“HE’S NO SARDINE.”
Wagon Wheel Gap ought to have been colonized by Frenchmen. Why, did you say? Well, the Gap proper is a few hundred feet long. On the southwest side of the Rio Grande, a cliff, about six hundred feet at the base, reaches heavenward perpendicularly about the same distance. Opposite, and stretching for two miles or more down the stream, is a beetling wall, in some places, they tell me, thirteen hundred feet high. To reach the summit, one must go two miles up the river to Bellows Creek, strike into a game trail that leads through numberless little parks, bordered with mountain pines, and gorgeous with the hues of wild flowers. If a Frenchman should walk to the summit of his ambition, he would be too tired to fall off; if he rode up, being a mercurial creature, he’d have time to, and would, change his mind, go back to his family, if he had any, and wonder why he had ever entertained the notion that this is not a good world to live in. Looked at from below, there would be such a fascination in the absolute magnificence of the means to his end, that when the melancholy fit enraptured him again, he’d go over the same trail, with the same happy result. With those cliffs hanging over him, the consequences of charcoal, morphine, the pistol or the rapier would become coarse. He would abandon all other routes to immortality, and finally die in his bed with the weight of years, like a Christian. That was my explanation to the Captain, and he believed in it, as we lay peering over the edge and looking down at our six-feet friends turned into midgets.
Those friends of ours, good rodsters, all, stood on the bank of the river, evidently predicting what a day might bring forth. The Rio Grande was metamorphosed from a crystal stream into a river of mud. From our dizzy height, it looked like a demoralized rope, the impeding boulders in the current making the frayed patches. We had seen it in that plight and none other for two weeks. But that we had been assured each day that there would certainly be a change on the morrow, we would have sworn its normal condition was “rily.”
Having been lied to daily for the last fourteen days, our hope had ended in the faith that inspired our comforters. “So much a long communion tends to make us what we are:—even I” promised each newcomer, anxious to test his skill, that the river would “clear up to-morrow.” We had heard, too, about four times a day, of the eight-pound trout captured somewhere in Antelope Park, on a seven-ounce rod,—the trout I mean, not the park. I knew all the history of that trout; it had been skinned and the skin stuffed; I saw a woman who saw the trout, and I, of course, had no hesitation in confidently asserting its weight and the details of its capture.
Our hourly routine had been to go to the river, examine the color of the water, and the mark that registered its stage; every fellow said it would “clear up to-morrow;” then we went back to the house and smoked.
Being on higher ground, the Captain thought he would vary the subject, so he said:
“I’d like to catch a pound and a half trout.”
I told him he should have one; that one of eight pounds had been caught somewhere in Antelope Park, and that it had been skinned and the skin stuffed; then he said he felt encouraged. That night the river did clear a little, and notwithstanding we knew that every fish in the river was gorged, we could not resist going down stream. Having floundered round on the slippery boulders for a couple of hours without sitting down, we reached a couple of good-sized pools at the head of a riffle; the Captain took the upper, I the lower. Making my way out near to mid-stream, I took up my station behind a large flat rock that stood about a foot out of water, and busied myself sending a “coachman” and a “professor” out into my domain with a little hope that I might induce something out of the inviting pool. Before I had been there five minutes a yell from the Captain caused me to look his way. His Bethabara was beautifully arched, and at the end of fifty feet of line something was helping itself to silk.
“I’ve got him—he’s a whopper.”
“That’s the pound and a half I promised you,” I answered, as a beautiful fellow shot across stream not three yards above me; “but you’ll lose him in that current.”
“I know it, unless I work him down your way.”
“Come on with him—don’t mind me.” I reeled in, climbed on the rock, and sat down to see the fun. The noble fish made a gallant fight, but the hook was in his upper jaw, and it was only a matter of time when he would turn upon his side. Working him down stream, through my pool and round into the quieter water near shore, was the work of ten minutes at least; the captive, seeming to readily understand that still water was not his best hold, kept making rushes for the swift current; but each time he was brought back, and soon began to weaken under the spring of the lithe toy in the Captain’s hand. Fifteen minutes were exhausted when the scale hook was run under his gills, and he registered one pound twelve ounces.
Apologizing for creating a row in my quarters, the Captain went back to his old place, while I again tried my luck. About five minutes elapsed when I heard another, not to be mistaken yell.
“I’ve got another—he’s bigger than the first.”
“Yes, I see you have—I think it’s infernally mean.”
“I know it is, but I can’t help it. I’ve got to come down there again.”
“Well, come on,” and I sat down again to watch the issue. The struggle was not so brave, though the fish, when brought to scale, weighed half a pound more than the first. While we were commenting on this streak of luck, we noticed a change in the water, its partially clear hue began to grow milky, and in less time than it takes to tell it, a boulder six inches under the surface was out of sight.
“We might as well go to dinner, no trout will rise in that mud,” and I reeled up with the reflection that the next best thing to catching a trout is to see one captured by one who knows how to manipulate a two-pounder on a seven-ounce rod.
That evening the river gave promise, as usual, of “clearing up to-morrow,” whereupon six of us made arrangements for a trip up stream half a dozen miles, with a lunch in the wagon. The morrow came and brought with it comparatively clear water. We were off immediately after breakfast; arrived at our lunching place under the shelter of some pines by the river bank, it was at once discovered that the river had gone back on us, so to speak; muddy again. No one swore, we just arranged ourselves along the margin and prayed; all good anglers know how to pray. I am indifferently skilful—at angling I mean—but always endeavor to do the best I can. In the course of an hour the river gave us some encouragement. It grew better as noon approached, and after lunch each man was assigned his quarters and struck out for them.
I went down stream with a six-footer in long waders, who was to cross to the other side at the first riffle, which he did. Our flies overlapped each other in agreeable proximity for two hours or more, with indifferent success to either. The trout were gorged with the food brought down by the repeated rises, and seemed in no hurry to seek the broad road that leads unto death.
Finally we reached a magnificent pool, nearly a mile from our starting point, and my companion had worked his way back to my side of the stream. We started into the edge of the pool together, he above me a couple of rods. The flies went over toward the opposite bank, twenty-five and thirty feet away, time and again, without success. Finally an exclamation from the gentleman above me directed my attention from my own tackle to his.
“Have you got him?” The inquiry was made on the score of good fellowship; the bend of his split bamboo, the tension of his line, and the whirr of his reel indicated that my tall friend had reached the first stage.
“I’ve hooked him, and he’s no sardine, I tell you—whoa boy; gently now,” as a sudden rush strung off full twenty feet of line. “Whoa boy, be easy, now; gently, now; come here; whoa! confound your picture! whoa boy; gently; so, boy.”
Just then a call from behind us announced the arrival of the balance of the party. They had got out of the wagon and were standing along the bank.
“May be you think you are driving a mule,” came from one of them.
“Oh no! I’m trying to lead one—whoa boy, whoa boy—gently now; none of your capers—whoa! I tell you!” as a renewed and vigorous dash for liberty threatened destruction to the slender tackle. “No you don’t, old fellow—so, boy; that’s a good fellow,” and showing his back near the surface the captive exhibited twenty inches, at a guess, of trout.
“By George, he’s a beauty,” came from behind us. I had allowed my flies to float down stream and had backed out to give room for fair play. It was a long fight, but his troutship finally showed side up, and was gently drawn ashore, the water turned out of him, and he drew down the scale three pounds, to a notch. As we gathered around to admire his majesty, I said: “The next best thing to catching a trout is to see a three-pounder brought to creel by one who can handle a seven-ounce rod.” They all agreed with me, and our tall friend modestly doffed his dead grass canvas.
