which occurred several years ago, recorded by a former neighbour of
mine in the north, the owner of a well-known deer forest. I give
the story in his own words, as well as I can remember. “It was late
one day in the forest of Fannich, where I was stalking as the guest
of one of my relatives who was at that time a tenant of the forest.
After a long and difficult stalk, I had succeeded in getting up to
the stag and shot it. The stalker, Duncan, an excellent man of long
experience, approached the animal to give it the _coup de grâce_,
and, with his open knife in his right hand, seized one of the
stag’s forelegs with his left. Instantly the stag gave a tremendous
plunge and threw Duncan back. The knife went into Duncan’s thigh,
and he bled profusely. Both of us made frantic efforts to stop the
bleeding, but without avail. The gillie, who was behind, came up,
and we did all we could, but having no medical training, or even a
knowledge of first aid, were unable to render useful assistance.
Duncan got weaker and fainter, and was apparently bleeding to
death. He was, however, perfectly cool and collected, said there
was no one to blame but himself, that he was awfully careless,
and ought never to have taken hold of the stag in the way he did.
[Illustration: IN THE FOREST OF FANNICH.
By FINLAY MACKINNON.]
“He appeared to be rapidly getting weaker, and said quite quietly
that he thought he was dying, and asked me to take some messages
for him to his wife and children, and then seemed to be losing
consciousness. It was getting dusk, and the gillie urged me not to
wait any longer, as I could do no good, and unless I started for
the lodge at once I should not be able to find my way. So with a
heavy heart I said good-bye to poor Duncan and started homewards.
From time to time I turned to look back at the two men, and at
last, when I reached the top of the last hill I had to cross before
losing sight of them, I turned to take one final glance. When I
looked round, however, I was startled to see, close to the place
where Duncan had been lying, the figures of two men walking slowly.
There was no mistake about it--they were Duncan and the gillie. I
ran back again, and found that soon after I left them the bleeding
had stopped quite unaccountably, and Duncan, though still very
weak, had gradually revived and finally insisted on trying to walk.
We persuaded him to rest, and, leaving the gillie beside him, I
went back to the lodge as quickly as I could and sent up a pony.
Duncan got safely home, and when the doctor saw him he said it was
a marvellous escape, for if the knife had gone into Duncan’s thigh
two inches from the spot where it entered, nothing could have saved
his life.”
[Illustration: Nearing the End.]
VII
THE LUCK OF SALMON FISHING
I have always sympathised with the author of the lines known as
“The Angler’s Prayer,” lines which are not so well known as they
deserve to be:
Lord, suffer me to catch a fish--
So large that _even I_
When talking of it afterwards
May have no need to lie.
In the spring of 1921 came the tragedy of my life as a fisherman.
I had five days’ fishing in the famous river Wye. The river was
dead low and my chances of success very small, but I kept steadily
at work during the time at my disposal, and on the fourth day had
the good fortune, by means of the attractions of a Mar Lodge (size
4/0), to hook a salmon which was not only the largest salmon I had
ever seen, but also the largest seen in that year on the beat I
was fishing--a most exciting struggle of over an hour terminating
in a wild rush of over 100 yards, the wildest rush I, or the keen
fisherman I had with me, have ever seen, a grand leap high up into
the air of this splendid clean-run fish, and the line came slowly
back, the cast having broken a foot from the end. Elsewhere (pp.
12-22, _supra_) I have told of how this splendid fish, no doubt
exhausted by the struggle, was shortly afterwards killed by a far
greater fisherman than any mere mortal man--an otter. Its estimated
weight, as far as could be judged from its remains, was about 40
lb. The day was Friday, April 1, an appropriate day and date for
such a catastrophe. In the early part of the following year I
received an invitation from the same kindly host to try my luck
again in April on the same river, but on another and more famous
beat. I gratefully accepted the invitation, and set forth in high
hopes and, curiously enough, with a strong sense of expectation, I
might almost say the assurance, of great events.
For several days after my arrival the river was so high that
fishing was hopeless, but on the morning of April 18, though still
high and coloured, it had run down to such an extent as to be in
fair condition.
