Chasing the Sun

by R. M. Ballantyne

Just as he said this, and while he was paying no attention to his rod, a salmon rose and seized the fly. In an instant Fred and his comrades utterly forgot all about the ducking, and were filled with the excitement of the sport.

Fred’s rod bent like a willow wand. His eyes seemed to flash, and his lips were tightly pressed together, for he felt that he had on a very large fish. Suddenly it darted up stream, and did what the large fish seldom do—leaped quite out of the water.

“A whale! stand by!” roared Bob Bowie.

There was a cry from the others, for at that moment the salmon set off down stream,—a most dangerous proceeding at all times. Fred made for the bank, and let out line as fast as possible. When he gained the bank he ran down the stream, leaping over bushes and stones like a wild goat. The places he went over in that run were terribly rugged. It seemed a miracle that he escaped without broken bones. Presently he came to a steep rock that projected into the water. There was no getting round it, so in he dashed. It took him only up to the knees. This passed, he came to another place of the same sort. Here he put a strain on the fish, and tried to stop it. But it was not to be stopped. It had clearly made up its mind to go right down to the sea. Fred looked at the pool, hesitated one moment, and then leaped in. It took him up to the neck, and he was carried down by the current fifty yards or so, when his feet caught bottom again, and he managed to raise his rod, fully expecting to find that the salmon had broken off. But it was still on, and lively. Meanwhile, his comrades on the bank were keeping pace with him, shouting and yelling with excitement as they ran.

“The rapid, mind the rapid!” roared Grant.

Fred saw a foaming rapid before him. He became anxious. It was dangerous to venture down this. If he should touch a rock on the way down, the chances were that he would get a limb broken. The banks here were so thickly covered with bushes that it was impossible to pass. The fish still held on its headlong course. “What shall I do?” thought Fred. “If I stop he will break all to pieces, and I shall lose him. Lose him! no, never!”

“Don’t venture in, Fred,” shrieked Sam Sorrel.

But the advice came too late. Fred was already in the foaming current. In a moment he was swept down into the comparatively still water below the rapid. His friends lost sight of him, for they had to run round through the bushes. When they got to the foot of the rapid, they found Fred on the bank, panting violently, and holding tight to the rod, for the salmon had stopped there, and was now “sulking” at the bottom of a deep hole. For a full hour did the fisher labour to pull him out of that hole in vain; for in this kind of fishing nothing can be done by main force. The great beauty of the art consists in getting the salmon to move, and in humouring his movements, so that you tire him out, and get him gradually close to your side.

At last the fish came out of the deep pool. Then there was another short struggle of quarter of an hour, and the fisher’s perseverance and skill were rewarded. The salmon at last turned up its silvery side. Fred drew it slowly to the bank (in breathless anxiety, for many a fish is lost at this point). Hans struck the gaff in neatly, and with a huge effort flung it floundering on the bank, amid the hearty cheers of all present.

This salmon weighed 34 pounds, and was about four feet long! It was a magnificent fish, and it may well be believed that Fred Temple did not grudge the two hours’ battle, and the risk that he had run in the catching of it.