[From _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie, or the Romance of
Natural History_ (London, 1854)]
"The Bridge" at Jessup's River is well known to sportsmen; and to this
point we made our first flyfishing expedition. The eyes of Piscator
glistened at the thought, and early was he busied with hasty fingers
through an hour of ardent preparation amongst his varied and
complicated tackle. Now was his time for triumph. In all the ruder
sports in which we had heretofore been engaged, I, assisted by mere
chance, had been most successful; but now the infallible certainty of
skill and science were to be demonstrated in himself, and the
orthodoxy of flies vindicated to my unsophisticated sense.
The simple preparations were early completed; the cooking apparatus,
which was primitive enough to suit the taste of an ascetic, consisted
in a single frying-pan. The blankets, with the guns, ammunition, rods,
etc., were all disposed in the wagon of our host, which stood ready at
the door. It was a rough affair, with stiff wooden springs, like all
those of the country, and suited to the mountainous roads they are
intended to traverse, rather than for civilized ideas of comfort. We,
however, bounded into the low-backed seat; and if it had been
cushioned to suit royalty, we could not have been more secure than we
were of such comfort as a backwood sportsman looks for. We soon found
ourselves rumbling, pitching, and jolting, over a road even worse than
that which brought us first to the lake. It seemed to me that nothing
but the surprising docility of the ponies which drew us, could have
saved us, strong wagon and all, from being jolted to atoms. I soon got
tired of this, and sprang out with my gun, determined to foot it
ahead, in the hope of seeing a partridge or red squirrel.
We arrived at the "bridge" about the middle of the afternoon. There we
found an old field called Wilcox's clearing, and, like all places I
had seen in this fine grazing region, it was still well sodded down in
blue grass and clover. Our luggage having been deposited in the
shantee, consisting almost entirely of boards torn from the old house,
which were leaned against the sides of two forks placed a few feet
apart, we set off at once for the falls, a short distance above. This
was merely an initial trial, to obtain enough for dinner, and find the
prognostics of the next day's sport in feeling the manner of the fish.
At the falls the river is only about fifteen feet wide, though its
average width is from twenty-five to thirty. The water tumbles over a
ledge of about ten feet, at the bottom of which is a fine hole, while
on the surface sheets of foam are whirled round and round upon the
tormented eddies, for the stream has considerable volume and power.
We stepped cautiously along the ledge, Piscator ahead, and holding his
flies ready for a cast, which was most artistically made, not without
a glance of triumph at me, then preparing to do the same with the
humble angle-worm. The "flies" fall--I see the glance of half a dozen
golden sides darting at them; but by this time my own cast is made,
and I am fully occupied with the struggles of a fine trout.
My companion's success was again far short of mine, and seeing him
looking at my trout lying beside me, I said: "Try the worms, good
Piscator--here they are. This is not the right time of day for them to
take the flies in this river, I judge."
Improving the door of escape thus opened to him, he took off the flies
and used worms with immediate and brilliant success, which brought
back the smile to his face; and he would now and then as calmly brush
away the distracting swarm of flies from his face, as if they had been
mere innocent motes. But later that evening came a temporary triumph
for Piscator. The hole at the falls was soon exhausted, and we moved
down to glean the ripples. It was nearly sunset, and here the
pertinacious Piscator determined to try the flies again. He cast with
three, and instantly struck two half-pound trout, which, after a
spirited play, he safely landed. Rarely have I seen a prouder look of
triumph than that which glowed on his face as he bade me "look there!"
when he landed them.
"Very fine, Piscator--a capital feat! but I fear it was an accident.
You will not get any more that way."
"We shall see, sir," said he, and commenced whipping the water again,
but to no avail, while I continued throwing them out with great
rapidity.
I abstained from watching him, for I had no desire to spoil his evening
sport by taunting him to continue his experiment. I soon observed him
throwing out the fish with great spirit again. I merely shouted to him
across the stream--"the angle-worm once more, Piscator?"
"Yes!" with a laugh.
As the sun went down the black gnats began to make themselves felt in
their smarting myriads, and we forthwith beat a hasty retreat to the
shantee.
We had taken about ten pounds of trout; and the first procedure, after
reaching the camp, was to build a "smudge," or smoke-fire, to drive away
these abominable gnats, which fortunately take flight with the first
whiff of smoke, and the next was to prepare the fish for dinner, though
not till all had been carefully dressed by the guide, and placed in the
cold current of the little spring near, that they might keep sound. Now
came the rousing fire, and soon some splendid trout were piled upon
dishes of fresh pealed elm bark before us. They were very skillfully
cooked, and no epicure ever enjoyed a feast more thoroughly than we did
our well-flavored and delicious trout, in that rude shantee.
The feast being over, then to recline back upon the fresh couch of
soft spruce boughs, and, with a cigar in mouth, watch the gathering
night-shades brooding lower and more low upon the thick wild forest in
front, far into the depths of which the leaping flames of our
crackling fire go, darting now and then with a revealing tongue of
quick light, and listening to the owl make hoarse answer to the wolf
afar off--to think of wild passages in a life of adventure years ago
amidst surroundings such as this; with the additional spice of peril
from savages and treacherous foes, and then, as the hushed life
subsides into a stiller mood, see the faces of loved ones come to you
through the darkness, with a smile from out your distant home, and
while it sinks sweetly on your heart, subside into happy and
dream-peopled slumber! "This is bliss!" the bliss of the shantee to
the wearied sportsman! a bliss unattainable by the toiler, and still
more by the lounger of the city.
We were on foot with the sun next morning, and after another feast,
which we appreciated with unpalled appetites, we set off for some deep
spring holes nearly a mile above the falls. The morning set cloudy,
and rain fell piteously for several hours. But if this change
detracted from our sport, it at least served to give zest to the
evening's shelter and repose.
I never felt more delightfully than I did when I sat down to a fine
dinner that evening in the old tavern, and very much of this pleasurable
feeling of entire comfort I attributed to the prompt use of the cold
bath, on reaching our temporary home, wet, weary, and shivering with
cold. This, with a change of clothes, restored me to a healthy glow of
warmth, ready to enjoy whatever our host might provide.