Dr. Bethune, page 97, says the rod should not exceed one pound in weight. Indeed it should not, and if it does, it exemplifies the old maxim, so far as to have a fool at one end. If we could fish by steam, a rod exceeding a pound and measuring over fourteen feet might answer well, but in these benighted days, while wrists are made of bone, muscles, cartilages and the like, the lighter the better. A rod, and if perfection is absolutely indispensable, a cedar rod of eleven or twelve feet, weighing nine or ten ounces, will catch trout. Cedar rods can only be obtained in America, and then only on compulsion, but this wood makes the most elastic rods in the world. They spring instantly to every motion of the hand, and never warp. They are delicate; the wood is, like woman, cross-grained, but invaluable if carefully treated. The reel should be a simple click, never a multiplier, but large barrelled, and fastened to the but with a leather strap. The line, silk covered with a preparation of oil, tapered if possible at each end, and thirty to forty yards long. The basket, positive, a fish-basket; the angler, comparative, a fisher-man.
Thus equipped, go forth mildly approving where the writer’s opinions coincide with yours, simply incredulous where they do not. Ere you begin, however, you may wish to know the size of the fish you can catch, a matter of no little intricacy, for though we all know the size of the fish we have ourselves caught, there is always some one else that has caught larger. My largest trout, at the time this is written, was taken on the Marshpee River, on Cape Cod, and weighed three pounds and fourteen ounces. But it is said there were inland brook trout exhibited at the New York Club by a member in the year 1857, the two largest of which weighed cleaned six pounds and a half each. “I have my doubts.” These fish should have weighed, when first taken, nearly eight pounds, double the size of any trout, other than sea trout, I have ever seen or before that heard of. In my opinion, they were lake trout, caught, perhaps, from a small pond, and bright colored. It was claimed they were taken with the fly, which lake trout will not ordinarily touch; but, unfortunately, it was also said, that two weighing about five pounds each were caught and landed on one cast, and that this was done twice. Now confidence in our neighbors’ truth is the framework of society, but there is a limit to human credulity, and catching two five pound trout at one cast, is at the very verge of that limit. No one, except by the most incredible good fortune, could kill two such fish on any ordinary fly-tackle, with any ordinary fly-rod. The hooks would almost certainly tear out, and no strain could possibly be kept on the lower fish, which, by slacking up his line and then darting away, would probably go free. But great luck alone could enable a person to land two such fish; the lower one would never drown, being at perfect liberty—by the by, trout never die in the water, they always save enough life for one final rush—and when the upper fish was landed or gaffed, the lower would go off in a jiffy. When a person claims to do this twice in a day, he must be pronounced a lucky man indeed.
We caught our big trout in the Marshpee, and we will tell you how we did it, though the words make us blush as we write them. We were young then, and it is to be hoped innocent; and having gone to Sandwich, on Cape Cod, in search of untried fields, discovered a jolly, corpulent landlord, named Teasedale, who, with his friend, Johnny Trout, so named jocosely, were the fishermen of the neighborhood. That was before the stream was preserved for the benefit of the “Poor Indian,” and poorer fishermen mulcted, as at present, in five dollars a day for the privilege of fishing. We drove to the stream, almost six miles, Teasedale enlivening the early June morning with snatches of hunting songs, and when there plunged recklessly in. Oh! but the water was cold—a dozen large springs poured in their freezing contents—and the blood fairly crept back to our hearts. The stream ran through a narrow defile, overhung with the thickly tangled vine and creepers, rendering a cast of the line impossible, and had worked its way far under the steep banks, making dark watery caverns, where the great fish could lie in wait for their prey. We removed the upper joint of our fly-rod, which was heavy and strong, and leaving the line through the last ring of the second joint, we put on a bait next to the fly in beauty and effect, the minnow. The water was freezing cold—the closely entwined boughs and leaves shut out the heavens above, and we were alone in the shadowy darkness with the tenants of the deep. The herring frequented the brook, and pursued by the large trout, darted in shoals between our feet. It is always a good sign when the herring are running, and we had excellent luck.
There are several ways of putting on a minnow, and if a person from ignorance or necessity must poach, let him poach well. There is the gorge-hook loaded with lead, the snell passed by the baiting needle at the mouth of the bait and out at the tail, bringing the hooks which are double at the mouth. It is highly recommended by some English books and their American imitators, but in my experience is more useful, unbaited, for catching snapping mackerel, young blue-fish, than for any other purpose. There are the gangs of hooks, consisting of two or more small hooks back to back, one of which is inserted in the side or back of the bait, with another small one further up on the line, which is inserted on the lip or nose. It answers well for some kinds of fishing, and for large bait, but does not work well with small fish. The bait is not bent sufficiently, and does not spin readily.
Then there is the old-fashioned large single hook, thrust through the mouth, down the fleshy part of the back and out at the side, or out at the gills and back through the mouth into the side. The objection is that bait is apt to work down on the bend of the hook, or the trout is apt to take off the tail of the bait without being hooked.
