Nov. 14, 1908.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
sweeter to my ear than that of its Eastern con- 
i gener, the song being suggestive of the mingled 
sounds of tinkling glass and steel accompanying 
I the incomparable melody from the bird’s throat, 
u Bobolink’s music is likewise suggestive. The 
larks were very numerous, and the delightful 
serenade I enjoyed already repaid me for the 
trip. Robins were arriving, and now and then 
a crow projected his black form against the dim 
clouds as he beat the air with heavy pinion, 
croaking a warning or greeting to some sombre- 
robed companion who sat on a distant tree and 
hoarsely acknowledged the salutation. Round¬ 
ing a bend I surprised a little mink “projeckin’ ” 
around a bit of stranded drift, busy as he could 
be working out some scent; but when he caught 
sight of my movements he paused a moment 
fields, the current grew swifter, and ere long 
the foothills rose from the banks and ran up¬ 
ward to the nearer low-lying mountains. Just 
in the entrance to the gap stretched a long, 
rather deep pool, where the stream took a long 
breath after its prolonged and rapid flight, and 
at the upper end, around a curve, I could hear 
a rapid, which told me my boating was over 
for the present. 
On the left hand about half-way up the pool 
the water was quite deep, and the bluff rose 
abruptly to a height of perhaps a dozen feet. I 
noticed before I reached this place that an old 
trail, formerly used probably by lumbermen, 
ran up from the lower ground, and presumably 
ran alongside the bluff on top. On the op¬ 
posite side the pool just below this bluff, a bar 
769 
stately trees in silent watchfulness over all, are 
sweet and inspiring influences which make glad 
and peaceful the heart of the fisherman. 
My rod soon stretched its willowy length be¬ 
fore me, visibly aching for the fray. A royal- 
coachman and brown-hackle were the last things 
on the string, and putting my lunch in my 
hunting coat pocket—and by the way, what 
satisfaction there is in a multi-pocket coat on 
a fishing trip—and giving an extra safe pull to 
the boat, so as to be sure of its whereabouts, 
I struck for the trail and meandered up stream. 
As is the case in most, if not all, trout 
streams, the best holes could not be got at 
handily, which is nature’s best protection, but 
by careful and quiet management, ducking and 
crawling as exigency demanded, I found the 
1 
1 
1 
THE SKIN S FIRST OWNER. 
as he endeavored to understand them, and then 
left a brown streak behind him, disappearing 
under the bank among the roots of a handy 
tree. Ducks of various kinds rose ahead of me 
with much alarm and splashing, circling around 
to the rear or going further up, and an oc¬ 
casional heap of drift or log detained me; but 
all the region was a terra incognita, and the 
delays and surmounting of obstacles were 
pleasant. 
There were likely-looking spots for wetting 
a line in suggestive pools or still reaches of 
water by the side of a log or under the bank, 
but the rapid, tumbling, foaming stream as it 
dances in cataract or leaps in fall, pausing here 
and there in deep pool where the eddies circle 
and the foam flakes chase each other up stream 
only to be drawn into the current, to go whirl¬ 
ing down again in a delightful “merry-go- 
; round,” has charms for me beyond any slug¬ 
gish water, so I kept, up the breeze and looked 
for better things. The country grew rougher 
as I proceeded, unbroken forest succeeded 
or point of low-lying rocks ran out, and on it 
was a long pile of drift, some of the logs and 
limbs reaching out to quite deep water. 
A little distance above there was a sharp turn 
to the left, and the current running around this 
shot across, striking the outer edge of a drift. 
Noting these facts as I worked along up, I de¬ 
cided to land on the trail side, as one naturally 
would, so I drifted back to where I could land 
easily and ran ashore, pulled the boat out and 
proceeded to put my rig together. Assembling 
an outfit at such periods as this is, to me, one 
of the most enjoyable moments of the day. 
With what joyful, satisfying expectancy one 
joints his rod, attaches the reel, threads the line, 
chooses with cogitation the cast. While the 
beautiful, clear, rushing waters harboring the 
handsome game, the pebbly shore or bolder 
rocky bluff, the pile of drift or overhanging 
roots from beneath the edge of which the swift 
fish darts upon his prey, the silence and soli¬ 
tude all yours surrounding you like a benison, 
the lovely vistas opening between boles of 
fishing fairly good for so early in the season, 
but the fish were not as anxious for the fly as 
the wiggler, as I found out little by little. But 
they were numerously at home, and the soul¬ 
filling satisfaction at being on a stream not 
fished to death was simply intoxicating. How 
sleek and fat the supple black-spotted charmers 
were, to be sure, as they came to hand after 
a desperate Tittle resistance, during which some 
of the larger ones tried the rod to seemingly 
the last ounce of endurance, as they fought for 
the protecting log or bank, so near and yet so 
far. Perhaps I allow prejudice to somewhat 
bias my opinions, but it seems to me that the 
trout of the Pacific Coast, as a rule, as far as 
my experience goes in Washington and Oregon, 
have not the same dash, vigor and fight in them 
that the Eastern fontinalis has. They are wary 
and wild as trout should be, but they do not 
seem to make the rod and fisher work as lively 
as Old Crimson Spots does. Still the difference 
will never prevent me from going for those 
Western fellows whenever I have opportunity. 
I 
