THE AMERICAN TROUT.
The _Brook Trout_--_The New York Charr_--_Salmo fontinalis_.--Salmon
tribe; ventrals in abdomen, rays soft.
The shoulder and first back fins have each eleven rays; the second back
fin is mere fatty matter and rayless, the characteristic of the salmon
tribe; the ventral has eight, the anal fifteen, and the tail nineteen
rays. The back is dusky green, mottled with yellow spots; growing
lighter on the sides, where the spots have irregularly a beautiful blue
or carmine speck in the centre; the belly is silver white, with a
roseate tinge as it fades into the darker colors of the sides; the
shoulder fins are yellowish at the base, the ventrals yellowish red, the
anal reddish, and in all the rays are dusky. The gill-covers have no
defined spots.
The body is covered with delicate scales that will escape all but the
strictest observation. The teeth are on the tongue and throat, but none
on the roof of the mouth discernible to the naked eye; there is an outer
row on the lower jaw, and an inner and outer row on the upper jaw. This
fish is so well known to the public from its extensive distribution
through the northern States, and so totally dissimilar from the Perch
and Bass, miscalled Trout at the South, that a more particular
description does not seem necessary.
Another fish taken at the North in the smaller lakes is called Red
Trout, and attains the weight of twenty-five pounds. It is rare, and
would appear to be an undescribed species, differing from the trout of
the brooks and lakes, and not generally known even to sportsmen. A fish
of a somewhat similar character was on exhibition at an eating-house in
this city, but appeared to have been scaled. It was three feet six
inches long, and weighed eighteen pounds. The back was very dark, the
sides being of a lighter neutral tint, without any spots. There were a
number of vomerine teeth, and the fin-rays, as far as could be
ascertained by a cursory examination, were--
Br. 12; D. 13; P. 11; V. 8; A. 11; C. 19-5/5.
This fish was said to have been taken in Maine, and differed entirely
from the ordinary brook and lake trout. The fin-rays of the brook trout,
as scientifically given by De Kay, are--
D. 13·0; P. 12; V. 8; A. 10; C. 19-6/6.
Trout are in season from the first of February to the first of September
in the Long Island streams; from April to September in those streams of
the New England States that communicate with salt water; and from May
till September in the upland waters of the middle and eastern States.[1]
There is but one mode of taking them--namely, with the fly; although it
is said poachers and pot hunters capture them with worms, minnows, nets,
and even with their own roe. These villanies are not at present punished
with death nor even imprisonment for life; but our legislature is
looking into the matter, and there is no telling how soon such statutes
may be passed.
How splendid is the sport, to deftly throw the long line and small fly
with the pliant single-handed rod, and with eye and nerve on the strain,
to watch the loveliest darling of the wave, the spotted naiad, dart from
her mossy bed, leap high into the air, carrying the strange deception in
her mouth, and turning in her flight, plunge back to her crystal home,
with the cruel hook driven into her lips by a skillful turn of the
angler’s wrist; to meet and foil her in her fierce and cunning efforts
to escape, paying out the line as she rushes away resistless, meeting
her in emergencies firmly and steadily, till the tip crosses the but,
when she insists upon reaching the old stump or the weedy bottom; to
slack the line when she leaps into air, trying to strike it with her
tail; and above all, to watch the right moment, and keeping her head
well up, to bring the beautiful prize quickly and steadily to the net!
There may be others who have killed more and larger trout than myself,
there may be others who can cast a longer line and lighter fly; but
there are none who will work more steadily or who can enjoy it more
intensely.
There are innumerable rules applicable to trout fishing and innumerable
exceptions to each; neither man nor fish is infallible. A change of
weather is always desirable: if it has been clear, a rainy day is
favorable; if cold, a warm one; if the wind has been north, a southerly
one is advantageous; a zephyr if it has been blowing a tornado.
Generally, in early spring, amid the fading snows and blasts of winter,
a warm day is very desirable; later, and in the heats of summer, a cold,
windy day will insure success. Dead calm is dangerous, although many
trout are taken in water as still, clear and transparent as the heavens
above. The first rule is never to give up; there is hardly a day but at
some hour, if there be trout, they will rise, and steady, patient
industry disciplines the mind and invigorates the muscles. A southerly,
especially a southeasterly wind, has a singular tendency to darken the
surface, and in clear, fine waters is particularly advantageous; a
southwester comes next in order; a northeaster, in which, by the by,
occasionally there is great success, is the next; and a northwester is
the worst and clearest of all. Give me wind on any terms, a southerly
wind if I can have it; but give me wind. It is not known what quality of
the wind darkens the water, it may be a haziness produced in the
atmosphere, although with a cloudy sky the water is often too
transparent; it may be the peculiar character of the waves, short and
broken, as contradistinguished from long and rolling; but the fact is
entitled to reliance.
