Trout Fishing in Galicia. 
The first roseate tints of early morning were 
beginning to show above the summits of the 
Carpathian Mountains when my young Aus¬ 
trian friend, B., and myself shouldered our 
creels and started off to walk the four miles 
or so of forest-track which lies between the 
garrison town of Sambor and the River 
Bystrzyca. 
It was a glorious June morning, and the 
forest glades and valleys were filled with the 
melody of a thousand feathered choristers. 
Every patch of tangled brake and under¬ 
covert seemed to harbor a nightingale, and the 
sweet love song of the thrush and of the 
blackbird was heard amid the delicate green 
foliage of the giant forest trees. 
In parts the narrow forest road led through 
dense growths of the waist-high bracken, or 
a stretch of emerald turf thickly spangled 
with wild hyacinths, pale blue dog violets and 
the star-like wood anemones. In the open 
portions of the forest were to be seen many 
acres of heather-clad moorland, and more 
than once the crow of a blackcock reached 
the ears of my companion and myself as we 
brushed through the springy heath cover. 
At length, after seventy minutes of brisk 
walking, we arrived on the bank of one of 
the most charming mountain streams imagin¬ 
able. Of crystal clearness, the River Bys¬ 
trzyca, after leaving the Carpathians, winds 
its serpentine course through smiling valleys, 
deep ravines, wild moorlands, and virgin for¬ 
ests until it joins the treacherous Dniestr, 
In parts the banks of the first-named stream 
are fringed with beautiful willows and other 
water-loving trees. There are, however, 
plenty of open reaches where one can throw 
a fly without fear of getting “hung up,” and 
i the clean gravelly bed of the stream would 
delight the eye of any fly-fisherman. Indeed, 
it is strange to me that the rivers and streams 
of Galicia are not better known to devotees 
of the rod, for goodly trout are to be found 
in many of them. 
Refore starting on the business of the day 
B. went in search of dry sticks, from which to 
build a fire, while I busied myself preparing 
the various things which we had brought with 
us in the picnic hamper. He soon returned 
with a double armful of dry twigs, and hav¬ 
ing laid them under the drooping branches of 
the weeping willow, which formed our camp¬ 
ing ground, he filled the kettle with water 
from the river, while I set light to the sticks, 
and very soon we had a pan of frankfurters 
hissing over the blazing fire. To boil the kettle 
was but the work of a very few minutes, and 
long ere our friends in the neighboring town 
had awakened from their beauty sleep we were 
enjoying an al fresco breakfast in the midst of 
the most beautiful forest and mountain scenery 
to be found in all Galicia. 
Breakfast finished, the light ten-foot split cane 
rods put together, and having arranged to meet 
at the same spot under the willow at midday, 
my companion and myself parted, he going up, 
while I elected to try my luck down stream. 
There was no lack of insect life on the river, 
and having noticed a number of small fish ris¬ 
ing to a fly resembling a blue dun, I turned 
over the time-discolored leaves of my old fly- 
book until I came to a bunch of small and beau¬ 
tifully tied blue-duns, one of which I selected 
and attached to the finest drawn cast I could 
find among my tackle. There was just sufficient 
ripple on the water to lend a well-thrown dry- 
fly a life-like appearance. My first cast, how¬ 
ever, was clumsily managed, but was taken 
instantly by a plucky four-ounce fish, which 
jumped high out of the water when he felt the 
steel and fought as gallantly as many a trout 
of twice his weight, which I have caught in 
English trout streams'. At length I had him 
safely in the landing-net, and a brilliantly 
spotted fellow he was. Elated with the suc¬ 
cess of my first cast, I carefully whipped every 
foot of water between my starting place and a 
belt of alders about a quarter of a mile lower 
down the reach. 
For some little time I failed to rise a fish of 
any kind, and was in the act of reeling in my 
line, preparatory to looking for a fresh beat 
beyond the alders, when the swirl of a heavy 
fish attracted my attention, and the next 
moment the artificial dun was sucked beneath 
the surface. It was quite unnecessary for me to 
strike as the fish had hooked hard and fast. 
