The fishing was very good at
several of our camps after we reached the mountains, and I can assure
you that the speckled trout of the East and these mountain trout are
not comparable, the latter are so far, far superior. The flesh is
white and very firm, and sometimes they are so cold when brought out
of the water one finds it uncomfortable to hold them. They are good
fighters, too, and even small ones give splendid sport.
One night the camp was by a beautiful little stream with high banks,
and here and there bunches of bushes and rocks--an ideal home for
trout, so I started out, hoping to catch something--with a common
willow pole and ordinary hook, and grasshoppers for bait. Faye tells
everybody that I had only a bent pin for a hook, but of course no one
believes him. Major Stokes joined me and we soon found a deep pool
just at the edge of camp. His fishing tackle was very much like mine,
so when we saw Captain Martin coming toward us with elegant jointed
rod, shining new reel, and a camp stool, we felt rather crestfallen.
Captain Martin passed on and seated himself comfortably on the bank
just below us, but Major Stokes and I went down the bank to the edge
of the pool where we were compelled to stand, of course.
The water was beautifully clear and as soon as everybody and
everything became quiet, we saw down on the bottom one or two trout,
then more appeared, and still more, until there must have been a dozen
or so beautiful fish in between the stones, each one about ten inches
long.
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