SALMO CLARKII OR CUTTHROAT TROUT
The spectators saw the monoplane turn to the east, gradually rising,
until it disappeared over the mountains. Not until thirty minutes
later did the _Loon_ reappear far in the south. And then it was first
distinguished by its searchlight breaking through the evening mist, for
night had fallen.
As Lord Pelton sprang out he explained his sensation.
“Strangely enough,” he said, “my first feeling was one of safety. But
the peculiar sensation was that of wind all around me; a breeze that
seemed to come from nowhere. My face was in a strong breeze that never
ceased. In a balloon, you feel as if the earth is dropping below you.
In the aëroplane there was the sensation of climbing. The earth did
not take on the appearance of a hollow dish with the horizon reaching
up like the rim of a bowl. After a few hundred feet all the crudities
of the earth were lost. Like the broad effects of a fine painting the
land greeted the eye as a picture. I was not frightened.”
“What altitude did you reach?” asked Captain Ludington.
“I meant to stick to the five hundred foot level,” answered Frank, “but
Lord Pelton asked me to go higher. We reached the height of fifty-two
hundred feet.”
“The sun was sinking behind the next range of mountains,” explained
Lord Pelton, “and we kept on going up to keep it in sight. After it was
dark in the valley we could have read a newspaper. It was just like
stealing daylight――great.”
The boys were pleased because they could see that Lord Pelton’s
enthusiasm was having its influence on Mr. Mackworth and Captain
Ludington, and they hoped it would have a similar effect on “Grizzly”
Hosmer and Sam Skinner.
Hosmer was off with the wagons early the next morning. Sam Skinner, Mr.
Mackworth and his guests did not get away until eight o’clock. Jake
Green accompanied Hosmer that he might prepare luncheon on the trail.
With orders on the principal store of Michel, Nelse and Robert were
left in charge of the car. Frank and Phil also remained ready for their
flight about five o’clock――after the main party had reached Smith’s
ranch.
All morning the boys tinkered on the airship. Into the shaded cabin
of the monoplane many visitors were admitted while levers, wheels,
instruments and engine parts were explained. At noon Nelse served
their luncheon in the airship cabin; cold meats, preserved fruits and
iced-tea. And then, succumbing to the drowsy heat, Phil stretched
himself on the floor and fell asleep.
An hour later the sleeping boy aroused himself with a start. The _Loon_
was in flight.
“What’s doin’?” he cried in alarm.
“Nothin’, only we’ve started,” was Frank’s rejoinder.
“Started?” exclaimed Phil. “’Tain’t time, is it?”
“No,” answered Frank bending to his work of adjusting the big plane as
the clattering monoplane left the ground, “but I got tired.”
“Who held her?” was Phil’s next question as he scrambled to his feet.
“No one,” replied Frank. “I just gave her a run. She made it all right.”
“You’re crazy,” roared Phil.
Frank laughed and lifted the ship a little higher.
“They ain’t ready for us,” persisted Phil glancing at the receding
village. “We can’t keep flyin’ around till night. It’s only a quarter
after one,” he exclaimed.
“We ain’t goin’ to fly around at all,” replied Frank as he set the
_Loon_ on a flight about four hundred feet from the ground. “We’re
goin’ fishin’.”
“Fishin’?” repeated Phil. “You _are_ crazy!”
“Sit down,” answered Frank with a smile, “and I’ll tell you where we
are goin’.”
“What’s that?” said Phil who was far from sitting down. “That?” he
repeated pointing to the forward end of the cabin.
“That,” answered Frank, “is a present I bought for you. It’s a Michel
trout rod, reel, line and a couple of May flies. I tell you we’re
goin’ fishin’. What’s the use o’ sleepin’ away an afternoon like this
when you know the trout will be fightin’ for flies about four o’clock?”
“Well,” said Phil at last in a dazed tone, “I give up.”
“Now,” said Frank, “you’re talkin’ sense. While you were asleep I
strolled over to the store. I began lookin’ over the trout tackle and
got to talkin’ ‘fish.’ The clerk was awful strong for Fording River,
which is up where we are goin’ to camp to-night. A few miles away the
Fording cuts through some hills and east o’ these it’s full o’ trout.
But the best fishin’, the clerk said, was beyond a little valley where
the Fording comes through a second range o’ hills and tumbles over the
rocks makin’ a fine waterfall.”
“And you’re goin’ up there and land on a hill or in a pine forest?”
interrupted Phil.
“We’re goin’ there and land in a meadow at the foot o’ the Falls where
the grass ain’t high enough to tangle us up and where you’re goin’ to
get us a string o’ Cutthroat trout which, accordin’ to the clerk, are
the finest fish in the world for looks, fight and flavor.”
“And what if that meadow ain’t flat and hard enough to land in?” asked
Phil, somewhat mollified.
“We’ll just turn around, come back to town, call it a little outing of
an hour and let it go at that.”
“You’re crazy,” repeated Phil in a last protest.
“Shall I turn back?” asked Frank suddenly.
“I reckon you might as well go ahead since you’ve started,” Phil
answered. “But it’s up to you. Besides,” he added contemptuously,
“that’s a rotten lookin’ rod.”
The _Loon_ now drifting as smoothly, silently and swiftly as a bird was
turning to the east.