My host was most kind in wishing to give me every possible chance
of getting a good fish, and had arranged that I should take with
me his butler, C., a first-rate hand at gaffing salmon, who had
been with me in the preceding year when I was so unfortunate, and
was very keen to help me to kill a big fish. My host sent me to
try, first of all, a pool which had a great reputation. This pool
is about a mile long, and has to be fished from a boat, trees and
bushes running throughout its entire length along both sides of
the bank. My host had the fishing on one side of the river only,
and on reaching the head of the pool we found some one fishing
from the other side. After waiting until this rod had fished some
way down the pool, we began operations. I fished the whole morning
with the fly, but with no success, and about half-past one, as
the river was still so high, we decided to try the minnow, a much
more favourite lure than the fly on this particular river in the
spring. At my third cast I got a pull, and was fast in what was
obviously a heavy salmon. I never had a more lively fish to deal
with. It jumped fourteen times clean out of the water, and, making
a constant series of wild rushes, took me at a great pace down the
river. Some ladies of our party arrived at the head of the pool
about half an hour after I had hooked the fish, and inquired of the
fisherman on the other bank whether he had seen anything of me. The
reply was, “I saw him fast in a big fish about half an hour ago
going round the bend of the river on his way to Hereford.” Though
I did not get to Hereford, which was nearly thirty miles distant,
the fish took me about three-quarters of a mile down the river
before I succeeded in killing it, after over an hour’s battle. It
was a beautiful clean-run hen-fish of 21½ lb. By this time it was
nearly three o’clock, and after a hasty luncheon we decided to
fish down the lower part of the pool. On our way we had to pass a
point where C. had seen a fish rising as we came up in the morning.
I fished this place with great care, and about my second cast as
the minnow swung round I got a pull and hooked the fish. I had a
good deal more of my own way with this fish than with the one I
had previously killed, and in about twenty minutes it was in the
boat. It proved to be another clean-run hen-fish, and weighed 18½
lb. The question now was whether we should fish another pool lower
down the river or try the head of the same pool again. I decided in
favour of the latter course, and we accordingly rowed up to the top
of the pool. It was by this time half-past six. My third cast I was
into another fish, which did not show itself for a long time. It
took me down the river like the fish I had hooked in the morning,
but was not nearly so lively in its movements. It kept low down in
the water and adopted boring tactics. After rounding the corner,
as my fellow-angler would have said, bound once more for Hereford,
the fish made a violent rush and plunge, showing itself to be a
very big fish and looking not unlike the fish I had parted company
with a year ago. We continued to go steadily down the river, the
fish making strong rushes, but keeping down and moving about in
a stately, heavy fashion. We gradually reached the spot where we
had gaffed the 21½-pounder in the morning, our movements being
watched by the ladies of our party from the opposite bank. The fish
showed little sign of giving in, and about 8 P.M. the spectators
on the bank, seeing no likelihood of the battle being ended at
present, went home. About ten minutes later the fish began to show
unmistakable signs of exhaustion. After it had turned on its side
two or three times, I managed to bring it near the boat, which C.
had moored near the bank. Just before the fish came within reach
of the gaff it made another short rush, and once more turned on
its side. Again I coaxed the great fish towards the boat. Nearer
and nearer he came, and then in a moment C. had the gaff in him,
and with a mighty effort lifted him into the boat. The fish was a
cock-fish, and weighed 38½ lb. After examining him we came to the
conclusion that he was about the same size as the one I had lost
in the preceding year, but probably longer. He had evidently been
wounded in his side by a seal a fortnight previously, and though
this wound had healed, it must have caused the fish to lose several
pounds’ weight. When hung up beside the other fish of 21½ lb. and
18½ lb. he looked huge, and had the advantage of some inches over
my little grandson, who was nearly five years old. His length
was 50½ inches and girth 24 inches, and had it not been for the
wound inflicted by the seal he would, no doubt, have turned the
scale well over 40 lb. So ended what was for me a day never to be
forgotten. I had six more days’ fishing, and killed five more
fish, two of them with the fly. The other five fish weighed 22½
lb., 17½ lb., 17½ lb., 16½ lb., and 15½ lb. respectively.
