THE BIG TROUT
It was mighty hard work, turning out at five o'clock in the morning.
That was regulations, while on the march--to get up at five. The ones
who didn't turn out promptly had to do the dirty work--police the camp,
which is to clean it, you know.
Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand cooked; I helped, by opening packages,
preparing potatoes (if we had them), tending fire, etc.; Major Henry
chopped wood; Kit Carson and little Jed Smith looked after the burros,
Apache and Sally, and scouted in a circle for hostile sign; General
Ashley put the bedding in shape to pack.
But first it was regulations to take a cold wet rub when we were near
water. It made us glow and kept us in good shape. Then we brushed our
teeth and combed our hair. (Note 17.) After breakfast we policed the
camp, and dumped everything into a hole, or burned it, so that we left
the place just about as we had found it. We stamped out the fire, or put
dirt and water on it, of course. Then we packed the burros. General
Ashley, Jed Smith, and Kit Carson packed Sally; Major Henry, Thomas
Fitzpatrick, and I packed Apache. And by six-thirty we were on our way.
This morning we kept on up Ute Creek. It had its rise in Gray Bull
Basin, at the foot of old Pilot Peak, about forty miles away. We thought
we could make Gray Bull Basin in three days. Ten or twelve miles a day,
with burros, on the trail, up-hill all the way, is about as fast as
Scouts like us can keep going. Beyond Gray Bull we would have to find
our own trail over Pilot Peak.
Everything was fine, this morning. Birds were hopping among the cedars
and spruces, and in some places the ground was red with wild
strawberries. Pine squirrels scolded at us, and we saw two rabbits; but
we didn't stop to shoot them. We had bacon, and could catch trout higher
up the creek. Here were some beaver dams, and around the first dam lived
a big trout that nobody had been able to land. The beaver dams were
famous camping places for parties who could go this far, and everybody
claimed to have hooked the big trout and to have lost him again. He was
a native Rocky Mountain trout, and weighed four pounds--but he was
educated. He wouldn't be caught. He had only one eye; that was how
people knew him.
We didn't count upon that big trout, but we rather counted upon some
smaller ones; and anyway we must hustle on and put those ten miles
behind us before the enemy got in touch with us again. Our business was
to carry that message through, and not to stop and hunt or lose time
over uncalled-for things.
The creek foamed and rushed; its water was amber, as if stained by pine
needles. Sometimes it ran among big bowlders, and sometimes it was
crossed by fallen trees. Thomas Fitzpatrick picked up a beaver cutting.
That was an aspen stick (beavers like aspen and willow bark best) about
as large as your wrist and two feet long. It was green and the ends were
fresh, so there were beavers above us. And it wasn't water-soaked, so
that it could not have been cut and in the water very long. We were
getting close.
We traveled right along, and the country grew rougher. There were many
high bowlders, and we came to a canyon where the creek had cut between
great walls like a crack. There was no use in trying to go through this
canyon; the trail had faded out, and we were about to oblique off up the
hill on our side of the creek, to go around and strike the creek above
the canyon, when Kit Carson saw something caught on a brush-heap half in
the water, at the mouth of the canyon.
It was a chain. He leaned out and took hold of the chain, and drew it in
to shore. On the other end was a trap, and in the trap was a beaver. The
chain was not tied to the brush; it had just caught there, so it must
have been washed down. Then up above somebody was trapping beaver, which
was against the law. The beaver was in pretty bad condition. He must
have been drowned for a week or more. The trap had no brand on it.
Usually traps are branded on the pan, but this wasn't and that went to
show that whoever was trapping knew better. The sight of that beaver,
killed uselessly, made us sick and mad both. But we couldn't do anything
about it, except to dig a hole and bury trap and all, so that the creek
would wash clean, as it ought to be. Then we climbed up the steep hill,
over rocks and flowers, and on top followed a ridge, until ahead we saw
the creek again. It was in a little meadow here, and down we went for
it.
This was a beautiful spot. On one side the pines and spruces covered a
long slope which rose on and on until above timber line it was bare and
reddish gray; and away up were patches of snow; and beyond was the tip
of Pilot Peak. But on our side a forest fire had burned out the timber,
leaving only black stumps sticking up, with the ground covered by a new
growth of bushes. There was quite a difference between the two sides;
and we camped where we were, on the bare side, which was the safest for
a camp fire. It would have been a shame to spoil the other side, too.
We were tired, after being up part of the night and climbing all the
morning, and this was a good place to stop. Plenty of dry wood, plenty
of water, and space to spread our beds.
The creek was smooth and wide, here, about the middle of the park. The
beaver had been damming it. But although we looked about, after locating
camp and unpacking the burros, we couldn't find a fresh sign. We came
upon camp sign, though, two days old, at least. Somebody had trapped
every beaver and then had left.
That seemed mean, because it was against the law to trap beaver, and
here they weren't doing any harm. But the fire had laid waste one shore
of the pond, and animal killers had laid waste the pond itself.
We decided to have a big meal. There ought to be wild raspberries in
this burnt timber; wild raspberries always follow a forest fire--and
that is a queer thing, isn't it? So, after camp was laid out (which is
the first thing to do), and our flags set up, while Fitzpatrick the Bad
Hand and Major Henry built a fire and got things ready for dinner,
General Ashley and Kit Carson went after berries and little Jed Smith
and I were detailed to catch trout.
