FISHING WITH THE FLY
By Charles F. Orvis and Others
Copyright 1883
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“Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield.”—Pope.
“Gentlemen, let not prejudice prepossess you. I confess my discourse is like to prove suitable to my recreation, calm and quiet. So much for the prologue of what I mean to say.”—Izaac Walton.
CONTENTS
[ ETCHINGS ON A SALMON STREAM. ]
[ THE SALMON AND TROUT OF ALASKA. ]
[ A TROUTING TRIP TO ST. IGNACE ISLAND. ]
[ FLY FISHING IN THE YOSEMITE. ]
[ FROM “GAME FISH OF THE NORTH.” ]
[ THE RESOURCES OF FLY-FISHING. ]
[ NOT ALL OF FISHING TO FISH ]
FISHING WITH THE FLY.
ETCHINGS ON A SALMON STREAM.
By Charles Hallock
I suppose that all that can be instructively written of the salmon has already been said. The processes of natural and artificial propagation have become familiar to all who desire to learn; the secrets of their periodical migrations—their advents and their absences—have been fathomed from the depths of ocean; their form and beauty have been lined by the artist’s brush, and their flavor (in cans) is known to all the world where commerce spreads her wings. And yet, the subject always carries with it a perennial freshness and piquancy, which is renewed with each recurring spring, and enhanced by every utterance which attempts to make it vocal; just as the heavenly choirs repeat the anthem of the constructed universe intoned to the music of the assenting spheres! The enthusiasm which constantly invests it like a halo has not been dissipated or abated by the persistent pursuit of many centuries, albeit the sentiments of to-day are but the rehearsal of the original inspiration, and present knowledge the hereditary outcome of ancient germs.
All down the ages echo has answered echo, and the sounding forks have transmitted orally the accented annals wherever the lordly salmon swims.
Now, hold rhapsody, and let us look to the river! Do you mark the regal presence in yonder glinting pool, upon which the sun flashes with an intensity which reveals the smallest pebble on the bottom? Nay? You cannot see that salmon, just there at the curl of the rapid? Nor his knightly retinue drawn up there abreast just behind him in supporting position? Then, my friend, you are indeed a novice on the river, and the refraction of the solar rays upon its surface blinds your unaccustomed eyes. Well, they do certainly look but shadows in the quiet pool, so motionless and inanimate, or but counterfeiting the swaying of the pensile rock-weeds of the middle stream. What comfortable satisfaction or foreboding premonitions do you imagine possess the noble lord while he is taking his recuperative rest in the middle chamber, after passing from his matriculation in the sea? Faith! you can almost read his emotions in the slow pulsations of his pectoral fins, and the inflection of his throbbing tail! Perhaps he shrinks from the barricade of rock and foam before him; or hesitates to essay the royal arch above the gorge, which reflects in prismatic hues of emblematic glory the mist and mysteries of the unattempted passage.
And his doughty squires around him; do they share his misgivings, or are they all royal bloods together, sans peur sans reproche, in scaled armiture of blue and silver, eager to attain the land of promise and the ultimate degree of revelation? Ah! the way is indeed beset with difficulties and crucial tests, but its end is joy and the fulness of knowledge: and “knowledge is the beginning of life.”
Let us go nearer, and with caution. Ha! what flash was that across the pool, so swift and sudden that it seemed to begin and end at once? It sped like a silver arrow across the line of sight, but it was not a silver arrow; only the salmon on his route up stream, at the rate of 90 miles per hour. Were it not for the obstructions of the cascades and the long rapids, and perchance the wicked set-nets of the fishermen, it would not take him long to accomplish his journey to the head of the stream, and there prepare for the spawning-beds. But were-the way to procreation made thus easy, and should all the salmon of a season’s hatching survive, they would stock their native rivers so full in a couple of years that there would be no room for them. So the sacrifice of life is necessary that life may continue. Strange the paradox!
