He tried to follow the stream, but the sides were so precipitous that he was forced to climb to the ridge or “hog-back.” Here he found the walking excellent, as there was no under-brush and the ground was covered with a soft moss.
At intervals through the park-like pines he caught the glint of running water in the gorge below. The air was warm, but the gentle zephyrs wafted from the glacial stream brought a coolness that was almost chill. The sound of the falls became louder as he climbed higher, increasing to a trembling roar as he came to the edge of a boulder-strewn precipice. Here there met his gaze a tumbling cascade of water, falling from a cliff to an iridescent pool sixty feet below.
Donald scrambled and slid to the lower level, only to find that he would have to walk down stream and wade up in order to get within reach of the pool. By leaping from rock to rock he managed to reach a flat ledge near the side that allowed him perfect freedom for casting. The spray reached him in the form of a fine mist that felt grateful after his exertions. A shaft of brilliant sunshine, looking like a searchlight where it penetrated the heavy mist, was reflected and refracted to form a rainbow that shone resplendently against the dark wall of the canyon. On each side rose a sheer wall of rock, with here and there a small fir or spruce clinging to fissures where sufficient earth had accumulated to give it nourishment. At the point where the cataract struck the pool there was a mass of heaving, foaming water that spread in ever lessening waves to become gentle ripples lapping softly on the shores.
The little birds known as waterousels, or dippers, were in their element. Standing on the rocks around which the turbulent waters roared, they bobbed and curtsied, then flew in under the waterfall to their nests in the damp niches of the rocks. Far overhead, like a speck in the azure sky, a bald eagle careened and soared. Over all was the thunder of the cataract drumming in Donald’s ears and giving to the earth a gentle tremor.
He began eagerly to joint his rod, attach leader and flies, and unfold his landing-net. “There,” he said, when he had completed the task, “I’ll just throw that in to soak while I have a smoke.”
He cast carelessly, laid the rod down and reached for a cigarette. “B-r-r-r-r,” the reel shrilled madly. He made a wild clutch for the rod, retrieving it just as the tip entered the water. A big rainbow trout leaped into the air with a flash of prismatic colours, and made that graceful curve that is so pleasing to the fisherman’s eye. The five-ounce rod bent double as he checked the trout’s rush. Then the line slackened as the fish turned and came toward him with incredible speed. He reeled frantically to take in the slack line. Once more the gamey trout turned and the line was singing with the strain. Suddenly it went straight down and in the pellucid depths he could see it lying near the bottom with tail and fins moving listlessly. Slowly he reeled in the line, bringing the fish nearer and nearer. With landing-net extended Donald leaned forward; but with a quick flirt of its tail the trout shot to the surface, sending a shower of spray in his face. Then, leaping and dashing—the reel singing merrily—it crossed the pool with renewed energy. Unexpectedly the whirr of the reel ceased and the rod was nearly jerked from Donald’s hands—a detested “back lash.” In other words, the line had tangled at the reel. The slender rod was bent nearly to a circle.
“It won’t stand it,” muttered Donald in a fever of excitement. He lowered the tip slowly to relieve the strain on the rod, all the while working desperately to free the tangle. Snap! The fish with a tremendous tug parted the leader, and with one last triumphant leap to flaunt its brilliant colours, it disappeared.
It is universally understood among the angling fraternity that when a fish is lost under such conditions the Recording Angel turns her head.
In an hour the cold spray from the glacial water had dampened Donald’s clothing and benumbed his fingers. The basket by then being nearly full, and his wrist lame from casting and playing the fish, he decided to quit. As he climbed the ridge the air above felt like a breath from an oven in contrast to the atmosphere of the canyon.
Through a tall, stately grove of pines Donald descried an open glade whence came the sound of running water. He walked through the dark aisles of towering trees, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet of soft needles. Pushed aside a growth of low deciduous trees that fringed this open passage in the woods, he gazed upon a scene that held him entranced. At some time in the earth’s remote history moving ice had gouged out this tiny valley and left a rich deposit of glacial silt. A small mountain stream cascaded from a moss-covered cliff to fall from ledge to ledge and flash crystal clear and sparkling through the vividly green grass and bright flowers which formed the carpet of the valley floor. The brilliant columbine, interspersed with the yellow marigold and dandelion, made bright splotches of colour. Wild roses hung in masses in the border of low green shrubs. The white rein orchis grew in rank profusion everywhere, filling the air with its delicate perfume. Ferns and cotton grass grew to the very edge of the limpid brook that prattled musically over the moss-covered stones. A rabbit with her young nibbled at the tender grass roots at the far side of the creek. Humming-birds buzzed back and forth and a bluejay—the Paul Pry of the woods—peered curiously down at the interloper, with its head moving from side to side and its beady eyes shining. Then with a startled shriek it flew across the glade—like a streak of blue in the sunshine—to hold excited colloquy with its mate. A willow grouse sailed from a cliff above to land with a great preening of feathers and move with a peculiar gliding run to the shelter of a stand of salal bushes.