A Trouting Trip. 
One June when I reached home for my annual 
vacation I found myself suffering from an un¬ 
usually severe attack of trout fever. This 
malady usually attacks the man who takes great¬ 
est pleasure in outdoor life, but whose work 
keeps him confined most of the year. The sym- 
toms are many and varied. About the first of 
February—often much earlier—the patient finds 
that when his day’s work is done and he sits 
by his evening fire, pleasing visions creep into 
his brain, visions that rival the most pleasant 
dream ever conjured by opium to sleeping devo¬ 
tee. In the glow of the coals or amid the blue 
haze of his pipe smoke there leaps into exist¬ 
ence some beautiful sylvan scene. Its center is 
a clear, swift little stream, leaping and hurry¬ 
ing from one quiet pool to another, and above 
it great trees meet, or grassy banks slope up¬ 
ward toward neighboring meadows. In that 
stream, knee deep in its turbid volume, the 
dreamer beholds a familiar figure moving to¬ 
ward one of the pools. Rod in hand the figure 
wades down stream till a vantage point is 
reached, then stops. The pliant rod describes 
an arc; a brilliant bit of color shoots through 
the air and drops lightly upon the pool; there 
is an answering flash of color from the limpid 
depths, then the rod springs to a half circle, the 
figure braces itself to the fight and the pool 
quickly changes to white foam as the line cuts 
it in different directions and the leaping victim 
churns it in his mad efforts to escape. The 
dashes grow shorter, the leap scarcely clears 
the surface, and soon a five-pound trout is 
brought to the net. Each cast brings an imme¬ 
diate rise, and each strike brings a huge mon¬ 
arch to the creel. 
As the days pass the dream comes with in¬ 
creasing frequency and vividness, and sooner or 
later the victim will be found winding an old 
rod, tying flies, overhauling lines and leaders, 
studying maps and guide books, and pausing in 
front of each display of tackle as he passes 
along the street. As the days lengthen and the 
snow disappears from the hills he grows worse 
and worse until he neglects his work for the 
dreams and the visions. There is but one cure 
—a fishing trip—and unless this is offered the 
sufferer becomes sullen and morose—a nuisance 
to himself and to his friends—but allowed this, 
he returns to his regular tasks immeasurably re¬ 
freshed and benefited by the run of this curious 
disease. 
As above mentioned I had an acute attack of 
the fever and soon found a fellow sufferer in 
the person of “Prof.,”# the school principal of 
my high school days. “Prof.” had often figured 
in trips to Pine River, in the neighboring county 
of Waushara, and said he knew of an excellent 
place. 
Our plans were quickly made. His school 
closed on Friday and 6 o’clock the following 
Wednesday morning found us on the road for 
our drive of thirty-five miles. In the back of 
the rig were grub enough for two days, rods, 
overcoats, and most important of all, an old cof¬ 
fee pot half full of angleworms which it had 
taken several hours of digging to procure. We 
packed away that old pot the most carefully of 
all, for we knew the worms would be our prin¬ 
cipal bait, and also that we could not find them 
“up in the sand.” 
The ride, though uneventful, was delightful. 
In June nature is at her best here and the 
matchless beauty of rolling fields and meadows, 
verdant woodland and distant gleam of water 
crowned by the cloud-flecked blue of the sky 
crept into our hearts, soothing away the worry 
and fatigue and leaving us unutterably glad of 
the privilege of living. A great part of our 
journey lay through a thinly settled region where 
brush and trees lined the road. There, number¬ 
less song birds flitted from branch to branch, 
and in one place we stopped for several minutes 
to watch a covey of young quail. 
About two hours’ driving brought us to the 
little village of Poysippi, nestled under its great 
hill near the mouth of Pine River. As we 
skirted its southern limits and looked down upon 
the sparkling waters of its mill pond and across 
the town to the wall of green rising behind it, 
it seemed indeed to be one of earth’s beauty 
spots. 
