NOT ALL OF FISHING TO FISH
By A. Nelson Cheney.
“We cast our flies on many waters, where memories and fancies and facts rise, and we take them and show them to each other, and, small or large, we are content with our catch.”—W. G. Prime.
The commonly accepted definition of fly-fishing is the casting—with a light, strong, elastic, pliant rod—of two, three or four artificial flies, on a delicate leader attached to a fine tapered silk line over the surface of waters inhabited by the lordly, silver-coated salmon; that aristocratic beauty, the speckled trout, or the more sombre-colored but gamy black bass.
This, in truth, is called the acme of fishing, the highest degree attainable in the school of the angler. But of what a small portion, comparatively, of the pleasure of angling does the mere casting of the fly, however artistic, and the creeling of the fish, however large, consist.
If it were all of fishing to fish; if fish were only to be obtained in pools, in a desert waste that never reflected leaf or twig; from walled-in reservoirs, where fish are fattened like a bullock for the shambles; from sluggish, muddy streams within the hearing of great towns, redolent of odors that are bred and disseminated where humanity is massed between walls of brick and mortar, or even from a perfect fish preserve, where everything is artificial except the water; or if the beginning of fishing was making the first cast and the end the creeling of the last fish, would the gentle art under such conditions have been a theme for the poet’s pen, a subject for the artist’s brush, or a topic for the interesting story during the centuries that have passed since the first line was written, or the first words sung? I think not.
Fishing for the fish alone would not have inspired Dame Juliana Berners, Izaak Walton, Charles Cotton, Sir Humphry Davy, John Bunyan, Sir Walter Scott, “Christopher North,” and other and more modern writers to tell of the peace, the quiet, the health and the pleasure to be gained in the pursuit of this pastime.
The skill exercised and the delicate tackle used by a past master of the art would have been unnecessary to cultivate or fashion, solely to supply the brain with food through the alimentary canal.
An angler’s brain is fed by absorption as well as by assimilation.
There might be reason in calling a fisherman with an eye simply to the catching of fish, a “lover of cruel sport,” but the cruelty would be of the same kind, but in a less degree, as that displayed by the butcher who supplies our tables with beef and mutton.
To an angler the pleasures of the rod and reel are far-reaching and have no boundary save when the mind ceases to anticipate and the brain to remember. I have had the grandest sport on a midwinter’s night with the snow piled high outside and the north wind roaring down the chimney, while I sat with my feet to the blaze on the hearth, holding in my hand an old fly-book. The smoke from my lighted pipe, aided by imagination, contained rod, fish, creel, odorous balsam, drooping hemlock and purling brook or ruffled lake. I seemed to hear the twittering birds, leaves rustled by the wind and the music of running water, while the incense of wild flowers saluted my nostrils. The heat of the fire was but the warm rays of the sun and the crackle of the burning wood the noise of the forest. Thus streams that I have fished once or twice have been fished a score of times.
I had nothing to show for the later fishings, but I could feel that God was good and my memory unimpaired. The fish in the pipe-smoke has been as active as was the fish in the water, and afforded as fine play. My reel has clicked as merrily in the half-dream as on the rod in the long ago, and my rod has bent to the play of the fish as though it were in my hand instead of lying flat on a shelf in a cool room up-stairs. I have had in my musings all the pleasure of actual fishing, everything but the fish in the flesh.
When Winter comes and the ravages in tackle have been repaired and all is in perfect order for another season, I put my rods where they will not be injured by the modern furnace heat, each joint of each rod placed flat on a shelf. But the tackle trunk, securely locked that no vandal hand may get to its treasures, is where my eye rests upon it daily, and my fly books are in one of the drawers of my writing desk where I can easily reach them. ‘When I take one of the books out of an evening, or at any time during my walking hours in early winter, I generally seek out some tattered fly that is wrapped carefully in a paper and placed in one of its pockets. The book may be full of flies, sombre or gorgeous in all the freshness of untried silk, mohair, feathers and tinsel; but take for instance this one with the legend written on its wrapper:
“Puffer Pond, June, 1867.—Thirty-five pounds of trout in two hours. The last of the gentlemen that did the deed.”