Slight changes will often affect the fish. On one day in June, in the
writer’s experience, after having no luck till eleven o’clock, the trout
suddenly commenced rising, and kept on without cessation, scarcely
giving time to cast, till two, when they as suddenly stopped. There was
no observable change in the weather, except the advent of a slight haze,
the wind remaining precisely the same. I was much disappointed, not
having half fished the ground and being prevented, by the numbers that
were taken, from casting over some of the largest fish that broke. As
it was, I caught seventy trout in what is ordinarily considered the
worst hours of the day. But in this particular, also, the same rules
apply as to the warmth of the weather. In early spring it is useless to
be up with the lark, even supposing such a bird exists; no fish will
break the water till the sun has warmed the air; but in summer, the dawn
should blush to find the sportsman napping. In fact, trout will not rise
well unless the air is warmer than the water. They do not like to risk
taking cold by exposing themselves to a sudden draught.
There is a very absurd impression, that trout will not take the fly
early in the season; this is entirely unfounded. As soon as the ice
disappears they will be found gambolling in the salt water streams, and
leaping readily at the fly. At such times, on lucky days, immense
numbers are taken. In March they have run up the sluiceways and are in
the lower ponds, lying sullenly in the deepest water; then is the
cow-dung, politely called the dark cinnamon, the most attractive fly. In
April, May and June they are scattered, and entrapped by the hackles,
professor, ibis, and all the medium sized flies. In July and August they
have sought the headwaters of navigation, the cool spring brooks, and
hide around the weeds and water-cresses, whence the midges alone can
tempt them.
Any flies will catch fish, cast in any manner, if the fish are plenty
and in humor to be caught. A few feathers torn from the nearest and
least suspicious chicken, and tied on an ordinary hook with a piece of
thread, will constitute a fly in the imagination of a trout, provided
he follows, as he sometimes appears to do, the advice of the young
folks, shuts his eyes and opens his mouth. I cannot recommend such
tackle, being convinced the most skillfully made is the best; but I do
advise simplicity of color. One of the best of all flies is the female
cow-dung, made of a dark cinnamon color, and after the pattern used in
England; there is a greenish abomination unjustly foisted upon American
invention that is worthless. The hackles are in my opinion altogether
inferior, except the black-winged hackle, which, of a bright warm day,
is irresistible. The ibis and professor, dressed _à l’Américaine_, with
yellow floss body and red tail, are both excellent flies. The coachman
is the best evening fly, and will attract trout long after the angler
can see to strike them, and when the sound of their plunge alone entices
him to continue his efforts. The May and stone flies are good, and of
late years a fly of mixed red and black, with wings, called by some,
from his colors, the devil-fly, has come into vogue. The palmers are
only to be despised and avoided. In summer, of the midges the yellow
sally, the alder fly, the little cinnamon, the black gnat, the black and
red ants, and in fact all others, are attractive. The water is then
covered with myriads of many-colored flies, and there is hardly any
artificial but will find its representative among the real life.
These are but a few of the flies that can be purchased in the shops,
which yearly invent new varieties, regardless of truth to nature or the
recommendations of experience. Many have no names whatever, and in
others the workman has given his fancy such play that they are
unrecognizable. In these pages, when the name is given of any fly
described in Ronald’s “Fly-Fisher’s Entomology,” it is intended that it
shall be dressed after the directions therein contained. A more full
description of the various flies, both in use and to be found in our
waters, will be given hereafter with some directions for tying them; but
a great deal must be left to the practical experience of each fisherman,
according to the range of waters he is in the habit of fishing.
Good luck, that synonym for all the virtues, does not depend so much
upon the kind of flies as the skill in casting, and a poor fly lightly
cast into the right spot will do better execution than the best fly
roughly cast into the wrong place. The lure must be put where the fish
habit, often before their very noses, or they will not take it; and when
they lie, as they generally do in running streams, in the deep holes
under the banks, where the bushes are closest and cause the densest
shade, it requires some skill to cast properly into the exact spot.
Sacrifice everything to lightness in casting; let the line go straight
without a kink if you can, drop the fly into the right ripple if
possible, but it must drop gently on the surface of the water. An ugly
splash of a clear day in pure water, and the prey will dart in every
direction, and the angler’s hopes scatter with them.
A beginner may practise a certain formula, such as lifting the line with
a waive and a smart spring, swinging it backward in a half circle, and
when it is directly behind him, casting straight forward; but as soon as
he has overcome the rudimentary principles, he should cast in every
manner, making the tip of his rod cut full circles, figure eights, and
all other figures, behind him, according to the wind; bearing in mind,
however, ever to make his fly drop as gently as a feather. He should use
his wrist mainly, and practise with each hand, and should never be
otherwise than ashamed of a bungling cast, though he be alone, and none
but the fish there to despise him. If the line falls the first time with
a heart-rending splash all in a tangle, it is useless to make the next
cast properly. The fish have found out the trick, and know too much to
risk their necks in any such a noose.
