TROUTING IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
In September, 1884, I joined a party of genial sportsmen at Fort
Missoula, Mont., for a month's outing in the Bitter Root Mountains. Our
special mission was to hunt large game; but while perfecting
arrangements for the trip, which occupied two days, and during the
mornings and evenings of the several days occupied in traveling up and
down the river to and from the hunting grounds, those of us who had our
fishing tackle with us turned what would otherwise have been long hours
of impatient waiting into merrily-fleeing moments, by luring the grand
mountain trout (_Salmo purpuratus_) with which this river abounds from
their crystalline retreats and transferring them to our creels and our
camp table.
The Bitter Root is a typical mountain stream, rising among the snow-clad
peaks in the vicinity of the Big Hole basin and flowing with the mighty
rush imparted to it by a fall of 200 to 300 feet per mile, fed by the
scores of ice-cold brooks that tumble out of the high ranges on either
side from its source to its mouth. After traversing a distance of
perhaps 200 miles, it empties its pure waters into the Hellgate river,
just west of Missoula.
[Illustration: THE RISE.]
Its valley is two to four miles wide, and the lower portion of this is
occupied by numerous ranches. The soil is tilled by well-to-do farmers
or "ranchmen," to speak in the vernacular of the country, so that the
angler, while within a mile or two of rugged mountain peaks, is still in
the midst of civilization, where his larder may daily be replenished
with nearly all the varieties of good things that grow on any New
England farm. The banks of the stream are fringed with stately pines and
cottonwoods, and in places with thickets of underbrush.
From a tiny brook at its source the stream grows rapidly to a veritable
river of thirty to fifty yards in width as it passes on toward its
destination. It sweeps and whirls in its course, here running straight
and placidly for a hundred yards, then turning abruptly to right or left
and returning almost parallel to itself, forming "horse-shoe bends,"
"ox-bow bends," compound S's, right angles, etc.
In many cases it tumbles down over a long, steep pavement of granite
bowlders, working itself into a very agony of bubbles and foam, and when
the foot of this fall is reached it whirls and eddies in a great pool
ten or twenty feet deep and covering half an acre of ground, almost
surrounded by high-cut banks, and seeming to have lost its way. It
eventually finds an exit, however, through an opening in the willows and
masses of driftwood, and again speeds on.
In many of these large, deep pools whole trees, of giant size, brought
down by the spring freshets, have found lodgment beyond the power of
the mighty current to drive them further, and underneath these drifts
the angler is liable to hook a lusty trout that will make short work of
his tackle if he be not very gentle and expert in manipulating it.
[Illustration: SOLID COMFORT.]
This river may be fished from a canoe or boat, if it be manned by a
master of the art of fresh-water cruising; but no amateur oarsman or
canoeist should ever attempt it or he will surely come to grief. It may
also be fished from the bank or by wading; and I have even known it to
be fished from the hurricane-deck of a cayuse, so that all lovers of the
gentle art may be accommodated.
A large bump of caution would also be a good thing for the man to take
along who essays to wade it, for he will find places--slippery
places--where even the wicked can not stand; for over the surface
thereof flows such a mighty torrent of waters that his pride will surely
have a fall, even if he do not; and if he get out with a dry thread on
his back he will regard it as a miracle and not owing to any skill or
strength of his. I think a day on that stream will take the conceit out
of any living man and show him what a poor, weak worm he is, _if_ he get
into some of the places I have been in. He will find himself in
positions from whence he would give half his worldly possessions to be
delivered; where he would forgive his bitterest enemy the meanest thing
he ever did if he were only there and would cast him a friendly line.
The bed of the stream is composed of glacial drift, all the rapids being
paved with bowlders varying in size from an inch to two or three feet in
diameter. These are worn smooth by the action of the water and coated
with a light growth of fungus, so that they furnish a very precarious
footing at best, and when the power of the raging torrent is brought to
bear against one's nether limbs, he is, indeed, fortunate who is not
swept into the pool below.
