July, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
399 
After I had nervously waited for five 
minutes Pete told me to cast again 
Down river at race-horse speed went the 
big fellow with Pete and me behind 
Pete tried to start the sulky salmon by 
throwing stones at the end of his tail 
picturesque pool it was. The river curved 
here gently and rising from the left bank 
were a series of wellnigh perpendicular 
bluffs, or ledges. 
Pete anchored at the head of the pool 
and I, in the bow, filled my old briar and 
got busy with the fly. The sea salmon 
fisherman must be eternally vigilant—he 
may cast 999 times in vain and get a strike 
on the 1000th flip of the fly—no man knows 
what the placid surface of the pool con¬ 
ceals, nor at what instant the vicious rush 
of the fish may come. “Be ye always 
ready,” is the angler’s motto. 
We had covered perhaps two-thirds of 
the pool without the slightest encourage¬ 
ment. My arms were tired swinging the 
heavy rod and I confess my fishing zeal 
was waning a bit. Curiously enough it was 
right then something happened! 
I HAD out perhaps 40 feet of line and 
had just made the right-hand cast in a 
hopeless fashion and without result. 
Then I sailed the fly (Jock Scott this time) 
to the left. It struck the surface with a 
spat and began to describe its arc as the 
current swung it around while I gently 
twitched it. The fly was directly in line 
with the canoe where it hung a few sec¬ 
onds, then I tightened my grip on the rod 
and was just lifting the fly from the water, 
when—bing!—an old he-salmon came for 
it like a mad bull, but fell short! His head 
and shoulders came well out of water and 
he snapped his mighty jaws close enough 
to the fly to almost taste the feathers! 
The spray flew in all directions and when 
he went down he slapped the surface an¬ 
grily with his tail, leaving a seething “boil” 
in his wake. I was so flabbergasted I 
nearly swallowed my pipe. I brought my 
rod-tip back swiftly and was going to slam 
that fly back to where the salmon had dis¬ 
appeared. but before I could do it Pete 
grabbed the rod above my head and stopped 
it in mid-swing—fire line coiled limply 
around my neck. 
“Don’t cast ag’in until you give him a 
rest,” whispers Pete; “that was a good un 
and he wanted it—maybe he’ll come ag’in.” 
I tried to be calm, but internally I was 
quivering with excitement. Pete explained 
that it was useless to follow up a rise with 
an immediate cast—that the salmon must 
be given time to return to its base from 
which it had first seen the fly—also that it 
was important to cast again with the same 
length of line and on the same side. So 
I sat there in the canoe with fast beating 
heart. We talked in whispers. Pete cau¬ 
tioned me that if the fish took the flv not to 
try to pull its head off its shoulders in 
order to fasten the hooks—he said a gentle 
lift of the rod would do that. Five min¬ 
utes passed—perhaps more than that—and 
I was hoping and praying that the fish 
would come again. Finally says Pete in a 
low voice, “Allright, sir,—now try him 
ag’in.” 
I dropped the fly quietly overboard and 
the current carried it down until the line 
straightened out, then I lifted it and made 
a cast to the left as I had done before. 
My eyes were bugged out following what 
I imagined would be the course of the fly 
(for it was under water) and my heart 
was in my throat ready to climb up into 
my mouth! 
Smash!—he took it! I lifted the rod 
quickly and with too much strain, but, 
thank goodness, line, leader and fly held. 
“Good!—You’ve got him!” yelps Pete joy¬ 
ously. There was a second’s pause—as if 
the big fellow hadn’t quite got it through 
his head that he had two hooks in his jaw. 
Then the reel screamed and the line flowed 
out as the salmon tore down river at race¬ 
horse speed. I heard the anchor come 
bumping aboard and glanced back over my 
shoulder. Pete was standing couched in 
the stern poling after the fish with every 
ounce of his energy. The song of the reel 
dropped a few notes—then stopped as Pete 
shot the canoe toward the left bank and 
held it there. “He’s turned and is cornin’ 
back!” yells Pete; “take up your slack 1 ” 
I reeled in frantically. 