This, to me, tells the story of a very pleasant week spent in the Adirondacks. I remember, as I hold the ragged, faded fly in my hand and see that it still retains something of the dark blue of its mohair body and the sheen of its cock-feather wings, that it was one of six flies that I had in my fly-book that June day that stands out from other June days, in my memory, like a Titan amongst pygmies. The fly had no name, but the trout liked it for all that, and rose to it with as much avidity as though they had been properly introduced to some real bug of which this was an excellent counterfeit.
That glorious two hours’ time—with its excitement of catching and landing without a net some of the most beautiful and gamy fish that ever moved fin—comes back to me as vividly as though at this moment the four walls of my room were the forest-circled shores of that far-away pond, and I stand in that leaky boat, almost ankle deep in the water that Frank, the guide, has no time to bail, occupied as he is in watching my casts and admiring my whip-like rod during the play of a fish, or fishes, and in turning the boat’s gunwale to the water’s edge to let my trout in when they are exhausted. It is sharp, quick work, and the blue-bodied fly is always first of all the flies composing the cast to get a rise, until I take off all but the one kind, and then one after another I see them torn, mutilated and destroyed. Later they will be put away as warriors gone to rest and the epitaph written on their wrappings:
“Thy work was well done; thy rest well earned.”
Now there is no time to mantle the fallen or sing paeans to the victors; the action is at its height. I put my last blue fly on my leader and cast it again and again with success, before those dark open jaws, that come out of the water every time it falls on the surface, have destroyed its beauty forever. Frank says the time is up and we must go.
The boat, propelled with broken oars, is headed for the landing-place, and I sit back in the stern admiring those sleek beauties that lie in the bottom, and that have fought so well and so vainly. My rod is inclined over my shoulder and the blue fly is trailing on the water astern. Suddenly I feel a twitch and hear a splash, and turning around find I am fast to a fish, the noblest Roman of that, day’s struggle. Once, twice, thrice he shows himself in all his fair proportions.
“Two pounds and a half, if an ounce,” says Frank.
I get down on my knees in the water of the cranky boat, as the reel sings the merriest tune that ever delighted the ear of an angler. Two or three mad dashes, and I think the trout is tiring. I reel him slowly in, but the sight of the boat gives him new life and he darts under it in spite of my efforts to swing him around the stern. The rod tip is passed clear of the boat and the fight continues.
Exhausted? The fight is only begun.
The unwieldy boat is far too slow to follow the fish, and I see my line growing rapidly less on my reel with no sign of weakness on the part of the fish. I am compelled to advance the butt of the rod and the tip droops nearer and, hesitatingly, still nearer to it, as though the tip would whisperingly confess that the strain is greater than it can bear, while the stout nature of the wood rebels at the confession. Involuntarily I raise myself by a muscular action as though the cords and sinews of my body could relieve the pressure on the lancewood and save the rod.
“You’ll smash your pole!” is the warning Frank utters.
I care not now, for the fight has been a glorious one, but the “pole” survives to fight many another fight; the trout is turned and, at last, comes side up, to the boat, vanquished but not subdued.
Here, in another paper, are three flies fastened together. A Chicken Red Palmer Hackle, a Grizzly King and a fly with black body, brown wings, red tail and tip. They are large trout flies and won honorable retirement by catching three small-mouthed black bass at one and the same time. Fishing from a boat in the Hudson River, above a long rough rapid, I cast inshore and saw the stretcher fly taken by a small bass; immediately after the two droppers were taken by other bass that did not show themselves when taking the lures. My rod was the same that I have already mentioned, an ash and lancewood of eight ounces—scale weight—and my entire attention was directed to it and the fish, that were bending it like a willow wand; when, suddenly, I discovered that the boatman had also been interested in the play of the fish and allowed the boat to drift into the swift water at the head of the rapids. The boatman made an effort to row up stream at the same time the fish decided to go down, and I found I must either smash my tackle and lose the fish—at this time I had seen but the one bass that took the stretcher fly—or run the rapids at the risk of an upset. I was very anxious to see the size of the fish that were struggling on my leader in that swift running water, and every angler will know the decision that was instantly made, to “shoot the rapids.”
