true that the men who fish for a living love their work quite as much as
those who fish for pleasure love their sport. Find an old fisherman, if
you can, in any sea-shore town, who does not enjoy his fishing. There
are days, without doubt, when he does not care to go out, when he would
rather that need did not drive him to the sea; but keep him at home a
few days, or set him at other labor, and you shall see that he longs for
the toss of the swell on the reef, and the sudden joy of a strong pull
on his line. Drift up along side of him in your boat when he is quietly
at his work, without his knowing that you are near. You can do it
easily. He is pondering solemnly a question, of deep importance to him,
and he has not stirred eye, or hand, or head for ten minutes. But see
that start and sharp jerk of his elbow, and now hear him talk, not
to you—to the fish. He exults as he brings him in, yet mingles his
exultation with something of pity as he baits his hook for another.
Could you gather the words that he has in many years flung on the sea
winds, you would have a history of his life and adventures, mingled with
very much of his inmost thinking, for he tells much to the sea and the
fish that he would never whisper in human ears. Thus the habit of going
a-fishing always modifies the character. The angler, I think, dreams of
his favorite sport oftener than other men of theirs.
There is a peculiar excitement in it, which perhaps arises from somewhat
of the same causes which make the interest in searching for ancient
treasures, opening Egyptian tombs and digging into old ruins. One does
not know what is under the surface. There may be something or there may
be nothing. He tries, and the rush of something startles every nerve.
Let no man laugh at a comparison of trout-fishing with antiquarian
researches. I know a man who has done a great deal of both, and who
scarcely knows which is the most absorbing or most remunerating; for
each enriches mind and body, each gratifies the most refined taste, each
becomes a passion unless the pursuer guard his enthusiasm and moderate
his desire.
* * * * *
To you, my friend, who know nothing of the gentle and purifying
association of the angler’s life, these may seem strange notions—to
some, indeed, they may even sound profane. But the angler for whom
I write will not so think them, nor may I, who, thinking these same
thoughts, have cast my line on the sea of Galilee, and taken the
descendants of old fish in the swift waters of the Jordan.
Trout fishing is employment for all men, of all minds. It tends to
dreamy life, and it leads to much thought and reflection. I do not know
in any book or story of modern times a more touching and exquisite scene
than that which Mrs. Gordon gives in her admirable biography of her
father, the leonine Christopher North, when the feeble old man waved his
rod for the last time over the Dochart, where he had taken trout from
his boyhood. Shall we ever look upon his like again? He was a giant
among men of intellectual greatness. Of all anglers since apostolic
days, he was the greatest; and there is no angler who does not look to
him with veneration and love, while the English language will forever
possess higher value that he has lived and written. It would be thought
very strange were one to say that Wilson would never have been half the
man he was were he not an angler. But he would have said so himself, and
I am not sure but he did say so, and, whether he did or not, I have no
doubt of the truth of the saying.
It has happened to me to fish the Dochart, from the old inn at Luib down
to the bridge, and the form of the great Christopher was forever before
me along the bank, and in the rapids, making his last casts as Mrs.
Gordon here so tenderly describes him:
“Had my father been able to endure the fatigue, we too would have had
something to boast of, but he was unable to do more than loiter by the
river-side, close in the neighborhood of the inn—never without his rod.”
“How now do his feet touch the heather? Not, as of old, with a bound,
but with slow and unsteady step, supported on the one hand by his stick,
while the other carries his rod. The breeze gently moves his locks, no
longer glittering with the light of life, but dimmed by its decay. Yet
are his shoulders broad and unbent. The lion-like presence is somewhat
softened down, but not gone. He surely will not venture into the deeps
of the water, for only one hand is free for a ‘cast.’ and those large
stones, now slippery with moss, are dangerous stumbling-blocks in the
way. Besides, he promised his daughters he would not wade, but, on the
contrary, walk quietly with them by the river’s edge, there gliding
‘at its own sweet will,’ Silvery band of pebbled shore leading to loamy
colored pools, dark as the glow of a southern eye, how could he resist
the temptation of near approach? In he goes, up to the ankles, then to
the knees, tottering every other step, but never falling. Trout after
trout he catches, small ones certainly, but plenty of them. Into his
pocket with them all this time, manouvering in the most skilful manner
both stick and rod; until weary, he is obliged to rest on the bank,
sitting with his feet in the water, laughing at his daughters’ horror,
and obstinately continuing the sport in spite of all remonstrance.
At last he gives in and retires. Wonderful to say, he did not seem to
suffer from these imprudent liberties.”
And Mrs. Gordon gives us another exquisite picture in the very last day
of the grand old Christopher:
* * * “And then he gathered around him, when the spring mornings brought
gay jets of sunshine into the little room where he lay, the relics of a
youthful passion, one that with him never grew old. It was an affecting
sight to see him busy, nay, quite absorbed with the fishing tackle
scattered about his bed, propped up with pillows—his noble head, yet
glorious with its flowing locks, carefully combed by attentive hands,
and falling on each side of his unfaded face. How neatly he picked out
each elegantly dressed fly from its little bunch, drawing it out with
trembling hand along the white coverlet, and then replacing it in his
pocket-book, he would tell ever and anon of the streams he used to
fish in of old, and of the deeds he had performed in his childhood and
youth.”
