Part 7

While fly-fishing, wet or dry, is unquestionably the highest branch of angling, and far preferable to bait-fishing for trout, it does not follow that fishing with the dry fly, or floating fly, is a superior art to fishing with the wet or sunken fly, as claimed by some of the dry fly-fishers of England. Indeed, some of the ultra dry fly enthusiasts have arrogated to themselves the distinction of practicing the most artistic and sportsmanlike method of angling, and look askance, if not with disdain and contempt, at the wet fly-fishers, whom they designate as the "chuck and chance it" sort.

I can not think that the position they have assumed can be justly maintained, or that it is warranted by the facts of the case. As dry fly-fishing is being taken up by a few American anglers, it may be well enough to give the alleged superiority of the method some consideration.

Some years ago the modus operandi of dry fly-fishing was explained to me, personally, by Mr. William Senior, editor of the London Field. The angler waits beside the swim until a trout betrays its whereabouts by rising to a newly hatched gnat or fly, creating a dimple on the surface. The angler then, kneeling on one knee, sometimes having a knee-pad strapped on, cautiously casts his floating May-fly, with cocked wings, and anointed with paraffin or vaseline. The fly is deftly and lightly cast up-stream, a little above the swirl of the trout, and is permitted to float down, as naturally as possible, over the fish. There being no response after a cast or two, the angler switches the fly in the air to dry it, and awaits the tell-tale evidence of a fish before again offering the buoyant lure. Now, I cannot imagine why this method is claimed to be on a higher plane of angling than the "chuck and chance it" method. Certainly a knowledge of the habits of the trout is not essential, inasmuch as the angler makes his cast only on the appearance of the fish.

On the other hand the wet fly-fisher, wading down stream or up stream, brings to his aid his knowledge of the habits and haunts of the trout, and casts his flies over every likely spot where his experience leads him to think a fish may lie. It is this eager expectancy, or fond anticipation, with every cast, that makes up much of the real pleasure of angling, and which is utterly lost to the dry fly-fisher, who waits and watches on the bank, like a kingfisher on his perch.

While there can be no objection to dry fly-fishing, per se, and which, moreover, I welcome as a pleasing and meritorious innovation, I feel compelled to enter a protest against claiming for it a higher niche in the ethics of sport than wet fly-fishing. And with all due respect for the dry fly men of Great Britain, I can not admit that they trot in a higher class than those "chuck and chance it" fishers of honored and revered memory: Sir Humphry Davy, "Christopher North" and Francis Francis.

It is the practice of some anglers to confine themselves entirely to natural bait in trout fishing, the favorite bait being the earthworm or "barnyard hackle"; also grasshoppers, grubs, crickets, or bits of animal flesh. While not so artistic, or for that matter not so successful as fly-fishing when the streams are clear, there are times when bait-fishing can be practiced without prejudice, and to better advantage than fly-fishing: as when streams are rendered turbid or roily by rains.

A capital bait is the beautifully tinted anal fin of a trout, which in water with some current waves, wabbles and flutters in a most seductive manner on the hook. Its effect is heightened, and its resemblance to a living insect is more pronounced, if the eye of a trout is first impaled on the hook through its enveloping membrane, care being taken not to puncture the eyeball.

I was once fishing with fin-bait in Wisconsin, early in the season when the stream was milky, when one trout was badly hooked, the point of the hook forcing out the eyeball, which hung on its cheek. I carefully unhooked the fish and plucked off the eye, when the unfortunate trout flopped out of my hand into the stream before I could kill it. I added the eyeball to my fin-bait, and strange to say I soon caught the same trout with its own eye! While this story may be more difficult for the uninitiated to swallow than for the trout to bolt its own eye, it is nevertheless true, and may be taken as proof that fish are not very sensitive to pain.

The equipment recommended for fly-fishing will answer just as well for bait-fishing, as the baits commonly used are light. In some instances, however, a slightly heavier or stiffer rod may be employed, especially if the small casting-spoon or a small minnow is used for large trout. Hooks from Nos. 5 to 7 are about right.

Whether the sea-trout, or salmon-trout, of the Gulf of St. Lawrence is a different species from the speckled brook trout of the upper parts of rivers emptying into said Gulf has been a mooted question for many years, arguments pro and con having been advanced by a number of intelligent and observant anglers. In 1834 Hamilton Smith described it as a new species under the name of Salmo canadensis, and in 1850 H. R. Storer named it Salmo immaculatus. Later and better authorities, however, have decided that it is only a sea-run form of the speckled brook trout, Salvelinus fontinalis. I unhesitatingly indorse this opinion. Many years ago Dr. W. W. Dawson and myself investigated the matter thoroughly while salmon fishing on the Restigouche River. About the Metapediac, and below the railroad bridge, we caught the brook trout with its crimson and yellow spots, and near Campbellton, at the mouth of the river, we took the fresh-run form of bright silvery coloration, with scarcely any markings on the back and without spots. We also caught them a little higher up the river in transition stages, when the characteristic spots were beginning to appear, more or less pronounced. We compared hundreds, from plain silvery form to those with bright crimson and golden spots, but could find no structural differences.

