Part 10

Nearly all carried snugly-cased fishing rods, whose summer work was ended. The Chateaugay, the Saranacs, Paul Smith’s, Baker’s, Martin’s, and various other familiar names met our ears. We envied none of them. Our cup of joy, happiness and contentment was full to the brim. There was no room for “envy, hatred and malice,” but a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness to the Author of every “good and perfect gift,” welled up from our hearts.

“Every angler has his own peculiar notion in regard to the best fly; and the difficulty of presenting a perfect catalogue will be very apparent, when it is considered that the name of the fly of one writer bears a different name and description from that of another, and it is more than probable that the name and description of some of the flies in my list may not be in accordance with the views and opinions of many old and experienced anglers.”—“Frank Forester.”

“After staying in a village parlor till the family had all retired, I have returned to the woods, and partly with a view to the next day’s dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, the croaking note of some unknown bird close at hand.”—Henry D. Thoreau.

“He sat down on a lump of granite, and took out his fly-book. It is a sport, he added, as he was selecting the flies, that there is less to be said against than shooting, I imagine. I don’t like the idea of shooting birds, especially after I have missed one or two. Birds are such harmless creatures. But the fish is different—the fish is making a murderous snap at an innocent fly, when a little bit of steel catches him in the very act. It serves him right, from the moral point of view.”—William Black.

“There is much diversity of opinion about the manner of fishing, whether up or down the stream; the great majority of anglers, both In Europe and this country, favor the latter method, and very few the former.”—John J. Brown.

“‘Beautiful!’ Well you may say so, for what is more beautiful than a well-developed pound trout?”—Charles W. Stevens.

7. Ferguson,

8. Abbey.

9. Royal Coachman.

10. Seth Green.

11. Professor.

12. Montreal.

“Reader, did you ever throw the fly to tempt the silvery denizen of the lake, or river, to his destruction? Have you watched him, as it skimmed like a living insect along the surface, dart from his hiding-place, and rush upon the tempting but deceitful morsel; and have you noticed his astonishment when he found the hook was in his jaw? Have you watched him as he bent your slender rod ‘like a reed shaken by the wind,’ in his efforts to free himself, and then have you reeled him to your hand and deposited him in your basket, as the spoil of your good right arm? If you have not, leave the dull, monotonous, every-day things around you, and flee to the Chazy Lake.”—S. H. Hammond.

“I now come to not only the most sportsman-like, but the most delightful method of trout-fishing. One not only endeared by a thousand delightful memories, but by the devotion of many of our wisest and best men for ages past; and, next to my thanks for existence, health, and daily bread, I thank God for the good gift of fly-fishing. If the fishes are to be killed for our use, there is no way in which they are put to so little pain as in fly-fishing. The fish rises, takes your fly as though it were his ordinary food; the hook fixes in the hard gristly jaw, where there is little or no sensation. After a few struggles he is hauled on shore, and a tap on the head terminates his life; and so slight is the pain or alarm that he feels from the hook, that I have over and over caught a trout, with the fly still in his mouth which he has broken off in his struggles an hour or even half an hour previously. I have seen fish that have thus broken off swim away with my fly in their mouths and begin to rise at the natural fly again almost directly.”—Francis Francis.

RANGELEY BROOK TROUT.

By James A. Williamson, Sec. Oquossoc Angling Association.

About twelve summers ago, when spending a delightful vacation at Manchester, Vermont, under the shadow of Mt. Equinox, my attention was called to a little book which gave a description of the exceptionally large brook trout inhabiting the waters of the Rangeley Lakes.

Never having heard, heretofore, of a fish of that species that weighed more than three pounds, and never having caught any over a pound and a half (although I had dropped a line in many waters and exerted my utmost muscle in casting a line for fingerlings), I could not bring my mind to believe that such fish as were described really existed, and at once pronounced it another fish story. Although much interested in the narrative I finally threw down the book in disgust, and as I did so, observed for the first time that the author was Robert G. Allerton, a very old friend, whom I had always esteemed a man of veracity. I at once took a new interest in the subject and determined to investigate the matter personally. I came to New York, had an interview with Mr. Allerton, who was the Treasurer of the Oquossoc Angling Association, and by his advice joined the club, and in due time started for the promised land of mountains, lakes, and large trout, and after the usual vicissitudes of travel reached my destination at Camp Kennebago about the middle of September.

The forests were just developing their autumnal hues, the air was fresh and bracing, and all nature seemed to conspire to make one realize that there was health in every breath inhaled, and beauty in every phase of land and water. Having secured a first-rate guide and boat, and partaken of a trout breakfast, which was relished immensely, such as can only be appreciated by one who has left the haunts of civilization and gone into the wilderness for recuperation, I considered my first duty was to pay my respects to Mr. Allerton, who was in camp at Bugle Cove. From this location Lake Mooselemeguntic lies spread out before you, while Mt. Washington in the distance rears its snowy peak, overtopping Jefferson, Monroe, and the other giants of the White Hills of New Hampshire.

