Little Rivers [38]
that at any
moment it is liable to be interrupted.
This morning the interruption comes early. At the first cast of
the second drop, before the fly has fairly lit, a great flash of
silver darts from the waves close by the boat. Usually a salmon
takes the fly rather slowly, carrying it under water before he
seizes it in his mouth. But this one is in no mood for
deliberation. He has hooked himself with a rush, and the line goes
whirring madly from the reel as he races down the pool. Keep the
point of the rod low; he must have his own way now. Up with the
anchor quickly, and send the canoe after him, bowman and sternman
paddling with swift strokes. He has reached the deepest water; he
stops to think what has happened to him; we have passed around and
below him; and now, with the current to help us, we can begin to
reel in. Lift the point of the rod, with a strong, steady pull.
Put the force of both arms into it. The tough wood will stand the
strain. The fish must be moved; he must come to the boat if he is
ever to be landed. He gives a little and yields slowly to the
pressure. Then suddenly he gives too much, and runs straight
toward us. Reel in now as swiftly as possible, or else he will get
a slack on the line and escape. Now he stops, shakes his head from
side to side, and darts away again across the pool, leaping high
out of water. Don't touch the reel! Drop the point of the rod
quickly, for if he falls on the leader he will surely break it.
Another leap, and another! Truly he is "a merry one," and it will
go hard with us to hold him. But those great leaps have exhausted
his strength, and now he follows the rod more easily. The men push
the boat back to the shallow side of the pool until it touches
lightly on the shore. The fish comes slowly in, fighting a little
and making a few short runs; he is tired and turns slightly on his
side; but even yet he is a heavy weight on the line, and it seems a
wonder that so slight a thing as the leader can guide and draw him.
Now he is close to the boat. The boatman steps out on a rock with
his gaff. Steadily now and slowly, lift the rod, bending it
backward. A quick sure stroke of the steel! a great splash! and
the salmon is lifted upon the shore. How he flounces about on the
stones. Give him the coup de grace at once, for his own sake as
well as for ours. And now look at him, as he lies there on the
green leaves. Broad back; small head tapering to a point; clean,
shining sides with a few black spots on them; it is a fish fresh-
run from the sea, in perfect condition, and that is the reason why
he has given such good sport.
We must try for another before we go back. Again fortune favours
us, and at eleven o'clock we pole up the river to the camp with two
good salmon in the canoe. Hardly have we laid them away in the
ice-box, when Favonius comes dropping down from Patapedia with
three fish, one of them a twenty-four pounder. And so the
morning's work is done.
In the evening, after dinner, it was our custom to sit out on the
deck, watching the moonlight as it fell softly over the black hills
and changed the river into a pale flood of rolling gold. The
fragrant wreaths of smoke floated lazily away on the faint breeze
of night. There was no sound save the rushing of the water and the
crackling of the camp-fire on the shore. We talked of many things
in the heavens above, and the earth beneath, and the waters under
the earth; touching lightly here and there as the spirit of vagrant
converse led us. Favonius has the good sense to talk about himself
occasionally and tell his own experience. The man who will not do
that must always be a dull companion. Modest egoism is the salt of
conversation: you do not want too much of it; but if it is
altogether omitted, everything tastes flat. I remember well the
evening when he told me the story of the Sheep of the Wilderness.
moment it is liable to be interrupted.
This morning the interruption comes early. At the first cast of
the second drop, before the fly has fairly lit, a great flash of
silver darts from the waves close by the boat. Usually a salmon
takes the fly rather slowly, carrying it under water before he
seizes it in his mouth. But this one is in no mood for
deliberation. He has hooked himself with a rush, and the line goes
whirring madly from the reel as he races down the pool. Keep the
point of the rod low; he must have his own way now. Up with the
anchor quickly, and send the canoe after him, bowman and sternman
paddling with swift strokes. He has reached the deepest water; he
stops to think what has happened to him; we have passed around and
below him; and now, with the current to help us, we can begin to
reel in. Lift the point of the rod, with a strong, steady pull.
Put the force of both arms into it. The tough wood will stand the
strain. The fish must be moved; he must come to the boat if he is
ever to be landed. He gives a little and yields slowly to the
pressure. Then suddenly he gives too much, and runs straight
toward us. Reel in now as swiftly as possible, or else he will get
a slack on the line and escape. Now he stops, shakes his head from
side to side, and darts away again across the pool, leaping high
out of water. Don't touch the reel! Drop the point of the rod
quickly, for if he falls on the leader he will surely break it.
Another leap, and another! Truly he is "a merry one," and it will
go hard with us to hold him. But those great leaps have exhausted
his strength, and now he follows the rod more easily. The men push
the boat back to the shallow side of the pool until it touches
lightly on the shore. The fish comes slowly in, fighting a little
and making a few short runs; he is tired and turns slightly on his
side; but even yet he is a heavy weight on the line, and it seems a
wonder that so slight a thing as the leader can guide and draw him.
Now he is close to the boat. The boatman steps out on a rock with
his gaff. Steadily now and slowly, lift the rod, bending it
backward. A quick sure stroke of the steel! a great splash! and
the salmon is lifted upon the shore. How he flounces about on the
stones. Give him the coup de grace at once, for his own sake as
well as for ours. And now look at him, as he lies there on the
green leaves. Broad back; small head tapering to a point; clean,
shining sides with a few black spots on them; it is a fish fresh-
run from the sea, in perfect condition, and that is the reason why
he has given such good sport.
We must try for another before we go back. Again fortune favours
us, and at eleven o'clock we pole up the river to the camp with two
good salmon in the canoe. Hardly have we laid them away in the
ice-box, when Favonius comes dropping down from Patapedia with
three fish, one of them a twenty-four pounder. And so the
morning's work is done.
In the evening, after dinner, it was our custom to sit out on the
deck, watching the moonlight as it fell softly over the black hills
and changed the river into a pale flood of rolling gold. The
fragrant wreaths of smoke floated lazily away on the faint breeze
of night. There was no sound save the rushing of the water and the
crackling of the camp-fire on the shore. We talked of many things
in the heavens above, and the earth beneath, and the waters under
the earth; touching lightly here and there as the spirit of vagrant
converse led us. Favonius has the good sense to talk about himself
occasionally and tell his own experience. The man who will not do
that must always be a dull companion. Modest egoism is the salt of
conversation: you do not want too much of it; but if it is
altogether omitted, everything tastes flat. I remember well the
evening when he told me the story of the Sheep of the Wilderness.