia Falls, Whitefish or Kalispeli, along the line of the , 
Great Northern Railway, offer the best starting points for trips into the country after Bear, ✓ 
Mountain Sheep and Goat, Deer, Elk and Mountain Lion, and there are excellent * 
guides to be had at each of these places with complete outfits and—what is of far 
greater importance—the experience of a lifetime to aid them. 
Three daily transcontinental trains traverse this country. 
The Oriental Limited from Chicago, St. Paul and ✓ 
Minneapolis, The Oregonian from St. Paul and * 
Minneapolis, The “Great Northern Express” 
from Kansas City. s 
* 
t Name 
✓ 
/ H. A. 
* NOBLE. 
. Gen’l. Pas¬ 
senger Agent, 
St. Paul. 
riease send me 
detailed information 
regarding Big Game 
f in the Rockies of 
Montana, and how to 
get there. 
For greater details and booklets fill out the 
coupon and mail to 
H. A. NOBLE, General Passenger Agent, St. Paul f 
F. S. 
stream, and all I could do was to keep the point 
of the rod high and hope he would either go 
over the obstacle or stop short of it; and he 
did the latter, turning back into the heavy 
water. Here he hung for a minute or two, and 
then pushed up to where he had been hooked. 
By this time I had realized it was an extra big 
fish. The whole cast—over four yards—was 
under water, and though, trusting to the stout 
gut and big hook, I put the very utmost strain 
on, I could make no impression on him what¬ 
ever. From the nature of the place it was 
necessary to get a fish dead beat before gaffing 
him, as the only place to land him was just 
round the corner of the wall, and this was 
awkward enough. For twenty minutes the 
cast never showed itself above the water, the 
fish having kept resolutely at the bottom, mak¬ 
ing nothing of the tremendous strain I kept on. 
And all I had seen of him was once the gleam 
of a white under side deep down below my 
feet; and then—the rod straightened, the futile 
fly came back, and I was left lamenting, with 
the horrible feeling that perhaps the fish of a 
lifetime had just escaped. 
This happened on a Wednesday. The follow¬ 
ing Tuesday, being the last day of the season, 
found me at the same place. The water had 
risen the night after the events just related, and 
was now again for the first time fishable, though 
very high. The same fly was tied on, and a 
start made in the same place. Again came the 
fruitless check to the line, and again at the 
second attempt I was fast in a fish. But here 
history ceased to repeat itself. Like a flash he 
had turned down stream, and, hugging the wall, 
was round it before I had time even to raise 
the rod. The line was flying from the reel, 
and by the time I was able to get to the end of 
the wall, and so disengage the line from it, the 
fish was a hundred yards away in the big pool 
below. I followed down the bank, lifting the 
rod up to clear the alder, and reeling in as I 
went. There is only one possible place to land 
a fish in this pool, and that a very precarious 
one, and some way further down. But it was 
too soon to think of the end. When I came 
opposite the fish he ran straight across the pool, 
which is here some forty yards in width, and 
almost stranded himself on the far side. I 
could see his back from head to tail, and from 
the length vision of a 40-pounder arose. Just 
below him was a bush marooned in the stream, 
a flood having washed its way between it and 
the bank; and, to my horror, the fish turned 
and tried to pass down the far side of the little 
islet. If once he succeeded in getting right 
round all was lost, but to stop him seemed al¬ 
most hopeless. Already the bush hid him from 
me. the line bearing round the lower branches. 
Holding on all I dared, I started back up the 
bank, letting line off the reel as I went, till I 
reached the end of the wall, which, projecting 
into the stream, left me clear of the overhanging 
alders. The fish was still between the bush and 
the bank, so, risking all, I reeled in till the rod 
point was on the water, and then, holding the 
line, raised it—and something had to shift. I 
doubted the cast, which had had such a scraping 
round the end of the wall; but nothing gave 
way, and inch by inch the fish came back, and 
when clear of the bush ran to midstream. Back 
I went down the bank, very hot by this time 
with the exertion of holding the big rod up 
over the tops of the alders. I found the fish 
was getting done, but was quite out of sight, 
except when on the other side of the river. 
She-who-must-be-obeyed was with me, and 
went on to mark the solitary opening in the 
bushes, which is some 300 yards below the wall. 
Here at a gap some 4 feet wide it is possible to 
stand on the horizontal roots of a somewhat 
inadequate alder, and, praying that nothing give 
way and so precipitate you into 8 feet of water, 
to reach the surface with a gaff. Having 
gained this point of vantage, I was able to see 
up stream close under my own bank, and, to 
my great joy, there was the fish on his side close 
under the overhanging branches. Without much 
difficulty he was towed slowly down. It was 
necessary to bring him right to my feet, as if 
he once went past down stream almost all hope 
would have vanished. The gaff was ready, 
when—horribile dictu!—just out of reach, the 
cast fouled a projecting branch. There was the 
big fish anchored 6 inches beyond the gaff, 
feebly splashing on the surface. 
For what seemed an age the position was 
thus, and then the branch slowly bent and 
gradually let the fish drop down toward me. I 
would have given a fiver for a longer gaff, or 
for something more stable than water to step 
on to, but at last I was able to slip the gaff into 
the root of the tail. It was touch and go 
whether the fish and I and the rod would fall 
into the water together, but throwing the rod— 
the cast had broken as the gaff made its stroke 
—high up the bank, I was able to shorten the 
gaff in my hand and lift the fish, hanging head 
downward, clear of the water. Then, the lady 
lending a hand, I climbed up 4 feet of per¬ 
pendicular bank, and a moment later the big 
fish was knocked on the head. Forty-five 
inches he was from nose to tail, but of his 
weight the less said the better. 
Then the mystery of the previous Wednesday 
was disclosed. The tail was slit right through 
the middle, in the root of which he had evi¬ 
dently been foul-hooked on that occasion, which 
would account for his making nothing of the 
tremendous strain put on him, mostly from be¬ 
low, for twenty minutes. It was the more prob¬ 
ably the same fish, as he was a very unusual 
size for the water. Whether this was the case 
or not, he gave me a most exciting quarter of 
an hour, the only fly in the ointment being that 
he had not seen fit to attach himself to the line 
six months sooner or later, when he would 
have been a very different fish.—Frank Wemyss, 
in the Field. 