On the riffles or more placid portions of the stream wading is not
attended with so much danger or difficulty. And while the angler
beguiles the hours in dalliance with these beauties of the river, gazing
into its crystalline depths and toying with its poetic denizens, a
glance to east or west reveals to him scenes of even grander and more
inspiring loveliness; for there, so close as to reveal their every rock
and shrub, tower the shapely peaks, the shattered crags and beetling
cliffs which constitute the Bitter Root range of mountains. And even in
midsummer the fresh, pure breezes sweeping down from these snow-clad
summits fan his parched brow and render existence, under such
circumstances, the realization of a poet's dream.
[Illustration: MID RUSHING WATERS.]
On a bright, cheery September morning, Private Westbrook, of the Third
Infantry, and myself left camp as soon as the sun had expelled the
frost from the vegetation. On the way down we caught a number of
grasshoppers--the orthodox bait in this region--to fall back on in case
of necessity; for there are days when the mountain trout, as well as his
cousin, the brook trout of the East, declines the most seductive fly on
the bill of fare, and will have nothing but his favorite every-day diet.
Arriving at the river, Westbrook skirmished through the brush until he
found an alder about an inch and a quarter in diameter at the ground and
ten or twelve feet high. This he cut, trimmed up, and attached his line,
a number two Sproat hook and a split shot, put on a "hopper," and was
ready for business. I remonstrated gently with him on the heathenish
character of his tackle, but he said, pleasantly and politely, that it
was the kind that generally got to the front when trout-fishing was the
business in hand. He said the fancy rods and reels and flies were all
well enough for those who wanted to use them, but he preferred something
with which he could round up his fish and corral them without losing any
time. He said it was all right for any gentlemen to spend half an hour
monkeying a trout after he had hooked it, if he wanted to, but for his
part, he never could see much fun in that sort of fishing. He thought it
was decidedly more interesting to yank a fish in out of the wet the
instant he bit, and then lay for another.
He walked boldly out into the stream, waded down a little way below the
ford, on a riffle, till he reached a point where the water was about
two feet deep and where it rolled sullenly and gloomily over a series
of large bowlders.
Here he made a cast, and his bait had barely touched the water when
there was a vicious rush, a swirl and a dash downstream, but the cruel
pole was brought to bear in the opposite direction. Then there was a
flop, a splash, a hop, skip and a jump, and a three-pound trout took a
header and went down into the soldier's haversack.
The bait was renewed, another cast made, and the act was repeated on a
half-pounder. Then another weighing one-and-a-half pounds and a couple
of about a pound each followed in rapid succession, when this portion of
the stream failed to yield, and Westbrook moved on down. I followed
along the bank and watched him for half an hour before attempting to rig
my tackle at all. To watch the play of the various emotions on his hard,
brown, honest face; to study the effect of the intense enthusiasm which
possessed him; to note the utter disregard of personal safety and
comfort with which he would plunge into the surging rapids and eddies up
to his waist, or even to his arm-pits, wherever he thought he could
catch a trout by so doing, was a genuine treat.
Finally I went back to the ford, jointed up my rod, put on a gray
professor, and walking down the bank to a sudden bend in the river where
the current had cut a deep hole near the bank, I made a cast. The fly
dropped on the riffle just above the eddy, and as it floated gracefully
on the little wavelets down and out upon the bosom of the deep-blue
miniature ocean, it turned hither and thither with the capricious
currents that played there, for perhaps five minutes. I was just in the
act of reeling up for another cast, when a gleam of silvery light
flashed upon my vision, flecked with settings of jet and gold. There was
a mighty commotion upon the surface and a monster trout leaped full into
the air as he seized the feathered bait and then shot down, down into
the crystal fluid, leaving the water in the vicinity of his exploit
bubbling, effervescing, and sparkling like the rarest old champagne. For
the nonce I was paralyzed with the suddenness and viciousness of his
coming and going, and my reel was singing merrily when I awoke to a
realization of what it all meant.
Then I thumbed the cylinder and checked him in his wild flight, but he
continued to fight his way clear down to the lower end of the pool, a
distance of twenty yards. Then he turned and came toward me with the
speed of an arrow, but the automatic reel took up the slack as rapidly
as he gave it. When within twenty feet of me he turned out into the
stream, and as I checked him he again vaulted into the air and the
sun-light glistened on his beautifully-colored sides and fins as he
struggled to free himself. Finding this impossible he started for the
bank, where brush and roots projected into the water; but by a vigorous
and fortunate sweep of the rod I was enabled to check him again. Again
he sounded and again rushed up, down, and out into the river, but the
steel was securely set, and he was compelled at last to succumb.