I love to see the salmon leap in the sunlight on the first flood of a “June rise,” and I love to hear his splash in the darkness of the still night, when the place where he jumped can be determined only by the sound, unless perchance his break in the water disturbed the reflection of a star. I have stood on heights afar off at the opening of the season, ere my unconsecrated rod had chance to exercise its magic, or my lips and feet to kiss the river, and with the combined exhilaration of impatience, desire, and joy, watched the incessant spirits of silvery spray until my chained and chafed spirit almost broke at the strain; and I have lain on my couch at midnight sleepless and kept awake by the constant splash of the salmon leaps. More interesting, if not so stimulating, is the leap of the salmon at obstructing falls, with the air filled with dozens of darting, tumbling, and falling fish—the foam dashing and sparkling in the sun, the air resonant with roar, and damp with the ever-tossing spray. Nay, more: I have seen a fall whose breast was an unbroken sheet thirty feet perpendicular, inclosed by lateral abutments of shelving crags which had been honey-combed by the churning of the water in time of flood; and over these crags the side-flow of the falls ran in struggling rivulets, filling up the holes and providing little reservoirs of temporary rest and refreshment for the running salmon; and I have actually seen and caught with my hands a twelve-pound salmon which had worked its way nearly to the counterscarp of the topmost ledge in its almost successful effort to surmount a barrier so insuperable! Surely, the example of such consummate pertinacity should teach men to laugh at average obstacles which stand in the pathway of their ambition!
I always become enthusiastic over the rugged grandeur of some Canadian rivers with which I am familiar.
We have no such rivers in our own domain, except on the Pacific slope; and except in parts of Scotland and Norway, the streams of Europe must be tame in comparison. It is because so few of our own anglers have the experience to enable them to draw contrasts, that they do not more appreciate the charm of salmon fishing. Even a vivid description fails to enforce the reality upon their comprehension, and they remain listless and content with smaller game. Beyond the circumscribed horizon of grass-meadows and the mountain trout streams of New England and the Blue Ridge their vision does not reach. There is a higher plane both of eminence and art.
Opportunely for man’s periodical proclivities, nature has given to salmon and green peas a vernal flavor and adaptation to each other, as well as to his desires, so that, when the spring comes around they act directly on his liver, expelling all the effete accumulations of winter, stimulating the action of the nerves and brain, and imparting an irresistible desire to go a-fishing. They oil the hinges of the tongue and keep it wagging until June. When that auspicious, leafy month arrives, not all the cares of State will hold a President, Vice-President, or even a Vice-Regent, from taking his annual outing on the salmon streams. Representatives of royalty and representatives of republicanism join sympathies and hands. The Governor-General of Canada sails to his favorite river in a government vessel with her officers in full panoply of brass buttons and navy-blue. The President of the United States abandons the well-worn star routes for more congenial by-paths. Wealthy Americans in private yachts steam away to the tributaries of the St. Lawrence, and clubs cross lines on their exclusive casting grounds. The humbler citizen, with more limited purse, betakes his solitary way to the rehabilitated streams of Maine, enjoys fair sport, and while he fishes, thanks the indefatigable Fish Commissioners of the State for the good work which they have accomplished.
“So everybody is happy, and nobody left out; and therefore so long as the season lasts—Hurrah for Salmon and Green Peas, and vive la Salmo Salar! I may, peradventure, give you some instructions that may be of use even in your own rivers; and shall bring you acquainted with more flies than Father Walton has taken notice of in his Complete Angler.”—Charles Cotton.
“Eh, man! what a conceit it is when ye reach a fine run on a warm spring mornin’, the wuds hatchin’ wi’ birds, an’ dauds o’ licht noos and thans glintin’ on the water; an’ the water itsel’ in trim order, a wee doon, after a nicht’s spate, and wi’ a drap o’ porter in’t, an’ rowin’ and bubblin’ ower the big stanes, curlin’ into the linn and oot o’t; and you up tae the henches in a dark neuk whaur the fish canna see ye; an’ than to get a lang cast in the breeze that soughs in the bushes, an’ see yer flee licht in the verra place ye want, quiet as a midge lichts on yer nose, or a bumbee on a flower o’ clover.”—Norman McLeod, D.D.
“Salmon fishing is confessedly the highest department in the school of angling.”—George Dawson.
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1. Prince Wm. of Orange.