The other, and I think the best plan of baiting with dead bait, is the same as the last, with the addition of a small hook to thrust through the nose, that tends to retain the fish in its place, and allow the hook to be carried down further toward the tail, and still make the bait spin well. Minnow is never properly baited, unless it spins freely with every motion of the rod, and it must ever be kept moving. Of course the line must be armed with the swivel-trace, and in baiting with dead minnow a Limerick hook should be used, when using worms or grasshoppers a hook of finer wire is better.
The dead minnow is preferable for rapid water. In ponds the minnow should be alive, in which case the hook is to be inserted in front of the dorsal fin, and the point may be left under the skin, or exposed, as the poacher pleases; I prefer it covered. It should not penetrate the flesh.
In the Marshpee I was using a single hook, keeping the bait well ahead of me, and creeping cautiously in the freezing water, watching the tiny float as it danced its merry course along, now borne swiftly over the rippling current, anon caught in an eddy and returning on its track, and then again resting motionless in some dark and quiet pool. It was scarcely visible beneath the dense shadows, and once in a while it would disappear from my straining sight; then followed a sharp blow with my rod, a fierce tug, a short fight between fear, despair and cunning on the one side, and strength, energy and judgment on the other. The prey once hooked, and skill there was not; it was a mere contention of two brute forces, in which the weaker went to the basket. An exhibition of skill or tenderness would have resulted in an entanglement round the nearest root, and the loss of fish, leader and hook. Still, there was excitement; the situation was romantic, the narrow gorge, the deep and rapid stream, the closely matted trees and vines, the ever-changing surface of the current, which adds beauty to the tamest brook, all combined to lend enchantment to the scene. The fish were large and vigorous, fresh run from the sea, where they had, the Winter long, been a terror to the small fry, and early death to juicy and unsuspicious shell-fish. They fought fiercely for life and liberty, their homes and their household gods, and, alas! too often successfully. The risk of their escape added to the interest of the occasion, and the number of herring darting past gave continual promise of the presence of their arch enemy, the trout.
I had half-filled my basket, and had met with wonderful escapes and terrible heart-rending losses, mingled with exhilarating successes. I had made about half the distance, as well as we judged, and felt proud and happy as no king upon his throne ever did or will. My rod, though a fly-rod, was whipped every few inches with silk, and thus strengthened had stood the unequal conflict admirably. Still hoping for better things—who will not hope for the impossible?—I strode on. Below me the current made a sudden turn at a bend in the stream, and eddied swiftly under the overhanging bank. The brook almost disappeared in what was evidently a vast cavern deep in the bowels of that bank. In such watery palaces, amid the worn rocks, the tangled roots, the undulating moss and weeds, fierce-eyed, monstrous trout delight to dwell. In such fortresses they await unwary travellers, and dark deeds are done in the congenial darkness—outrage, riots and murder stalk boldly about. The migratory herring, harmless and unsuspicious, peers in and starts affrighted back, then peers again, at last ventures forward, and then, compelled by instinct to ascend, tries to dart hastily by; there is a sudden rush, a frantic struggle, a piteous look entreating mercy of pitiless hearts; for an instant the water is dyed with blood and then flows on, washing, all trace of the deed away.
I approach the den carefully, the feather-like float dancing merrily far ahead over the rippling tide, and as the line is paid out, swaying from side to side, close in front of the roots that fringe the bank, still not a sign; a step forward—the water carries it under the bank out of sight. I stand still, expectant; nothing yet; I creep cautiously to the very bank, and thrust my rod in the water, aye, under the bank its full length. What’s that! Ah! what a tug! I have him, the monster, the Giant Despair of the wayfaring herring. How he pulls! I must have him out of his retreat; it is a great risk but my only chance. I strain my rod, my line, almost my arms, to the utmost; he comes, disdainful of surreptitious advantages, relying on his great strength; he has not taken protection of weed or stump. Now, my boy, do your utmost; yes, leap from the water, dart down with the current; I must give to you a little; no line can stand that strain; but you will never reach your lair again. Turn about, head up stream, that is what I want; there is a sandy bank above us, can I but reach it and land you there. Ah! you perceive the danger or have changed your mind; how you fly down stream with the slackened line hissing through the water behind you. Well, go, you will soon turn again. Already, beautiful, you have passed the bank; now, rod, be true; line, do your duty. The pliant ash bends, the upper joint has passed below the but in a wide hoop. He comes, his head is up; if I can but keep it out of water! he dashes the foaming waves with his strong tail; one more effort; bend rod, but do not break; he is out of water; I have him. He is dancing on the yellow sand his last dance in mortal form; his changing hues glancing in the mild light, his fierce mouth gasping, his bright sides befouled with sand and dust, his glittering scales torn off by the sharp stones. His efforts grow fainter, the flashing eye dims, a few convulsive throes and he is quiet; the grim hand of death has pressed upon him.