The sight of these old tinseled lures brings back to me the wild excitement of that driving, whirling ride through the racing, seething waters. Hatless I crouch down in the boat, one hand clutching the gunwale of the broad river craft, and the other holding aloft my rod. I give no thought to the possible fate of the occupants of the boat. My anxiety is for the fish. When the curved line is straight again, will I feel the bass at the end or only the bare flies? These very flies!
Very soon the boat is rocking in the lumpy water at the foot of the chute, and I stand up, fill my lungs, and find my fish are still fast. Here in the broad water I bring to net three small-mouthed bass that together weigh four and one-quarter pounds, only one of which, at any time, showed himself above water. As I put the faded flies back into their paper coverings I find that my pulse has quickened and my pipe no longer burns.
I must not exhibit all my treasures here, to the public. These old souvenirs are only for the eyes of sympathizing angling friends when we meet to blow a cloud and talk of other days.
A little brown-eyed maiden once, looking into my fly-book, asked why I had the old frayed flies tied up in separate papers and marked, while the nice new flies did not show this care. Had she been of maturer years I might have quoted Alonzo of Aragon’s commendation of old friends, but instead, I merely said:
“The nice new flies I can easily buy, but no one sells such old flies, therefore I take the greater care of them because of their rarity.”
The new flies will not be slighted, for they, also, have their season of admiration and caressing touch. When their day has come the old veterans of many a fight will not be forgotten either, but while maturing plans for augmenting their numbers, the recruits in their new, bright dress will be inspected to see what claims they may have for future honors.
The lengthening days and diminishing snowbanks naturally turn the angler’s thoughts forward, and he sniffs the south wind as though he would discover some slight remaining odor of fragrant apple blossoms borne to him from the far southland as the forerunner of warm air, blue sky, bursting buds, open streams, green grass, “gentle spring,” and time to go a-fishing. Then the untried flies are examined and speculation is rife as to their excellence, each for its own particular kind of fish.
Day dreams and evening musings give place to an activity of mind and body when fishing is under consideration. The lessons of the last season and other seasons are brought to bear to perfect all arrangements for a fresh campaign. Consultations with brother anglers are frequent, and plans many and various are weighed and discussed. The tackle box is overhauled again and again, notwithstanding the attention paid to it at the close of the last season, to be sure that nothing is wanting or left undone. Lines are tested; leaders are subjected to the closest scrutiny to see that no flaws or chafed places exist to give way at a critical moment during some future contest, when a trifle will turn the scales; reels are taken apart and carefully oiled; rods sent to the maker for a new coat of varnish, and, perhaps, a few new whippings for the guide rings; fishing shoes, although they have a row of holes just above the soles, get an extra dressing of oil to keep the leather soft; and an inventory of the wardrobe is taken and old garments are selected that appear for the time, considering the use they are to serve, far more faultless than when first sent home by the tailor. “About these days your business letters, if written to people into whose souls the love of angling has entered, may terminate as follows:
“P. S.—What are the prospects for the spring fishing in your neighborhood? Did the late freshets of last fall destroy the trout eggs deposited in the streams about you?” or, “Did the unusual severity of the winter cause destruction to the trout spawn in the headwaters of your brooks?”