A skillful fisherman can cast almost any length of line, but
practically, fifty feet, counting from the reel, is all that can be used
to advantage. Some English books say only the leader (gut links) should
alight in the water; but this is nonsense, for at least one half the
line must fall into the water, unless the fisherman stand on a high
bank. With a long line the difficulties of striking and landing the fish
are greatly increased; in striking, there is much slack line to be taken
up; in landing, it requires some time to get the fish under control, and
he is apt to reach the weeds or a stump.
That most excellent fisherman and learned scholar, Dr. Bethune, in his
edition of Walton, Part II., page 73, says that candid anglers must
confess that nine out of ten trout hook themselves; this may be so in
streams teeming with fish, where a dozen start at once, frantically
striving to be the first; but in clear, well-fished streams, not one
fish in a thousand will hook himself; and on Long Island an angler would
grow grey ere he filled his basket if he did not strike, and that
quickly. Striking, to my mind, is by far the most important point, and
hundreds of fish have I seen escape for want of quickness. It must be
done quickly but steadily, and not with a jerk, as the latter is apt, by
the double action of the rod, to bend the tip forward and loosen instead
of tightening the line. There are days when fish cannot be struck,
although they are rising freely; whether they are playing or
over-cautious, I never could determine; whether they are not hungry or
the water is too clear, they put man’s capacities at defiance. Their
appearance must be signalled to the eye, by that reported to the brain,
which then directs the nerves to command the muscles to move the wrist;
and ere this complicated performance is completed, the fish has blown
from his mouth the feathery deception and has darted back to his haunts
of safety. A fish will occasionally leap up, seize the fly, discover the
cheat, and shaking his head, jump several feet along the surface of the
water to rid his mouth of it, and do this so quickly as not to give a
quick angler time to strike. How often fish are caught when they rise
the second time, as then the angler is more on the alert, whereas on the
first rise he was off his guard! How often fish rise when the angler’s
head is turned away from his line, or when he is busy at something else,
and how rarely are they caught! In my experience it is so great a
rarity, that it might almost be said they never hook themselves. In the
language of youth, the only hooking they do is to hook off.
Dr. Bethune, page 97, says the rod should not exceed one pound in
weight. Indeed it should not, and if it does, it exemplifies the old
maxim, so far as to have a fool at one end. If we could fish by steam, a
rod exceeding a pound and measuring over fourteen feet might answer
well, but in these benighted days, while wrists are made of bone,
muscles, cartilages and the like, the lighter the better. A rod, and if
perfection is absolutely indispensable, a cedar rod of eleven or twelve
feet, weighing nine or ten ounces, will catch trout. Cedar rods can only
be obtained in America, and then only on compulsion, but this wood makes
the most elastic rods in the world. They spring instantly to every
motion of the hand, and never warp. They are delicate; the wood is, like
woman, cross-grained, but invaluable if carefully treated. The reel
should be a simple click, never a multiplier, but large barrelled, and
fastened to the but with a leather strap. The line, silk covered with a
preparation of oil, tapered if possible at each end, and thirty to forty
yards long. The basket, positive, a fish-basket; the angler,
comparative, a fisher-man.
Thus equipped, go forth mildly approving where the writer’s opinions
coincide with yours, simply incredulous where they do not. Ere you
begin, however, you may wish to know the size of the fish you can catch,
a matter of no little intricacy, for though we all know the size of the
fish we have ourselves caught, there is always some one else that has
caught larger. My largest trout, at the time this is written, was taken
on the Marshpee River, on Cape Cod, and weighed three pounds and
fourteen ounces. But it is said there were inland brook trout exhibited
at the New York Club by a member in the year 1857, the two largest of
which weighed cleaned six pounds and a half each. “I have my doubts.”
These fish should have weighed, when first taken, nearly eight pounds,
double the size of any trout, other than sea trout, I have ever seen or
before that heard of. In my opinion, they were lake trout, caught,
perhaps, from a small pond, and bright colored. It was claimed they were
taken with the fly, which lake trout will not ordinarily touch; but,
unfortunately, it was also said, that two weighing about five pounds
each were caught and landed on one cast, and that this was done twice.
Now confidence in our neighbors’ truth is the framework of society, but
there is a limit to human credulity, and catching two five pound trout
at one cast, is at the very verge of that limit. No one, except by the
most incredible good fortune, could kill two such fish on any ordinary
fly-tackle, with any ordinary fly-rod. The hooks would almost certainly
tear out, and no strain could possibly be kept on the lower fish, which,
by slacking up his line and then darting away, would probably go free.
But great luck alone could enable a person to land two such fish; the
lower one would never drown, being at perfect liberty--by the by, trout
never die in the water, they always save enough life for one final
rush--and when the upper fish was landed or gaffed, the lower would go
off in a jiffy. When a person claims to do this twice in a day, he must
be pronounced a lucky man indeed.
