JUNE, 1917 
FOREST AND STREAM 
253 
i 
was compressed some very perfect fishing. 
The trout did not run large in those riffles, 
but I caught six nine-inchers, all on the 
little Hare’s Ear. This—a trout creeled for 
every five minutes fished—suited me very 
well. And it made me monstrously well 
pleased with myself. 
In the afternon all of us drew a blank. 
The fish would not rise. But as we rode 
back to the hotel at sunset the doctor told 
me he had seen a pool where some fifteen 
trout lay motionless in the depths, and 
that several of them would go over two 
pounds. They had tried them with flies, 
worms and crickets, but the trout were 
obdurate. 
On Monday we had little luck during the 
day: I had one or two small trout and the 
doctor about the same number. We were 
ready to go back to the hotel, when it oc¬ 
curred to me to suggest that we try again 
for three-quarters of an hour, as it was 
sunset—the time of the day I have always 
liked the best in trout fishing. 
{ (T ’LL bet you a dollar, doctor”, I said, 
“that I catch more trout than you be¬ 
fore 7:30.” 
“Done”, he answered, “and I’ll bet you 
another dollar I get a bigger trout than 
you!” 
“You’re on,” I said, and then we parted, 
he going up the stream and I down. At the 
place where I had had my luck on Saturday 
I stopped and put on a Coachman; the 
light-colored fly is better in the dusk. As I 
got out my line and the fly touched the 
deepening shadow under the bridge, I heard 
a splash and struck. This fellow felt to 
be a better fish than any I had met, so I 
played him with care. 
As I slid the net under him and held him 
up, “Troutie,” said I, “you are worth at 
least a dollar to me—and maybe two!” He 
was about thirteen inches long and in ex¬ 
cellent condition. 
It was now almost dark and I could hear 
the fish rising under the bridge. Hardly 
moving from my tracks, I caught three 
more trout, not one less than ten inches 
and one only a little shorter than my first. 
Finally it got so dark I couldn’t see, and 
after fouling my line in some alders I 
quit and took down my rod for the night. 
Suddenly over my head I heard my wife 
calling from the bridge, though I couldn’t 
see her. 
\ 
i ( A NY luck ?” she asked. 
“Bully!” I answered, “I’ve caught 
four under this bridge—all nice 
ones. I’ll bet I’ve put it over on the doc¬ 
tor !” 
We had hardly reached the car when the 
doctor fairly popped out of the darkness. 
“Doctor,” I said, “here’s a trout that’s 
going to cost you one dollarand I laid 
my beauty on the running board of the car. 
“And here,” I added, “are three others 
that will cost you another dollar!” 
“Hold on, young fellow, not so fast,” he 
said. 
From his creel, by the glow of his emerg¬ 
ency light, he drew a beautiful brown trout 
and placed it by the side of mine. Tail to 
tail and nose to nose, their measurements 
were exact. 
“Twins!” we all exclaimed. And I add¬ 
ed : “Well, that big trout bet is off, anyhow.” 
“Wait,” he said; and reaching into his 
creel again he brought out a rainbow trout 
nearly an inch longer than the other two. 
“He gets it!” I said. “Isn’t he a beauty!” 
“I got him in the dark only a few minutes 
ago,” said the doctor. “And even after I 
hooked him he kept jumping out of the 
water like a crazy fish. I had more fun 
with him than with any trout I ever caught. 
—I got him on a Queen o’ the Water.” 
“I suppose you’ve got some more hidden 
around you somewhere,” I said suspicious¬ 
ly- 
“No, that’s all,” was the answer. “You 
got me on quantity, but I got you on size, 
so all bets are off.” 
A S we rode back to the hotel we 
watched the beauty of the western 
sky, where the glow from a vanished 
sun still clung to the mountain tops. 
Next day we went all the way up the 
river to its headwaters and tried the fishing 
there, but the stream there was split into a 
number of small runs and we had no luck. 
As we rode back to New York we were all 
well pleased with our little three days’ fish¬ 
ing. The weather was delightful, we had 
enjoyed our lunches cooked in the open, 
the scenery was beautiful and we caught 
enough trout to make a showing. 
Doubtless years ago the Esopus had more 
trout and better ones (for the brown trout 
cannot equal our native fontinalis) but the 
grand old stream is not fished out by any 
means, and I think that any man who fishes 
it cannot fail to always think of it with real 
affection. It never is monotonous—always 
beautiful and always satisfying. The na¬ 
tive trout in its waters seem to be a thing 
of the past, but the brown trout is no igno¬ 
ble fish and I suppose our eastern waters 
are destined to see much more of him in 
the future, as the forests are cut away and 
the streams become warmer. Let us be 
grateful, as some one has said, that Provi¬ 
dence has given to us for streams no 
longer adapted to fontinalis, a fish so 
gamy and so good as salmo fario . 
A FISH TRAGEDY OF THE PACIFIC 
By ERNEST ELYA WEIR 
The Chinook Salmon Loses Tail and Fins in the Fight for Supremacy 
W HEN the Chinook salmon of the 
Pacific coast leave salt water and go 
far inland to spawn in shallow 
streams, they never return. Large, fat and 
healthy when the run up the coast rivers 
begins in the Spring, the fish soon waste 
away from lack of food, as they never eat 
after leaving the salt water. During the 
long trip to the spawning grounds, hunger 
causes the fish to attack each other viciously, 
and it is a question of the survival of the 
fittest. The weaker never reach their des¬ 
tination, the stronger lose tails and fins in 
their fights for supremacy. As a result of 
the actual spawning following the run up 
the rivers without food, the fish change in 
color and lose all their scales and most of 
their skin, becoming a mass of white patches 
and blotches of decay. Their mission in 
life ended, the old fish die and the newly 
born find their way to salt water, only to 
repeat the experience of their elders four 
years hence. The spawning ground of the 
Chinook salmon is both his cradle and his 
grave.—Here is a fish tragedy unequalled 
certainly by anything in human annals. 
t 
