Forgotten Treasures #2: A FIGHT WITH A TROUT

A FIGHT WITH A TROUT*



Trout fishing in the Adirondacks would be a more attractive pastime than it
is but for the popular notion of its danger. The trout is a retiring and
harmless animal, except when he is aroused and forced into a combat; and
then his agility, fierceness, and vindictiveness become apparent. No one who
has studied the excellent pictures representing men in an open boat, exposed
to the assaults of long, enraged trout flying at them through the open air
with open mouth, ever ventures with his rod upon the lonely lakes of the
forest without a certain terror, or ever reads of the exploits of daring
fishermen without a feeling of admiration for their heroism. Most of their
adventures are thrilling, and all of them are, in narration, more or less
unjust to the trout: in fact, the object of them seems to be to exhibit, at
the expense of the trout, the shrewdness, the skill, and the muscular power
of the sportsman. My own simple story has few of these recommendations.



We had built our bark camp one summer and were staying on one of the popular
lakes of the Saranac region. It would be a very pretty region if it were not
so flat, if the margins of the lakes had not been flooded by dams at the
outlets, which have killed the trees, and left a rim of ghastly deadwood
like the swamps of the under-world pictured by Dore's bizarre pencil,--and
if the pianos at the hotels were in tune. It would be an excellent sporting
region also (for there is water enough) if the fish commissioners would
stock the waters, and if previous hunters had not pulled all the hair and
skin off from the deers' tails. Formerly sportsmen had a habit of catching
the deer by the tails, and of being dragged in mere wantonness round and
round the shores. It is well known that if you seize a deer by this "holt"
the skin will slip off like the peel from a banana--This reprehensible
practice was carried so far that the traveler is now hourly pained by the
sight of peeled-tail deer mournfully sneaking about the wood.



We had been hearing, for weeks, of a small lake in the heart of the virgin
forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with trout,
unsophisticated, hungry trout: the inlet to it was described as stiff with
them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a
foot long, three tiers deep, a solid mass. The lake had never been visited
except by stray sable hunters in the winter, and was known as the Unknown
Pond. I determined to explore it, fully expecting, however, that it would
prove to be a delusion, as such mysterious haunts of the trout usually are.
Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly made our preparations, and stole
away from the shanty one morning at daybreak. Each of us carried a boat, a
pair of blankets, a sack of bread, pork, and maple-sugar; while I had my
case of rods, creel, and book of flies, and Luke had an axe and the kitchen
utensils. We think nothing of loads of this sort in the woods.



Five miles through a tamarack swamp brought us to the inlet of Unknown Pond,
upon which we embarked our fleet, and paddled down its vagrant waters. They
were at first sluggish, winding among triste fir-trees, but gradually
developed a strong current. At the end of three miles a loud roar ahead
warned us that we were approaching rapids, falls, and cascades. We paused.
The danger was unknown. We had our choice of shouldering our loads and
making a detour through the woods, or of "shooting the rapids." Naturally we
chose the more dangerous course. Shooting the rapids has often been
described, and I will not repeat the description here. It is needless to say
that I drove my frail bark through the boiling rapids, over the successive
waterfalls, amid rocks and vicious eddies, and landed, half a mile below
with whitened hair and a boat half full of water; and that the guide was
upset, and boat, contents, and man were strewn along the shore.



After this common experience we went quickly on our journey, and, a couple
of hours before sundown, reached the lake. If I live to my dying day, I
never shall forget its appearance. The lake is almost an exact circle, about
a quarter of a mile in diameter. The forest about it was untouched by axe,
and unkilled by artificial flooding. The azure water had a perfect setting
of evergreens, in which all the shades of the fir, the balsam, the pine, and
the spruce were perfectly blended; and at intervals on the shore in the
emerald rim blazed the ruby of the cardinal flower. It was at once evident
that the unruffled waters had never been vexed by the keel of a boat. But
what chiefly attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the
water, the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle, with a
fire underneath. A tyro would have been astonished at this common
phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me when I say that the
water boiled with the breaking trout. I studied the surface for some time to
see upon what sort of flies they were feeding, in order to suit my cast to
their appetites; but they seemed to be at play rather than feeding, leaping
high in the air in graceful curves, and tumbling about each other as we see
them in the Adirondack pictures.