There is no angler who will not appreciate the beauty of these pictures,
and I do not believe any one of us, retaining his mental faculties, will
fail, in extremest age, to recall with the keenest enjoyment, of which
memory is capable, the scenes of our happiest sport.
Was Peter less or more than man? Was John not of like passions with
ourselves? Believe me, the old dweller on Patmos, the old Bishop of
Ephesus, lingering between the memories of his Lord in Galilee and the
longing for Him to come quickly yet again, saw often before his dim eyes
the ripple on Gennesaret and the flashing scales of the silver fish that
had gladdened him many a time before he knew the Master.
It is one of the most pleasant and absorbing thoughts which possess the
traveller in those regions, that the child Christ was a child among the
hills of Galilee, and loved them with all the gentle fervor of his human
soul. Doubtless many times before He had challenged the fisher on the
sea with that same question which we anglers so frequently hear, “Have
you taken any fish?” He may have often seen Peter and the others at
their work. Perhaps sometimes He had talked with them, and, it may well
be, gone with them on the sea, and helped them. Por they were kindly
men, as fishermen are always in all countries, and they loved to talk
of their work, and of a thousand other things, of which, in their
contemplative lives, they had thought without talking.
In an age when few men were learned, and, in fact, few in any grade or
walk of life could even read or write, I am inclined to think there was
no class from whom better trained intellects could be selected than
from among these thoughtful fishermen. They had doubtless the Oriental
characteristics of calmness and reserve, and these had been somewhat
modified by their employment. Given to sober reflection, patient to
investigate, quick to trust when their faith was demanded by one whom
they respected, slow to act when haste was not necessary, prompt and
swift on any emergency, filled full of love for nature, all harsh
elements of character softened into a deep benevolence and pity and
love—such are the fishermen of our day, and such, I doubt not, were the
fishermen of old. They were men with whom a mother would willingly trust
her young boy, to whom he would become attached, with whom he would
enjoy talking, and, above all, who would pour out their very souls in
talking with him, when among their fellow-men they would be reserved,
diffident, and silent. They were men, too, who would recognize in the
boy the greatness of his lineage, the divine shining out from his eyes.
Who shall prevail to imagine the pleasantness of those days on the sea
when Peter and John talked with the holy boy, as they waited for the
fish, and their boat rocked to the winds that came down from Lebanon.
Who can say that there were not some memories of those days, as well as
of the others when we know Christ was with him, which, when he was tired
of the waiting, led Peter to say, “I go a-fishing!”
I believe that he went a-fishing because he felt exactly as I have felt,
exactly as scores of men have felt who knew the charm of the gentle art,
as we now call it. The other has such attraction. Men love hunting, love
boating, love games of varied sorts, love many amusements of many kinds,
but I do not know of any like fishing to which men go for relief in
weariness, for rest after labor, for solace in sorrow. I can well
understand how those sad men, not yet fully appreciating the grand truth
that their Master had risen from the dead, believing; yet doubting, how
even Thomas, who had so lately seen the wounds and heard the voice; how
even John, loving and loved, who had rejoiced a week ago in Jerusalem
at the presence of the triumphant Lord; how Peter, always fearful; how
Nathanael, full of impulsive faith, how each and all of them, wearied
with their long waiting for Him on the shore of the sea, sought comfort
and solace, opportunity and incitement to thought in going a-fishing.
I can understand it, for, though far be it from me to compare any
weariness or sorrow of mine with theirs, I have known that there was no
better way in which I could find rest.
I have written for lovers of the gentle art, and if this which I have
written fall into other hands, let him who reads understand that it is
not for him. We who go a-fishing are a peculiar people. Like other men
and women in many respects, we are like one another, and like no others,
in other respects. We understand each other’s thoughts by an intuition
of which you know nothing. So closely are we alike in some regards, so
different from the rest of the world in these respects, and so important
are these characteristics of mind and of thought, that I sometimes
think no man but one of us can properly understand the mind of Peter, or
appreciate the glorious visions of the son of Zebedee.
FROM “GAME FISH OF THE NORTH.”
By R. B. Roosevelt.
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, 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 south-easterly wind, has a singular tendency to darken
the surface, and in clear, fine waters is particularly advantageous; a
south-wester comes next in order; a north-easter, in which, by-the-by,
occasionally there is great success, is the next; and a north-wester
is the worst and dearest 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 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 contra-distinguished 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 until 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 are 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 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 sluice-ways and are in the lower
ponds, lying sullenly in the deepest water; then is the Cowdung,
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 head-waters 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 young folks—shuts
his eyes and opens his mouth. I cannot recommend such tackle, being
convinced the most skilfully made is the best; but I do advise
simplicity of color.
* * * * *
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 practice a certain formula, such as lifting the line with
a wave and 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 lightly as a feather. He should use his
wrist mainly, and practice 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
heartrending 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 noose.
A skilful 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 gray 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 a 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 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 butt 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 fisherman.
Thus equipped, go forth mildly, approving where the writer’s opinions
coincide with yours, simply incredulous where they do not.
* * * * *
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
the water, or floated up among the bushes, according to the taste of the
angler and the strength of his tackle.
A tyro was once fishing in 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 darky named Joe with us, to row the boat and
land the fish, and our luck having been bad during the morning he was
delighted with 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 up 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 darky 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 darky, who fairly strove to climb the rod
as the fish danced about far out of reach. What was to be 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.