Forest and Stream 
VOL. LXXXlII. November 28, 1914 
Four of a Kind—Beats a Full House 
“All aboard! Git.” 
The heavy farm wagon, drawn by a pair of 
as uncouth and raw mules as ever graced the 
western mountains, commenced to move and we 
were off. We, that is Ben, Dan, Jack and Sho¬ 
shone, were going to spend a week at the lake. 
For this event elaborate preparations had been 
made. Under the seats were rifles, guns, rods, 
tackle, bedding, cooking utensils, grub and a 
wall tent. What more could we want? A twen¬ 
ty-mile uphill ride over a rough road is not a 
theme upon which the lyric muse can spread 
herself. Nevertheless we sometimes derive 
health, zest and inspiration in spite of, rather 
than aided by our surroundings, and that all-day 
ride was as enjoyable to the mental man as it 
was uncomfortable to his physical tenement. 
It was Indian summer; not the Indian summer 
of the East, with its gorgeous wealth of color, 
its hazy, sensuous atmosphere, its dreamy tran¬ 
sition from the lusty life of summer to the 
dreary desolation of November, but that unique 
season of the far West, when grassy hills and 
pine-robed peaks but change their green for 
sober garb of gray and brown, when the fitful 
breezes do but moderate the burning heat of 
August. We. have no autumn. At night we 
lie down and call it summer, and, before morn¬ 
ing, a chilling, nipping frost has come. The 
branches are bare, 'birds have flown, white are 
the mountain crests and winter is here. But 
if there is an Indian summer amid these Wat- 
satch summits, it is the brief season through 
which we have just passed. 
At the end of the first hour we are four miles 
from our starting point, on the summit of a 
divide, where we stop to give the team a good 
rest. Behind and below us is the valley of the 
Upper Sevier, a perfect basin through which the 
slow-wandering river makes its sinuous path. 
That little group of cabins and houses in the 
center of the scene is Panguitch. About it are 
squares of golden stubble and brown rowen. 
Surrounding these, on every side, are the great 
gray hills, their soft blue serrated summits hold¬ 
ing up the colder, clearer azure of the firmament. 
The wheels rumble and we pitch down into South 
Canyon and climb between frowning, black walls, 
six miles further to the top of the second divide- 
From the second divide, we drop to the creek 
level, and, by mutual consent, we stop at the 
“white rocks” to secure a trout dinner and then to 
cook it. 
Famous throughout this section of the land 
are the white rocks. Here the fishermen resort, 
in season and out of season, but the supply of 
A Hunting Story of Long Ago 
By Shoshone. 
trout does not seem to diminish, nor does the 
dainty fontinalis learn wisdom by the experience 
of his fellows. The white rocks are rugged walls 
of sandstone, inclosing a natural meadow about 
half a mile long and from twenty to fifty yards 
wide. The creek is in places open and again the 
willows overhang deep pools where the trout 
hide during the heat of the summer day. But 
there is scarcely a spot, upon pool, riffle or eddy, 
where a fly cannot be placed and where it may 
not be placed so as to secure a rise. Three 
of the party went for the willows and soon had 
long straight poles, heavier by far than the fish 
that they expected to land. For bait they used 
whitewood grubs or grasshoppers. Shoshone 
stuck to rod and reel, and used a sober fly of his 
own fabrication, which he has found to be espe¬ 
cially killing in these waters, though it is far 
from a thing of beauty when viewed from an 
artistic standpoint. Ben has been the champion 
of the creek. Fifteen years of fishing in its icy 
waters have taught him where the largest, sweet¬ 
est, reddest of the ruby-spattered darlings lie, 
and he knows instinctively how and where to 
drop his bait. He drops in first. His willow 
bends until the tip almost touches the water. 
Then the butt is lowered and a silver streak 
flashes from the brook, leaving in its wake a string 
of glittering pearls. An instant it hangs trem¬ 
bling over its native element; then, looking like 
a broken rainbow, it describes the arc of a 
majestic circle and lies stunned upon the emerald 
sward full twenty feet behind its captor. Very 
well done, Mr. Ben, very picturesque; but, while 
you have been going through your little per¬ 
formance, Shoshone’s fly has been floating down 
the ripple just below you, and, though you saw 
it not, from out the boiling white caps came a 
gleam, a strike, the tug of war, and now you 
hear the merry music o'f the reel. Ah, yes! 
You may have the tranquil pools and crystal 
depths, but give the riffle to the dainty fly. Ben 
is too absorbed to pay attention to any one else. 
He goes down to another pool, while Shoshone 
lands five in quick succession. How many more 
he might have landed will never be known, for 
Dan, who is destitute of any sportsmanlike chiv¬ 
alry, makes up his mind that the riffle is the 
place for him. His heavy sinker splashes down, 
dragging the grasshopper after it, and, needless 
to say, the trout are gone. 
We fished for perhaps half an hour and re¬ 
turned to the wagon with forty-three fish, none 
of which weighed less than half a pound. Jack 
had not made a success of his piscatorial efforts 
and had already built a fire and tried out enough 
683 
bacon grease for the frying-pan. Ben took 
charge of the flour and bake oven. Dan and 
Shoshone cleaned the fish, and soon we were 
eating as though we had left before breakfast. 
The afternoon ride was much more delightful 
than that of the morning had been. The creek 
flowed through a wide valley that was covered 
with meadows of lucerne and wild hay. The 
rolling hills that extended for miles to the north 
and south were timbered only at their summits,, 
their slopes being covered with short grass* 
where thousands of cattle were lying or feed¬ 
ing. Every mile or two we passed a log cabin* 
corral and milk house. This is a great dairy 
region. In winter, the ground is covered with 
deep snow, and no one visits the spot; but in 
May the cattle are driven back from their ranges 
on the Paria and Waweap. Then the families 
move up from the settlements to their summer 
homes. The books of the county assessor show 
that last summer (1890) 54,000 lbs, of cheese 
and 14,000 lbs., of butter were made in this 
little valley. The season ends about Oct. 1. 
As the sun commenced to slope toward the 
West there was a constant flight of mourning 
doves about the wagon, this way and that scur¬ 
ried bevies of half-grown dusky grouse, and 
now and then a sage cock would arise with loud 
clamor and sail majestically out of range. Over 
the creek were teal and greenheads, young broods 
just right for broiling. Nor were quail wanting. 
The quail do not belong on this side of the divide, 
but about eight years ago several pair were 
brought over from Dixie, and they having never 
been disturbed have multiplied with surprising 
rapidity. Dan wanted ;to borrow Shoshone’s 
gun, but the latter had not forgotten the incident 
at the riffle and informed the would-be borrower 
that the game law did not expire for at least 
eight hours. 
Five o’clock found us at the last steep climb 
of the journey. Beside us was the roar of the 
torrent, for the stream made a perpendicular 
drop of 30 ft. between lofty walls that had been 
cleft rather than worn by the slow action of 
the water. One long, hard pull and our goal 
was in sight, Panguitch Lake, in the language 
of the Utes, “the place of fish.” There it lay 
nestled among the grand eternal pine-clad hills, 
the liquid blue smiling at the ethereal blue above 
and mirroring in its clear depths the waving 
trees and sentinel peaks that deck its borders. 
Upon its limpid bosom sported a host of water 
fowl, and we knew from the upland peaks and 
distant canyons even now some noble, velvet- 
antlered bucks were watching our progress with 
curious eye. 