2. Butcher.
3. Jock Scott.
4. Silver Doctor.
5. Fairy
6. Silver Gray.
7. Curtis.
“The noblest of fish, the mighty salmon, refuses bait utterly, and only with the most artistic tackle and the greatest skill can he be taken; the trout, which ranks second to the salmon, demands an almost equal perfection of bait, and in his true season, the genial days of spring and summer, scorns every allurement but the tempting fly. The black bass prefers the fly, but will take the trolling spoon, and even bait, at all seasons; whereas the fish of lesser station give a preference to bait, or accept it alone. This order of precedence sufficiently proves what every thorough sportsman will endorse—that bait fishing, although an art of intricacy and difficulty, is altogether inferior to the science of fly fishing.”—Robert B. Roosevelt.
“Sometimes a body may keep threshin’ the water for a week without seein’ a snout—and sometimes a bodyhyucks a fish at the very first thrau!”—Christopher North.
“Salmon fishing is, to all other kinds of angling, as buck shooting to shooting of any meaner description. The salmon is in this particular the king of fish. It requires a dexterous hand and an accurate eye to raise and strike him; and when this is achieved, the sport is only begun, where, even in trout angling, unless in case of an unusually lively and strong fish, it is at once commenced and ended. Indeed the most sprightly trout that ever was hooked, shows mere child’s play in comparison to a fresh run salmon.”—Sir Walter Scott.
“‘I chose the largest fly I could find,’ said the captain, ‘because the water here is very deep and strong; and as the salmon lies near the bottom I must have a large fly to attract his attention; but I must not have a gaudy fly, because the water is so clear that the sparkle of the tinsel would be more glittering than anything in nature; and the fish, when he had risen and come near enough to distinguish it, would be very apt to turn short.’
“‘You have it now, precisely,’ said the parson; ‘the depth of the water regulates the size of the fly, and the clearness of the water its colors. This rule, of course, is not without exceptions; if it were there would be no science in fishing. The sun, the wind, the season, the state of the atmosphere, must also be taken into consideration; for instance, this rapid we are going to fish now, is the very same water we have been fishing in below, and therefore just as clear, but it is rough, and overhung by rocks and trees. I mean therefore to put on a gayer fly than any we have used hitherto.’”—Rev. Henry Newland.
“I unhesitatingly assert that there is no single moment with horse or gun into which is concentrated such a thrill of hope, fear, expectation, and exultation, as that of the rise and successful striking of a heavy salmon. I have seen men literally unable to stand, or to hold their rod, from sheer excitement.”—H. Choimondeley Pennell.
FLY CASTING FOR SALMON.
By George Dawson.
There is no essential difference between trout and salmon casting. The same general principles apply to both, and it only requires the careful application of the skill attained in ‘the one to become equally expert in the other. The difference is simply the difference in weight. A twelve-foot trout rod weighs, say, eight ounces, and an eighteen-foot salmon rod, with reel, weighs two or three times as much. The one can be manipulated with one hand; the other requires both. With the one you ordinarily cast forty or fifty feet; with the other sixty or eighty; and with rods equally approximating perfection, it is as easy to cast the eighty feet with the one as the forty feet with the other. I do not mean to say that no more muscular exertion is required in the one case than in the other, but simply that with such slight effort as is necessary with either, it is as easy to place your fly where you wish it with the one rod as with the other. No great muscular exertion is necessary to cast with either. Indeed, the chief difficulty in casting is to get rid of the idea that a great deal of muscular effort is necessary to get out a long line. That coveted result is not to be attained by mere muscle. If you have a giant’s strength you mustn’t use it like a giant. If you do you will never make a long or a graceful cast with either trout or salmon rod. With both there must be only such strength used as is necessary to give the line a quick but not a snappy back movement—keeping up the motion evenly until the fly is placed where you desire it.
The most difficult attainment, in both salmon and trout casting, is to be able, with instinctive accuracy, to measure the distance traversed by the backward movement of your line. If you begin the return too soon your line will snap and thereby endanger your fly; if you are too tardy it will droop and thereby lose the continuity of tension indispensable to a graceful and effective forward movement. This essential art can only be attained by practice. Some attain it readily; others never;—just as some measure time in music with unerring accuracy, without a teacher; some only acquire the art after protracted drilling, and others never acquire it at all.
There is almost as perfect rhythm in fly-casting as in music. Given a definite length of line and the expert can measure his cast by his one, two, three, four, as accurately as a teacher can regulate the time of his orchestra by the movement of his baton. While this is true in casting with either rod it is most noticeable in easting for salmon. The heavy line, the massive springy rod, and the great distance to be traversed, render each movement—the lift from the water, the backward flight of the line, the return motion, and the drop at the point desired—as distinct to a quick perception as the beat of a bar in music.