Gradually I reeled him in, and as I brought him up to the bank he turned
on his side exhausted. He weighed two and three-quarter pounds and
measured seventeen inches in length.
[Illustration: AN ANXIOUS MOMENT]
I took two others, nearly as large, out of the same hole, and then
proceeding down fifty yards, I saw a large cottonwood tree lying in the
middle of the stream where it had lodged and been securely anchored,
probably a year or two before. The current had scooped out a great
cavity about its roots and I felt sure there must be a giant old trout
lying amongst them, but I could not reach it with a cast from the shore.
To attempt to wade to it I saw would be hazardous, for the channel
between me and it was waist deep and ran with all the velocity of a mill
tail. But what danger will not an enthusiastic angler brave when in
pursuit of a trout? I started in, and when half way to the trunk, would
gladly have retreated, but was actually afraid to attempt to turn in the
midst of this current, so I pressed forward, finally reached the trunk
of the tree and climbed upon it. I made a cast up near the root and
hooked a handsome fellow, but after playing him until I had him
completely under control and almost ready to land, the hook, which had
been but slightly caught, tore out and he drifted down the river on his
side.
Another effort secured a two-pounder, and failing to get any further
encouragement, I climbed into the icy torrent and with great difficulty
again reached the shore.
A little further down I saw another very deep pool, into which a small,
green cottonwood tree had lately fallen and hung by its roots to the
bank. I felt sure of making a good catch here, for the hole was ten or
twelve feet deep, and the driftwood that had lodged about this tree
afforded excellent cover for the wary old fellows that always seek such
secluded and impregnable strongholds. The fly settled gracefully on the
surface at the upper end of the pool, and as it floated listlessly down
toward the drift, Westbrook, who had come down and was fishing from the
bank opposite, said:
"You'll get a good one there, sir. That's a splendid hole for a big old
fellow."
"I think so; but he seems backward about coming forward."
"Maybe that blasted bird has scared him," said he, referring to a coot
that floated unconcernedly and even impudently about the pool, eyeing us
without a symptom of fear, but evincing the liveliest curiosity as to
who and what we were.
I reeled up and made another cast farther out on the pool. As the fly
fell, Mrs. Coot swam up to it as if inclined to pick it up. I almost
hoped she would, for I should really have enjoyed yanking her a few
times. But she thought better of it, and turned away. After exhausting
all my ingenuity on this pool, and finding it impossible to induce a
rise, I laid down my rod, picked up a rock, and threw it at the
ill-omened bird, whom I blamed for my lack of success.
Westbrook took his cue from this and also sent a rock after her. Both
made close calls for her, but she only scurried about the livelier,
making no effort to get away. She, however, swam behind a projection in
the bank, so that I could not see her, and I told Westbrook to continue
the attack and drive her out.
He picked up another bowlder as large as a league baseball and hurled it
at her, when the dullest and most "thudful" sound I ever heard,
accompanied by a faint squawk, came from behind the bank.
"Well, bleach my bones if I haven't killed her!" said Westbrook, as he
threw down his hat and jumped on it.
Sure enough, he had made a bull's-eye, and a mass of feathers floated
off downstream, followed by the mortal remains of the deceased. And now
the trout were jumping at these stray feathers, and returning to the
siege, we each caught a good one at the lower end of the pool.
We had now about as many fish as we cared to carry to camp, and started
back up river. On our way we met Lieutenant Thompson, of the Third
Infantry--also a member of our party--who had left camp about the same
time we did, and we stopped and watched him fish awhile. The lieutenant
is a veteran fly-fisherman, and it is a pleasure to see him wield his
graceful little split bamboo rod, and handle the large vigorous trout
found in this stream. I had my camera with me and exposed a plate on him
in the act of playing a two-pounder while holding a string of six others
in his left hand, and though I did not give it quite enough time, it
turned out fairly well. He had also filled his creel, and on our return
to camp we hung our total catch, with several others that General Marcy
had taken, on a pair of elk horns and got a good negative of the whole
outfit.
