Little Rivers [37]
each of which took the
fly when it was below the surface, pulled for a few moments in a
sullen way and then apparently melted into nothingness. It will
always be a source of regret to me that the nature of these fish
must remain unknown. While they were on the line it was the
general opinion that they were heavy trout; but no sooner had they
departed, than I became firmly convinced, in accordance with a
psychological law which holds good all over the world, that they
were both enormous salmon. Even the Turks have a proverb which
says, "Every fish that escapes appears larger than it is." No one
can alter that conviction, because no one can logically refute it.
Our best blessings, like our largest fish, always depart before we
have time to measure them.
The Slide Pool is in the wildest and most picturesque part of the
river, about thirty-five miles above Metapedia. The stream,
flowing swiftly down a stretch of rapids between forest-clad hills,
runs straight toward the base of an eminence so precipitous that
the trees can hardly find a foothold upon it, and seem to be
climbing up in haste on either side of the long slide which leads
to the summit. The current, barred by the wall of rock, takes a
great sweep to the right, dashing up at first in angry waves, then
falling away in oily curves and eddies, until at last it sleeps in
a black deep, apparently almost motionless, at the foot of the
hill. It was here, on the upper edge of the stream, opposite to
the slide, that we brought our floating camp to anchor for some
days. What does one do in such a watering-place?
Let us take a "specimen day." It is early morning, or to be more
precise, about eight of the clock, and the white fog is just
beginning to curl and drift away from the surface of the river.
Sooner than this it would be idle to go out. The preternaturally
early bird in his greedy haste may catch the worm; but the salmon
never take the fly until the fog has lifted; and in this the
scientific angler sees, with gratitude, a remarkable adaptation of
the laws of nature to the tastes of man. The canoes are waiting at
the front door. We step into them and push off, Favonius going up
the stream a couple of miles to the mouth of the Patapedia, and I
down, a little shorter distance, to the famous Indian House Pool.
The slim boat glides easily on the current, with a smooth buoyant
motion, quickened by the strokes of the paddles in the bow and the
stern. We pass around two curves in the river and find ourselves
at the head of the pool. Here the man in the stern drops the
anchor, just on the edge of the bar where the rapid breaks over
into the deeper water. The long rod is lifted; the fly unhooked
from the reel; a few feet of line pulled through the rings, and the
fishing begins.
First cast,--to the right, straight across the stream, about twenty
feet: the current carries the fly down with a semicircular sweep,
until it comes in line with the bow of the canoe. Second cast,--to
the left, straight across the stream, with the same motion: the
semicircle is completed, and the fly hangs quivering for a few
seconds at the lowest point of the arc. Three or four feet of line
are drawn from the reel. Third cast to the right; fourth cast to
the left. Then a little more line. And so, with widening half-
circles, the water is covered, gradually and very carefully, until
at length the angler has as much line out as his two-handed rod can
lift and swing. Then the first "drop" is finished; the man in the
stern quietly pulls up the anchor and lets the boat drift down a
few yards; the same process is repeated on the second drop; and so
on, until the end of the run is reached and the fly has passed over
all the good water. This seems like a very regular and somewhat
mechanical proceeding as one describes it, but in the performance
it is rendered intensely interesting by the knowledge
fly when it was below the surface, pulled for a few moments in a
sullen way and then apparently melted into nothingness. It will
always be a source of regret to me that the nature of these fish
must remain unknown. While they were on the line it was the
general opinion that they were heavy trout; but no sooner had they
departed, than I became firmly convinced, in accordance with a
psychological law which holds good all over the world, that they
were both enormous salmon. Even the Turks have a proverb which
says, "Every fish that escapes appears larger than it is." No one
can alter that conviction, because no one can logically refute it.
Our best blessings, like our largest fish, always depart before we
have time to measure them.
The Slide Pool is in the wildest and most picturesque part of the
river, about thirty-five miles above Metapedia. The stream,
flowing swiftly down a stretch of rapids between forest-clad hills,
runs straight toward the base of an eminence so precipitous that
the trees can hardly find a foothold upon it, and seem to be
climbing up in haste on either side of the long slide which leads
to the summit. The current, barred by the wall of rock, takes a
great sweep to the right, dashing up at first in angry waves, then
falling away in oily curves and eddies, until at last it sleeps in
a black deep, apparently almost motionless, at the foot of the
hill. It was here, on the upper edge of the stream, opposite to
the slide, that we brought our floating camp to anchor for some
days. What does one do in such a watering-place?
Let us take a "specimen day." It is early morning, or to be more
precise, about eight of the clock, and the white fog is just
beginning to curl and drift away from the surface of the river.
Sooner than this it would be idle to go out. The preternaturally
early bird in his greedy haste may catch the worm; but the salmon
never take the fly until the fog has lifted; and in this the
scientific angler sees, with gratitude, a remarkable adaptation of
the laws of nature to the tastes of man. The canoes are waiting at
the front door. We step into them and push off, Favonius going up
the stream a couple of miles to the mouth of the Patapedia, and I
down, a little shorter distance, to the famous Indian House Pool.
The slim boat glides easily on the current, with a smooth buoyant
motion, quickened by the strokes of the paddles in the bow and the
stern. We pass around two curves in the river and find ourselves
at the head of the pool. Here the man in the stern drops the
anchor, just on the edge of the bar where the rapid breaks over
into the deeper water. The long rod is lifted; the fly unhooked
from the reel; a few feet of line pulled through the rings, and the
fishing begins.
First cast,--to the right, straight across the stream, about twenty
feet: the current carries the fly down with a semicircular sweep,
until it comes in line with the bow of the canoe. Second cast,--to
the left, straight across the stream, with the same motion: the
semicircle is completed, and the fly hangs quivering for a few
seconds at the lowest point of the arc. Three or four feet of line
are drawn from the reel. Third cast to the right; fourth cast to
the left. Then a little more line. And so, with widening half-
circles, the water is covered, gradually and very carefully, until
at length the angler has as much line out as his two-handed rod can
lift and swing. Then the first "drop" is finished; the man in the
stern quietly pulls up the anchor and lets the boat drift down a
few yards; the same process is repeated on the second drop; and so
on, until the end of the run is reached and the fly has passed over
all the good water. This seems like a very regular and somewhat
mechanical proceeding as one describes it, but in the performance
it is rendered intensely interesting by the knowledge