MID RUSHING WATERS.
On a bright, cheery September morning, Private Westbrook, of the Third Infantry, and myself left camp as soon as the sun had expelled the frost from the vegetation. On the way down we caught a number of grasshoppers—the orthodox bait in this region—to fall back on in case of necessity; for there are days when the mountain trout, as well as his cousin, the brook trout of the East, declines the most seductive fly on the bill of fare, and will have nothing but his favorite every-day diet.
Arriving at the river, Westbrook skirmished through the brush until he found an alder about an inch and a quarter in diameter at the ground and ten or twelve feet high. This he cut, trimmed up, and attached his line, a number two Sproat hook and a split shot, put on a "hopper," and was ready for business. I remonstrated gently with him on the heathenish character of his tackle, but he said, pleasantly and politely, that it was the kind that generally got to the front when trout-fishing was the business in hand. He said the fancy rods and reels and flies were all well enough for those who wanted to use them, but he preferred something with which he could round up his fish and corral them without losing any time. He said it was all right for any gentlemen to spend half an hour monkeying a trout after he had hooked it, if he wanted to, but for his part, he never could see much fun in that sort of fishing. He thought it was decidedly more interesting to yank a fish in out of the wet the instant he bit, and then lay for another.
He walked boldly out into the stream, waded down a little way below the ford, on a riffle, till he reached a point where the water was about two feet deep and where it rolled sullenly and gloomily over a series of large bowlders.
Here he made a cast, and his bait had barely touched the water when there was a vicious rush, a swirl and a dash downstream, but the cruel pole was brought to bear in the opposite direction. Then there was a flop, a splash, a hop, skip and a jump, and a three-pound trout took a header and went down into the soldier's haversack.
The bait was renewed, another cast made, and the act was repeated on a half-pounder. Then another weighing one-and-a-half pounds and a couple of about a pound each followed in rapid succession, when this portion of the stream failed to yield, and Westbrook moved on down. I followed along the bank and watched him for half an hour before attempting to rig my tackle at all. To watch the play of the various emotions on his hard, brown, honest face; to study the effect of the intense enthusiasm which possessed him; to note the utter disregard of personal safety and comfort with which he would plunge into the surging rapids and eddies up to his waist, or even to his arm-pits, wherever he thought he could catch a trout by so doing, was a genuine treat.