Trout grow to prodigious sizes in the Bitter Root, as well as in several
other streams in Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and Washington Territory. The
Indians frequently spear them through the ice, or take them in nets,
some of these weighing ten to twelve pounds each. But these large ones
rarely rise to the fly. However, Colonel Gibson, of the U. S. A.,
commanding at Fort Missoula, took one on a fly that weighed nine pounds
and two ounces, and other instances have been recorded in which they
have been taken by this method nearly as large. They have frequently
been taken on live bait, and have been known to attack a small trout
that had been hooked on a fly, before he could be landed.
While I was hunting in the Bitter Root Mountains in the fall of '83, a
carpenter, who was building a bridge across the Bitter Root, near
Corvallis, conceived the idea of fishing for trout with a set hook. He
rigged a heavy hook and line, baiting with a live minnow, tied it to a
willow that overhung one of the deep pools, and left it over night. By
this means he secured three of these monster trout in a week, that
weighed from nine to eleven and a half pounds each.
The supply of trout in the Bitter Root seems to be almost unlimited, for
it has been fished extensively for ten years past, and yet a man may
catch twenty-five to fifty pounds a day any time during the season, and
is almost sure to do so if he is at all skillful or "lucky." I know a
native Bitter Rooter who, during the summer and fall of '84, fished for
the market, and averaged thirty pounds a day all through the season,
which he sold in Missoula at twenty-five cents a pound. Of course, the
majority of the ranchmen along the stream do little or no fishing, but
the officers and men at Fort Missoula do an immense amount of it, as do
the residents of the town of Missoula; and visiting sportsmen from the
East take out hundreds of pounds every season. But the stream is so
large and long, and its net-work of tributaries so vast, and furnish
such fine spawning and breeding grounds, that it is safe to say there
will be trout here a century hence. The heathen Chinee has never been
permitted to ply his infamous dynamite cartridge here, or in any of the
streams of this vicinity, as he has long been doing in Colorado, Nevada,
and elsewhere, and this fact alone would account for the unimpaired
supply in these streams.
The reproductive power of the mountain trout is equal to all the tax
likely to be levied against it here by legitimate sportsmen, and if
dynamiting and netting are prohibited hereafter as heretofore, no fear
need be felt as to the future supply.
The market fisherman of whom I spoke was a faithful devotee to the fly,
and never would use any other lure. A white or gray hackle was his
favorite. He used a stiff, heavy pole, however, about ten feet long, cut
from the jungles that grow on the river bottom, and a heavy line, a foot
shorter, with double gut for attaching the fly. He fished from the shore
or waded, as was necessary to reach the best water. He cast with both
hands, and the instant the fly touched the water he would raise the tip
so that the line would just clear, and then trail or skitter the fly
gently, but rapidly, toward him. Thus, the line being taut, when the
fish arose to the fly he would simply hook himself. Then he was
ignominiously "yanked," and either landed high and dry on mother earth
or in the ranchman's gunny-sack.
Although devoid of sport and requiring little skill, it was the most
effective method of filling a "bag" that I have ever seen practiced. I
have seen him take ten to twenty-five trout in an hour's fishing and not
miss a single rise. I had this man with me on a hunting trip, and
whenever we came within two miles of a trout stream our table was sure
to be supplied with an abundance of fish.
I visited Fort Maginnis in September, 1883, and during my stay, Capt. F.
H. Hathaway kindly invited me to spend a day trouting with him on Big
Spring creek, a beautiful stream that flows out of the Snowy Mountains
about twenty-five miles from the post. We left the captain's quarters at
noon, comfortably seated on his buckboard, while Sam, Fishel, and Dick
Thomas rode their horses and drove a pack-mule, which carried a part of
our provisions, the remainder being carried on the buckboard.