We caught our big trout in the Marshpee, and we will tell you how we did
it, though the words make us blush as we write them. We were young then,
and it is to be hoped innocent; and having gone to Sandwich, on Cape
Cod, in search of untried fields, discovered a jolly, corpulent
landlord, named Teasedale, who, with his friend, Johnny Trout, so named
jocosely, were the fishermen of the neighborhood. That was before the
stream was preserved for the benefit of the “Poor Indian,” and poorer
fishermen mulcted, as at present, in five dollars a day for the
privilege of fishing. We drove to the stream, almost six miles,
Teasedale enlivening the early June morning with snatches of hunting
songs, and when there plunged recklessly in. Oh! but the water was
cold--a dozen large springs poured in their freezing contents--and the
blood fairly crept back to our hearts. The stream ran through a narrow
defile, overhung with the thickly tangled vine and creepers, rendering a
cast of the line impossible, and had worked its way far under the steep
banks, making dark watery caverns, where the great fish could lie in
wait for their prey. We removed the upper joint of our fly-rod, which
was heavy and strong, and leaving the line through the last ring of the
second joint, we put on a bait next to the fly in beauty and effect, the
minnow. The water was freezing cold--the closely entwined boughs and
leaves shut out the heavens above, and we were alone in the shadowy
darkness with the tenants of the deep. The herring frequented the brook,
and pursued by the large trout, darted in shoals between our feet. It is
always a good sign when the herring are running, and we had excellent
luck.
There are several ways of putting on a minnow, and if a person from
ignorance or necessity must poach, let him poach well. There is the
gorge-hook loaded with lead, the snell passed by the baiting needle at
the mouth of the bait and out at the tail, bringing the hooks which are
double at the mouth. It is highly recommended by some English books and
their American imitators, but in my experience is more useful,
unbaited, for catching snapping mackerel, young blue-fish, than for any
other purpose. There are the gangs of hooks, consisting of two or more
small hooks back to back, one of which is inserted in the side or back
of the bait, with another small one further up on the line, which is
inserted on the lip or nose. It answers well for some kinds of fishing,
and for large bait, but does not work well with small fish. The bait is
not bent sufficiently, and does not spin readily.
Then there is the old-fashioned large single hook, thrust through the
mouth, down the fleshy part of the back and out at the side, or out at
the gills and back through the mouth into the side. The objection is
that bait is apt to work down on the bend of the hook, or the trout is
apt to take off the tail of the bait without being hooked.
The other, and I think the best plan of baiting with dead bait, is the
same as the last, with the addition of a small hook to thrust through
the nose, that tends to retain the fish in its place, and allow the hook
to be carried down further toward the tail, and still make the bait spin
well. Minnow is never properly baited, unless it spins freely with every
motion of the rod, and it must ever be kept moving. Of course the line
must be armed with the swivel-trace, and in baiting with dead minnow a
Limerick hook should be used, when using worms or grasshoppers a hook of
finer wire is better.
The dead minnow is preferable for rapid water. In ponds the minnow
should be alive, in which case the hook is to be inserted in front of
the dorsal fin, and the point may be left under the skin, or exposed,
as the poacher pleases; I prefer it covered. It should not penetrate the
flesh.
In the Marshpee I was using a single hook, keeping the bait well ahead
of me, and creeping cautiously in the freezing water, watching the tiny
float as it danced its merry course along, now borne swiftly over the
rippling current, anon caught in an eddy and returning on its track, and
then again resting motionless in some dark and quiet pool. It was
scarcely visible beneath the dense shadows, and once in a while it would
disappear from my straining sight; then followed a sharp blow with my
rod, a fierce tug, a short fight between fear, despair and cunning on
the one side, and strength, energy and judgment on the other. The prey
once hooked, and skill there was not; it was a mere contention of two
brute forces, in which the weaker went to the basket. An exhibition of
skill or tenderness would have resulted in an entanglement round the
nearest root, and the loss of fish, leader and hook. Still, there was
excitement; the situation was romantic, the narrow gorge, the deep and
rapid stream, the closely matted trees and vines, the ever-changing
surface of the current, which adds beauty to the tamest brook, all
combined to lend enchantment to the scene. The fish were large and
vigorous, fresh run from the sea, where they had, the Winter long, been
a terror to the small fry, and early death to juicy and unsuspicious
shell-fish. They fought fiercely for life and liberty, their homes and
their household gods, and, alas! too often successfully. The risk of
their escape added to the interest of the occasion, and the number of
herring darting past gave continual promise of the presence of their
arch enemy, the trout.
I had half-filled my basket, and had met with wonderful escapes and
terrible heart-rending losses, mingled with exhilarating successes. I
had made about half the distance, as well as we judged, and felt proud
and happy as no king upon his throne ever did or will. My rod, though a
fly-rod, was whipped every few inches with silk, and thus strengthened
had stood the unequal conflict admirably. Still hoping for better
things--who will not hope for the impossible?--I strode on. Below me the
current made a sudden turn at a bend in the stream, and eddied swiftly
under the overhanging bank. The brook almost disappeared in what was
evidently a vast cavern deep in the bowels of that bank. In such watery
palaces, amid the worn rocks, the tangled roots, the undulating moss and
weeds, fierce-eyed, monstrous trout delight to dwell. In such fortresses
they await unwary travellers, and dark deeds are done in the congenial
darkness--outrage, riots and murder stalk boldly about. The migratory
herring, harmless and unsuspicious, peers in and starts affrighted back,
then peers again, at last ventures forward, and then, compelled by
instinct to ascend, tries to dart hastily by; there is a sudden rush, a
frantic struggle, a piteous look entreating mercy of pitiless hearts;
for an instant the water is dyed with blood and then flows on, washing,
all trace of the deed away.
