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ON’T be frightened! The writer has not turned desperado, neither has he
fallen among men of bloody practices. In order that all minds may be set
at rest before we go further, be it known that this is but a fish story
pure and simple. The brother with the melancholy mind and ossified piety
will do well to stop here and turn to “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs” or some
other literature of that order. The elect few who love the open, rejoice
in God’s out-of-doors and the beauty of lake and mountain, may safely
venture to read this frivolous story of a side-trip made by one of the
delegates to a church convention.
What have cut-throats to do with fishing? Patience for a moment, you who
live east of the Mississippi! The Pacific Coast dwellers will need no
explanation, but for the benefit of the unenlightened it may be
said that in common parlance the “_Salmo Clarkii_” is known as a
“cut-throat.” This appellation has nothing to do with the character
of the fish, for he is an eminently respectable citizen of the watery
world, but is due to the presence of a blood-red line on either side of
his throat which by an extreme stretch of the imagination may be made to
resemble a bloody cut. It is said that when he has access to salt water
the cut-throat ranges far seaward, in which case he loses his black
spots and takes on a coat of silver; but he still holds fast to his
crimson necktie.
Doubtless the next question will be, “Where is Lake Chelan?” If you are
too indolent to look it up on the map of Washington, follow the trail of
the fisherman. He took the Great Northern road from Seattle, crossed
the beautiful Cascade Mountains and left the train at Wenatchee. It is
alleged in a multitude of highly coloured circulars that this is the
“home of the big, red apple.” A trustful habit of mind makes us ready to
believe this, although the aforesaid big, red apple was not at home when
we were there. He is expected to return in the fall. There are orchards
and orchards, and then more orchards.
An enthusiastic friend had pictured the beauties of the Columbia River
Valley, and when we took the boat at Wenatchee for a forty-mile ride
up-stream, anticipation stood on tip-toe. To be sure, aside from the
orchards there was nothing attractive in the country around Wenatchee,
but we felt sure that it would be “better farther on.” But it wasn’t.
Possibly our æsthetic sense had suffered from a stroke of paralysis; if
not, a muddy river, sage brush and alkali dust, brown, treeless hills
and a general air of desolation do not combine to form an entrancing
picture. To be sure, there are spots of green where fruit-trees have
been planted and water from the river or from some irrigation ditch is
led in and out through the orchard. But to one who has seen the beauty
of an eastern landscape, before whose eyes comes a vision of stately
trees and luxuriant meadows and babbling brooks of clear, cold water,
those little dabs of green in the midst of wide stretches of dreariness
awaken pity and not admiration. There is nothing either in the
accommodations on the boat or in the scenery to make the traveller long
to repeat his ride from Wenatchee to Chelan Falls.
It is said to be four miles from Chelan Falls, on the Columbia River,
to the foot of Lake Chelan. We believe it, and would just as
readily believe that it is ten miles. The fact is that the miles are
perpendicular. You are either going up or down all of the time. Lake
Chelan lies four hundred feet above the Columbia River, and the road
borders the stream through which Lake Chelan discharges its waters. On
second thought that word “borders” does not fit. The road transcends
the stream; looks down upon it. At one point in the journey you gaze
downwards some five hundred feet upon the boiling, turbulent waters
which have made a way for themselves through a crevice in the rock. The
colour reminds one of his boyhood when he interviewed the bluing water
in the family wash-tub.
Lake Chelan, at last, and a hotel for the night, as the boat does not
leave for the upper end of the lake until morning. It was an eventful
night not only because the inhabitants of the village were celebrating
the “glorious Fourth,” but chiefly from an important archaeological
discovery made by the writer. Many of our readers are familiar with
the account given in the Bible of the pillow upon which Jacob spent a
dream-filled night. That identical pillow is in a hotel at Lakeside. It
must be confessed that this is a deduction and lacks absolute historical
verification; but as Jacob’s pillow was of stone and the Lakeside pillow
is of the same material, and inasmuch as we have no record of any
other pillow of that kind, it is a fair inference that Jacob’s famous
head-rest has been identified. If any one questions the deduction let
him try the pillow.
It is fifty-one miles from the foot of Lake Chelan to its head, and
with each mile as one goes north the scenery grows more beautiful. The
mountains at the lower end of the lake rise to a height of three or
four thousand feet, while at the upper end they tower nine thousand feet
almost precipitously from the water. The water of the lake is clear and
blue, the mountains crowd upon it in their silent majesty, the air is
clean and refreshing.
On some still morning when the winds do not disturb the bosom of the
lake, nature is at its best. In the lake we saw pictures that cannot
be reproduced by any skill of man; miles of flawless mirror in which
mountains and crags and trees and clouds were reproduced with matchless
fidelity. Sometimes the clouds hung for hours over the summits of the
mountains, and here and there were great masses of snow which no summer
heat could banish. Looking up the valley of the Stehekin towards the
north, twenty-five miles away rises a huge mountain, down the side of
which a giant glacier makes its way. And the best of all is that here
one is “far from the madding crowd.” At the head of the lake is a hotel
and a fish hatchery; no store, no factory, not even a Chautauqua.