But there are occasions when it would not do to cast by count. If the wind is strong in any direction the movement of the line is perceptibly effected; and if the wind happens to be at your back, it requires great skill and care to counteract its influence and secure satisfactory results. With such a wind, unless you are perfect master of the situation, you will be apt to snap off more flies in an hour than you will be likely to lose legitimately in a fortnight. Nine-tenths of all the flies I ever lost took their departure before I learned how to cast safely with a high wind at my back.
In many salmon rivers the pools are so placed and the general body of water is of such depth that you can always cast from your anchored canoe. As, under such circumstances, there are no obstructions behind you, less care is required in keeping your fly well up in its backward flight than when casting from the shore—as in some rivers you always have to do.
In the salmon season the water is usually well down in the banks, and in many rivers the slope from high water mark to the summer channel is considerable. In casting, as a rule, you stand near the water; unless, therefore, you cast high—that is, unless you keep your fly well up in its backward flight it will almost certainly come in contact with a stone or boulder of some sort and be broken. To avoid this mishap requires great care. You must keep the point of your rod well up always—several degrees higher than when casting on the water. My first experience in shore-casting where the banks had a precipitous slope cost me a great many pet flies; and I never got to feel really “at home” in casting under such circumstances. It detracts from the sport when your mind is occupied with the proper swing of the line. But enough of ecstacy remains to enable one to overlook this inconsiderable drawback. Only give the angler an opportunity to cast from any sort of standpoint and he will speedily discover the proper lift and swing to overcome any obstacle, and be happy.
Salmon casting—especially the frequency of the cast—depends largely upon the character of the water you are fishing. If the pool is straight and narrow and the current strong, and you are casting from a canoe, you can so manipulate your fly as to render frequent casts unnecessary—the important thing being not to let your fly sink, as it is not likely to do in such a current. In large pools where the current is sluggish, as is sometimes the case, frequent casts are necessary in order to touch it at every point with your fly on the surface. Where you are able to cast across a pool, if the current moves with a moderate force, you can sweep it at each cast by giving your rod the proper motion. This latter class of pools are those most coveted, because you can cover a great deal of ground with very little effort. If you fall in with a pool—as you sometimes will—where the current is so sluggish as to be almost imperceptible, frequent casts are unavoidable. Without them, not only will your fly sink, but your line will soon acquire a slack which not only gives one an uncomfortable feeling but is unsafe in case of a rise. The very first requisite in salmon fishing is a taut line. It is not only requisite for safety, but without it it is impossible to promptly and properly recover your line for a new cast.
But there is nothing so tests a salmon angler’s skill and patience as to cast in an eddy or whirl. No matter how carefully or at what distance one casts, the moment the fly touches the water it begins to come back upon you, compelling constant casting if you cast at all. The result is a great deal of hard work with very little effect, because to keep a straight line your fly must be lifted almost the very moment it finds a lodgment on the surface. In such a pool one soon becomes weary with his efforts to place and hold his fly in the desired position, for it is not often that he is rewarded by a rise. Since my first experience in such a pool I have never hankered after its counterpart. And yet it was a sort of success in this wray: Having become tired casting I allowed my fly to go as it pleased. It was soon out of sight, having been drawn down by one of the whirls, and in reeling up to prevent its being twisted around the rock I presumed to be the primary cause of the whirl, I found myself hooked to a fish which had taken my fly at least ten or twelve feet below the surface. When I first felt him he came up as easily as a six-ounce chub, and I supposed I had nothing heavier than a medium sized trout. But as soon as he felt the hook and saw my canoe he showed his mettle, and gave me just such a fight as I might have expected from a twenty-pound salmon, as he proved to be. That was the first and last salmon I ever took with the fly so far under water. The rule with some anglers is “to let the fly sink a little”; my rule is never to let it sink at all. When a fish strikes I want to see him. There is no movement that so thrills and delights me as the rush of the salmon for the fly. To me, half the pleasure of a rise is lost if I don’t see the head and shoulders of the kingly fish when he leaps for the lure.
