i6 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[July 4, 1908. 
return trip. In one pool we had not fished on 
our way up, I killed another salmon of about ten 
pounds, and in the first of the two pools I have 
spoken of, my companion rose and killed a nice 
ten-pound fish. Then Silver Mitchell climbed 
the cliff to take a look over the pool and no 
sooner had he cast his eyes over the water, than 
I heard an exclamation from his guide, who had 
gone up with him. From the other side of the 
stream I asked what was the matter, but it was 
like talking to two deaf mutes. Both men were 
staring into the pool and pointing out objects 
to each other. “A big one,” thought I; “must 
take a look.” I crossed above the rapid, 
climbed the rock, and looked at the water. And 
this is what I saw: 
Below the rapid, where the water first began 
to grow clear and still, for a distance of prob¬ 
ably thirty yards in length by about the same 
in width, were fish—not a straggler here and 
there lying lazily in the current, but hundreds 
upon hundreds as far as the eye could pierce 
the water. Fish as small as your hand, fish as 
long as your arm, they lay there, the nose of 
one lying alongside the tail of another, their 
tails slowly moving, their gills opening and shut¬ 
ting and their pectoral fins gently vibrating. In 
the crystal water I could see every movement. 
At first glance I thought they were salmon and 
nearly fell off my lofty perch; then I got a good 
look at the fins and gills and saw they were 
trout. But what trout! To judge fish in the 
water is always uncertain, but the three of us 
picked out a dozen of those monster trout that 
we unanimously decided would go well over ten 
pounds, perhaps twelve. Little fellows of a 
pound lay side by side with giants that could 
have swallowed them heads and all and never 
noticed their meal. There was no swimming or 
hasty movement among that school of fish; they 
simply lay there in the current and abreast of 
it, lazily and apparently fully contented with life. 
Among them we singled out three salmon, all 
about the size of those we had caught, and the 
water was so clear that we could plainly see net 
marks on two of them. 
Silver Mitchell and I looked at each other. 
The day of the big trout had come at last. We 
scrambled down the cliff and crossed the stream. 
Then considering that if such trout were in one 
pool they would probably be in another, I left 
my companion in possession, and with my own 
man started for the lower of those two magnifi¬ 
cent bits of water. 
I reached it, all excitement, climbed the rock 
there and looked down. Almost the same sight 
met my eyes as in the upper pool, save that 
there were not so many fish, and the water being 
darker, I could not see so well. But there, just 
below the rock where the rapid began to lose 
its force, were seven gigantic trout lying head 
to tail facing the current. Each one of those 
fish must have weighed eight pounds if it 
weighed an ounce, while beyond them on the 
edge of the deep water I could see dozens of 
others. Though I have killed a good many 
salmon, and have had some of the best trout 
fishing that this country and Canada affords, 1 
do not think I was ever so excited as when I 
saw those wonderful fish. My guide was hardly 
less excited, and we went down that cliff in a 
rather undignified manner. But it was hard to 
get a fly over the trout correctly. They were 
lying close to the base of the rock and just be¬ 
fore it reached them the current took a sweep 
out toward the center of the pool, thus making 
it very difficult for the fly to float over the fish. 
It was impossible to cast from the cliff side, so 
I waded to the center of the quick water at im¬ 
minent risk of being swept off my feet, and 
made ready. 
John went up the rock once more to wait de¬ 
velopments and watch my fly, while I tied on a 
silver-doctor and tried my first cast. As I ex¬ 
pected, the fly would not drift over the fish and 
John, from his point of vantage informed me 
that it was swept out by the current fully four 
feet before it reached the trout. Again and 
again I tried to get that fly to work properly, 
but it was impossible. Then I was forced to 
cast directly over the brutes. The first throw 
resulted in a broken barb, the fly striking the 
side of the cliff. A new fly and a new cast 
followed. The doctor struck the water just in 
front of the foremost trout; there was a boil in 
the water, I caught a glimpse of a huge fan-like 
tail, I saw John’s eyes bulging, and then— 
nothing. The brute had made a half-hearted 
dash at it and that was all. 
“Didn’t come within a foot of it, sir,” sang 
out John. I drew in my line through the guides, 
and after a minute’s rest, tried again, but with 
no result. 
I cast a dozen times and tried three other 
flies, but failed miserably. Twice one of the fish 
moved, but each time sank back to his ac¬ 
customed position. I was at a loss, but I must 
have one of those trout. Leaving the seven 
giants alone for a few minutes, I turned my at¬ 
tention to the rest of the water and began to 
cover that portion of the pool where I knew 
there were fish, though I could not see them. 