I approach the den carefully, the feather-like float dancing merrily far
ahead over the rippling tide, and as the line is paid out, swaying from
side to side, close in front of the roots that fringe the bank, still
not a sign; a step forward--the water carries it under the bank out of
sight. I stand still, expectant; nothing yet; I creep cautiously to the
very bank, and thrust my rod in the water, aye, under the bank its full
length. What’s that! Ah! what a tug! I have him, the monster, the Giant
Despair of the wayfaring herring. How he pulls! I must have him out of
his retreat; it is a great risk but my only chance. I strain my rod, my
line, almost my arms, to the utmost; he comes, disdainful of
surreptitious advantages, relying on his great strength; he has not
taken protection of weed or stump. Now, my boy, do your utmost; yes,
leap from the water, dart down with the current; I must give to you a
little; no line can stand that strain; but you will never reach your
lair again. Turn about, head up stream, that is what I want; there is a
sandy bank above us, can I but reach it and land you there. Ah! you
perceive the danger or have changed your mind; how you fly down stream
with the slackened line hissing through the water behind you. Well, go,
you will soon turn again. Already, beautiful, you have passed the bank;
now, rod, be true; line, do your duty. The pliant ash bends, the upper
joint has passed below the but in a wide hoop. He comes, his head is up;
if I can but keep it out of water! he dashes the foaming waves with his
strong tail; one more effort; bend rod, but do not break; he is out of
water; I have him. He is dancing on the yellow sand his last dance in
mortal form; his changing hues glancing in the mild light, his fierce
mouth gasping, his bright sides befouled with sand and dust, his
glittering scales torn off by the sharp stones. His efforts grow
fainter, the flashing eye dims, a few convulsive throes and he is quiet;
the grim hand of death has pressed upon him.
He is indeed the prince of monsters, the paragon of giants; so thick, so
deep, with so small a head for so large a body; such brilliant hues: the
fins so red, the blue and carmine spots so numerous and delicate. I wash
him off and stand gazing at him in my hand regardless of further sport.
I have captured the king, and care not to follow his subalterns. I lay
him gently in my basket; he will not lie at full length. I cover him
with moss, filling the little room left, and forcing my way through the
overhanging bushes, and, reaching the broad light of day, proudly await
the arrival of my companion. Then the moss is carefully removed, and the
beauties of my darling are unveiled, and flash and gleam in the
sunlight.
There are several ways of landing a trout, but not all equally
sportsmanlike. Large trout may be gaffed, small ones landed in a net,
and where neither of these means is at hand, they must be dragged out of
water, or flirted up among the bushes, according to the taste of the
angler and the strength of his tackle.
A tyro was once fishing on the same boat with me, using bait, when he
struck his first trout. One can imagine how entirely misspent had been
his previous existence, when it is said he had never taken a trout, no,
nor any other fish before. It was not a large fish; such luck rarely
falls to the share of the beginner, and in spite of what elderly
gentlemen may say to the contrary, an ignorant countryman, with his
sapling rod and coarse tackle, never takes the largest fish nor the
greatest in quantity. Were it otherwise, sportsmen had better turn
louts, and tackle makers take to cutting straight saplings in the woods.
My companion, nevertheless, was not a little surprised at the vigorous
rushes the trout made to escape, but his line being strong and rod
stiff, he steadily reeled him in. Great was the excitement; his whole
mind was devoted to shortening the line, regardless of what was to be
done next. We had a darkey named Joe with us to row the boat and land
the fish, and our luck having been bad during the morning, he was
delighted at this turn of affairs, and ready, net in hand, to do his
duty. The fish was being reeled up, till but a few feet of the line
remained below the top, when, with a shout of “land, Joe, land him,” my
companion suddenly lifted tip his rod, carrying the trout far above our
heads. There it dangled, swaying to and fro, bouncing and jumping, while
the agonized fisherman besought the darkey to land him, and the latter,
reaching up as far as he could with the net, his eyes starting out of
his head with wonder at this novel mode of proceeding, came far short of
his object. Never was seen such a sight; the hopeless despair of my
friend, the eagerness of the darkey, who fairly strove to climb the rod
as the fish danced about far out of reach. What was to done? The line
would not render, the rod was so long we could not reach the tip in the
boat; and the only horrible alternative appeared to be my friend’s
losing his first fish. The latter, however, by this remarkable course of
treatment, had grown peaceable, and when he was dropped back into the
water, made but feeble efforts, while my companion, as quietly as he
could, worked out his line till he could land him like a Christian.
