200 
FOREST AND STREAM 
THE CHARM OF THE ESOPUS 
ITS ATTRACTIONS LIE NOT ALONE IN THE BOUNTY OF 
ITS YIELD IN TROUT, BUT PARTLY IN ITS MAGIC 
W HEN I was a very little lad, and just 
beginning my novitiate in trout fish¬ 
ing, I used to hear the Esopus 
called the grandest trout stream of the 
East. There was something in the very 
name that was luring, tantalizing, eloquent 
of fascinating pool and riffle. 
As I grew older, and passed pleasant days 
along the streams of Maine, Quebec and 
Nova Scotia, like every other brother of 
the angle I seized eagerly upon all the 
fishing literature I could find—outdoor 
magazines, books by W. C. Prime, Frank 
Forester, and all the rest of that brilliant 
company. And again and again I came 
upon that unforgettable name—Esopus; 
Beaverkill, Willowemoc, Neversink; Eso¬ 
pus. Those four words seemed to embrace 
all that was best in the gentle sport that 
makes all men kin; the sport that, being 
gentle, makes its true devotees gentle—gen¬ 
tlemen of the angle indeed. 
For years I had hoped some day to cast 
my line upon those famous waters. But it 
was not until 1915 that I finally accom¬ 
plished my wish. I persuaded a good 
friend and his wife to make up a party 
with “the Mrs.” and myself and go up to 
Phoenicia for two or three days and try it 
out. Mac is ever willing to lisen to reason 
where the reason is fishing, and we picked 
out the last three days in May as being a 
most reasonable time for the trout to rise. 
O N the trip up, the railroad tracks for 
some miles follow the windings of 
the stream, and the valley through 
which it flows, hemmed in by the moun- 
By T. ALLEN PARSONS 
tains, is charming country. 
The morning after our arrival four of 
us made an early start. The ladies had 
come up prepared to do some fishing them¬ 
selves, appropriately garbed in sweaters 
and wading boots. No sooner had we left 
the hotel than they exclaimed with delight 
at the scenery. Mountains were all around 
us. Down a beautiful valley between banks 
of emerald came the river, a noble stream 
—when normal not too large for wading, 
yet large enough everywhere for casting. 
With few overhanging branches, and its 
long deep pools and many dancing stretches 
of riffles, it is truely an ideal little river. 
Perhaps a mile up the road, at a bridge 
with a fine pool below, we tried first luck. 
But the stream was high and the wading 
precarious. One of the ladies went over 
her boots on the second step, and after 
trying it myself for a few minutes, buffeted 
by the tremendously swift current and tor¬ 
mented by the large and slippery rocks 
hidden by the water, we were all ready for 
sport a little less strenuous. 
A farmer, driving by, drew up when we 
hailed him, and told us of the Woodland 
Valley stream not far distant. Following 
his directions we made our way to it—a 
little beauty that looked trouty. It had 
several nice pools, but after fishing all the 
morning, we finally gave it up, with not a 
strike to either worm or fly as our lot. 
W E spent a delightful three days on 
this first trip to the Esopus, but our 
fishing luck could not have been 
worse. Mac and I caught several baby 
trout in a stream which runs through the 
village, but we didn’t have the heart to 
keep them—they just made six inches. 
And had it not been for a splendid string 
of trout caught by a fisherman stopping at 
the hotel, some dozen in all, one of which 
would go to two pounds, we would have 
been excused for thinking the Esopus a 
trout stream of the past. 
But the charm of the Catskills and the 
Esopus had penetrated deep. And I often 
thought afterwards of the scent of the 
lilacs and the cool sweet mountain air, of 
that noble stream and of those fine trout 
the other fellow caught. Something must 
have been wrong with our methods. The 
trout were there waiting for the fisherman 
who knew how, and I determined to try it 
again—and be that fisherman. 
So in the merry month of May I per¬ 
suaded another friend to try it with me. 
The good doctor and his wife have fished 
many of the famous streams of the West 
and many are the bouncing trout they have 
caught in partnership, but this was his first 
attempt at the more educated waters of the 
East. I didn’t dare tell him of the luck 
(or lack of it) we had had the year before 
and only prayed that good fortune might 
so smile upon us that my perfidy would be 
not discovered. The doctor suggested we 
go up from New York in his big automo¬ 
bile, take along our better halves for luck 
and good company, and his chauffeur as 
general factotum. And I hailed his amend¬ 
ment to my original motion with consider¬ 
able enthusiasm. 
A N afternoon late in May found us 
gliding away from Times Square, 
New York, loaded with equipment 
sufficient for ten days’ camping in the 
North Woods—a nested cooking outfit, 
pasteboard boxes of bacon that looked good 
enough to eat uncooked, knives, forks, 
spoons, cups, plates and everything else 
that civilized man has learned not to do 
without. There were canned goods “for 
emergency”. There were—well, lots of 
other things. And the car held all the 
“chuck,” suit cases, fishing tackle, and wad¬ 
ing boots, until you would have thought 
the doors would refuse to hasp. 
Once clear of New York, we ate up 
the miles on the east side of the Hudson 
to Nyack, ferried across, and to Suffern, 
through Tuxedo, and up through beautiful 
Orange county to Newburgh. Warned here 
by the “low descending sun” that supper 
time was drawing nigh, we built a fire by 
(continued on page 230) 
We Built a Fire by the Roadside, Gypsy Fashion, In Beautiful Orange County 