S UDDENLY a hundred feet or more 
above us a monster salmon shot out 
of water, threw a pretty summersault 
and splashed back into the pool. “Great 
Scott!—that’s a bigger one than I have 
on!” I gasps. “It’s the same one,” grins 
Pete. It was hard for me to believe this 
because my line was tending down stream 
and the fish was above us, but the sagging 
of the line by the swift current explained 
the mystery. 
After his acrobatics in midair the big 
fellow hung fire a minute. It seemed as if 
he was wondering what stunt he would 
pull off next, but he didn’t keep us long 
in suspense. “Z-i-n-n-n-g-g!” went the reel 
as he tore toward the head of the pool. 
Pete followed as fast as he could pole, but 
at the rips the fish paused. “Gosh,” says 
Pete, “I hope he don’t go up thru that 
white water!—if he does I don’t know as 
I can keep up to him!” But fortunately he 
didn’t. After a brief breathing spell he 
shot to the surface and skated 50 feet 
across the pool spraying the water on both 
sides as he went, then submerging he head¬ 
ed down stream again. “Where’s he goin' 
now, Pete?” says I anxiously. “I dunno,” 
answers Pete; “he starts in like as if he 
was a-goin’ back to sea—how much line 
you got on that reel ?” “Over four hundred 
"feet,” says I. “That’s ’nough,” says Pete. 
I THOUGHT he would stop at the lower 
end of the pool, but he didn’t—no sir, he 
kept right on going down thru a quar¬ 
ter mile of rips with us steaming along be¬ 
hind him. Once he gained on us until I 
had hardly more than 50 feet of line left, 
but Peter speeded up and I retrieved more 
of it. Below the rips was a stretch of 
quieter water and when the big fellow 
reached this he settled down in midstream 
and began to sulk. Pete held the canoe 
against the bank and a little upstream from 
the fish. “Jest gettin’ his breath back,” 
says Pete. “Don’t you s’pose he’s purty 
tired?” says I. “Huh!—he ain’t limbered 
up yet,” says Pete. “How much’ll he 
weigh?” I inquires. “Oh, sixteen or seven¬ 
teen pounds, I reckon,” says Pete. Five 
minutes passed but the fish still sulked. 
“I’m goin’ to start the ole loafer,” says 
Pete stepping out of the canoe and ground¬ 
ing the stern on shore. Then he began 
throwing stones below the fish, small peb¬ 
bles at first, then larger stones and casting 
them nearer the fish all the time. “Pete, 
you be ready to get aboard if he starts,” 
says I nervously. “I will—don’t you wor¬ 
ry,” says Pete. The stones had no effect 
and we w r aited another five minutes for the 
fish to think up some deviltry. Then sud¬ 
denly a curious thing happened. 
A fish-hawk which had been circling 
about against the blue far overhead must 
have got his keen eye on the salmon at the 
end of my line. At any rate the bird sud¬ 
denly dropped like a plummet, with talons 
outstretched, but before he struck the 
water, Pete took in the situation and wav¬ 
ing his hat began to yell. The hawk, dis¬ 
concerted, turned his course swiftly down 
river. “Git out of here, you durned ole 
fish-thief!” yells Pete after the hawk; 
“you’ve got a good opinyun of yourself to 
think you kin lug off a eighteen pound 
salmon what don’t belong to you!” 
However, the fish-hawk started the fish— 
downstream again. Pete hopped aboard 
and resumed his pole and he had to go 
some as the fish speeded up. “He’s got his 
second wind,” says Pete, “and there ain’t 
no tellin’ now where the old fool will stop.” 
The fish had already been on nearly three- 
quarters of an hour, yet he showed no 
signs of tiring. It was a give-and-take-line 
game for another half mile. At the lower 
end of this more placid water were more 
(continued on page 440) 