The manner of casting is almost as varied as the casters themselves. You will seldom see two salmon anglers cast precisely alike. Some cast with a straight backward and forward movement, without the divergence of a hair. Others secure a half sweep to the line by giving the backward movement over the left shoulder and the return over the right, or vice versa. Still others almost invariably cast sideways, or “under” as it is called, seldom lifting their rod perpendicularly. Some stand as erect and motionless as a statue when they cast. Others sway to and fro as if they made their body rather than their arms do the work; and others still push themselves forward as they cast, as if they were not sure their fly would reach its destination unless they followed it. These, however, are simple mannerisms. Each may be equally expert—that is, equally successful in placing his fly just where he wants it and just at such distance as he please. My own preference and practice is, a slight sway of the body and a nearly straight backward and forward movement of the line. There are, of course, occasions when a semicircle sweep of the line, or a lateral movement, or an under cast is necessary to reach some desired objective point. All these movements, when they are deemed necessary, will come from experience; but for unobstructed waters I prefer a straight cast, and only such slight motion of the body as will give occasional respite to the arms; for it is no boy’s play to so handle a ponderous salmon rod for hours in succession as to give the needed sweep to an eighty-foot line.
The flies used for salmon are more numerous and varied than those used for trout, and quite as uncertain and puzzling to those who use them. I have taken salmon, as I have taken trout, out of the same water within the same hour with flies of directly opposite hues, and of shapes and sizes which were the counterpart of nothing “in the heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth.” There are, however, standard flies which experience has shown to be generally more “taking” than others, and for this sufficient reason are always found in salmon anglers’ fly books. But no expert deems any fly or any dozen flies invariably adapted to all waters and all conditions of wind and weather. It is superlative nonsense, therefore, to multiply varieties indefinitely. It is only necessary to have an “assortment,” gaudy and sombre, large and small, but plenty of them. It is very unpleasant to run short when you are two or three hundred miles away from “the shop.” Those who have had any considerable experience know just what they want, and the only safe thing for the novice to do, when ready to lay in his stock, is to seek advice of someone who knows something of what may be required in the waters to be visited.
And then let him go to the quiet and roaring rivers where salmon congregate, experiment with such flies as he has, lure the fish by his skilful casts, strike quick, fight hard, and be happy.
Albany, Dec. 7th, 1882.
THE SALMON AND TROUT OF ALASKA.
By L. A. Beardslee, Captain D. S. Navy.
From the great salmon of the Yukon, to the tiny fingerlings, which in innumerable quantities throng in the various creeks of Alaska, and are as ambitious to seize a single salmon egg as are their larger brethren to appropriate great masses of the same, however illy the bait may cover and disguise the hook which impales it, there is not, I am convinced, an Alaskan fish, which through any merit of its own, is entitled to an introduction to the angling fraternity through the medium of this volume, and to the companionship of the beautiful fac-similes of the flies, which in life they scorned.
From personal observation and collected information, I am prepared to accuse all of the salmon family which are found in Alaska, of the grave offence of utterly ignoring the fly, either as food or plaything, and of depending upon more gross and substantial resources.
They are odd fish, and require peculiar treatment both in catching and discussing. And it is to this cause alone that they are indebted for the honor of being made honorary members of the gallant band of game-fishes of which this volume treats.
I have selected them as the subject of my contribution, because a single glance at the array of well-known names of those who are to be my co-contributors, convinced me that if I wished to present any new, interesting, or valuable facts upon any icthyological subjects within my range, I would have to travel well out of the ordinary tracks, and go prospecting in some “far countree.”
This I have done, and I feel confident that I alone of the contributors have been forced by circumstances over which I had no control, into a situation where the obtaining of my notes became pleasure instead of toil.
The notes which will be woven into this paper are not all of them entirely new. Some have entered into a series of letters, which over the signature “Piseco” have appeared in the columns of the Forest and Stream, during 1879-80-81. Through the courtesy of the editor of that journal, I am permitted to again make use of them.
I have preferred a grave charge against the salmon and trout of Alaska; it is but just that I should explain the basis upon which it is founded, and endeavor to establish my claim to be somewhat of an authority on the subject.