It is well known that no person who regards his reputation will ever kill a
trout with anything but a fly. It requires some training on the part of the
trout to take to this method. The uncultivated, unsophisticated trout in
unfrequented waters prefers the bait; and the rural people, whose sole
object in going a-fishing appears to be to catch fish, indulge them in their
primitive taste for the worm. No sportsman, however, will use anything but a
fly, except he happens to be alone.



While Luke launched my boat and arranged his seat in the stern, I prepared
my rod and line. The rod is a bamboo, weighing seven ounces, which has to be
spliced with a winding of silk thread every time it is used. This is a
tedious process; but, by fastening the joints in this way, a uniform spring
is secured in the rod. No one devoted to high art would think of using a
socket joint. My line was forty yards of untwisted silk upon a multiplying
reel. The "leader" (I am very particular about my leaders) had been made to
order from a domestic animal with which I had been acquainted. The fisherman
requires as good a catgut as the violinist. The interior of the house cat,
it is well known, is exceedingly sensitive; but it may not be so well known
that the reason why some cats leave the room in distress when a piano-forte
is played is because the two instruments are not in the same key, and the
vibrations of the chords of the one are in discord with the catgut of the
other. On six feet of this superior article I fixed three artificial
flies,--a simple brown hackle, a gray body with scarlet wings, and one of my
own invention, which I thought would be new to the most experienced
fly-catcher. The trout-fly does not resemble any known species of insect. It
is a "conventionalized" creation, as we say of ornamentation. The theory is
that, fly-fishing being a high art, the fly must not be a tame imitation of
nature, but an artistic suggestion of it. It requires an artist to construct
one; and not every bungler can take a bit of red flannel, a peacock's
feather, a flash of tinsel thread, a cock's plume, a section of a hen's
wing, and fabricate a tiny object that will not look like any fly, but still
will suggest the universal conventional fly.



