A Day on Cabin Creek. 
The St. Vrain River rises to the south of 
Long’s Peak, Colorado. Like a giant spring it 
rushes from the foot of three great glaciers, each 
miles long. Lower down in a muskeg these three 
streams converge and form a mighty rushing 
tumult of icy water too cold at first to be in¬ 
habited by the finny tribe, until the stream has 
reached the lower slopes of the mountain. I 
know this stream, for I have traversed and 
fished it from end to end and have climbed the 
great divide that shelters the masses of ice that 
feed it. If one has climbed these rugged peaks 
and gone beyond the altitude where timber can 
no longer grow, then has he seen Colorado, and 
not before, for in those silent canons and upon 
the snow-capped peaks it casts upon the mind 
washed the bank until dark pools lay unseen be¬ 
neath its grass-grown banks; fit places, I thought, 
to take a trout, so 1 assembled my rod, intend¬ 
ing to try these pools with bait until the warmth 
of the sun would bestir the insect life. 
My first cast was under some alder bushes 
and was rewarded by a nine-inch trout, a good 
beginning for. a pleasant day, and before I had 
traversed the stream two miles, I had^ a dozen 
beautiful well-fed fish. I then decided to try the 
fly, and taking a short leader, J strung on a 
royal coachman and a gray hackle with yellow 
body. I soon found a beautiful pool bordered 
by a treetop, and after several casts was lucky 
enough to get a strike, and upon seeing the rod 
bend nearly double, I began a fight in earnest 
to keep him from getting into the treetop. This 
I was unable to do, and sooner tljan I can tell 
upon telling him that I thought to fish down 
Cabin Creek to its union with the Saint Vrain 
and thence back, he replied: ‘‘Well, sonny, you 
have got a long walk ahead of you, and it is a 
good twenty-seven miles.” This was, indeed, 
discouraging to say the least, and I wished that 
I had never met him. I was not to be disturbed, 
however, and went on about my fishing, but at 
every bend of the stream that voice rang in my 
ears. After another hour, and when the basket 
had begun to feel heavy, I took down my rod, 
ate my lunch and began my walk to find how far 
it really was, for now I was in a precipitous 
canon, and the sides of the bank had narrowed 
until it was a case of the middle of the stream 
or nothing. Owing to the rapid declivity of the 
land, the stream ran very swift, and I encount¬ 
ered numerous falls six to eight feet in height 
SULLIVAN COUNTY (n. Y.) TROUT STREAMS. 
Courtesy of Theodore Gordon. 
a feeling as if you were in another world apart 
from that region where human strife is domi¬ 
nant. 
There was another stream, a tiny rivulet in 
comparison, that yet remained a mystery to me. 
This stream, rising northeast of Long’s Peak, 
wound through primeval forests and impassable 
canons and joined the St. Vrain about nine 
miles below my camp. These distances I know 
now, but there was a time when I did not, and 
it is of the process of learning them that I wish 
to tell you. 
Arising before break of day I made a cup of 
tea, filled my pockets with such standbyes as 
bacon and beans, and left my companions sleep¬ 
ing peacefully as I walked forth into the silent 
forest. I soon came upon an old wood road and 
this I traveled at a good pace for four hours in 
a direction that I thought would bring me to 
the brook I was seeking, and when the sun was 
beginning to warm the frost upon the bushes, I 
found it. I noticed a group of cabins in a clear¬ 
ing and from these cabins the stream took its 
name, Cabin Creek. A prettier spot I have 
never found. In some place it was so narrow 
I could step across it and there the water had 
it, he was hopelessly entangled and had broken 
the hook. 
My line untangled once more I was fortunate 
enough to hook and land a pounder further on 
in a pool sheltered by a huge rock. What a 
pleasure it is to be able to land such fish in a 
brook so small that to judge by its size, should 
shelter nothing but minnows, and such beauti¬ 
ful scenery with mosses and ferns everywhere. 
Truly, the nature lover is the most graciously 
blessed of all God’s creatures. Once I aroused 
an old mother grouse with her flock of little 
ones. Then I came upon a beaver dam with 
fresh cuttings everywhere. The dam was so 
constructed that the brushy end of each tree was 
pointed down stream. Sagacious little rivermen 
—may our law ever protect them. 
In one of these dams I caught a fine rainbow 
trout and just below the next one in a riffle I 
had the grandest fight with another and lost 
him; but to lose a trout now and then is but 
to add spice to the sport when they are taking 
kindly to the fly. So interested was I with my 
fishing that I was rudely awakened by a voice 
at my elbow, and looking up I saw an old man 
with a boy. He asked where I was going, and 
with pools four to five feet in depth at the base. 
I was obliged to get down these the best I might, 
and I kept my clothing soaked to the shoulders 
most of the time. The scenery now was very 
beautiful, the many pools being very picturesque, 
and had I time I should have enjoyed fishing 
there. 
At last I reached the point where the stream 
joined the river, and never was the sight of a 
river more welcome to me. I must now walk up 
the river to camp, but before I had traveled a 
mile I found a sheer canon wall too steep to 
climb, and the water too deep and swift to wade, 
but seeing a narrow ledge about four inches 
wide and some two feet above the water, I 
thought I could hold by hand to this and thus 
pull myself up the current; so again getting 
into the ice cold water I managed to pull my¬ 
self for a distance of fifty feet against the cur¬ 
rent, when my hands became so tired I could 
hold on no longer. 
In letting myself down I struck another ledge 
with my toe and walked out to the bank, too 
tired to go further. For half an hour I lay 
down and rested, and then resumed the long 
weary walk to camp which I reached at dark 
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