March 23, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
373 
yet, I had had no sight of him, but he felt as 
though he was capable of making the frying- 
pan smell good. I shifted my position slightly 
to avoid having my line sawed across the edges 
of the rocks, and then we had it out. I put all 
the strain on the tackle it would stand, giving 
him line for his downward rushes, then recover¬ 
ing it when he rose. At last he made a frantic 
rush over a shallow bench of rock and I caught 
sight of his great gray body, and not the ex¬ 
pected red stripe, but spots—a Dolly Varden! 
The apparition on my end of the line of over 
six feet of lean man, wearing a hungry expres¬ 
sion, was too much for his royal highness. With 
redoubled exertions he tore up and down that 
pool, and he had me on the jump. Three times 
I worked him on to that bench, and each time 
he regained deep water. The last time I was 
amazed to see that his mouth was tightly closed 
while my line appeared to pass under his body. 
This body hold could not last. It was likely to 
I T was growing late in the season. Lightning 
Creek, one of the famous Idaho trout 
streams, in the spring a raging torrent, was 
little more than an overgrown brook. The 
larger trout, having spawned, had all returned 
to the lake, leaving only the smaller fry to 
tease the angler. Professional cares had de¬ 
layed my annual pilgrimage, but nothing can 
prevent me from spending at least a few days 
there every season. 
We dropped off the Bingville train at Clark- 
fork, the little village just above the mouth of 
the stream in Clark’s Fork of the Columbia, 
mounted our wheels and toiled up the trail to 
where Lightning Creek cuts its way through 
the Cabinets. There the trail ends and the 
angler must fight his way through brush, over 
fallen logs, and around boulders for several 
miles before he reaches water that has not been 
whipped to death by anglers from the city. We 
spread our single blanket upon the ground 
beneath a cedar at Katy’s Cabin, the court of 
last resort for those who possess the courage 
and fortitude to penetrate this mountain fastness. 
The next morning we traveled several miles 
further up the stream, thinking that perhaps as 
it grew smaller the trout would increase in 
size. Our hopes were futile, not an old moss- 
back came to thrill our nerves. The clear water 
was swarming with little ones, just above the 
legal limit as to size, and with these we were 
perforce obliged to content ourselves. As the 
day wore on we drifted slowly down the stream, 
gleaning one from a sandy shallow or lifting 
another from a dark pool beneath the roots of 
an overhanging cedar. 
In view of the size of the fish we had been 
taking, I had tied on a battery of No. 10 flies 
as being less calculated to injure the small fish 
did they prove too diminutive to place in the 
basket. Standing upon a shelving rock, I 
threw my fly upon the riffle and allowed it to 
float down into the still pool below, the while 
watching the German. 
tear loose any moment if I did not land him. 
Again I ran him into shoal water, and this time 
I was in the water all ready for him. As he 
came in, temporarily exhausted, I seized him 
just behind the gills, and slipping my forefinger 
in one side and my thumb in the other, I swung 
my prize clear of the water and made up the 
face of the rock with him. Not until I got him 
well away from that pool did I stop to examine 
my hold. My hook had pierced the small fin 
just back of the left gill, well in toward his 
body, and there it had held. During his strug¬ 
gles the hook had torn a half-inch slit in the 
fin, so that with the least bit of slack line he 
could doubtless have shaken it. Leaving the 
hook just as it was, I struck out for the cabin. 
My trout measured 2ij4 inches and I should 
judge weighed fully four pounds. Not at all 
large for a Dolly Varden, but exceptional for 
this stream and for the hold by which I landed 
him. 
The instinct of the fisherman caused me to 
glance from time to time at the fly as it floated 
idly in the still water. I glanced one time and 
saw an immense head rise out of the water, a 
capacious mouth open and engulf that tiny fly. 
I struck. He felt the barb and half turned in 
the water, disclosing the dark slaty sides and 
bright lemon spots of a great charr. I have 
grown gray in angling, but I submit to the 
angling fraternity that a five-ounce rod and a 
diminutive hook are poor weapons to fight a 
big trout that is all fight from the moment he 
is hooked until you have him dressed with sage 
and in the basting dish. The German had 
given up his hopeless task, and was making 
his way toward me over the slippery rocks. His 
trained eye took in the situation at a glance 
and he hastened forward, shouting advice 
couched in a curious medley of German-English 
and dancing about like a dervish on the rock 
and wishing that he had hold of my fly rod. 
Blessings on the makers of that good hook, 
rod and line. As the fish would set out on a 
voyage of discovery for the lower end of the 
pool, I would grudgingly pay out to him the 
line with which to trace his way back when he 
was ready to come; when he got ready to ex¬ 
plore my end of the pool, I was ready to take 
in all the line he was willing to accord me. 
Excited? Well, you all know how it feels. 
Below the pool where we were fighting our 
battle was a wide shallow rapid, and when the 
fish finally grew weary of trying to gain his free¬ 
dom in the deep water and set out for the rapid, 
there was no stopping him; I followed. The 
water was up to my middle (I am six-four), but 
I floundered on. The trout shot into the rapid 
and headed down stream. His rush was resist¬ 
less; I gave him all the line left. At the 
moment when I had concluded to brace the rod, 
tear the hook out and let him go, he turned and 
came back up stream. As he passed me I saw 
that he was growing tired, his mouth was wide 
open, the gills working convulsively. I called 
to the German to stand by and lend a hand at 
the landing. A few shorter rushes with quicker 
returns, a few more feeble leaps and the great 
handsome fellow gave it up and floated toward 
the shore. The German waded in behind him, 
stooped and with both hands scooped him 
ashore. 
We had no scales, so we could not weigh 
him; we had no camera, but we did have a foot 
rule, and it told us that the fish was a trifle 
over 28 inches in length. He was heavy, as I 
ascertained by lugging him to camp. i 
Doubtless the reader will feel an interest in 
knowing how a strictly lake trout found his 
way up a small stream so far from his usual 
habitat. In early spring the charr follow the 
cut-throat trout up the streams to feed off the 
roe as it is deposited in the sand, returning as 
the cut-throat return. This one evidently lo¬ 
cated in the pool where I found him, waiting 
until the fall rains would raise the water so that 
he could return with ease. He chose a de-' 
lightful place to spend the summer and only 
erred in attaching himself to what he probably 
thought was only an insect, but which proved 
to have a string to it. 
A Day With the Trout in Idaho 
By CHARLES STUART MOODY 
LIGHTNING CREEK. 
