Story of 9. Cougar Skirv 
By O. O. S. 
O. O. S. was one of the most delightful of men, singular alike for the force of his writings, for his charm¬ 
ing humor, and for the noble cheerfulness with which for many years he endured a great misfortune. In his 
day he wrote many delightful stories for Forest and Stream, and the accuracy of his observations, the 
soundness of his reasoning, the kindly sharpness of his wit, and—when it was necessary for him to attack an 
abuse—the sting of his sarcasm, charmed all his readers. Alas, now 
The knight’s bones are dust, 
And his good sword rust; 
His soul is with the saints, I trust. 
O N a misty, rainy, gloomy, despondent, 
beautiful Oregon day in spring, I 
found myself very expectedly on the 
lower Columbia aboard a Union Pacific steamer, 
plowing the muddy waters of that noble high¬ 
way between Portland and Astoria. The 
scenery was truly Oregonian and Columbian at 
that season of the year and probably quite a 
number of other seasons. Occasionally the 
shores, low-lying or more abrupt, could be seen, 
but for the most part the view was limited to the 
low-hanging clouds dropping their everlasting 
surplus in steady, depressing and monotonous 
drizzle, and to the irresistible flow of the mighty 
river. Occasionally a gull emerged silently 
from the wetness of the whence and as silently 
disappeared in the misty moisture of the hence. 
How lonesome and hungry, and damp and chilly 
and unsatisfied he looked. And I have no doubt 
he was. I shivered in sympathy. The steamer 
shivered, too, and coughed with its lungs full of 
Oregon mist, and the passengers gathered around 
the radiator in the cabin, and radiated tobacco 
smoke and juice, read Seaside books, Portland 
papers, and discussed the latest phase of the 
perennial Astorian boom, which, with canned 
salmon are the principal products of Astoria, 
both well-preserved. 
Among the passengers was a Norwegian, 
Prof. Aamold by name, characteristically blonde 
and fair haired, a violin virtuoso, who, having 
completed his winter tour, presumably with sat¬ 
isfactory returns, had separated himself from 
his confreres of the troupe and with his precious 
violin, guns, rods and pony was bound for a 
summering among the lofty hills and secluded 
valleys of this region, where he might breathe 
purer air than that usually served up in concert 
halls, lure the wily trout from his crystal retreat, 
or perforate the mighty grizzly or stealthly puma 
with his .45-90. He had been here before and 
talked entertainingly of sport past and to come, 
for he was well-read, a fine conversationalist, a 
great admirer of, and a firm disciple of Darwin, 
concerning whose views he conversed enthusi¬ 
astically, and as a brother sportsman my heart 
warmed toward him and I sincerely hoped he 
might escape the raking claws of the tawny 
Felis, and the fatal hug of the horrible Ursus. 
His pony, a little, beautiful, intelligent gray, 
had, through the carelessness and mismanage¬ 
ment of the deck hands at Portland, tumbled 
into the river between the dock and boat, and 
had been quite severely injured, and was of 
course an object of much solicitude, as he was 
to be the Professor’s mainstay in his jaunts. 
During the day we passed several long double 
lines of piles on either side of the river, between 
which men on loaded barges were dumping 
evergreen branches which were to be weighted 
down with stone to confine the current at bars 
and shallow places, for Uncle Sam was taking 
a hand in the improvement of the river for Port¬ 
land’s benefit. Along in the afternoon the boat 
pulled in to the little village or port of Klackal- 
lackum, for there was very little village to it, 
only a broken down wharf, a store and two or 
three houses, on the Washington side. The 
mail bag and a box of bottled beer were put 
off, the freight clerk or purser walked out the 
gang plank with considerable style, handed a 
bill to the storekeeper who was also postmaster 
and agent, walked back again, while the mate 
cried up the speaking tube, “All gone, sir.” 
The pilot rang the gong in the engine room, 
men on the wharf cast off spring and stern 
lines, the wheel—for she was a stern wheeler— 
backed water until ting-a-ling from the pilot 
started her ahead again, and we were once more 
under way down stream, while the half dozen 
dejected and lonesome-looking men on the 
wharf moved solemnly storeward with the beer, 
which might have been spelled the other way, 
judging from their motions. 
During the moment or two that we laid at 
the wharf I was standing on the upper deck 
leaning on the guards looking down on the 
festive and thrilling scene, when Prof. A. 
stepped to my side. 
“Do you see that gap in the hills back of 
town? Well, a fine trout stream comes down 
from the mountains through that gap, and flows 
rather sluggishly across the intervening mile 
or so, emptying into the river just below here. 
It’s a wild country back there, as I happen to 
know, and you won’t go amiss if you try the 
stream for fish.” 
I thanked him, resolving if opportunity offered 
to visit the place and see what sport I could 
get out of it. 
After a journey which would have been 
tedious but for the company of the Professor 
and for whose entertaining conversation I was 
truly thankful, I reluctantly bade him good-by 
at Astoria as he led his pony across the pier; 
and not many moons afterward walked myself 
across the wharf at Klackallackum, with rod 
and basket bound for the Pilchuck, as I found 
its name to be. On inquiry, I ascertained that 
I could boat it almost, if not quite, to the gap 
or rough water, so after some search I found 
what was not the most graceful or lightest boat 
in existence, but which would float me at least, 
and which I hired for the trip. It was a fine 
day, that rare thing on the lower Columbia, 
and I give full credit therefor. I thanked my lucky 
stars that the fates had been so propitious, for 
nine days in ten I might have struck a solid day 
of wetness. I did not know what I had done 
to deserve such good fortune, but I accepted it 
thankfully and hoped that I might be a grati¬ 
fied recipient often. By that I don’t mean to 
asseverate that a Californian or Arizonan in 
June would have called it such. The patient 
reader will simply understand that it did not 
rain. It was cloudy to be sure, but the clouds 
were not the low-lying, enveloping, reeky, sift¬ 
ing, depressing sort, but were, for the nonce, 
in a more ethereal and light-hearted mood, sail¬ 
ing aloft, solidly it is true, but almost persuaded 
at times to accede to the importunities of the 
sun and allow him to penetrate and lighten their 
dense folds. 
I got a boy to dig me a denier ressort of 
worms, for sometimes early in the season trout 
do not hunger for flies, and however great a 
stickler I may be for the only aesthetic lure, 
when the trout decline any and every shape and 
hue of manufactured loveliness, I am just 
stickler enough to stick on a barnyard hackle 
and secure enough belly fins to use either as 
fly or bait. With my worms, rod, and a grocery 
lunch of cheese, crackers, pickles and pair of 
oars, the blades of which had lost the most 
effective part of their extremities, and resembled 
long butter paddles as much as anything, put 
them between those aggravations of the oars¬ 
man, thole pins, and turned my bow up the 
quietly gliding and romantic stream, the euphonic 
Pilchuck. 
A good deal of brush bordered the stream 
as I moved along up, back of which here and 
there were open fields, alternating with bits of 
woodland, and in the former all the air was 
quivering with the delicious song of the 
meadow lark, which is more prolonged and far 
