In the Sangre de Christo Range. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
When the old Spanish monks first beheld these 
snow-tipped peaks, it was at eventide, and as 
the rays of the setting sun were cast upon the 
range, the light softened into a ruddy glow, and 
this, mingled with the snow whiteness, made 
them think the scene was beyond any earthly 
comparison, and one of them exclaimed: 
“Sangre de Christo!” (the blood of Christ), 
and thus these grand old peaks were christened 
forevermore. 
On my first trip into this region I was of 
course dependant for information, to a great 
extent, upon the natives. I had intended to 
camp upon a small stream called Indian Creek, 
but was told that, owing to the drouth, this 
stream was all but dry, and was advised to try 
Ute Creek. I decided upon my camping spot by 
asking the comparative size of the streams, and 
chose the larger one, the Trinchera, and 
never regretted it, as I found it well stocked 
and the surroundings admirable for an out¬ 
ing. 
There are those who prefer wading to the 
armpits in such streams as the Gunnison and 
others; who prefer casting from a canoe, as 
upon the Nipigon; but give me a trout stream 
that strikes me about the knees, with plenty 
of pools and riffles; its banks lined with spruces 
and firs; small and secluded and teeming with 
trout. Such a stream I found the Trinchera, 
and upon arriving at our camping spot, the 
driver, ever skeptical of the new-comer, said, 
“I want to see you catch one.” I, in walking 
boots, was more anxious to wait until camp 
was made and I had donned my waders; but 
to satisfy him, I plunged in, and in ten minutes 
had gotten my feet wet and landed a trout. 
How good that fish looked, the first one caught 
in waters unfamiliar to me. He was a native, 
fins dark red, with belly a brick red, with black 
spots along the side; and green and black 
mottled back, and looked like a cross between 
the Colorado native and the trout of the Rio 
Grande. 
The driver was satisfied and very kindly 
helped me pitch my tents and aided me in many 
ways. Darkness coming on, myself and wife 
and three children gathered in our chairs about 
the camp-fire, tired but happy in our new 
abode. A chipmunk chirped saucily as he 
skipped about, young magpies hopped clumsily 
from limb to limb, keeping up an incessant 
squawking for more food from their elders. 
Upon the distant mountainside there arose the 
distinct but weird call of the mountain lion. 
This sound we heard each night at sunset and 
during a trip across the mountains I saw his 
track many times. A few days later, when com¬ 
ing home and at a point near the carcass of a 
dead steer, one of these lions, not over 200 yards 
away, gave a cry that fairly sent the shivers 
along my spine, as I had no weapon but a 
pocket knife. A fisherman learns something 
new each trip, and I believe that I learned more 
upon this one than I ever did before. I have 
always been a down-stream fisherman. It is 
easier for one thing, and then to let your fly 
float with the current, and as it lazily approaches 
the more quiet water of a pool to slowly weave 
the flies across, so that it must indeed be a well- 
fed trout that does not take the lure. One day 
after one and a half hours’ such fishing I met an 
angler of small stature, bald-headed and beady- 
eyed. and I noticed his fish bag hung heavily 
upon his shoulder. “Any luck?” I asked, as I 
sized up his flies and noticed that he had a royal- 
coachman, not as a tail fly, but as a dropper 
and a gray-hackle as a tail fly. “Well, I’m get¬ 
ting a few.” “How many?” said I. “About 
twenty.” 
“Say, my friend, how long have you been fish¬ 
ing? Since 11 o’clock? Well, you have me 
skinned a city block, for I have been fishing 
that long myself and have only seven.” 
He asked if I was camped below, and upon 
answering him, he replied, “And you walked all 
the way up here to fish down? Ugh! I’ve 
fished all over this country and I never used a 
landing net (noticing my net). I always fish up 
in a small stream, as the trout are wild and you 
can approach them easily, and I get most of 
them in the riffles.” 
He passed on up stream and I down, and I 
found I had learned something and must fish 
up stream, even if I disliked it, so after walking 
down a mile or so, I tried a riffle up stream. 