Up and down stream and across he rushed with 
all the gameness of a grilse. Suddenly, how¬ 
ever, bang! went the trace, and at the loose 
end of it, what I honestly believed to be a 
good three-pound trout. It was useless crying 
over sped trout, however, and having rigged up 
a fresh trace, I started off to try my fortune 
further down stream. 
Once clear of the alder belt I had a fine 
stretch of open water before me, and in some 
parts the river widened out to fifty yards. 
There were several deep pools in this reach in 
which, from former experience, I knew lay 
some lusty trout. 
It was by this time nearly u o’clock, and 
the sun blazing hot, but, thanks to a cool south¬ 
westerly breeze, I was able to continue on my 
beat in comparative comfort. There were now 
but very few fish rising, and for perhaps three- 
quarters of an hour I did not get a touch of any 
kind. While throwing under the further bank, 
however, my fly was taken greedily, and in a 
moment I knew that I was into something 
heavy. “There’s no trout about that gentle¬ 
man,” was my inward ejaculation as the fish, 
after making a wild rush up stream, caved in 
like a lamb, allowing me to reel him into the 
bank without a struggle. I was right in my 
surmise, for my capture proved to be a very 
handsome chub of nearly 3*4 pounds’ weight. 
I was -in the act of scaling the fish, when a 
Ruthenian shepherd approached. After gazing 
in open-mouthed astonishment at my delicate- 
looking little rod, to the butt of which was' 
attached a bright steel spear head, the shep¬ 
herd asked if I speared my fish. Upon showing 
him the fly and explaining the use of the same, 
not only did he open his mouth wider than be¬ 
fore, but his eyes seemed as though they would 
bolt out of their sockets as he half-frightenedly 
examined the tiny lure of steel and feathers. 
“Bah!” exclaimed the rustic, “the fish that take 
that thing (pointing to the fly) must be born 
fools.” He probably thought the person who* 
used such a bait to be as great a fool as the 
fish which took it, but the Ruthenian peasant 
does not dare to voice his opinion regarding his 
betters outside the precincts of his mud hovel. 
In the circuitous manner peculiar to his race, 
my new friend begged for largess with which 
to purchase tobacco. Having bestowed a 20- 
kreuzer piece upon him, I asked how he and his 
fellows caught their fish. “Rake up the bottom 
with a pole and spear them with a four-tine eel- 
spear. Or,” went on my bucolic instructor, 
“when the stream is narrow and shallow 
enough we build a dam across it, and (with a 
grin) we sometimes catch a cartload of fish.” 
Alas! that the fishing laws of Galicia, or rather 
Austria, are so lax. 
Bidding the peasant carry my landing-net and 
creel, I fished carefully up stream, picking up 
a trout here and a dace or chub there as I went. 
Neither of the first-named fish exceeded three 
ounces, however, and, somewhat tired of catch¬ 
ing such pigmies, I determined to fish back to 
the starting point. At the last cast, however, 
my fly was taken like lightning, and as I struck 
a beautiful two-pounder leapt high out of the 
water. For quite fifteen minutes did he fight 
manfully for his freedom, and during the mad 
rushes he made I quite expected to see him 
carry my fine-drawn cast into his sanctuary 
among a cluster of big boulders. In spite of 
his gallant battling, however, he was unable to 
cope against cane and steel and tested gut, and 
at length, thoroughly spent, he was drawn over 
the landing-net. Two pounds and as many 
ounces did that game trout weigh, and a more 
beautifully proportioned or more brilliantly 
marked fish I never hope to grass again. 
A few more unsuccessful casts over the pool 
in which I rose the last fish, and I retraced 
my steps to the willow, where I found B. await¬ 
ing me. On comparing notes, I discovered that 
my friend’s creel contained two and a half 
brace more trout than did my own. Never¬ 
theless, my two-pounder proved the show fish 
of the morning. 
J. M. M. B. Durham. 
Recent Publications. 
Books received: “Getting Acquainted with 
the Trees,” by Horace McFarland; New York, 
the Macmillan Company. “The Home Afloat,” 
by Thomas Townsend; Athenia, N. J., the 
Athenia Publishing Company. “The Grizzly 
Bear,” by William H. Wright; New York, 
Scribners. 
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