Trouting on the R^io Grande 
By C. A. COOPER 
A Summer RaLmble With a Burro Train in the 
Rocky Mountains 
{Continued from page 858.) 
T rue to his agreement Ed was on hand at 6 
o’clock the next morning with two livery 
horses and three burros. The horse in¬ 
tended for me looked to be about thirty hands high. 
I remarked it might be a good time to put him 
through his paces, whatever that means. No 
one objected, and so I looked to see that he had 
a mild eye, patted his neck and made what was 
intended to be a light and graceful vault to¬ 
ward the saddle. Quite unexpectedly only half 
of one leg became seated. After some moments 
of strenuous effort and indecision on my part, 
and some surprisingly good foot work by my 
horse, we struck a frosted cement walk together. 
This was very painful to Ed, who is a dignified 
rider, always sitting erect and looking straight 
ahead when ladies are about. Someone in the 
insomnia-stricken assemblage suggested that I 
postpone the remaining paces until the disap¬ 
pearance of the frost. Ed agreed with him and 
became emphatic after I had mounted, with the 
aid of a friendly lumber pile, and been carried 
nearly to the aforesaid livery barn much against 
my will. 
At 7 o’clock we began the ascent of the old 
trail. Spectral recollections came from their 
seclusion and sat upon the rocks, pointing in¬ 
visible fingers at things which only Ed could 
see. He was living again the agreeable side of 
the old life and there was a tenderness in his 
smiling and animated face I had not seen be¬ 
fore. Every turn of the trail reminded him of 
some episode which he willingly recounted with 
boyish enthusiasm. He even forgave my deceit 
of the day before and promised to tell only a 
few of his friends. 
At 10 o’clock we reached the top of the Conti¬ 
nental Divide, which is thought by some to have 
been the scene of Fremont’s historic snow camp 
in the winter of 1848. From there the summer 
view to the westward is grand. In winter it is 
terrifying and it is not strange that Fremont 
saw the hopelessness of the situation. On the 
south side of the pass, at an altitude of 12,000 
feet, may be seen the source of the Rio Grande 
as now mapped—an almost perpetual snow bank 
and a bog not much larger than a washtub. 
While resting there Ed pointed to a shaley, 
conical peak near the trail which bears the name 
of Sheep Mountain and still shows paths made 
by mountain sheep, and said: 
“I am going to tell you something unique in 
natural or unnatural history. You may not be¬ 
lieve me, but as true as I stand here the two 
first seasons we packed over this trail a large, 
shaggy dog stayed with a band of Rocky Moun¬ 
tain sheep on that peak. Don’t think for a 
minute that I mean tame sheep or anything 
except the true bighorn. I'he dog was about 
the size of a Gordon setter and appeared to be 
a mongrel. His color was peculiar—a yellowish 
black or smoky brown. We saw them nearly 
every time we passed and often looked at them 
with a glass when less than 800 yards away. 
Any of the old packers will tell you about it. 
We didn’t see the dog after the second year, 
though we occasionally saw the sheep, which 
were being shot at and becoming wild.” 
From the summit the now abandoned wagon 
road followed the side of Grassy Hill, 1,000 
feet above the river, and then descended to and 
crossed it thirteen times within a mile. Pole 
Creek then comes in from the west and the real 
river begins. Half a mile further down Bear 
Creek enters from the south, making the river 
fifty feet wide. It has many inviting pools 
which, however, contained no trout until three 
years ago, when it was stocked by the county 
commissioners. Just below Bear Creek there 
is a thirty-foot fall, the only obstruction on the 
river, and below the falls there are more than 
one hundred miles of excellent free fishing. 
Our water-profed Sibley tent was first pitched 
about a mile below the falls at Brewster’s cabin 
where both grass and wood are found in abund¬ 
ance. It is a charming spot, a mountain-girt 
valley divided by a trout stream which flows 
from pool to pool with unmistakable but sooth¬ 
ing murmur. At its lower end there begins a 
mile of almost impassable canon, while one mile 
above, the falls check ascending fish. Here one 
is in a little world he may call his own. 
In the morning we contentedly ate our cold 
biscuits and fried ham, but soon after this chill¬ 
ing display the fever came upon us and we 
anxiously unwrapped our rods. On these long 
trips we have found it good manners to- carry 
an extra one for a friend. I had done so the 
year before and at this very place my hungry 
and unexpected visitor came along. He must 
have been very hungry, for when I handed him 
the rod he started on a run for the river with 
about twelve feet of line trailing in the air. As 
he was making his first cast from the bank, 
which is four feet above the water, something 
happened. While still stepping lively he stum¬ 
bled into a grass-covered hole and immediately 
dove into five feet of very cold water. My 
tent mate, who was fishing just below him and 
liad a profile view, said that in the descent the 
man and rod appeared as one straight line. He 
considered it the saddest quenching of an en¬ 
thusiastic outburst he had ever seen. 
With the appearance of the sun, which is 
needed for the movement of insect life in this 
high region, we moved on the enemy, Ed being 
armed with a McGinty and a coachman, while 
I selected governors and Cahills. I went up 
stream, knowing its difficulties and possibilities. 
A nice pool near camp gave but one quarter- 
pound Rio Grande trout. Then came moderate 
success in a gorge from which it is necessary 
to climb and descend three or four times. At 
last I came to the big pool below the falls 
where, by making cautious casts at five-minute 
intervals and changing flies after each failure 
to get a rise, I landed seventeen of fair size. 
Ed came in early with about the same number, 
and while he made preparations for supper, I 
cleaned the trout and placed them upon an in¬ 
clined board to drain and cool. We collected 
a large pile of fire wood and then went out to 
see how our horses and burros were faring. 
Finding them willing to be caught, we removed 
their hobbles and gave to each a taste of salt 
and a lump of sugar. This trifling maneuver, 
if practiced daily, will sometimes prevent a lot 
of trouble in hunting discontented animals. 
After supper Ed made his first actual camp¬ 
fire and when the match had been applied we 
watched the results with as much interest as 
if engaged in firing a Gatling gun. It was a 
success; the heat came gently toward us and the 
smoke drifted slowly upward and away. While 
I smoked dreamily Ed discoursed learnedly upon 
camp-fires. 
“Comrade,” he said, “you may have thought 
I was rather particular about that fire to-night, 
but I don’t mind telling you I always regard the 
first annual camp-fire as a sort of reunion of 
all I’ve ever built. My old camping friends 
come to it and we talk over the old days and 
have a general good time. No one ever stays 
away because he’s shy on dress suits or because 
he’ll meet somebody he don’t like. He knows 
they’re all on a level in our company; they don’t 
join just to be helped in their business. He 
knows their eyes, and their handshakes are 
honest, and that none of ’em would give him 
the double cross or have to catch a train if one 
of ’em needed a little help. 
“Somehow these reunions are different from 
the others. I’ve been to some where you had 
to wear spike coats and patent leather shoes 
and fill up on champagne before you could tell 
how you loved everybody. And then there’s 
the old soldiers marching to the music of brass 
bands and drums. You look at ’em in a kind 
of tearful way and wonder how many of ’em 
will be on hand next year; and then, when the 
cheering gets good and loud, your vest gets a 
little tight and you think it would be nice to 
die for your country. But there’s nothing sad 
about our meetings. 
“Maybe you can’t see the boys, but I knoK 