Great were the rejoicings when the prize earned with so much anxiety was
secured. That is the way not to land a trout.
One afternoon of a very boisterous day, I struck a large fish at the
deep hole in the centre of Phillipse’s Pond, on Long Island. He came out
fiercely, and taking my fly as he went down, darted at once for the
bottom, which is absolutely covered with long, thick weeds. The moment
he found he was struck, he took refuge among them, and tangled himself
up so effectually that I could not feel him, and supposed he had
escaped. By carefully exerting sufficient force, however, the weeds were
loosened from the bottom, and the electric thrill of his renewed motion
was again perceptible. He was allowed to draw the line through the weeds
and play below them, as by so doing they would give a little, while if
confined in them he would have a leverage against them, and could, with
one vigorous twist, tear out the hook. When he was somewhat exhausted,
the question as to the better mode of landing him arose. The wind was
blowing so hard as to raise quite a sea, which washed the weeds before
it in spite of any strain that could be exerted by the rod, and drifted
the boat as well, rendering the latter almost unmanageable, while the
fish was still so vigorous as to threaten at every moment to escape. I
besought the boatman, who was an old hand and thoroughly up to his
business, to drop the boat down to the weeds and let me try and land my
fish with one hand while holding the rod with the other. He knew the
dangers of such a course, and insisted upon rowing slowly and carefully
for shore at a shallow place sheltered from the wind, although I greatly
feared the hook would tear out or the rod snap under the strain of
towing both weeds and fish; once near shore, he deliberately forced an
oar into the mud and made the boat fast to it, and then taking up the
net, watched for a favorable chance. He waited for some time, carefully
putting the weeds aside, until a gleaming line of silver glanced for a
moment beneath the water, when darting the net down, he as suddenly
brought it up, revealing within its folds the glorious colors of a
splendid trout. That was the way to land a trout under difficulties,
although I still think I could have done it successfully by myself.
Generally, the utmost delicacy should be shown in killing a fish, but
there are times when force must be exerted. If the fish is making for a
stump, or even weeds, he must be stopped at any reasonable risk of the
rod’s breaking or the fly’s tearing out. A stump is the most dangerous;
one turn round that, and he is off, leaving your flies fast probably in
a most inconvenient place and many feet below the surface of the water.
But remember the oft-repeated maxim of a friend of the writer’s, who has
been with him many a joyous fishing day, that “One trout hooked is worth
a dozen not hooked.” Small trout are more apt to escape than large ones,
because the skin round the mouth of the latter is tougher. With either,
however, there is risk enough, the hook is small, and often takes but a
slight hold; the gut is delicate, and frequently half worn through by
continual casting.
Fish are, in a majority of instances, hooked in the corner of the upper
jaw, where there is but a thin skin to hold them; by long-continued
struggle, the hole wears larger, and finally, to the agony of the
fisherman, the hook slips out.
There are occasions when force must be exerted, and then good tackle and
a well-made rod will repay the cost. At dusk one night I cautiously
approached the edge of a newly-made pond that was as full of stumps as
of fish, both being about the extreme limit, and casting into the clear
water, struck a fine fish of three-quarters of a pound. Not one minute’s
grace did he receive, but I lugged and he fought, and after a general
turmoil I succeeded in bringing him to land, in spite of weeds and
stumps and twigs, which he did his best to reach. The same was done with
seven fish after a loss of only three flies, and with a rod that weighed
but eight ounces.
A rod is not so apt to break from a fair strain as from a short twist;
of course, if you strike a large fish as you raise to cast, or catch in
the bushes behind you when your line is extended, any rod may break.
This, however, rarely happens, and you are as likely to break the tip by
trying to pull the line through the rings with your hand, or by lifting
a small trout out of water and swinging it in past you, as in any other
way. In drawing a fish to shore when you have no landing net, step back
and bring the strain evenly on your rod, and it will rarely give way. If
you find the fish takes down the current and you are unable to hold him,
follow him if you can, and if not, point your rod toward him and bring
the strain on the line. The hook may tear out, or the gut may break, or
even the line may be lost, but you will save your rod, while otherwise
you would probably lose both.
In landing a fish, wait till he is pretty well exhausted, bring his
mouth above water and keep it there till he is drawn into the net, and
warn your assistant to remove the net at once if he gets his head down.
By diving after him with the net, the assistant would certainly not
catch the fish and might tangle one of your other flies. The fish should
be led into the net, and the latter kept as still as possible; he knows
as well as you do what it is for, and if his attention is drawn to it,
will dart off as madly as ever.
There are occasions and situations where a fly cannot be used, and a
minnow--called down East, from the Indian name mummychog, a
mummy--cannot be obtained. In such cases it becomes necessary to fall
back upon first principles. A grasshopper, twitched along the surface of
the water in a way called skittering, is an effective bait, although an
imitation grasshopper, as well as an imitation minnow, does not answer
and will not deceive trout. Salmon and trout roe are used, and it is
said, contrary to the writer’s experience, with great success. Gentles,
which are grubs hatched in meat that has been fly-blown, are a favorite
bait in Europe; but, in spite of their beautiful name, are horrible
objects and not in vogue with us. Caddies, or the larvæ of the
_Phryganidæ_ in their cases, are also in use there, but not here. We
must, therefore, have recourse to the angleworm.