It has taken a long time to get to the cut-throats, but we have arrived
at last. The books on fishing assure one that the cut-throat “takes the
artificial fly greedily,” and all the way the right arm has been fairly
tingling with anxiety to begin casting. Alas! and again alas! The hotel
clerk says that it is too early for the fly; we must use bait or a
spoon. It is the old story over again. Did you ever travel far to a
famous fishing ground and find the conditions just right? It is always
too early or too late, the water is too high or too low, something is
the matter which effectually prevents the best sport. But the man who
has lugged a bundle of fly-rods to the church convention that he might
use them on Lake Chelan is slow to believe that all his enterprise has
been in vain. He will give them a try before abandoning hope. Behold
him, then, whipping patiently on the edge of sand bars, in the swift
water, under over-hanging bushes, in the shadows of great rocks, here,
there, everywhere except on the board walk and the roof of the hotel;
but so far as results are concerned he might as well have cast his flies
in State Street, Chicago. Nothing doing; not even the feeblest answer to
his invitation. Meanwhile a fellow-boarder is fishing with bait, using
a bamboo pole about sixteen feet long and derricking fish in with a
regularity that is equalled only by his evident ignorance of all the
fundamental principles of true sport. But he gets the fish. If one is
fishing for market he may use a telegraph pole or a net; but if he has
in him something of the temper of the famous Izaak, fishing is more than
meat. He loves the water and the sky, is made captive by the beauty of
stream and mountain, delights to pit his wits against those of the wary
citizens of the pool.
But what is to be done? No one has yet been found who can compel a trout
to go after the fly when he does not wish to. We troll with a Dowagiac
spinner, and the result, in number of fish, is distinctly satisfactory.
As the trolling is done with a steel rod there is a certain amount of
sport in the exercise; but at the best it is far below fly-fishing.
This story, thus far, has been written with careful attention to facts
in order that it may bear the scrutiny of certain friends who companied
with the writer for a short time at the head of the lake. They were good
men and true, lovers of God’s out-of-doors, delightful comrades. Their
company was a joy, but their presence was embarrassing. Every one knows
that witnesses are unnecessary in fishing. To have some one at your
elbow who wants to know just how many you have caught and what they
weigh, allows no room for that play of the imagination which gives to
fish stories their indefinable charm. It was a dark hour for the writer
when these good friends turned their faces towards the south and left
him desolate, but it was then that the fishing really began.
Just where the Stehekin makes its final plunges before joining the lake,
there is a reach of rippling water bordered on one side by low-growing
trees, and on the other by a great bunch of drift-wood. The fly-rod was
put in commission, a sinker was used, and a bit of the white throat of a
trout took the place of the artificial lure. With the boat lying against
the drift-wood a cast was made towards the trees, the bait allowed
to sink and then drawn slowly towards the boat. Was that the bottom?
Hardly, for it is tugging and lunging and rushing back and forth across
the narrow water. The light bamboo meets every lunge, and the fight goes
merrily on for ten minutes or so, when a beautiful Dolly Varden trout is
brought to net. Another cast and another strike. This time the visitor
has succeeded in getting on the other side of a log that juts out
into the stream from the drift-wood. So much the better for the sport.
Gently, little by little, he is persuaded to travel towards the end
of that log, until, after many efforts, the line swings free. A long,
delightful tussle, and he joins his comrade in the bottom of the boat.
Lest the reader’s patience should give way under the strain of detailed
description, suffice it to say that from that one spot six Dolly Vardens
were taken, not one of which weighed less than three pounds.
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But fly-fishing was found, such as it was. Two miles up the valley
Boulder Creek comes down the canon and empties into the Stehekin. We
were told that here one could catch mountain trout with the fly. A mile
beyond Boulder Creek are the Rainbow Falls, where a stream drops over
the eastern mountains for a sheer plunge of three hundred and twenty
feet. One day was all too little to devote to the beauty of this scenery
and an excursion up Boulder, but it was a day well spent. The trout
were there; little fellows among whom a nine-inch fish was a giant. The
farther one went up the canon the better the fishing grew and the more
plentiful and vindictive the mosquitoes became. The fish bit readily and
the mosquitoes more readily. One could have filled a basket with small
fish, but after saving a dozen for dinner the rest were thrown back.
Zest was added to this excursion by the information that rattlesnakes
frequented these rocky slopes; so the fisherman walked softly and kept
an eye to windward.
Mountains and forests, dancing streams and beautiful lake, quiet
and--fish! What more could one wish who seeks rest for tired nerves?
Some time they will build a railroad in there, and then Lake Chelan will
be easier of access, but less to be desired than now. When the crowds
come, half of its present charm will be lost.
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```_There is green on the hill, there is
````gold on the river,
```And the wind on the rye sets my
`````spirit aquiver,
````There’s a thrill in the sod
````At the touch of the God,
```And a song in my heart for the gift
`````and the Giver._
`````--Edwin Markham,
`````_The Wind on the Rye._
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