804 
[Dec. 2, 1911. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
nothing could be done until morning. Far into 
the night the Indians were busy getting their 
boats and tackle ready. The messenger from 
down river was expected every minute bearing 
the precious roe for bait. 
About midnight the Indians about a large 
open fire set up a great shout; the courier was 
come. He was a tall lithe savage and had run 
all the way from the lower water with his little 
burden of fresh roe wrapped in a deer skin bag. 
There was no more sleep that night. Every 
man, woman, child and dog turned out to wait 
for the dawn of day. When it was light enough 
to see a young Indian clambered among the 
rocks and brought back a bundle of roots of 
the sweet cicely, without which no Indian will 
attempt to fish for salmon. An old Indian ten¬ 
derly unrolled the roe and placed the long red¬ 
dish strands upon a bedding of fir boughs, the 
aromatic roots of the cicely were bruised and 
with' their juice every article of fishing gear 
anointed, lines, poles, paddles, the canoe itself; 
another bruised bundle was p’aced near the ba.t 
so that it would absorb the aroma. 
The fishing gear was primitive: a long dry 
pole made from a larch with a linen line made 
from two spools of heavy thread to which was 
attached a large plain hook. The hook was 
baited with a portion of roe about the size of 
an egg, the mass securely tied with a fine white 
thread. The best fisherman in the tribe, a hunch¬ 
back, took his position in the bow of a log canoe, 
line and pole in hand. Four padd'ers seated 
themselves behind him. The “tu-at” was on 
hand making more “medicine.” He took a small 
portion of the roe, rubbed it up with some sand, 
then cast it far out in the water, repeating the 
prayer or chant for the success of the fishing. 
When he had finished the ceremony one gave a 
shove to the canoe, and with a few strokes the 
paddlers sent the craft into the middle of the 
river, turned it across the stream and rested 
upon their paddles, their faces tense and watch¬ 
ful. The fisher whirled his bait about his head, 
then cast it far into the water, braced the pole 
against his thigh and stood like a bronze statue 
watching the line. All about fish were leaping, 
sometimes almost upon the boat. Not a man in 
the canoe glanced in their direction, all eyes were 
fastened upon the line. The rapid current car¬ 
ried them far down stream, the fisher drew in 
his line, the paddlers went ashore, and one of 
them poled it back up stream. 
Exclamations of disappointment broke from 
the people on the shore. The tu-at shook his 
head and made more and stronger medicine. 
Once more the canoe sought the middle of the 
stream. Again the fisher cast his hook. The 
canoe had not drifted many rods before the 
angler came to life. He leaned forward, then 
struck with all his might. A shout of delight 
and encouragement burst from the people. The 
paddlers fastened their gaze upon the line that 
was cutting the water in eccentric circles, dip¬ 
ping their paddles now right, now left, as the 
big fish tried to swim under the canoe. The 
fisher clung to the pole, keeping his balance with 
consummate skill. I cannot express to you the 
tenseness of the scene; the people seemed to 
actually hold their breath. Should the captive 
prove an “ewepena” (woman fish) all would be 
well; if a “hauma” (man), it would not be so 
well. A female would be filled with roe and 
all would have bait; if a male they would have 
to try again. Meanwhile the fish was becoming 
weary, the rushes less powerful, the circles 
smaller. At length the silver sides would be 
seen gleaming down in the brown water, then 
the angler shouted, “Pas ke ewepena” (it is a 
female). You should have heard the noise. 
Every individual set up a great shouting, every 
dog—and there were hundreds—barked, the chil¬ 
dren raced up and down the beach shouting and 
singing. The hunchback lifted his gaff hook, 
leaned over the side of the canoe as his pad- 
diers leaned the other way, slipped the gaff be¬ 
low the fish and gave a sudden thrust upward. 
He brought the salmon struggling over the side 
of the canoe, seized a stout club and dis¬ 
patched it. 
Rome may have gone wild with delight when 
Csesar returned with his captives chained to his 
chariot wheels, but her ecstacy could not com¬ 
pare to the ovation accorded that crew as they 
pulled ashore with their first salmon. 
It is somewhat beside this tale to recount how 
the Indians lay the great fish upon a soft bed 
of boughs and crowded about while one of them 
with a sharp knife slit up the belly and turned 
out the ripe roe. At least four pounds of it 
delighted the gaze of the people. You, who have 
never been hungry in your life, cannot appreciate 
what this meant to the starving savages. Words 
can hardly express it. It meant plenty for all, 
no more gnawing at the stomach for the men 
and women, no more wailing of hungry chil¬ 
dren. The harvest was ready. 