The finest worms are to be found in tanyards; they should be placed on
the top of damp moss, left for a night or two to work themselves clean,
and then placed in other moss sprinkled with milk. They become strong,
light colored and lively, and should be threaded on a fine hook by
passing the point in at the head of the worm and out half-way down the
side; then in, half up the side of another, and forced nearly to the
head. Worms, if cast as in fly-fishing, are very attractive, and will
frequently kill an immense number of fish. There is much skill in
casting so as not to tear off the bait, and yet to cover an extent of
water.
In rapid streams, whether with bait or fly, always fish down stream;
there is less noise, the line is kept taught, the fly looks more
natural, and unless the wind is strong against you, it will be much
easier and pleasanter fishing. Move the bait continually; keep it in
motion under all circumstances; this is the great secret of
bait-fishing.
I have also heard of shrimp preserved in whisky being used, and think
they might answer for fish that have just run from the salt water; but
as frequent experiment with the live shrimp has proved their inferiority
to minnow, I have little faith in them.
The trout is admitted to be the most beautiful of all our fish; not so
large nor powerful as the salmon, he is much more numerous, abounding in
all the brooks and rivulets of our northern States. He lives at our very
doors; in the stream that meanders across yon meadow, where the
haymakers are now busy with their scythes, we have taken him in our
early days; down yonder in that wood, there is a brook filled with
bright, lively little fellows; and away over there we know of pools
where there are splendid ones. Who has not said or thought such words
as he stood in the bright summer’s day under the grateful shade of the
piazza running round the old country house where he played, a boy?
He does not make the nerves thrill and tingle like the salmon, he does
not leap so madly into the air nor make such fierce, resolute rushes, he
has not the silver sides nor the great strength; but he is beautiful as
the sunset sky, brave as bravery itself, and is our own home darling.
How he flashes upon the sight as he grasps the spurious insect, and
turns down with a quick little slap of the tail! How he darts hither and
thither when he finds he is hooked! How persistently he struggles till
enveloped in the net! And then with what heart-rending sighs he breathes
away his life!
There is no fish like him. Lay your prize on a bed of moss, which is his
natural resting-place; look at the exquisite hues like shotten silk, the
dark spots, the carmine specks, the single first white ray in his fins,
and the rich red of the second extending to the lower edge of the
abdomen; the greenish-mottled back, the silver below--what a picture for
the painter, if his brush could catch the evanescent tints. How proudly
and fondly we gaze on our beautiful prize, not with the mere rude,
brutal pride in securing so much booty, such a sum in money value, or a
delightful dish for the table, but with an affectation that is hard to
explain to those who are not anglers. The sportsman is more fond of the
game he pursues and more anxious to preserve it from destruction than
the most pretentious humanitarian of animal worshippers. The angler is
proverbially the most gentle of men, he is fond of nature, peaceable,
contemplative, patient; he admires the grandeur of the woods, the
rugged strength of the rocks, and the changing splendor of the sky. He
listens with pleasure to the murmur of the brook, the songs of the
birds, and the rustle of the wind.
The man who kills to kill, who is not satisfied with reasonable sport,
who slays unfairly or out of season, who adds one wanton pang, that man
receives the contempt of all good sportsmen and deserves the felon’s
doom. Of such there are but few.
“We seek this, our favorite fish, in early Spring, when the ice has just
melted, and the cold winds remind one forcibly of bleak December, and
when we find him in the salt water streams, especially of Long Island
and Cape Cod; but we love most to follow him in the early Summer, along
the merry streams of old Orange, or the mountain brooks of Sullivan
County. Where the air is full of gladness, and the trees are heavy with
foliage--where the birds are singing upon every bough, and the grass is
redolent of violets and early flowers. There we wade the cold brooks,
the leafy branches bowing us a welcome as we pass--the water rippling
over the hidden rocks, and telling us, in its wayward way, of the fine
fish it carries in its bosom. With creel upon our shoulder and rod in
hand, we reck not of the hours, and only when the sinking sun warns of
the approaching darkness, do we seek, with sharpened appetite, the
hospitable country inn, and the comfortable supper that our prey will
furnish forth.
The brooks of Long Island, especially on the southern shore, abound with
trout. But they are few in comparison with the hordes that once swarmed
in the streams of Sullivan and Orange counties, and in fact all the
lower tier of counties in this State, before the Erie Railroad was
built, and opened the land to the crowd of market men. I am proud to say
I have travelled that country when it took the stage coach twelve hours
to go twenty-four miles, and when, if we were in a hurry, we walked, and
sent our baggage by the coach. Now you are jerked along high above our
favorite meadows, directly through our wildest hills, and often under
our best streams, at the rate of forty miles an hour, and yet people
call that an improvement. As well might you lug a man out of bed at
night, drag him a dozen times round his room, and fling him back into
bed, and say he was improved by the operation. No one wants to be lugged
out of bed, precisely as no one wanted to travel beyond Sullivan County;
the best shooting and fishing in the world was to be found there.