We had lines and hooks, but we didn't bother to pack rods, because you
almost always can get willows. (Note 18.) Some fellows would have cut
green willows, because they bend. We knew better. We cut a dead willow
apiece. We were after meat, and not just sport; and when we had a trout
bite we wanted to yank him right out. A stiff, dead willow will do that.
Grasshoppers were whirring around, among the dried trunks and the grass.
That is what grasshoppers like, a place where it's hot and open. As a
rule you get bigger fish with bait than you do with a fly, so we put on
grasshoppers. I hate sticking a hook into a grasshopper, or a worm
either; and we killed our grasshoppers quick by smashing their heads
before we hooked them.
It was going to be hard work, catching trout around this beaver pond.
The water was wide and smooth and shallow and clear, and a trout would
see you coming. When a trout knows that you are about, then the game is
off. Besides, lots of people had been fishing the pond, and the beaver
hunters must have been fishing it lately, according to sign. But that
made it all the more exciting. Little trout are caught easily, and the
big ones are left for the person who can outwit them.
After we were ready, we reconnoitered. We sat down and studied to see
where we'd prefer to be if we were a big trout. A big trout usually
doesn't prowl about much. He gets a lair, in a hole or under a bank, and
stays close, eating whatever comes his way, and chasing out all the
smaller trout. Sometimes he swims into the ripples, to feed; but back he
goes to his lair again.
So we studied the situation. There was no use in wading about, or
shaking the banks, and scaring trout, unless we had a plan. It looked to
me that if I were a big trout I'd be in a shady spot over across, where
the water swept around a low place of the dam and made a black eddy
under the branches of a spruce. Jed Smith said all right, I could try
that, and he would try where the bank on our side stuck out over the
water a little.
I figured that my hole would be fished by about everybody from the
water. Most persons would wade across, and cast up-stream to the edge of
it; and if a trout was still there he would be watching out for that. So
the way to surprise him would be to sneak on him from a new direction. I
went down below, and crossed (over my boot-tops) to the other side, and
followed up through the timber.
I had to crawl under the spruce--and I was mighty careful not to shake
the ground or to make any noise, for we needed fish. Nobody had been to
the hole from this direction; it was too hard work. By reaching out with
my pole I could just flip the hopper into the water. I tried twice; and
the second time I landed him right in the swirl. He hadn't floated an
inch when a yellowish thing calmly rose under him and he was gone!
I jerked up with the willow, and the line tightened and began to tug. I
knew by the color and the way he swallowed the hopper without any fuss
that he was a king trout, and if I didn't haul him right in he'd break
the pole or tear loose. I shortened pole like lightning and grabbed the
line; but it got tangled in the branches of the spruce, and the trout
was hung up with just his nose out of water.
Jiminy! but he was making the spray fly. He looked as big as a beaver,
and the hook was caught in the very edge of his lip. That made me hurry.
In a moment he'd be away. I suppose I leaned out too far, to grab the
line again, or to get him by the gills, for I slipped and dived
headfirst into the hole.
Whew, but the water was cold! It took my breath--but I didn't care. All
I feared was that now I'd lost the fish. He weighed four pounds, by this
time, I was sure. As soon as I could stand and open my eyes I looked for
him. When I had dived in I must have shaken loose the line, for it was
under water again, and part of the pole, too. I sprawled for the pole
and grabbed it as it was sliding out. The line tightened. The trout was
still on.
Now I must rustle for the shore. So I did, paying out the pole behind me
so as not to tear the hook free; and the minute I scrambled knee-deep,
with a big swing I hustled that trout in and landed him in the brush
just as he flopped off!
I tell you, I was glad. Some persons would have wanted a reel and light
tackle, to play him--but we were after meat.
"I've got one--a big one!" I yelled, across to where Jed Smith was.
"So have I!" yelled little Jed back.
I had picked my trout up. He wasn't so awful big, after all; only about
fifteen inches long, which means two pounds. He was an Eastern brook
trout. They grow larger in the cold water of the West than they do in
their own homes. But I looked for Jed--and then dropped my trout and
waded over to help _him_.
He was out in the water, up to his waist, and something was jerking him
right along.
"I can't get him out!" he called, as I was coming. "How big is yours?"
"Fifteen inches."
"This one's as big as I am--big native!" And you should have heard Jed
grunt, as the line just surged around, in the current.
"Want any help?" I asked.
"Uh uh. If he can lick me, then he ought to get away."
"Where'd you catch him?"
"Against the bank."
"Swing him down the current and then lift him right in shore!"
"Look out he doesn't tear loose!"
"He'll break that pole!"
Fitzpatrick and Major Henry were yelling at us from the fire; and then
Jed stubbed his toe on a rock and fell flat. He didn't let the pole go,
though. He came up sputtering and he was as wet as I.
"Swing him down and then lift him right in!" kept shouting Fitz and
Major Henry. That was the best plan.
"All right," answered Jed. "You take the pole and start him," he said to
me. "I'd have to haul him against the current." I was below him, of
course, so as to head the trout up-stream.
He tossed the butt at me and I caught it. That was generous of Jed--to
let me get the fish out, when he'd been the one to hook it. But we were
Scouts together, and we were after meat for all, not glory for one.
I took the pole and with a swing downstream kept Mr. Trout going until
he shot out to the edge of the pond, and there Fitz tumbled on top of
him and grabbed him with one hand by the gills.
When we held him up we gave our Patrol yell:
B. S. A.! B. S. A.!
Elks! Elks! Hoo-ray!
Oooooooooooo!