654 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May 25, 1912 
I took the place because of its intrinsic worth 
and its beauty; its grass, fruit, running water 
and still uncut timber. My working outfit in¬ 
cludes household goods and garden implements, 
also cows and poultry, also a library of several 
hundred volumes, also a rifle, a shotgun, some 
fishing rods and a large number of pocket note¬ 
books. The dates in the earlier note books are 
nearly five years old. The place is now home. 
The creatures of the forest know and are known. 
Fishing rods are meant for attack, but my fire¬ 
arms are strictly defensive in character and use. 
The above paragraphs explain my “getting 
out.” The subsequent story is a jumble; that 
is, a mixture of events, because life is made up 
that way. People come and people go. Animals, 
birds and fishes arrive, linger and depart. A 
man with a family may be busily and profitably 
employed in the midst of a forest as I discover. 
The note books do not forget incidents and 
dates, and some things may be worth printing. 
CHAPTER II. 
SOME STORIES ABOUT SALMON. 
In Chapter I. reference was made to the ex¬ 
change of city life for country life; to a re¬ 
moval from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific 
seaboard; to a complete change of environment 
in a geographical sense. But I found farm life 
(or ranch life) in the West quite the same in 
detail as in the East; just as hard and just as 
easy. Cows, horses and poultry have the same 
daily requirements. Soil is soil all the world 
over, and grass is grass. A perfect apple can 
be no more than perfect anywhere. 
But just as it is true that in some parts of 
the country the original forests have not yet dis¬ 
appeared, so it is true that the original inhabi¬ 
tants of the land and waters have not yet ceased 
to exist. It is thus with salmon. The trout 
stream on the ranch seemed too small for big 
fish of any sort, and I could not at first give 
credit to the neighborhood stories of what would 
occur in late autumn. We took the place in 
May. The great fish came up that autumn later 
than usual. 
On the 22d of November, just before sundown, 
I was watering a cow at the lane fprd; a com¬ 
monplace incident. It was a quiet afternoon 
and that branch of the stream was but little 
above its usual level. 
Without warning there was a splash and a 
rush and something resembling a submarine boat 
passed close to the cow’s nose. The drinking 
animal was indeed astonished, but not by the 
fish, for the sight was not a novel one to her. 
For more than half a dozen years she had seen 
such performances in the late autumn; not one 
fish, but scores and hundreds of them. It was 
the human conduct that caused bovine surprise; 
the dropping of rope, pursuit and capture of 
fish, and then the sight of the prize on the bank 
with wounded side. 
The salmon had attended strictly to its own 
affairs, with no turning to right or left, and with 
no halt or hesitation. And it had been speared 
and tossed upon the back to die. It was good 
table food, as it proved, but not so good as if 
it had been taken out of salt water, three miles 
down stream. 
The next year the salmon arrived at the ranch 
on Nov. 2; the succeeding year, Nov. 2; the next 
year, Oct. 21; and so on. These dates show that 
salmon runs are not regulated precisely by the 
almanac, but depend on weather and \yater con¬ 
ditions and perhaps on other causes. 
Soon after the beginning of the run that first 
season, when the water had become high, we 
one morning heard a nearby rifle shot, and pres¬ 
ently an Indian came to the door with a twelve- 
pound offering. He had a smile on his face as 
he presented the fish—a beautiful “silver” sal¬ 
mon. Then he made an apology for his poor 
marksmanship. The bullet hole was two inches 
back of and half an inch below the eye. “I 
mostly hit just back of the eye,” he sa'd; “don’t 
know how I came to shoot so low.” 
The same day, an hour or two later, a white 
man came to the stream to get a fish. He said 
his wife was amiss and needed food, and he 
requested permission to shoot near the cabin. 
He was of course allowed to do so, and more 
than one fine fish was. pointed out to him. Shot 
after shot was fired, but his rifle secured him 
no food. 
It is not easy to locate a moving target in a 
bankful stream, with water running like a mill 
race and slightly tinged with color. And yet 
the Indian had done it. 
The final outcome of the matter was that half 
the Indian’s salmon went to the home of the 
man whose wife was sick. The Indian’s story 
was no idle boast, as after events proved. He 
was not “putting on airs” when he apologized 
for a half-inch error. More than that, he was 
as famed for his skill with axe as with rifle. 
Salmon are no longer disturbed in our own 
meadow waters. The ranch has become a sanc¬ 
tuary for the spawning fish. Once here they 
are safe; safe until they pass on up stream, at 
least. 