You may be sure that I was not the least in¬ 
terested watcher of the scene. For weeks I had 
seen the people bear their sufferings with Ind’an 
patience, had divided with them my own scanty 
ste-e until I had little left, and my heart re¬ 
joiced with them at their good fortune. I fear 
that I became savage myself for a time and 
danced and sang with the wildest of them. 
Soon the river was dotted with canoes. Be¬ 
fore noon the shore was sprinkled with fish, the 
pots and kettles in every tepee were steaming 
with savory stews, even the dogs ran about the 
place with juicy steaks in their jaws. 
In the afternoon one of my friends came to 
me and said: “The tall doctor, my good friend, 
come.” 
“Where to?” I asked. 
“It is time you learned to catch the salmon.” 
“But, my brother, I have no tackle, no canoe.” 
“I have both, so come.” 
With this he took me by the arm and led me 
away to the river where his canoe lay moored 
with the fishing gear in it. He instructed me 
how to bait the hook and how to cast. My first 
efforts at this latter task were not very success¬ 
ful, but calculated to furnish great amusement 
for the women and children upon the bank. 
Standing in a narrow log canoe is an art that 
must be learned by practice. I would hardly 
undertake to estimate how many times I landed 
in the slippery bottom of the cranky craft be¬ 
fore I got the “hang” of the thing. During this 
time I caught no fish. 
Toward evening, when I had so far mastered 
the trick that I could keep upright for ten 
minutes at a stretch, I hooked something. The 
line suddenly became tense and I felt a drag¬ 
ging on the pole. It proved to be only the hook 
fast under a rock in the bed of the river, and 
we spent the next ten minutes cruising around 
the line trying to free it. When it came loose 
I suddenly sat down; I was tired of standing. 
There is something about the sensation of 
hooking a large fish that defies description. We 
were cruising down the stream and I was watch¬ 
ing the other fishers. The river was gay with 
color and the hills resounded with the shouts 
of the Indians. Our canoe was passing beneath 
the wire cable that ran the primitive ferry. It 
was funny, but I thought that when the prow 
of the canoe touched the shadow of the cable 
on the water something would happen. It did. 
The something felt like a two-year-old bull had 
gotten tangled in my line and was starting for 
home and mother. 
My companion cried, “Quick!” I gave one 
mighty pull and—sat down. No matter. That 
pull did the business. I was fast to a fish, and 
if indications counted for anything he was a 
“whopper.” There was no reel with hundreds 
of yards of line to fight him with. The whole 
thing had to be done by main strength. I had 
this, but to save me I could not bring it to bear 
while seated in the bottom of that canoe. Every 
time I tried to rise the fish would pull me back. 
Finally I braced my legs against the sides of 
the canoe and held on, letting my captive have 
his way. No matter which way the salmon 
turned, the Indian swung the canoe in time to 
avoid getting the line beneath it. The struggle 
lasted for twenty minutes before I caught sight 
of my prize, and then I was disgusted at the 
size. I imagined that the great grandfather of 
all the salmon had my bait, but he was only 
a yearling. When he final’y lay flopping in the 
canoe I wondered what wou'd have happened 
if I had hooked one of the old monsters I had 
seen the Indians bring in. 
That was my first salmon. Many fell to my 
lot in the years to come, for while the true ang¬ 
ler might scorn the game, lacking as it did, 
many of the refinements of angling, it was sport 
to us, and more, it was food. 
To convey some idea of the immense num¬ 
bers of salmon that ascended the -rivers those 
days, a single Indian companion and myself in 
one day with two hooks took over 800 pounds 
of these fish. 
While a little aside from the subject, I read 
a book written by some college man upon the 
habits of the Nez Perce Indians, in which he 
stated that the sturgeon was one of the principal 
food fishes of the people. The assertion, to one 
familiar with the Indians, is amusing. No In¬ 
dian, lest he be civilized, and not often then, 
will land a sturgeon. Many times I have seen 
the Indians cut loose sturgeon weighing up to 
one hundred pounds rather than land them. 
Even those who have in a measure lost their 
superstition will not land one, but drag him 
near shore and anchor him to a bush until some 
white man comes along who will buy the fish. 
As for eating one, a Nez Perce would as soon 
think of eating his grandmother. 
The country is changed there now, changed 
for the worse. The Indians do not have to 
depend upon the waters for their food, and as 
though knowing this, the red god of chase has 
ceased sending the fish up the streams. On my 
last visit to the country the old Indians told me, 
“No more salmon.” 
The Forest and Stream may he obtained from 
any nnvsdealcr on order. Ask your dealer to 
supply you regularly. 