From the middle of June, 1879, to the latter part of September, 1880, I, as the commander of the U. S. ship of war Jamestown, was stationed in the Territory of Alaska, with general instructions to restore and preserve order among the incongruous collections of Whites, Creoles, and Indians of which the inhabitants of that forsaken country was composed.
My command was moored in Sitka Harbor, but during the two summers and autumns of my sojourn, my duties called upon me to make frequent trips of from ten to two hundred miles, to various portions of the Territory.
These trips were made in small steamers which I hired, steam launches and boats of the ship, and Indian canoes, and in them I explored many of the straits and sounds which separate the islands of the Alexander Archipelago.
Naturally fond of fishing and gunning, my Orvis rods, with full assortment of flies, all gear necessary for salt-water fishing, and my rifle and shot-gun, were my inseparable companions; and after days spent in explorations, sometimes of bays and sounds never before entered by white men, and in one case of a large bay forty miles deep by fifteen broad, existing where the latest charts showed solid land only, my evenings were spent poring over works on natural history, icthyology, and ornithology, and jotting down in my note-book descriptions of my finds. Such jolly times! One day a mineral lode, another great flocks of ptarmigan, another a bear, a mountain sheep, or some new fish—gave me something to dream of.
The Alexander Archipelago, of which Baranoff, Kruzoff, and Tchitagofi Islands are the principal, is separated from the coast by Chatham Strait, which, beginning at the southward as a continuation of Puget Sound reaches to above 60° north at Chilkhat; it is from three to ten miles wide, deep and steep, too, throughout, bordered on the coast side by high, heavily timbered, snow-clad mountains, and on the other by high wooded islands. On both sides, many of the ravines are occupied by immense glaciers, from which flow icy streams, the birthplace of salmon.
Running nearly east and west there are several straits and sounds connecting Chatham Strait with the Pacific Ocean, of which Peril Strait, Icy Strait, and Cross Sound, are the principal. These, too, are bordered, as is Chatham Straits, and are the homes of glaciers and glacial streams.
Many of these streams I have personally fished, and among those under my command were several with kindred tastes, and I became possessed of the results of their experience.
I have read all that I could find of works on Alaska, and since my return have naturally conversed much with every one whom I have met who had also an Alaskan episode in his life, and have collected testimony on the point at issue. One and all affirm that my experience has been theirs, and the most strenuous efforts with well selected flies have failed to record a single capture of trout or salmon. The first bit of evidence I collected is worth recording. When the news that the Yankees had purchased Alaska, and thus become owners of the land north as well as south of British Columbia, was communicated to the Scotch Admiral of the English squadron at Victoria, Vancouver’s Island, he ejaculated, “Dom the country! let ’em have it; the blausted saumon won’t rise to a floi.” Such was our united experience and verdict.
Of course, as we caught no end of them (trout and salmon) there were baits which would seduce them, and these were, for the trout, salmon roe, and for the salmon, live herrings.
There was no poetry in our trout fishing, for compared with salmon roe in slippery, sticky, slimy chunks, fish worms are aesthetically dainty.
There are several little lakes and more streams in the vicinity of Sitka; some within reach for a day’s fishing, and some within an hour’s. The principal of these are Piseco Lake and stream, back of and running through the town; Indian River and pond, Saw-Mill creek and lakes, from one to five miles to the eastward; the Redoubt river, lake, and fall, seven miles to the southward; and a nameless lake and outlet on Kruzoff Island, the lake embedded in a deep valley, one side of which is formed by the foot-hills of Mount Edgecomb, a noble, eternally snow-clad extinct volcano. In all of these trout or salmon are abundant in the season; in some both, and in some are found species which do not exist in others.
At the “Redoubt” I believe that all varieties and species are found. The place is named from a huge dam winch the Russians built across the mouth of a deep and wide ravine, thus forming a large lake of the river which here empties into the sea. The dam is provided with a number of salmon gates and traps. From the first run to the last, every passing school leaves here its tribute, seduced by the proximity of the beautiful lake; which tribute, duly smoked or salted, is barrelled for the San Francisco market by a very “lone fisherman,” a Russian who for many years, without other companionship than his klootchman (Indian wife) and dogs, has devoted his life to the business.
If in this paper I make an occasional blunder, by transposition, or misapplication of the terms “specie” and “variety,” or fail on a scientific nomenclature, I beg that it will be remembered that my claim is not to be an authority on icthyology, when such names are necessary, but on Alaska fish, which get along very well with their English, Indian, or Russian names.