Near the center of our cleared land is the 
junction pool, the place where two considerable 
streams meet and unite to form the little river 
that descends seventy feet to the mile to the 
salt water of the bay. When the fish reach the 
junction pool on the upward journey, they al¬ 
ways halt for a time, as though deciding which 
route to select, and they appear to make occas¬ 
ional mistakes, going up a short distance, and 
then returning again to the pool, and going up 
the other channel. One stream seems as good 
and as fit as the other, and many salmon ascend 
each, but to the fish themselves there may be 
a difference. In the summer season the so-called 
mountain stream is always four degrees cooler 
than the so-called lake stream, but it is not likely 
that the temperature varies much during the sea¬ 
son of high water in late autumn and early 
winter. 
Down stream from the ranch there are a series 
of log jams, places where fallen trees or other 
obstacles have caused rubbish to accumulate. In 
one case a log jam may be a screen filled with 
small holes. In another case the jam may re¬ 
sult in a flight of wooden steps, one above an¬ 
other, with a waterfall over each. 
There is no better sport, nothing better for a 
fisherman’s nerves, than to select a log jam (the 
worse the better) and then watch the salmon 
read and solve the fearful riddle. A majority 
of the salmon will reach the same conclusion; 
mostly a jump. But there will be exceptions. 
One or two seasons back, when the run was 
•at its height, I chose a place especially calling 
for a leap, and it was royal sport to watch fish 
after fish making the ascent in perfect safety. 
It was difficult to imagine how there could be 
an upward motion in a downward pouring 
column of water, yet the thing was done over 
and over again. No photograph (except a mov¬ 
ing picture) could convey or portray the inspir¬ 
ing spectacle, and even a moving picture would 
lack the music of the roaring water. 
I noticed, now and then, a fine silver salmon 
making an effort to find a way around the fall, 
and that there was, in fact, a sort of back stairs 
to the coveted upper story. The fish mounted 
successfully one step at a time until the level 
of the upper pool was reached, but there was 
a cross log at the very top that defeated the 
trip, and retreat was the only alternative. The 
effort was repeated several times, always re¬ 
sulting in failure, yet it was evident that the 
purpose of the fish would cause it to continue 
the same fruitless endeavor, so I made out to 
shift the upper destruction a few inches. 
After a short rest the salmon again began 
the ascent, and as before reached the top. This 
time there was a change for the better, and the 
situation was instantly acted upon. The beauti¬ 
ful fish turned a shining side to the sky, and 
with a single tail stroke squeezed under the log 
and entered quiet water. 
The next log jam, as one goes down stream, 
is of another sort; not of the mill dam kind, 
with check of current and overflow, but rather 
a mass of roots, broken branches and trunks, 
horribly interlaced and interlocked; a great 
wooden filter or strainer. Many a toll of fin 
or flesh is exacted of the fish which have to 
pass up through the meshes of such a net. 
We watched a pair run this gauntlet. The 
day was quiet in a salmon sense, and few fish 
were moving. The smaller of the two fish, pre¬ 
sumably the male, wound himself through a nar¬ 
row aperture and waited for his mate. The 
latter again and again made the effort, but could 
not get through. Then the male with difficulty 
squeezed himself down stream again, through 
the difficult passage, and joined the female. Pres¬ 
ently both were above the place by some method 
not understood to us, but one of them carried 
a scar. There is something pathetic in a scarred 
fish. The scar tells of courage, faith and a pur¬ 
pose that is invincible. 
More refreshing, more inspiring, more en¬ 
couraging is this high water fishing; this fish¬ 
ing without hook or spear than any other sort 
within my own experience; this fishing in which 
the stage setting .is perfect, yet in which there 
is no taking of life; this fishing in the presence 
of water that is rushing and roaring and singing 
and sometimes speaking in almost human tones. 
Human tones? 
Yes, human tones, for time after time, even 
when entirely alone, with knowledge of being 
alone, I have looked around half expecting to 
face a human being among the logs or along 
the banks. [to be continued.] 
New Publications. 
His First Day’s Work, by G. J. Bridges. 
James Nisbet & Co., Ltd., London, Eng. 
Here is a little book that is just the size to put 
into your pocket on your next fishing trip. When 
the sun is high and the trout won’t come out, 
read a few pages of “His First Day’s Work.” Its 
humor, pathos and human interest are so inter- 
rningled as to make an interesting half hour’s 
reading. 