When the railroad was first opened, the country was literally overrun,
and Bashe’s Kill, Pine Kill, the Sandberg, the Mon Gaup and Callicoon,
and even Beaver Kill, which we thought were inexhaustible, were fished
out. For many years trout had almost ceased from out of the waters, but
the horrible public, having their attention drawn to the Adirondacks,
gave it a little rest, and now the fishing is good.
If you go there, stop at George Durrance’s, in Wurtsborough, and if he
boasts of fishing, as he will,[2] ask him whether he remembers going to
the Sandberg one day, many years ago, to show a Yorker how to catch
trout.
It was a bright sunshiny day, and as we drove up to the edge of the
bank, above a clear, rapid, sparkling stream, I saw a large trout leap
heavily out of water, where the current swept with a swirl past a high
rock. As I rigged up my flies, George borrowed my knife to cut a pole,
as he did not have much faith in “them things,” and while he was gone, I
crept cautiously up behind the rock, and cast over the further
projecting point. I could not see my flies alight, but heard a splash,
and striking felt I had a splendid fish. He fought bravely, but by
keeping him in the upper part of the pool, the lower end by the rock,
was not disturbed. After some trouble, I landed him, having no net. Then
approaching the rock with the same caution, the performance was
repeated, only this time my rod was broken in endeavoring to land the
fish, and it was necessary to find George and obtain my knife.
I discovered him under the bushes on the bank, in a miserable state--it
was oppressively hot--his rod was a long sapling, and naturally
heavy--the sky and water were clear, and the fish would not touch the
worm, which we could see from where he sat. He had only taken two
miserable little fish. He did no better all day, and while I rose and
killed fish after fish, he did not take another one. When afternoon
came, and he impatiently urged me away, my basket was so full it broke
down, and he had his two fish. On reaching his house, the boys spread
our respective takes out on a board, and to George’s deep chagrin
exhibited them to the entire village. He has not taught a “Yorker” how
to catch trout since.
So much for your countryman, with his bed-cord for line and stick for
pole, and yet George was admitted to be the best fisherman in that
neighborhood. A person residing near a stream, and having fished it from
infancy, and acquainted with its every pool, has an immense advantage
over a stranger; but there was only one countryman ever beat me
trout-fishing, and he, after taking me to the stream, slipped off and
waded it down ahead of me.
All the streams that, taking their rise in or near this State, flow into
the Delaware or Susquehanna, are filled with trout; the Tobyhanna, the
Bushkill, Broadhead’s Creek and a thousand others, that the Erie and
Lackawanna railroads now make easy of access. While Hamilton County,
Essex, the region of the Adirondacks, Clinton County with its Chateaugay
and Chazy Lakes, and the Saranac River, and Franklin County with its
innumerable ponds, offer all the sport that the heart of man can desire.
All the streams of New England, especially in the neighborhood of the
White Mountains, are filled with small trout; while the State of Maine,
in Moosehead Lake, the Kennebec, and its other fine rivers and lakes,
affords the finest brook trout-fishing in the world.
The angler may, therefore, seek his darling close to his own
summer-house, or may drop in at any of the many well kept taverns on the
south side of Long Island, where he will find every comfort and most of
the luxuries of the day, will meet other enthusiastic fishermen, who
will relate varied and interesting experiences, and exchange views and
fancies with him, and will prove themselves, if real fishermen, the most
obliging and unselfish gentlemen in the world; or he may seek the lonely
hotel at Lake Pleasant or Moosehead Lake, where he will still find
comfort in a rougher way, and wonderful good sport; or he may boldly
strike out into the trackless woods, commit himself to his birch canoe
and trusty guide, and then, if he be made of the right stuff, I promise
him such happiness as he will never forget--merry innocent days and
dreamless nights, health in every limb, and contentment in his mind.[3]
There is no fish more difficult to catch, nor that gives the true angler
more genuine sport than the trout. His capture requires the nicest
tackle, the greatest skill, the most complete self-command, the highest
qualities of mind and body. The arm must be strong that wields the rod;
the eye true that sees the rise; the wrist quick that strikes at the
instant; the judgment good, that selects the best spot, the most
suitable fly, and knows just how to kill the fish. A fine temper is
required to bear up against the loss of a noble fish, and patient
perseverance to conquer ill luck.
Hence it is that the fisherman is so proud of his basket of a dozen
half-pound trout, he feels that any one more awkward or less resolute
could not have done so well. He feels conscious that he does not owe his
success to mere luck, but has deserved the glory. He feels that he has
elevated himself by the very effort. Do not suppose I mean that there is
no skill in other fishing; there is in all, even in catching a minnow
for bait, but most of all in trout-fishing.