Some evening when the “fever is on” you will write to a guide up in the North Woods, some honest, faithful fellow that you have known in all weathers for many seasons:
“Be sure and take a boat over to Mahogany Pond, (that is not the name of it, for its title is taken from a domestic wood that grows on its shores), before the snow goes off and keep me informed as to the condition of things, for I wish to start and be with you as soon as the water is free from ice. I shall bring a friend with me, the gentleman I told you about last summer, who knows the name of every plant that grows in the woods, as well as the name of every fish that swims in the water. The old camp, with a few repairs, will answer, as Mr. ——— is an old woodsman and angler of the first order, and requires no more than the few simples that you usually take to camp. He, like myself, goes into the woods to fish and fill his lungs with the pure mountain air that you live in.”
When Dick reads the letter he smiles, for it contains nothing unknown to him before. It is his own idea to carry a boat to the pond on the snow, for there is no road, path or trail, but he only says to himself:
“He’s got it just as bad this spring as ever. The medicine will be ready for him.”
The angler does all this and more; mind, I say the angler, for the other fellow that goes a-fishing because it is the thing to do, or because he has heard some one dilate upon the pleasure to be found in practising the art, will do nothing of the sort. It is too much trouble, or, more likely, these things never occur to him.
How the man of severe aspect who, if he smiles, looks as though he wore a petrified smile that he had bought at a bargain, and whose sole ambition and pleasure is to make money, live as long as he can in doing so, and die as rich as possible; this man, if he could know, and comprehend, what is passing through the angler’s mind at this season, would say such vagabonds are the cumberers of the earth; but he could not find a “cumberer” in all the land who would change places with him, take his joyless life, sapless heart, frozen visage, narrow views and great wealth, and give in return the angler’s light heart, happy disposition, love of God, his fellow-man and Nature; his resources within himself, engendered by his fondness for the wild woods, to enjoy the past and anticipate the future, whatever betide; his desire to see good in every thing, his clear conscience and his fishing tackle.
Bear in mind that the pleasure of angling is not alone the consummation of your hopes for a large score. Hear what Sir Humphrey Davy says on this subject:
“From the savage in his rudest and most primitive state, who destroys a piece of game, or a fish, with a club or spear, to man in the most cultivated state of society, who employs artifice, machinery, and the resources of various other animals, to secure his object, the origin of the pleasure is similar, and its object the same: but that kind of it requiring most art may be said to characterize man in his highest or intellectual state; and the fisher for salmon and trout with the fly employs not only machinery to assist his physical powers, but applies sagacity to conquer difficulties; and the pleasure derived from ingenious resources and devices, as well as from active pursuits, belongs to this amusement. Then, as to its philosophical tendency, it is a pursuit of moral discipline, requiring patience, forbearance, and command of temper.
“As connected with natural science, it may be vaunted as demanding a knowledge of the habits of a considerable tribe of created beings—fishes, and the animals that they prey upon, and an acquaintance with the signs and tokens of the weather, and its changes, the nature of waters, and of the atmosphere. As to its poetical relations, it carries us into the most wild and beautiful scenery of nature, amongst the mountain lakes, and the clear and lovely streams that gush from the higher ranges of elevated hills, or that make their way through the cavities of calcareous strata. How delightful in the early spring, after the dull and tedious time of winter, when the frosts disappear and the sunshine warms the earth and waters, to wander forth by some clear stream, to see the leaf bursting from the purple bud, to scent the odors of the bank perfumed by the violet, and enamelled as it were with the primrose and the daisy; to wander upon the fresh turf below the shade of trees, whose bright blossoms are filled with the music of the bee; and on the surface of the waters to view the gaudy flies sparkling like animated gems in the sunbeams, whilst the bright and beautiful trout is watching them from below; to hear the twittering of the water-birds, who, alarmed at your approach, rapidly hide themselves beneath the flowers and leaves of the water-lily; and, as the season advances, to find all these objects changed for others of the same kind, but better and brighter, till the swallow and the trout contend as it were for the gaudy Mayfly, and till in pursuing your amusement in the calm and balmy evening, you are serenaded by the songs of the cheerful thrush and melodious nightingale, performing the office of paternal love, in thickets ornamented with the rose and woodbine.”
