“Don’t borrow trouble,” suggested Frank, bravely. “There’s your stream. Let’s see what a Cutthroat trout is like.”
Gathering up the trout outfit the two boys set out across the meadow. A bit of pine woods crowning a rise of rocks lay between them and the stream, but in a few minutes they were on the rocky margin of the Fording. It was a trouty looking piece of water; not wide but too deep for fishing in the stream. The blue-green current rippled over fallen trees and protruding rocks, making foam flecked pools that were natural haunts for fish.
“I always like to wade the stream and fish with the current,” said Phil, busy winding his line and attaching his gut leader, “but these backwaters look powerful good to me. Did they tell you this was the fly?” he continued holding up what is known as the May.
“The clerk said it was a ‘killer,’” answered Frank.
After a good deal of grumbling over the defects of the cheap reel, Phil finally announced that he meant to try the foot of the falls first. As the boys made their way along the rocky bank Phil made a cast or two to straighten out his line.
About a hundred yards below the falls the stream widened into a pool and the bank rose into a tangle of berry bushes. At its foot the water ran up to the little cliff. Frank began to climb the elevation. To his surprise Phil walked directly into the shallow water of the creek’s edge.
“Come up here and keep out o’ that,” called Frank. “What’s the use o’ wettin’ everything you have on?”
“I’m fishin’,” called back Phil. “You—”
Then he stopped. Frank leaned over the bushes. As he did so he saw Phil out in the stream, the water nearly reaching his waist. His rod at that moment was a semicircle and the tense figure of the fisherman, the forward poise of his body, the left hand far extended and grasping a turn of line, told enough. If there had been any doubt about the situation, a flash of golden, yellow and pink in a cloud of spray told it all.
“It’s a beaut, Phil,” yelled Frank and in another moment he ran down the bank to his chum’s side. For ten minutes Phil, with all his Michigan fishing skill, played his first strike. With no landing net, the issue of the fight was problematical. But there was clear water in all directions and the trout was well hooked. Thoroughly exhausted, Frank at last got his thumb in the fish’s gill and the two boys waded ashore.