[Illustration: “HE HAD THE ADVANTAGE OF SOME INCHES OVER MY LITTLE
GRANDSON, WHO WAS NEARLY FIVE YEARS OLD.”
From a Photograph by Mrs. NOEL WILLS.]
Strange that I should have had such good luck. Strange, surely,
that though others far more skilful and experienced than I am
should have fished the same beats in that river and fished many
more days than I did in each year, such a great fish should have
come my way in two successive Aprils, on each occasion by far the
largest seen or heard of in the season on the beat in question. An
old friend of mine, who has fished the same river for many years,
and is an angler of great experience and success, told me that he
has never killed any fish in that river or anywhere else larger
than 25 lb. Surely, indeed, I was the spoilt child of the fishing
deities.
At the close of this red-letter day two thoughts crossed my
mind--first, whether the fact that so many of my kind friends had
earnestly wished that I might on this occasion kill a fish as large
as the one I had lost a year ago had really been a factor in my
good luck. Who can tell? The other thought which crossed my mind
last year also when the great fish parted company with me was that
every fisherman must surely be “a man that fortune’s buffets and
rewards has ta’en with equal thanks.” Yet, as one of the keenest
fishermen and gillies I have ever known, and who has now gone to
his long home, used to say, “It’s easy talking and no easy doing.”
A few days later my host added still more to my indebtedness to
him by giving one of my daughters, who had never killed a salmon,
though a very successful angler for big trout, the chance of trying
the river.
On her first and second days she drew a blank, but on the third day
killed three fish weighing 20 lb., 19 lb., and 15 lb., all on the
same fly, a silver doctor. Who says there is nothing in luck? The
day I killed my big fish was the third day in the third week of the
third month of the fishing season; he was the third fish killed on
that day, and I hooked him at my third cast. My daughter killed her
three fish on the third day she was fishing. Well might Falstaff
(_Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act V., Sc. 1) say: “This is the third
time--I hope luck lies in odd numbers.” My daughter’s performance
was far more satisfactory in every way than mine, for fishing
with the fly is, of course, incomparably superior to fishing
with the minnow--at least, nearly every angler I have met says
so. I venture to think, however, that my friend, Arthur Chaytor,
K.C., one of the most accomplished and skilful of salmon fishers,
in his delightful book, _Letters to a Salmon-Fisher’s Sons_, is
altogether too severe in his castigation of minnow-fishing. “Avoid
minnow-fishing for salmon,” he says (page 89), “as a canker that
will eat into some of the very best days of your fly-fishing.” But
need it do so? “It is a dangerous thing for you to begin its use.”
Then in a most entertaining passage he describes how “the river
has cleared and has become perfect for the fly. It ought to be a
tip-top day, but you are tempted of the devil to try just for an
hour the phantom minnow ... and then you go on with the minnow all
the day long ... dragging out the fish ... and at the end of the
day feeling that you have been rather a butcher than a fisherman
and that you might almost as well have used a net.” This means, of
course, that success in minnow-fishing is simply a matter of luck,
and does not depend on the fisherman’s skill. In a later passage
he describes in most forcible and amusing language “the relapse
to minnow, when after a good day minnowing you find next morning
that the water is right for the fly and you resolve to make it
a day of fly only. You put on your best fly and you begin, full
of hope. For an hour or two you cover much water without a single
rise, and you begin to doubt whether the fish mean to take at all
to-day. Soon, just to see whether they will move at all, you put up
the spinning-rod just merely to have one try down the pool. A fish
takes the accursed thing and you are lost. Abandoning all sense of
decency, you pursue the horrible craft, and at dusk you stagger
back to the fishing-hut with half a dozen great fish upon your back
and with your conscience hanging about the neck of your heart,
which keeps on protesting in vain that this was really no day for
the fly.”