The crystal waters of the lake tempt us to cast a fly, and a suitable place having been secured, we proceed to business. After making several casts in a manner more or less scientific but without success, my former unbelief came creeping over me, and, as my arm became tired and almost refused to do its duty, a sense of despondency overcame me, which I am sure sensibly affected the beauty if not the efficacy of my casts. But suddenly I am awakened to the realization of the fact that a big fish has seized the fly and is making the reel hum in its frantic endeavors to secure its liberty. Fathom after fathom of the dainty line disappears beneath the water, and at last prudence dictates a gentle snub, which finally terminates in a decided check to the mad career of the quarry. Having succeeded in turning his head in a different direction, another rush is made across stream, making the line whiz as it cuts through the water; then suddenly he takes a downward course and ceases from all apparent effort to free himself. He now sulks for a long time, and impatience begins to take the place of the excitement with which the fight began. The guide, who, during the fray had hoisted his anchor, got ready his landing-net, and was now holding his boat in position with the oars, suggested that I had better send him a telegraphic message, which was accordingly done by striking the rod with a key. The first few strokes seemed to make little or no impression, but presently he convinced us that he was still there, although we had some forebodings that he had escaped by winding the line around a log or some other object at the bottom of the stream. He was up and alive in every sense, and performed the same tactics for liberty with apparently more vigor than at first. These were kept up for about half an hour, when he again took a turn of sulking, but this time of shorter duration, and when he again began his rushes it was with an evident loss of strength, but no diminution of determination and pluck.

A friend who was watching and timing me from his boat came over to inquire how the battle was progressing, and pertinently asked, “Whether the fish was going to take me or I the fish.” At last the strength of the tackle, the pliability of the rod, and the determination of the rodster overcame the pluck and strength of the fish, and he was brought to the boat turned upon his side and was beautifully landed by the guide. The scales were at once applied, with a result of eight pounds full weight.

My inquiring and interested friend informed me that I had been two hours and twenty minutes in the fight, and as I sat down in the boat I, for the first time, realized that I was tired.

Now, my dear reader, do not think that this kind of sport is of common occurrence, for from that time to this, I have taken but two fish of equal weight; the average, however, has been much larger than trout from any other locality in which I have fished. Any fish under half a pound is considered unfit to land, and is again committed to the water to grow larger. The number of trout does not seem to be falling off; but this can be accounted for by the annual plant of fry from the Hatching House of the Oquossoc Angling Association, who have for years past turned about one million fish into these waters, and now contemplate increasing the amount to five million; still I think there is a sensible diminution of the size of the catch, which now run from one-half to four pounds, and anything over that weight is the exception. This would seem to confirm the supposition of Professor Agassiz, made many years ago, that these large fish possibly may have reached an age of from 100 to 200 years, as they were evidently very old.

Any one who has been thrilled with the vigorous strike of one of the ordinary sized fish would be almost beside himself when one from three to five pounds rose to his fly, and if his tackle was good, the sport derived therefrom, would serve him a lifetime; and when the shades of night had fallen upon the camp, and he with his fellow-fishermen collected around the great fire, point and vigor would be given to his recital of how he caught and played the monster he that day had brought to his creel.

“Let it be seen that a love of the ‘gentle art’ openeth first the heart, then the fly-book, and soon the stores of experience and knowledge garnered up through long years, wheresoever we meet a ‘Brother of the Angle’; and that to us ‘angling is an employment of our idle time,’; that therein we find ‘a rest to the mind, a cheerer of the spirits, a diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a moderator of the passions, a procurer of contentedness, and that it begets habits of peace and patience in chose that possess and practice it.’”—Thaddeus Norris.

“Fly-fishing holds the same relation to bait-fishing that poetry does to prose. Not only the fly, but every implement of the fly-fisher’s outfit is a materialized poem.”—James A. Henshall, M.D.

“Between the tyro and the proficient grayling fisher there exists a wider gulf than is the case with the experienced and inexperienced in any other branch in the whole art of fishing. Practical skill and general artistic bearing are more fully exemplified in fishing for grayling, than for trout and salmon, whilst upon the same ground the unskilled efforts of the bungler stand at a yet more glaring contrast.”—David Foster.

“Hooking a large grayling, I had good evidences of his plucky qualities; the pliant rod bent as he struggled against the line, curling his body around columns of water that failed to sustain his grasp, and setting his great dorsal fin like an oar backing water, while we cautiously worked him in, his tender mouth requiring rather more careful handling than would be necessary for a trout; making a spurt up stream, he requires a yielding line, but after a time he submits to be brought in, rallying for a dart under the boat, or beneath a log, as an attempt is made to place the landing net under him.”—Professor Milner.