At the hamlet of Pine River we stopped to 
inquire as to baits and to purchase some neces¬ 
sary tackle. From there on we caught frequent 
glimpses of the river and grew more and more 
impatient to reach our destination. It was 11:30 
when we arrived at the home of a farmer living 
a mile east of Idlewild, the place “Prof.” had 
assured me was the only one to visit. Here we 
made arrangements to put up our team and to 
camp in his new barn, and in a short time we 
had the outfits unpacked, the horses disposed of 
and had started for the river, each with a rod 
in one hand and a sandwich in the other. 
The brook crosses the road but a short dis¬ 
tance from our stopping place, so we hurried 
down the highway till the bridge was reached. 
“Prof.” offered to take the west side of the 
stream, so I made for the east bank via the 
wire fence, baited up and was just swinging 
my rod for the first cast when an interruption 
came. The west bank of the stream was perhaps 
ten feet high, sloping and topped by a rail fence. 
“Prof.” had inadvertently shown himself above 
the skyline and the next instant a big Welsh 
farmer lunged over the fence and charged down 
upon him like an enraged bull, and in a voice 
like a foghorn he informed us that we were 
trespassing upon his land. He showed us a huge 
sign bearing the legend: “No fishing allowed; 
by order of the State fish and game warden.” 
Of course it was all bluff, but when “Prof.” 
tried to tell him so he found the man was very 
deaf. Then followed a scene I shall never for¬ 
get. Each man roaring at the top of his voice, 
“Prof.” trying to tell him he had no right to 
keep men off a stream stocked by the State and 
also pleading the distance we had come as an 
excuse, but the farmer only roared the louder 
and waved his arms the more wildly till sud¬ 
denly his right hand reached for his hip pocket 
and he drew out a piece of slate upon which he 
demanded an explanation in writing. 
Meantime I had started fishing and almost im¬ 
mediately lost a small trout because I was lis¬ 
tening to the roaring and watching the gesticu¬ 
lating across the stream; in fact, I scarcely re¬ 
alized that I had had a strike till after it was 
too late to hook the trout. I had fished but a 
few rods when the man, having finished with 
“Prof.,” crossed the stream and came close to 
me in an effort to persuade me to move on. I 
went; I was glad, even anxious to go, that sweet 
silence might settle upon the township. 
Our breezy friend went back to his plow and 
we moved a few rods down river and began 
fishing in earnest. The most successful method 
I have encountered on this river is to push 
through the brush—the river is lined with it in 
most places—and get the line into the stream. 
The current is so swift that you have only to 
thumb your reel and guide your line where you 
wish it to go. When the bait has passed the 
hole you are trying for, begin slowly reeling in. 
If there is a fish there he will strike when the 
bait starts up stream. Fishing down from a 
point ten or fifteen yards above a hole is safest, 
for the stream is fished a great deal. 
The afternoon’s fishing was not much of a 
success. An east wind was blowing and the old 
saw— 
“Wind in the east, 
Trout bite least; 
Wind in the west, 
Trout bite best.” 
seemed well verified, for when we stopped about 
sunset we had less than a dozen trout between 
us and had caught none since 3 o’clock, but we 
had located the likely places and looked hope¬ 
fully to the morrow. 
After cleaning and packing our fish we ate 
supper, then prepared a bed of blankets and lap- 
robes on the barn floor. To say that we were 
tired would surely .not exaggerate conditions in 
the least, so we turned in before it was fairly 
dark in the barn. I can remember stretching 
out luxuriously under the blankets, then seem¬ 
ingly in an instant waking to find it 6 o’clock in 
the morning, the sun two hours high, and an old 
hen just above our heads enthusiastically an¬ 
nouncing to the world that she had laid an egg. 
Unwittingly she had served as a most efficient 
alarm clock. 
In an incredibly short time we had cared for 
our team, eaten a hasty breakfast and parted for 
the morning fishing. The sky was bright and 
the wind had shifted to the southwest, so we 
had reason to hope for better luck. “Prof.” 
started off toward the southeast to try holes he 
had visited on previous trips, while I began at 
the bridge again, but was careful not to get 
within sight of the deaf man. 
Taught by the experiences of the previous 
day, I was able to go directly to the pools 
where fish were waiting and had fine sport. 
There is nothing in other fishing to compare 
with this; the careful approach to the trout’s 
