If you go there, stop at George Durrance’s, in Wurtsborough, and if he boasts of fishing, as he will,[2] ask him whether he remembers going to the Sandberg one day, many years ago, to show a Yorker how to catch trout.
It was a bright sunshiny day, and as we drove up to the edge of the bank, above a clear, rapid, sparkling stream, I saw a large trout leap heavily out of water, where the current swept with a swirl past a high rock. As I rigged up my flies, George borrowed my knife to cut a pole, as he did not have much faith in “them things,” and while he was gone, I crept cautiously up behind the rock, and cast over the further projecting point. I could not see my flies alight, but heard a splash, and striking felt I had a splendid fish. He fought bravely, but by keeping him in the upper part of the pool, the lower end by the rock, was not disturbed. After some trouble, I landed him, having no net. Then approaching the rock with the same caution, the performance was repeated, only this time my rod was broken in endeavoring to land the fish, and it was necessary to find George and obtain my knife.
I discovered him under the bushes on the bank, in a miserable state—it was oppressively hot—his rod was a long sapling, and naturally heavy—the sky and water were clear, and the fish would not touch the worm, which we could see from where he sat. He had only taken two miserable little fish. He did no better all day, and while I rose and killed fish after fish, he did not take another one. When afternoon came, and he impatiently urged me away, my basket was so full it broke down, and he had his two fish. On reaching his house, the boys spread our respective takes out on a board, and to George’s deep chagrin exhibited them to the entire village. He has not taught a “Yorker” how to catch trout since.
So much for your countryman, with his bed-cord for line and stick for pole, and yet George was admitted to be the best fisherman in that neighborhood. A person residing near a stream, and having fished it from infancy, and acquainted with its every pool, has an immense advantage over a stranger; but there was only one countryman ever beat me trout-fishing, and he, after taking me to the stream, slipped off and waded it down ahead of me.
All the streams that, taking their rise in or near this State, flow into the Delaware or Susquehanna, are filled with trout; the Tobyhanna, the Bushkill, Broadhead’s Creek and a thousand others, that the Erie and Lackawanna railroads now make easy of access. While Hamilton County, Essex, the region of the Adirondacks, Clinton County with its Chateaugay and Chazy Lakes, and the Saranac River, and Franklin County with its innumerable ponds, offer all the sport that the heart of man can desire. All the streams of New England, especially in the neighborhood of the White Mountains, are filled with small trout; while the State of Maine, in Moosehead Lake, the Kennebec, and its other fine rivers and lakes, affords the finest brook trout-fishing in the world.
The angler may, therefore, seek his darling close to his own summer-house, or may drop in at any of the many well kept taverns on the south side of Long Island, where he will find every comfort and most of the luxuries of the day, will meet other enthusiastic fishermen, who will relate varied and interesting experiences, and exchange views and fancies with him, and will prove themselves, if real fishermen, the most obliging and unselfish gentlemen in the world; or he may seek the lonely hotel at Lake Pleasant or Moosehead Lake, where he will still find comfort in a rougher way, and wonderful good sport; or he may boldly strike out into the trackless woods, commit himself to his birch canoe and trusty guide, and then, if he be made of the right stuff, I promise him such happiness as he will never forget—merry innocent days and dreamless nights, health in every limb, and contentment in his mind.[3]
There is no fish more difficult to catch, nor that gives the true angler more genuine sport than the trout. His capture requires the nicest tackle, the greatest skill, the most complete self-command, the highest qualities of mind and body. The arm must be strong that wields the rod; the eye true that sees the rise; the wrist quick that strikes at the instant; the judgment good, that selects the best spot, the most suitable fly, and knows just how to kill the fish. A fine temper is required to bear up against the loss of a noble fish, and patient perseverance to conquer ill luck.
Hence it is that the fisherman is so proud of his basket of a dozen half-pound trout, he feels that any one more awkward or less resolute could not have done so well. He feels conscious that he does not owe his success to mere luck, but has deserved the glory. He feels that he has elevated himself by the very effort. Do not suppose I mean that there is no skill in other fishing; there is in all, even in catching a minnow for bait, but most of all in trout-fishing.
CHAPTER III.
SEA TROUT.
Salmo Trutta Marina—Salmon Trout—White Trout.