I took my stand in the center of the tipsy boat; and Luke shoved off, and
slowly paddled towards some lily-pads, while I began casting, unlimbering my
tools, as it were. The fish had all disappeared. I got out, perhaps, fifty
feet of line, with no response, and gradually increased it to one hundred.
It is not difficult to learn to cast; but it is difficult to learn not to
snap off the flies at every throw. Of this, however, we will not speak. I
continued casting for some moments, until I became satisfied that there had
been a miscalculation. Either the trout were too green to know what I was
at, or they were dissatisfied with my offers. I reeled in, and changed the
flies (that is, the fly that was not snapped off). After studying the color
of the sky, of the water, and of the foliage, and the moderated light of the
afternoon, I put on a series of beguilers, all of a subdued brilliancy, in
harmony with the approach of evening. At the second cast, which was a short
one, I saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk. The
next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the unfeigned "dam" of
Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat from his head and
deposited it among the lilies. Discouraged by this, we whirled about, and
paddled over to the inlet, where a little ripple was visible in the tinted
light. At the very first cast I saw that the hour had come. Three trout
leaped into the air. The danger of this manoeuvre all fishermen understand.
It is one of the commonest in the woods: three heavy trout taking hold at
once, rushing in different directions, smash the tackle into flinders. I
evaded this catch, and threw again. I recall the moment. A hermit thrush, on
the tip of a balsam, uttered his long, liquid, evening note. Happening to
look over my shoulder, I saw the peak of Marcy gleam rosy in the sky (I
can't help it that Marcy is fifty miles off, and cannot be seen from this
region: these incidental touches are always used). The hundred feet of silk
swished through the air, and the tail-fly fell as lightly on the water as a
three-cent piece (which no slamming will give the weight of a ten) drops
upon the contribution plate. Instantly there was a rush, a swirl. I struck,
and "Got him, by---!" Never mind what Luke said I got him by. "Out on a
fly!" continued that irreverent guide; but I told him to back water, and
make for the center of the lake. The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of
the hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line with a
rapidity that made it smoke. "Give him the butt!" shouted Luke. It is the
usual remark in such an emergency. I gave him the butt; and, recognizing the
fact and my spirit, the trout at once sank to the bottom, and sulked. It is
the most dangerous mood of a trout; for you cannot tell what he will do
next. We reeled up a little, and waited five minutes for him to reflect. A
tightening of the line enraged him, and he soon developed his tactics.
Coming to the surface, he made straight for the boat faster than I could
reel in, and evidently with hostile intentions. "Look out for him!" cried
Luke as he came flying in the air. I evaded him by dropping flat in the
bottom of the boat; and, when I picked my traps up, he was spinning across
the lake as if he had a new idea: but the line was still fast. He did not
run far. I gave him the butt again; a thing he seemed to hate, even as a
gift. In a moment the evil-minded fish, lashing the water in his rage, was
coming back again, making straight for the boat as before. Luke, who was
used to these encounters, having read of them in the writings of travelers
he had accompanied, raised his paddle in self-defense. The trout left the
water about ten feet from the boat, and came directly at me with fiery eyes,
his speckled sides flashing like a meteor. I dodged as he whisked by with a
vicious slap of his bifurcated tail, and nearly upset the boat. The line was
of course slack, and the danger was that he would entangle it about me, and
carry away a leg. This was evidently his game; but I untangled it, and only
lost a breast button or two by the swiftly-moving string. The trout plunged
into the water with a hissing sound, and went away again with all the line
on the reel. More butt; more indignation on the part of the captive. The
contest had now been going on for half an hour, and I was getting exhausted.
We had been back and forth across the lake, and round and round the lake.
What I feared was that the trout would start up the inlet and wreck us in
the bushes. But he had a new fancy, and began the execution of a manoeuvre
which I had never read of. Instead of coming straight towards me, he took a
large circle, swimming rapidly, and gradually contracting his orbit. I
reeled in, and kept my eye on him. Round and round he went, narrowing his
circle. I began to suspect the game; which was, to twist my head off.--When
he had reduced the radius of his circle to about twenty-five feet, he struck
a tremendous pace through the water. It would be false modesty in a
sportsman to say that I was not equal to the occasion. Instead of turning
round with him, as he expected, I stepped to the bow, braced myself, and let
the boat swing. Round went the fish, and round we went like a top. I saw a
line of Mount Marcys all round the horizon; the rosy tint in the west made a
broad band of pink along the sky above the tree-tops; the evening star was a
perfect circle of light, a hoop of gold in the heavens. We whirled and
reeled, and reeled and whirled. I was willing to give the malicious beast
butt and line, and all, if he would only go the other way for a change.



When I came to myself, Luke was gaffing the trout at the boat-side. After we
had got him in and dressed him, he weighed three-quarters of a pound. Fish
always lose by being "got in and dressed." It is best to weigh them while
they are in the water. The only really large one I ever caught got away with
my leader when I first struck him. He weighed ten pounds.

_____________________________________________

*From "IN THE WILDERNESS", by Charles Dudley Warner

Originally published by Houghton Mifflin and co., 1878.


This work is in the public domain. According to the license agreement at my
source, I may not name that source here without including the entire license
agreement......which is much too long and dull. To the best of my
knowledge, the use of this material here does not violate either that
agreement or U.S copyright law.



Wolfgang

Wolfgang wrote:
A FIGHT WITH A TROUT*
snip

That was fun. Great story.
--
TL,
Tim
------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

On Tue, 21 Jun 2005 14:22:48 -0500, "Wolfgang"
wrote:

A FIGHT WITH A TROUT*

*From "IN THE WILDERNESS", by Charles Dudley Warner

Originally published by Houghton Mifflin and co., 1878.


To think that he could so accurately parody the trout fishermen of
today from the past. Or could it just be, just possibly, that the
history of trout fishing has always been thus?

Good eye for a good story, Wolfgang.

Cyli
r.bc: vixen. Minnow goddess. Speaker to squirrels.
Often taunted by trout. Almost entirely harmless.

http://www.visi.com/~cyli
email: lid (strip the .invalid to email)

"Wolfgang" wrote in message
...
A FIGHT WITH A TROUT*


Outstanding story.

Thanks for digging it up.

Dan