Riding Through the Catskills 
By WILLIAM J. EHRICH 
A Little Travel, a Little Fishing and a Fine Time 
N OW that trout rods are carefully put away 
and members of the “Brotherhood of 
Good Sportsmen” are polishing up rifles 
and shotguns, it seems only right for each man, 
lucky enough to have hit on something new, to 
unburden himself for the benefit of the other 
members of the large—and growing—family. 
I have not invented a fly, the very sight of 
which makes trout long for the pleasure of toast¬ 
ing their feet on a frying-pan—neither have I 
discovered a stream where the fish are so large 
or so plentiful that it is dangerous for small 
boys to go swimming—but I did have an idea 
that by the expenditure of a little trouble and 
less money I could have an ideal vacation—and 
I did. 
Personal matters making it inadvisable to be 
very far from New York, I decided to fish the 
classic trout streams of the State—but how? To 
go from one stream to another by train would 
mean that very restraint that every self-respect¬ 
ing vacation should be without. To let my 
chauffeur take me around in my automobile was 
inconvenient for two reasons; namely, I have 
no chauffeur, and—I have no automobile! So 
by the simple process of elimination, the choice 
fell on my tough little Western pony. 
I had a stock saddle and a dealer in more 
or less “relicky” relics supplied me with a pair 
of canvas saddle bags that once were the prop¬ 
erty of Uncle Sam. The fish basket hanging 
on one side of the pommel, the much-traveled 
reflecting camera on the other, and my two 
favorite rods and landing net tied across the 
saddle bags all helped to make up, what was to 
say the least, an imposing spectacle. By using 
the fish basket to carry waders, wading shoes, 
reels and a few trifles, I had room in the saddle 
bags for a couple of changes of underwear, a 
woolen shirt, a waterproof suit, a poncho and 
various other things which really gave consider¬ 
able tone to the expedition. My duffle weighed 
foi ty-five pounds, the saddle forty, my weight 
bringing the total up to 250 pounds, which did 
rot bother the pony, but, of course, necessitated 
very slow travel. 
The streams being high, there was no use fish¬ 
ing the Esopus near its mouth, so, sending the 
pony to Kingston by boat, I took the train direct 
to Mount Pleasant, and while the man rode the 
pony up from Kingston, had all next day to fish. 
The proprietor, large, kindly Mr. Van Cock- 
burne, was at the station, and saying he would 
keep supper, sent me right down to the stream. 
It was apparently a “fishy” evening, but experi- 
THE PONY AND OUTFIT. 
BURNT HILL. 
ence has taught me when streams are high to 
do my fishing when the sun is on the water. I 
was not surprised, therefore, that a rise or two 
was the only reward—except the sentiment of 
wetting a line in a famous old stream and a mis¬ 
step that filled one wader with water of a most 
exhilarating temperature. 
The next morning, despite the cold, found me 
in the stieam at half-past four. It was hard 
work fishing up-stream in that swift, strong cur¬ 
rent, but before breakfast time three ten-inch 
rainbows had found their way into the basket, 
all lured by a “whirling dun.” The rest of the 
day I spent up a little stream irreverently called 
the Beaverkill, which flows into the Esopus just 
below Mount Pleasant. The trout are small, 
but it is a beautiful stream, easy to wade, with 
plenty of room to cast. It is well to walk about 
half a mile up-stream before beginning to fish 
and then work up, the distance depending, of 
course, on whether you are a fast or slow fisher¬ 
man. Personally, I believe that fishing short 
likely-looking stretches and going over them 
thoroughly pays better than covering long dis¬ 
tances, but, as a certain old lady remarked, 
“every one to his taste.” 
That evening another angler having arrived, 
we naturally indulged in that two-hundred-year- 
old argument concerning the respective merits 
of up and down stream fishing. Up-stream fish¬ 
ing, he said, was a fad, while I asked if it was 
his innate chivalry that made him notify each 
fish that he was about to engage him in knightly 
combat. And so it went on, until bed time, 
when we turned in and dreamed of rainbows 
that threw triple somersaults and could not be 
landed since their heads would not go into our 
nets, and that finally—but it was half-past four 
and time to be in the stream. It was a trifle 
warmer, and by noon I had caught ten nice 
trout, mostly rainbows. 
It being only twelve miles from Mount Pleas¬ 
ant to Big Indian, there was time to loaf along 
and imbibe the beauties of that wonderful val¬ 
ley. “Oh, go on,” I hear some grizzled veteran 
say. ‘ I was up to my hips in the Esopus be¬ 
fore you were born.” But for all that it is im¬ 
possible to omit mention of the restless little 
Esopus, now still and deep as it flows through 
that smiling, hospitable lowland, protected on 
either side from wind and storm by steep high 
ranges, now lashing itself into foam as it races 
madly down the rapids, disappearing among the 
thick trees, and as suddenly reappearing as a 
long deep pool. Oh, wonderful little rivers, ever 
restless, ever changing and still always the same, 
always rippling the very message our hearts are 
craving. Who can blame the ancient red men 
for endowing you each with your own per¬ 
sonality? 
To save the pony’s feet from the hard “State 
load I kept on the west side of the stream as 
far as Phoenicia. Going through the settle¬ 
ments of Allaben and Shandaken, it was amus¬ 
ing to see the surprised faces when my outfit 
appeared on the landscape. But their greetings 
were always kindly if I did look like one of 
Buffalo Bill’s advance agents. 
fl he afternoon was nearly spent when we came 
to the hotel opposite the Big Indian railroad 
station. Having seen the pony well cared for, 
I ate a bite and started for the stream. The 
Esopus at Big Indian is very small, so I de¬ 
cided on my lightest rod, a 2^-ounce split bam- 