For half an hour I fished that tantalizing spot, 
at first conscientiously, then impatiently and 
finally desperately, but the only result was a 
poor little trout of some two pounds in weight. 
I dragged the unfortunate fish ashore, and then 
sat down to think. Although I had killed but 
few salmon so far, for the moment salmon 
were at a discount; it was my bounden duty to 
capture one of those truly wonderful trout. 
While extracting my fly I noticed something, 
and that something was the tail of a small.fish 
protruding from the mouth of that small sea 
trout. I performed a surgical operation and the 
mystery of the refusal of the trout to take a 
fly was solved. Inside the two-pounder was the 
remnant of a little fish some four inches in 
length. Cannibalism was in force on Fox 
Island River. 
Presently Silver Mitchell came down stream 
with a couple of trout about the size of mine, 
and reported exactly the same state of affairs. 
Both of his catch were gorged with these little 
things that apparently belonged to the smelt 
family of our waters. A look at one of the 
little feeders of the river showed the brook abso¬ 
lutely filled with smelt, running in length from 
three to six inches. Evidently at this season of 
the year vast schools of these small fish entered 
the river to spawn in the brooks that fed the 
main stream, while after them came the 
ravenous sea trout intent on slaughter. 
It was certain that as long as the smelt re¬ 
mained in the river we would have hard work 
to raise one of the big fellows to a fly, so smelts 
must be the lure. We had no spinners or gangs 
of hooks on which to mount our bait, but that 
matter was easily settled. Silver Mitchell is a 
gentleman of ingenuity and resource. From his 
tackle box he produced a hank of gut, while I 
came to the rescue with some bait hooks that 
I found in my trout fly-book. Selecting three 
strands of gut and soaking them thoroughly, my 
friend proceeded to twist them, and in a few 
minutes a very serviceable triple trace was 
ready. Three of the hooks lashed together with 
some waxed thread made a triangle or grapline 
for the tail of the gang, and two other hooks 
fastened at intervals upon the gut completed 
the outrageous weapon; a swivel was attached 
to the bare end and the job was done. Fif¬ 
teen minutes’ more work, another gang was 
finished and we were ready for the morrow. 
Early the next morning one of the men went 
to a nearby brook, and with his hat in his 
hands, scooped up a dozen of the pretty little 
fish that were to be martyrs to the cause of 
angling. Going to the higher of the two pools 
we rigged up the gear and began fishing, taking 
turns at the water below the rapids. A few 
minutes proved the efficacy of the smelt as a 
bait. In less than half an hour we had eight 
or ten trout, four of them going five pounds, 
the others smaller, but still no leviathans, 
though they were there by dozens. The heavy 
current and the gameness of the fish, together 
with our comparatively light tackle, made the 
sport rather interesting for a while, but the big 
ones that we hoped for refused to be tempted. 
At the end of thirty minutes, Silver Mitchell, 
who is nothing if not a good sportsman, became 
disgusted with this type of fishing, detached the 
gang, and departed up stream in search of 
nobler prey, leaving me in possession of the 
pool. 
I caught a couple more trout of about four 
pounds, and lost one that I thought was heavier, 
and then my lust for slaughter lessened and I 
stopped fishing. After a consoling pipe I went 
back to real fishing and not assassination. 
Leaving the pool, I started down stream, fish¬ 
ing every likely spot, but, as usual, without 
success. Finally, I reached a most attractive 
spot a mile or so from the river’s mouth, and 
here virtue had its own reward. The pool was 
a small one with a strong rapid at its head, and 
then it broadened and deepened into a most 
formidable bit of water. 
On one side was a pebbly beach, on the other 
a high bank overhung by trees along which the 
current flowed. I could see no fish, but it was 
a most tempting place. First I tried my favorite 
fly, a No. 6 Mitchell; nothing doing. Then a 
silver-doctor, first on a No. 4, then on a No. 6. 
Blanked once more. 
In desperation I determined to scare the deni¬ 
zens of that pool even if I could not catch them. 
I discovered in my fly box a great big black- 
dose that had been given me the year before by 
some optimistic angler. It was an old-fashioned 
affair tied on a single hook with the antiquated 
gut loop, and the feathers were decidedly the 
worse for wear. It was a fly that no self-re¬ 
specting fish should have touched, but mark 
the result. No sooner had the fly swung across 
the first of the deep water than there was a 
boil on the surface like the wake of a man-of- 
war. A huge back showed for a second and I 
was fast to something big. For an instant I 
thought it was a salmon, and I chortled with 
joy, but then the fish came to the top and I 