It was hard work and I was compelled to make 
my recovery more quickly and not let the fly 
float too far, else the trout in following it would 
see me and become alarmed, but I soon learned 
it and found it great fun wading the riffles, let¬ 
ting out thirty to forty feet of line, hooking the 
fine ten-inch trout and dropping them back into 
the net. After I had caught twenty-five, I gave 
a yell and wife and children soon joined me. 
We then built a small fire and enjoyed our 
lunch. 
My wife had found a large mound of stones 
which she concluded was an Indian grave, and 
we decided to investigate later, but never did, 
and the old warrior still slumbers in peace. 
The children, laden with flowers, and I with 
my heavy basket, we strolled back to camp, 
arriving at 4:30 P. M. 
This programme was repeated day after day, 
except that I had taught my wife to use the fly, 
and many times she, too, had a string of nice 
ones to show me when the day’s sport was over. 
Four hours was the longest I fished in one day, 
and often two hours; I simply caught what we 
needed and that was all. One day I walked far 
up the stream and found many flowers of the 
variety that I had always found heretofore above 
timber line; a strange freak of Posy Land, 1 
called it, and when the children had become 
more accustomed to walking, they were all 
anxious to make the trip. I had my doubts if 
the youngsters could walk the distance, but we 
started nevertheless, and by slow stages fared on 
our way, and in a few hours had reached this 
promised flowery land. How they delighted in 
it, and it was such a pleasure to see them with 
great armloads sitting and weaving wreaths 
and other emblems. 
During our walk I had noticed a very dense 
thicket along the stream, but to get to the 
stream through this brush was impossible, and 
I walked down about half a mile before I could 
reach the water, then wading in, I tried to fish, 
but this was slow work, and I gave it up and 
determined to explore the stream. On ascend¬ 
ing some distance, I came to a rapid where the 
water came through as swift as from some giant 
fire hose. Carefully working forward along the 
edge, I succeeded in passing it, and to my great 
delight, found a small open park in this dense 
thicket. I looked for tracks, for broken boughs; 
in fact, for any trace to be made by man, but 
found none and concluded that there ought to 
be plenty of trout there, and if the signs did 
not fail, a virgin fishing ground. 
Immediately above the rapid was a long.^deep 
pool. As I had not intended to do much fish¬ 
ing, I had left my net in camp, and upon my 
second cast I hooked a good one and was at 
a loss to find a way to land him. 1 his diffi¬ 
culty I overcame by using my hat. Scarcely 
had I made another cast than I secured a sec 
ond fish, and bringing him out of the water, 
pinned him against my breast with my hat. 
The fish, however, were too large to do this 
successfully, as it bent my rod nearly double, 
and after that I dipped my hat into the water as a 
net, and became so excited that only the little 
streams of ice water running off my hat and 
down my back served to keep me within bounds. 
Eleven fine trout I counted as I left the pool, 
and judging it time for lunch, looked at my 
watch to find the hour 2 P. M. Yes, I must 
be going; but to look at that pool—in fact, you 
might call it a well with its three sides fenced 
in with heavy logs and the fourth by willows— 
but try it I must, and getting behind the logs, 
I made a drop, as a cast was impossible. I 
had not expected a strike at the first cast, so 
recovered my flies quickly, but found a fish to 
resist me. No place even for a hat there, so 
with rod arched double, out he came. 
In this little pool only accessible for a space 
of four feet square, but running back for thirty 
feet or more under a net-work of down timber, 
I made the record of my life. Never before 
have I caught trout so rapidly and under such 
adverse conditions. My basket was full; what 
more could I ask? I was perspiring like an 
athlete and happy beyond expression. I had 
at last found one of those rare spots every 
angler dreams of but seldom finds. Taking 
down my rod, I made ready to battle with the 
brush, and sometimes crawling, sometimes 
hurdling, I at last gained the path, and a little 
later my family. Quietly raising my basket lid, 
I displayed my catch, and my wife nearly had a 
spasm. We laid out the beauties upon a bank 
of ferns and counted twenty-eight; by far the 
best day in camp. Later they weighed twenty 
pounds. All told, this was the best average 
catch, and the most quickly obtained of any day 
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