“All right,” laughed Frank. “Then we’ll cross over the first range
before our friends sight us. There’s no use to excite them. After we’re
out o’ sight o’ them, we’ll turn north. I guess we’ll know the Fording
when we sight it.”
“Why didn’t you get the notion before the wagons left?” Phil asked. “I
could have had my own rod.”
[Illustration: THE _Loon_ IN THE MOUNTAINS]
Having crossed the Eastern range the young aviators dropped into the
parallel valley to be sure of being unobserved and then turned north
again. The anemometer showed a speed of 56 miles at three quarters
power. The _Loon_ had left Michel at 1:15 o’clock. At 1:35 P. M. the
boys figured that they were about 20 miles north. The proposed camping
place was reckoned about 25 miles from town. As the Fording entered the
Elk at this point it was clear that their destination was not over five
or six miles distant. A few minutes later a stream cut the valley and
the _Loon_ was brought to half speed.
Even at four hundred feet the view included endless mountain ranges;
near at hand and forming the Elk River Valley these were hardly more
than great hills. Then, each successive line of peaks rose higher both
east and west until on the distant horizon could be distinguished the
Columbian Rockies, the Selkirks and the Purcell ranges.
Between these were valleys of pines, cut now and then by silver
mountain streams, while each rocky wall was gashed by chasms and passes
in which, tumbling and crowned by spray, waterfalls dropped their
endless torrents. Off to the northwest, where the Selkirks died down in
the Herchmer range and Norboe and Osborne peaks, even in the June day
could be distinguished the glisten of chasm-protected snow. And with
it all no sound, no sight of a living object except, high above them a
motionless, soaring eagle.
Frank was yet at the wheel. Before the narrow, swift Fording was
reached he turned to follow its banks eastward. When he saw the falls
he also made out the grass valley. It looked a bit risky, but not
wholly dangerous and when Phil’s eye caught sight of the cottonlike
falls, Frank selected the smoothest ground and dropped to it. New
mountain grass and wild poppies made a soft and picturesque landing,
but it gave no great assurance as to starting again for, as the
monoplane wheels sank in the grass the car wobbled from side to side
and then came to a sudden stop.
“Anyway,” exclaimed Frank, “it’s better than being stuck in a
wheatfield.”
“Except that there is no hard road to drag her out to,” added Phil.
“Don’t borrow trouble,” suggested Frank, bravely. “There’s your stream.
Let’s see what a Cutthroat trout is like.”
Gathering up the trout outfit the two boys set out across the meadow.
A bit of pine woods crowning a rise of rocks lay between them and the
stream, but in a few minutes they were on the rocky margin of the
Fording. It was a trouty looking piece of water; not wide but too deep
for fishing in the stream. The blue-green current rippled over fallen
trees and protruding rocks, making foam flecked pools that were natural
haunts for fish.
“I always like to wade the stream and fish with the current,” said
Phil, busy winding his line and attaching his gut leader, “but these
backwaters look powerful good to me. Did they tell you this was the
fly?” he continued holding up what is known as the May.
“The clerk said it was a ‘killer,’” answered Frank.
After a good deal of grumbling over the defects of the cheap reel, Phil
finally announced that he meant to try the foot of the falls first. As
the boys made their way along the rocky bank Phil made a cast or two
to straighten out his line.
About a hundred yards below the falls the stream widened into a pool
and the bank rose into a tangle of berry bushes. At its foot the water
ran up to the little cliff. Frank began to climb the elevation. To his
surprise Phil walked directly into the shallow water of the creek’s
edge.
“Come up here and keep out o’ that,” called Frank. “What’s the use o’
wettin’ everything you have on?”
“I’m fishin’,” called back Phil. “You――”
Then he stopped. Frank leaned over the bushes. As he did so he saw
Phil out in the stream, the water nearly reaching his waist. His rod
at that moment was a semicircle and the tense figure of the fisherman,
the forward poise of his body, the left hand far extended and grasping
a turn of line, told enough. If there had been any doubt about the
situation, a flash of golden, yellow and pink in a cloud of spray told
it all.
“It’s a beaut, Phil,” yelled Frank and in another moment he ran down
the bank to his chum’s side. For ten minutes Phil, with all his
Michigan fishing skill, played his first strike. With no landing net,
the issue of the fight was problematical. But there was clear water in
all directions and the trout was well hooked. Thoroughly exhausted,
Frank at last got his thumb in the fish’s gill and the two boys waded
ashore.
It was their first Salmo Clarkii and it weighed 3¼ pounds. The upper
part of its body was a pale golden yellow with black spots because of
which the trout is sometimes known as the Dolly Varden. The middle
part of its body was pink and the belly a pearl white. But the most
characteristic marks on it were two deep and wide carmine splashes just
back of its gills, which gave it another name――the “Cutthroat” trout.
“I don’t know what sort of a trout it is,” exclaimed Phil as he laid
the beautiful fish on the grass, “but it is worth coming two thousand
miles to get. Now we’ll go for the real ones up there at the foot of
the falls.”
When Frank realized that the hot sun was no longer in their faces and
looked at his watch it was five o’clock. In a natural pocket in the
rocks, filled with water from the falls’ spray, lay twelve fish――the
whole weighing twenty-six pounds.