Marine fishes are very constant in coloration, the non-colored portions being quite silvery, while fishes of fresh waters are subject to frequent changes in hue, being much influenced in this respect by the character of their haunts. So when the brook trout "goes to sea" it loses its spots and takes on the silvery livery of marine fishes, but resumes its original coloration soon after entering fresh water.

Just why the winninish of the upper St. Lawrence, which is but a dwarfed form of the Atlantic salmon, does not also proceed to sea after the spawning season, like its prototype, is another puzzling proposition. It has been argued by some that the winninish is the original, or typical species, and that the anadromous salmon is descended from individuals that took on the seafaring habit. But such speculative theories can never be proven.

Twenty years ago, Dr. W. W. Dawson, of Cincinnati--then president of the American Medical Association--and myself were guests of Surgeon-General Baxter, U.S.A., at his fishing lodge near Metapedia, on the Restigouche River, New Brunswick. Twenty years ago! How time flies! Since then my dear friends, Doctors Dawson and Baxter, have both crossed the silent river, though it seems but a few weeks since we were casting our lines in the pleasant places on the famous Restigouche. Indeed, that pleasant summer seems as but yesterday, when Mrs. Baxter killed with her own rod six salmon, running from twenty to thirty pounds, and was not more than thirty minutes in bringing any of them to gaff.

One day at Campbellton, at the mouth of the river, I met Mr. Dean Sage, of Albany, N. Y., who kindly gave me permission to fish his excellent waters, farther up the Restigouche. I also met there Mr. Light, Chief Engineer of the Dominion of Canada, who gave me such a glowing account of the trout streams that had just been rendered accessible by the Quebec and Lake St. John railway, that Dr. Dawson and myself gave up our contemplated trip to the Nipigon, and decided to go up the Batiscan River in accordance with the advice of Mr. Light.

He recommended taking with us from the Restigouche two Gaspé canoes and canoemen who were accustomed to swift and rocky water; for the Batiscan, he informed us, contained numerous rapids that would tax the strength and prowess of the most experienced canoemen. We engaged two Restigouche men to accompany us, and decided to take but one Gaspé wooden canoe, thirty feet long, and to procure a smaller and lighter one at Quebec.

Arriving at that quaint and historic town, we obtained, with the help of the American consul, Mr. Downes, a new basswood canoe, built on the model of a birch bark, about fifteen feet in length; this we procured from an Indian tribe near the city. Through our letter of introduction from Mr. Light to Mr. Beemer, the contractor of the Q. & L. St. John railway, we had no difficulty in getting transportation for our canoes and camp equipage to the Batiscan River, which was then the terminus of the railway. Indeed, Mr. Beemer kindly went with us to that point, to see that we were started right on our exploration of the Upper Batiscan. Our objective point was Batiscan Lake, some ten miles as the crow flies, but the distance by river unknown, for its upper waters had never been fished by white men. A railroad survey party had gone a short distance up the stream by land, but beyond that it was a terra incognita to the angler. I questioned an old French trapper, who told me that he had been to the lake with sled and snowshoes in winter, and had fished through the ice; also that the trout ran up to ten pounds in weight. It was to be a veritable voyage of discovery, and Mr. Light was quite desirous to know something of the resources and particulars of the region, having leased the fishing privileges from the Dominion.

Arriving at the river, I found Mr. Farnsworth--who has written so entertainingly of the French inhabitants--established in a pleasant camp a mile below the railroad crossing. I also met Captain Seaton, president of a Quebec fishing club, the lessee of the Lacs du Rognon, near the railroad crossing of the Batiscan. Captain Seaton showed me a basket of brook trout averaging five pounds, but to my surprise he stated that they were taken with the trolling spoon, as the trout of those lakes--more's the pity--utterly refused to take the fly, giving as a reason that those waters abounded in myriads of chub, on which the trout habitually fed.

We embarked in the canoes and proceeded up the river, which we found to be a wild, rocky stream, with long rapids, up which it was impossible to propel the canoes. This entailed the labor and delay of long portages, making our progress extremely slow. Between the rapids were long stretches of smooth, but very rapid water. The mountains rose up on each side from the edge of the stream, so that the portages were on a side hill of Laurentian rocks overgrown with moss a foot or two in depth. Owing to these difficulties we were six days in traveling five miles, and failed to reach Batiscan Lake, though I saw its waters from the top of a mountain.