Even Chaytor, however, admits that “in a cold, wet season, when
the river is in flood for weeks together, with only odd days when
fishing is possible, the minnow can be really and legitimately
useful.” On the other hand, in contrast to the above warnings and
diatribes, Mr. J. Arthur Hutton, who is so well known, particularly
in connection with the Wye, and is, of course, a most experienced
and successful salmon fisher, as well as one of the most learned
in the life-history of the salmon, describes spinning for salmon
as “a form of fishing requiring a very large amount of skill and
experience which may provide one with sport on those many occasions
when the fly is useless ... a fine art which requires much practice
and long experience, far more so than fly-fishing.” “For every good
hand with the spinning-rod,” he says, “you may find twenty who are
excellent fly-fishermen.”
I remember a friend of mine in the north, whose old keeper had been
with the family for many years and known him since his boyhood,
telling me that he knew so well the old man’s contempt for and
abhorrence of minnow-fishing that he did not dare to use the minnow
when the old man was out with him, and never allowed him to know
that he did use it. This old keeper would have applied Chaytor’s
epithets to minnow-fishing on every occasion, but would never have
agreed with him for a moment that even on rare occasions it can be
legitimately used.
Those like the old keeper--and I doubt if in these days there are
many such--might, to use Mr. Hutton’s words, “seriously consider
whether they might not add largely to their sport and also to their
opportunities of fishing by learning to spin for salmon. The river
is not always in fly order; there are many occasions on which the
water is too high or too much coloured for the fly when salmon
might be caught with a minnow or other bait. In the same way, in
deep sluggish pools, when it is almost impossible to work a fly
effectively, a bait properly used may effect wonders.”
What, then, is the conclusion of the whole matter? It is this,
paraphrasing the words of the famous authority on all things
piscatorial, Mr. H. T. Sheringham: “It is certain that good luck is
the most vital part of the equipment of him who would seek to slay
the big (salmon). For some men I admit the usefulness of skill and
pertinacity; for myself I take my stand entirely on luck.”
[Illustration: SLIGACHAN, ISLE OF SKYE.
By FINLAY MACKINNON.]
[Illustration: (The Dying Stag)]
VIII
A STORMY WEEK IN THE FOREST
Amongst my stalking experiences I shall always remember a week
which I once had early one season in a famous forest on the west
coast, through the kindness of my friend the proprietor, to whom I
have been indebted for many excellent days’ sport. I have had long
experience in stalking, but have never known worse weather than
we had in this particular week. The rifles consisted of my host,
Stuart a fellow-guest, and myself. I was out stalking six days. On
Thursday, our first day, we killed five stags between us. My host
and Stuart each got two, while I got one. So far as my experiences
on that day were concerned, I had no opportunity of a shot until
near the end of the day, when we came upon two stags, one of which
I shot. As it was late in the day and I had only one pony, I did
not shoot at the second stag. The following Friday, Saturday, and
Monday were terrible days of mist and storm. The mist never left
the tops of the mountains all day long, although there was a strong
wind blowing--it appeared to come up from the sea in great banks;
and although we waited on each day for it to clear off, we did so
in vain. On Friday and Saturday I never had a shot.
[Illustration: “LYING ON A RIDGE WE SPIED SOME DEER.”
From a Photograph by the Author.]