While it is not all of fishing to fish, it does not consist entirely of preparation, and it must have something substantial as a basis for the day dream or fireside musing. You must catch some fish, as capital stock, to talk about. I never knew an angler that was satisfied to do all the listening.
In my native State the law makes it legally possible to wet a hook for speckled trout, for the first time each year on April first, and this day has come to be called “Opening Day,” and is spoken of in such glowing language that one might think it the opening of some vast commercial enterprise instead of the opening of the fishing season. As the result of an angler’s hopes and preparations, as I have tried, imperfectly, to sketch them, I will quote from my fishing diary what is there set down as one consummation:
“April 1st, 1878.—Opening day. Fished Halfway brook from Morgan brook to, and through the woods; then fished Ogden brook from Van Husen’s road to Gleason’s. Banks more than full of roily snow water; weather decidedly cold; strong wind from the Northwest; cloudy sky. Caught one small trout that I returned to his native element to grow; discovered from my single specimen of the Salvelinus fontinalis that they have the same bright spots that they have always had; look the same, smell the same, feel the same; other peculiarities lacking. Warm sun and rain required to develop the characteristics we so much admire in our leaping friend. Managed to fall into the Ogden brook—in fact, went in without the slightest difficulty, amid applause from the bank; discovered from my involuntary plunge that the water is just as wet as last year, and if memory serves, a trifle colder. Reached home in the evening, cold, wet, tired and hungry. Nevertheless, had a most glorious time.”
“These flies, I am sure, would kill fish.”—Charles Cotton.
“I would advise all experts to keep a well-filled fly-book. It is a pleasure to experiment, and the educated eye takes delight in looking at the varieties of colors, shapes and forms which the skilled workman in fly-art has provided as lures for the speckled beauties.”—George Dawson.
“Fly-fishing and bait-fishing are co-ordinate branches of the same study, and each must be thoroughly learned to qualify the aspirant to honors for the sublime degree of Master of the Art.”—Charles Hallock.
“Americans have reason to be proud of the black bass, for its game qualities endear it to the fisherman, and its nutty, sweet flavor to the gourmand.”—Parker Gilmore.
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20. Black Maria.
21. Tipperlinn.
22. Premier.
23. Grizzly King.
24. Ferguson.
25. Californian.
“‘What flies do you most affect here?’ ‘Any, at times, and almost all. In some weather I have killed well with middlesized gaudy lake-flies; but my favorites, on the whole, are all the red, brown, orange and yellow hackles, and the blue and yellow duns.’”—Henry Wm. Herbert.
“Fish will frequently, although breaking freely, refuse the fly, but generally a few will be misled, and occasionally one will be caught.”—P. B. Roosevelt.
“The natural and acquired skill actually necessary before any man can throw a ‘neat fly’ is only known to those who have made this method of angling their study and amusement.”—“Frank Forester.”
“Luck has little to do with the size of an angling score; for skill in handling, a knowledge of the haunts of the fish, of the conditions of wind, weather and water, character of baits to be used, of the changes and drift of tideways, sun-rays and shadows, and a familiar acquaintance with the natural history of the family pisces, their habits, habitat, and idiosyncrasies (for no other animal is so erratic as these scaly fins), all go to make up the complete angler, known as such from the days and writings of Izaak Walton, in the seventeenth, up to this great nineteenth century.”—Wm. C. Harris.
“What is the use of my telling you what manoeuvres that trout will perform before he comes to the landing-net, gently as a lamb? I don’t know what he will do; never saw two of them act alike.”—Oliver Gills, Jr.
“Probably the secret of the infatuation of this amusement to most or many of the brothers of the angle, is to be found in the close and quiet communion and sympathy with nature essential to the pursuit of the spoil of the water.”—John Lyle King.
“The principle of the rod is in reality only this, that it is the home end of the line, stiffened and made springy, so that you can guide and manage it—cast and draw it, keep a gentle pressure with it on the hook, so that the fish shall not rid himself of it, and finally lift him to the landing net.”—W. C. Prime.