That we found trout galore is no name for it. They were as numerous as the black flies by day or the mosquitoes by night. And the chub were both plentiful and gamy--great dark, round, stout fellows, weighing sometimes two pounds, and gamier than the trout. We at last reached a fall, or rather twin falls, aggregating some thirty feet in height, and the most beautiful sight I have ever seen on any stream. The summit of the fall flowed in a straight, unbroken line across the river, over a solid ledge of rocks, with a curve as true, uniform, and unbroken as a mill dam. The waters fell into a circular basin of considerable extent, and then, divided by a small island in the middle of the lower fall, plunged down again to the lower level. On this little isle were twin fir trees of remarkable beauty and symmetry, standing like silent sentinels in the silent Canadian forest--for no sound was ever heard except the rushing of the tumultuous waters beneath. The absence of birds was remarkable, only an occasional song sparrow being heard.

Our last camp was at the summit of the fall, a few feet from its edge. Above the fall were nothing but brook trout; not a chub to be seen; great lusty trout from one-half to three pounds--none less, none more. And they were too plentiful for real sport. A dozen would rise to the single fly at once, knocking it about sometimes like a tennis ball. We fished only a few minutes in the early morning and toward sundown, as we took only enough to supply the camp.

Most of my fishing here was from the very verge or curve of the fall, where the trout were playing. Strange to say, none went over, as I ascertained by careful watching below. Indeed, there seemed to be none in the circular basin below. I could, at least, see none, neither could I get a rise, though I tried repeatedly. When hooked, on the verge of the fall, the fish always started up stream. As there were two feet of water going over the fall with a velocity of five or six miles an hour, or more, the strength and activity of the trout can be imagined. These trout were the most beautiful and highly colored I have ever seen; their bellies a bright orange-red, and their sides sprinkled with gold and intensely crimson spots, and their fins edged with jet black and pure white. The coloration was unusually vivid and pronounced.

From this camp we could hear all day the workmen on the railroad blasting near Lake Edward, which was but a few miles away, and which has since become so noted as a fishing resort.

This was, in truth, a virgin trout stream. No artificial fly had ever before fretted the surface of its pristine waters. The only sign of man was the mark on a tree, near our camp, where a chip had been cut out by a trapper, years before. Just above our camp was a narrow trail leading from the cliffs to the river, but the only tracks were those of caribou, bears, 'coons, and porcupines.

There are other species of trout in American waters that are fished for in much the same way as for brook trout; they are the rainbow, steelhead, red-throat, golden, Dolly Varden and Sunapee trout; also the introduced European brown trout. These various species are being introduced in trout waters in a number of states, so that it may be well to briefly refer to some of their characteristics.

In the Rocky Mountain region there are three groups of trout belonging to the Salmo genus--the steelhead, rainbow and red-throat, or cut-throat as it is sometimes called. They are all black spotted. In widely separated sections of country these different species may be readily distinguished by certain characteristics, but in other localities, where they co-exist naturally, it is sometimes a difficult matter to distinguish one group from another. At one time, indeed, the rainbow and steelhead were pronounced by competent authority to be the same fish, the steelhead being supposed to be the sea-run form of the species. At the present time, however, they are held to be distinct species.

The Dolly Varden, or bull-trout, belongs to a different genus (Salvelinus), and is related to the brook trout of Eastern waters, having also red spots. While the red-throat trout inhabits both slopes of the Rockies, the others named belonged originally to the Pacific Slope.

The red-throat trout is the most widely distributed of the Western trouts. It inhabits both slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and, as might be inferred from this extensive range, it varies in external appearance more than any of the trout species. There are a dozen or more well-defined sub-species or geographical varieties, but all have the characteristic red splashes on the membrane of the throat. By means of this "trademark" it may be readily distinguished from the rainbow or steelhead trouts, both of which are also black-spotted.

But while the red-throat trout varies considerably in contour, coloration and markings, in different localities, it is identical in structure wherever found. It is known by the United States Bureau of Fisheries as the "black-spotted trout," a most unfortunate designation, inasmuch as the rainbow and steelhead trouts are also "black-spotted." The name red-throat is distinctive, and is preferable to the rather repulsive name of "cut-throat" trout by which it is also known. The red-throat trout is designated in its native waters by such names as "trout," "brook trout," "speckled mountain trout," etc. As the Eastern red-spotted "brook trout" is rapidly being introduced to Western waters, the name "brook trout" should be applied only to that species.