On Monday, until late in the day, it looked as though I was to
have the same experience. About four o’clock, however, having been
lying on a ridge overlooking a wide, deep corrie, the mist suddenly
lifted for a very few minutes and we spied some deer moving
downwards on the far side of the corrie, and amongst them what
appeared to be two or three good stags. There were also a number
of hinds rather nearer to us than this lot of deer. We decided
that the only way in which we should be likely to get a shot at
the stags would be to go right round the upper edge of the corrie
and try to get in between the hinds and the other lot of deer
amongst which were the stags. This entailed a most uncomfortable
walk; the wind was so strong that one could hardly stand, it
was quite impossible to keep a cap on one’s head, and it rained
or hailed incessantly. At last we got round, and went down to the
lower ground; we then managed, with a good deal of difficulty, to
crawl safely past the hinds, and found that the other lot of deer
were moving slowly, feeding downwards. After a time the deer lay
down on a small hill in a sheltered place, and we crawled up to the
top of an adjoining hill about 140 yards distant. We there made
out that there was one good stag, an eight-pointer, who was lying
down, and whose horns only could be seen from the place where we
were lying. I got into position to shoot in case the stag should
rise and give me a chance. It was now about half-past five, and we
thought, considering how late it was getting and the conditions
of the weather, that we should not be kept waiting very long. The
stag, however, did not move for about half an hour, when he got up
and turned round, and immediately lay down again. Time went on,
and what with the cold and wet I began to shiver, and felt that I
must do something to alter the condition of things. It was close
on 6.30, and we were five miles from the point where it had been
arranged that Stuart and I were to meet the car, if possible, at
six o’clock, and in any case not later than seven. I told the
stalker that he must get the deer up somehow or other, and that he
had better whistle them up; he strongly advised me not to do this,
but to wait a little longer, as, if we did so, they would probably
bolt and not give me a chance to shoot. I, however, persisted, and
said we could not keep Mr. Stuart waiting any longer; besides, I
was getting colder and colder. I therefore whistled; the deer took
no notice. “A little louder,” said the stalker. I whistled louder.
Two of the smaller stags got up, and then the eight-pointer on the
far side of the hill slowly got up, looking in our direction, and
exposing his body over the edge of the hill, a fair broadside shot,
at about 140 yards. I fired. “Just over his shoulder,” said the
stalker, and the stag still stood, as stags often will do when the
bullet passes over them. I fired again and the stag instantly fell.
“Good shot,” said the stalker. I unloaded the rifle and handed it
to the stalker, who began to put it into its cover, when suddenly
the stag jumped up and galloped off. The bullet had no doubt grazed
the spine, causing temporary unconsciousness. When a stag drops
instantaneously, as this one did, he is often only stunned, and
it is well to be on the alert and get up to him at once, ready if
necessary to shoot again. This was no new experience to either of
us. The old stalker had been over fifty years in the forest and
had seen the same thing happen many a time; nor was it new to me.
We watched the stag as he galloped away apparently none the worse
for his narrow escape, and I certainly felt very foolish. The old
stalker kindly began to make excuses for me. “The line was right,
but you were just a little high,” he said. “Your pozeesyon was not
good. You had been lying long, cold and shivering, in the wet. Yon
cartridges are lighter than yer regular ones, and that is why you
shot over him.” “No, no,” I replied, “I missed because I could not
shoot straight; it is a bad business; anyhow, it is better than
having wounded him badly and then lost him; it is a comfort to
think he is really very little the worse--now we have got to get
back as quickly as ever we can.” And then in the gloom and mist,
running and walking and tumbling, away we went. The last mile was
down a hill path filled with loose stones. At last we reached the
end of the road, and saw the car coming up from a point about a
mile lower down the road where Stuart had arranged to meet us.
“Well,” I said, “I hope at any rate that Mr. Stuart has got a
stag, if not two.” The stalker had been looking carefully at the
road. “No,” he said, “Mr. Stuart has no stag the day.” I said,
“How do you know that?” “Oh,” he said, pointing to the marks on
the road, “his ponies have gone home trotting--look at the marks
of their hoofs--and if Mr. Stuart had got a stag the pony would be
walking.” As soon as the car arrived we found that the stalker was
right, and that Stuart, who had only arrived at our meeting-place
a few minutes before, had got no stag, never having had a shot.
On reaching the lodge about 8.30 P.M. we found that our host had
not yet returned from the river, where he had gone to try to get
a salmon, and it was not until an hour later that he returned.
He too had had bad luck, having hooked a large fish which it was
impossible to follow, and which had taken out in its first rush
at a terrific pace some fifty yards of line, and then, a strain
being put on, broke the casting line, which, it subsequently turned
out, had been used in the spring fishing and had not been properly
tested before being used again. Thus closed the third chapter in a
day which illustrated the truth of the proverb that “misfortunes
never come singly.”