Since the days when Izaak Walton wrote The Complete Angler, men have
emulated his example, and gone forth with rod and reel to tempt the
finny tribe from dashing mountain brook or quiet river.
We, being his disciples, thought to follow his example, and spend the
day in the Berkeley hills whipping the stream for the wary brook
trout.
April first is the open season for trout in California, but owing to
the scarcity of rain we feared the water in the brook would be too low
for good fishing. Providence favored us, however, with a steady
downpour on Wednesday, which put new hope in our hearts, and water in
the stream; and we decided to try our luck on Saturday afternoon, and
take what came to our hooks as a "gift of the gods."
Accordingly, we met at the Ferry Building, fully equipped, and took
the boat across San Francisco Bay, thence by cars to Claremont, and
from there struck into the hills. The wind blew cold from the bay,
having a clear sweep up through the Golden Gate, but as soon as we
began to make the ascent our coats became a burden.
It was a hard, tedious climb over the first range of hills, but upon
reaching the summit and looking down into the valley we felt well
repaid for our trouble, as we gazed in awed delight upon the
magnificent view spread out below us like a panorama.
The valley stretches out in either direction far below us, as if to
offer an uninterrupted flow for the mountain brook through which it
passes. We counted twelve peaks surrounding the valley, their rounded
domes glowing with the beautiful California poppy, like a covering of
a cloth of gold, while below the peaks the sloping sides looked like
green velvet. Here and there pine groves dotted the landscape, while
madrones and manzanitas stood out vividly against their dark-green
background.
Orinda Creek, the object of our quest, runs through this beautiful
valley, shut in on each side by the hills. Along the trail leading to
the stream blue and white lupines grow in profusion, giving a delicate
amethyst tinge to the landscape. Wild honeysuckle, with its
pinkish-red blossoms, is on every side and the California azalea
fringes both banks of the stream, its rich foliage almost hidden by
magnificent clusters of white and yellow flowers, which send out a
delightful, spicy fragrance, that can be detected far back from the
stream.
[Illustration: THE TROUT'S PARADISE]
The meadow larks called from the hillside their quaint "Spring o' the
year," the song sparrows sang their tinkling melody from the live
oaks, catbirds mewed from the thicket, and occasionally a linnet sang
its rollicking solo as it performed queer acrobatic feats while on the
wing.
Ahead of us a blue jay kept close watch over our movements, but at
last decided that we are harmless, and with a last shriek of defiance
flew away to pour out his vituperations on other hapless wanderers.
Adjusting our rods, and baiting our hooks with salmon roe, we crept
down to where a little fall sent the water swirling around a rock,
making a deep pool, and an ideal place for trout. Dropping our lines
into the rapids, we let the bait float down close to the rock in the
deep shadows. As soon as it struck the riffle there was a flash of
silver, and the game was hooked. Away he went, the reel humming a
merry tune as he raced back and forth across the pool, the rod bent
like a coach whip, the strain on the line sending a delightful tingle
to our finger tips. But he soon tired of the unequal contest, and was
brought safely to the landing net. He was by no means a large fish, as
game fish are reckoned, but to my mind it is not always the largest
fish that gives the keenest sport.
[Illustration: FISHING FOR BROOK TROUT]
From one pool to another we passed, wetting a line in each with
fair success, scrambling over logs and lichen-covered rocks, wading
from one side of the stream to the other, until the lengthening
shadows warned us to wind in our lines and start for home. Well
satisfied we were with the thirty-two trout reposing at the bottom of
our basket.
Our long tramp and the salt sea air had made us ravenously hungry, and
the sandwiches that provident wives had prepared for us were dug out
of capacious pockets and eaten with a relish that an epicure might
covet. I shall never forget the trip back. Night overtook us before we
were out of the first valley, the ascent was very steep, and we had to
stop every few rods to get our wind.
At last we reached the summit of Grizzly Peak, seventeen hundred and
fifty-nine feet above sea level, while to our right Bald Peak,
nineteen hundred and thirty feet high, loomed up against the sky. The
path on Grizzly was so narrow we had to walk single file, and a false
step would have sent us rolling down hundreds of feet.
The view--although seen in vague outline--was magnificent. Berkeley
and Oakland lay seventeen hundred feet below us, their twinkling
lights glowing through the darkness like fireflies. Out on San
Francisco Bay the lights flashed from the mastheads of ships at anchor
or from brightly lighted ferryboats plying from mole to mole, while
far to the left, Lake Merritt lay like a gray sheet amid the shadows.
In the middle distance off Yerba Buena Island two United States
gunboats were at anchor, one of them sending the rays of its powerful
searchlight here and there across the water, and making a veritable
path of silver far out across the bay.
Jack rabbits and cotton-tails scurried across our path and dodged into
thickets. An owl flapped lazily over our heads and sailed away down
the valley, evidently on his nocturnal hunting. But we had little time
or inclination to give to these mountain creatures, as we had to pay
strict attention to our footing.
The last descent proved to be the hardest, for the grade was as steep
as the roof of a house, but we finally succeeded in scrambling down,
and at last reached the grove surrounding the Greek Amphitheater; then
home, footsore and weary, but happy with our afternoon's outing on the
trout streams in the Berkeley Hills.
[Illustration]