We covered the twenty-five miles by six o'clock, camping at the base of
the Snowies, within two miles of the source of the creek, which source
is a cluster of large cold springs. We pitched our tent on the bank of
the creek, where it murmured sweet music in its course over the rugged
bottom and lulled us into quiet and refreshing sleep with its rhythmical
sounds. When we awoke the next morning the foot-hills all about us
glistened with frost, and the high peaks, three or four miles away, were
draped in a mantle of spotless white, which the storm-king had spread
upon them a few days ago.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the season, a few musquitoes began to
sing about our ears as soon as the sun came up. Fishel, who was full of
droll good nature, observed them.
"Well, look here," he said, as he broke the ice in the water pail and
dipped out a basinful to wash in, "I'll be doggoned if here aint a lot
of these measley musquitoes buzzing around here with buffalo overcoats
on."
The keen mountain air at this low temperature, and the grand scenery
with which we were surrounded, combined to sharpen our appetites, and
our breakfast beside a rousing camp-fire was enjoyed as only a meal can
be enjoyed amid such surroundings. As soon as the sun had risen high
enough to banish the frost and warm the air slightly, the grass all
about us was set in motion by thousands of grasshoppers who gamboled
playfully, in order, apparently, to warm up their benumbed limbs and get
an appetite for breakfast. All hands then turned out and harvested a
goodly supply of them, for we had been advised that the trout in that
stream would not take a fly so late in the season.
Then we proceeded to business; the captain and Dick fishing up the
stream and I down, while Sam took his rifle and went across the hills in
search of game. The stream, where we started in, was not more than three
to four feet wide and two feet deep in the deepest holes, yet at the
first cast I hooked a trout that after a few vigorous plunges took the
barb off my hook and departed. I put on a new one and had better luck
next time, for in another hole a few rods farther down I took one that
weighed a pound and a half.
In the meantime the captain shouted to me, and looking up the stream I
saw him displaying one of about the same size. We each followed our
courses, and did not meet again for some hours, when the captain came
down to see how I was getting on. He had eight and I had six, the
average weight of which was over a pound each. He relieved me of my load
and returned to camp, and from that time on did but little fishing
himself, preferring, in the fullness of his generous nature, to devote
the most of his time to accompanying me, showing me the most favorable
points, exulting in my success, and in every way possible promoting my
comfort. Whenever he left me for a short time he would send one of his
men to take my fish to camp, dress them, and do anything and everything
else possible for me.
I fished down the creek nearly two miles during the day, going over
parts of the stream two or three times, not ceasing from the fascinating
sport long enough to even eat a lunch that I carried in my pocket. Nor
did I turn my steps toward camp until it became so dark that the fish
would no longer rise. Then, when I started campward, I met Dick coming
with an extra saddle horse which the captain had kindly sent for me to
ride.
After supper came the always charming social intercourse around the
camp-fire, the exchange of personal notes of the day's sport--the
experience meeting, so to speak. No one had misgivings to record so far
as the fishing was concerned. Each had enjoyed his full measure of the
grand sport, as was evidenced by the display of the several strings of
salmon-colored beauties which hung around the camp-fire. There was not a
fingerling in the entire catch. No one had caught a trout during the day
of less than four ounces in weight, and very few of that size had been
taken. The majority of them ranged between half a pound and two pounds,
and the numbers were only limited by the amount of work each had done.
My friends, being residents and accustomed to this kind of sport
whenever they choose to enjoy it, had not cared to fish all day, and
consequently had not taken so many as I, but had taken all they wanted.
The only man in the party who had anything to regret in the day's
experience was Sam. He had started a large bull elk early in the morning
and had followed him several miles, but had not been able to get a
favorable shot, though he had twice caught sight of him. We all
sympathized deeply with him in his misfortune, for Sam is an expert shot
with the rifle, and if he had ever drawn a bead on the game we should
have had elk steak on our table at the next meal, sure.
We broke camp early the next morning and prepared to start for home, but
decided to fish down the creek till near noon before leaving it. We
drove down about a mile, when I alighted and started in, the others
distributing themselves at other points along the stream. The trout rose
as rapidly and gamily as on the previous day, and I soon had a load in
my creel that pulled down uncomfortably. Among them was one old
nine-spot which turned the scales at two and a quarter pounds after
having been out of the water over two hours. He measured seventeen and a
half inches in length.
The captain told me of a certain deep hole where he said an old pioneer
made his headquarters, who had taken off two hooks and leaders for him
on two different days during the summer. When I reached the hole I
recognized it in a moment by the captain's description. It was in a
short bend or angle of the creek. On the opposite side from where I
stood, and on the lower angle of the square, the channel had cut a deep
hole under an overhanging bank, which was covered with willows. These
drooped over the water and shaded it nicely. There was a slight eddy
there and the surface of the water was flecked with bits of white foam
which came from the rapids just above. What a paradise for a wary old
trout!
I stopped about forty feet above the hole and put on one of the largest
hoppers in my box; then I reeled out ten or fifteen feet of line and
cast into the foot of the rapid. As the current straightened out my line
I reeled off more of it and still more until it floated gently and
gracefully down into the dark eddy, and when within two feet of the edge
of the bank there was a whirl, a surge, a break in the water, as if a
full-grown beaver had been suddenly frightened from his sun bath on the
surface and had started for the bottom. I saw a long, broad gleam of
silvery white, my line cut through the water, and the old-timer started
for his bed under the bank.
I struck at the proper instant, and, bending my little split bamboo
almost double, brought him up with a short turn. He darted up the
stream a few feet, and again turning square about started for his den. I
snubbed him again. This time he shot down the creek, and, turning, made
another dive for his hiding place. Again I gave him the butt, but this
time he was determined to free himself, and with a frantic plunge he
tore the hook from his mouth and disappeared in his dark retreat.
My heart sank within me, when I realized that he was gone. He was truly
a monster, fully two feet long, and I think would have weighed four
pounds or over. I reeled up and made two or three more casts in the same
hole. His mate, a comely-looking fellow, but not nearly so large, came
out once and smelt of the bait but declined to take it. He had evidently
seen enough to convince him that it was not the kind of a dinner he was
looking for. I fished down the creek for an hour and then returned and
tried the old fellow again, but he had not yet forgotten his recent
set-to with me, and refused to come out. I presume he is still there,
and will probably reign for some years to come, the terror of tackle
owners, unless someone gets a hook firmly fastened in his jaw, and has
tackle sufficiently derrick-like to land him; and whoever that lucky
individual may be, I congratulate him in advance. My tackle would have
held him if I had been fortunate enough to get the proper _cinch_ on
him, and the only thing I have to regret in thinking of the trip, is
that I was not so fortunate.
We had enough, however, without him. We took home forty-eight trout that
weighed, when dressed, sixty pounds, and of all the many days I have
spent fishing in the many years long gone, I never enjoyed any more
intensely, never had grander sport than in these two days on Big Spring
creek.
It has been stated that the mountain trout lacks the game qualities of
our Eastern brook trout. I have not found it so. They are quite as gamy,
as vicious in their fighting, and as destructive to fine tackle as the
brook trout, the only perceptible difference being that they do not
fight so long. They yield, however, only after a stubborn resistance,
sufficiently prolonged to challenge the admiration of any angler. I have
caught a number of two and three pounders that required very careful and
patient handling for twenty to thirty minutes before they could be
brought to the landing net.
There are various other streams along the line of the Northern Pacific
Railroad which afford almost equally as fine sport as the Bitter Root,
and some of them that are even more picturesque and beautiful. In fact,
nearly every stream reached by the road, between Billings and Puget
Sound, teems with these graceful beauties. By leaving the road at almost
any point on the Rocky Mountain or Pend d'Orielle Divisions and pushing
back into the mountains twenty to one hundred miles, the enterprising
angler may find streams whose banks have seldom been profaned by the
foot of a white man; where an artificial fly has seldom or never fallen
upon the sparkling blue waters, and yet where millions of these
beautiful creatures swarm, ready to rush upon anything that reaches the
surface of their element bearing the least resemblance to their natural
food, with all the fearless enthusiasm of untainted and unrestrained
nature. In these wilder regions the tourist will also find frequent use
for his rifle, for elk, bear, deer, mountain sheep, and other large game
may yet be found in reasonable quantities in all such undisturbed
fastnesses.