I find in my note-book memoranda of the capture of bathymaster-signatus, chirus deccagramus, and even a cotlus-polycicantliocejrfialous, but had not Professor Bean instructed me, I should have continued (and I believe I did) to call the first two after the fish they most resembled, viz., rock cod and sea bass; and of the last named I have lost and forgotten the description. But we can spare him; the salmon and trout will, I feel sure, furnish all the material needed, and I will confine myself to them.
THE SALMON.
Five species of salmon have been identified as found in Alaska; these are:
The Oncorhynchus Chouicha,
The Oncorhynchus Keta,
The Oncorhynchus Nerka,
The Oncorhynchus Kisutch,
The Oncorhynchus Garbosha.
I am indebted to Professor Bean for the above list. In it I recognize some familiar Russian names, and I will supplement the nomenclature. The “Keta” is the big hump-backed salmon of the Yukon, sometimes attaining a weight of sixty pounds; the Nerha is also called by the Russians Crassnarebia, or red-fleshed; and the distinction is well made, for compared with it, the flesh of the other species seems to fade into pink; the “Kisutch” or “black throat” is so called on account of the intense blackness of the roof of the mouth and throat; the flesh is lighter red than the Nerkas, but more so than any other species, and as a table fish it excels all others, bringing twice the price at retail; the Garbosha is the small hump-back, and strikingly resembles the “red fish” of Idaho. This is the only salmon that I am sure ascends any of the streams near Sitka, except at the Redoubt, where the Kisutch and Crassna-rebia are taken in late August and early September. The common name for the garbosha is the “dog salmon,” and a more hideous object than one of them as found swimming listlessly or dying in one of the pools, it is hard to conceive of. I find this note of description: “Aug. 26th.—In a shallow pool I saw a fish some two feet long, feebly struggling as though he were trying to push himself ashore. I picked him up and laid him on the grass. A sicker fish never continued to wag his tail; his skin was yellow, picked out with green and blue spots, from an inch to three in diameter; and one on his side was about an inch wide and six inches long, bleeding and raw as though gnawed by mice. One eye was gone, one gill cover eaten through, and every fin and the tail were but ragged bristles, all web between the rays having disappeared.”
The first run of the salmon is well worth description. About the middle of May, varying from year to year by a few days only, the inhabitants of dull, sleepy old Sitka experience a sensation, and are aroused from the lethargy in which they have existed through the long winter. The word spreads like wildfire, the salmon are coming! Everybody rushes to the heights which furnish prospect, and strain their eyes for confirmation.
One of our sailors, musically inclined, paraphrased very neatly the old song, “The Campbells are Coming! huzza! huzza!” and achieved fame by portraying the emotions nightly under the lee of the forecastle.
So good an outlook has been kept by the keen-eyed Indians, and the Creole boy in the belfry of the Greek church, that when first the glad tidings are announced, the fish are many miles away, and no signs of their advent visible to the unpracticed eye. Ear away to the southward, there hangs all winter a dense black bank, the accumulation of the constant uprising of vapor from the warm surface of the Kuro-siwo, or Japanese Gulf Stream, which washes the shores of this archipelago; condensed by the cold winds sweeping over the snow-clad mountains to the northward, it is swept by them, and piled up as far as the eye can reach, covering and hiding the southern horizon as with a pall.
Presently our glasses reveal bright flashes upon the face of this curtain; and soon, to the naked eye, it appears as though the whole horizon had been encircled with a coral reef, against which the dashing waves were being shattered into foamy breakers. The breakers advance, and soon among them we discern black, rapidly-moving forms, and here our previous nautical experience comes into play, and, “Holymither, d’ye mind the say pigs!” as shouted by Paddy Sullivan, the captain of the afterguard, explains most graphically the phenomenon.
The salmon are coming, and with them, among, and after them, a host of porpoises; an army so great, that an attempt to estimate in numbers would be futile.
The Bay and Sound of Sitka are dotted with many beautiful, well-wooded islands; between them, the channels are deep and blue, and these are soon thronged by the fleeing salmon and their pursuers; the harbor is soon reached; but it does not prove one of safety, for although there are immense flats covered only at half to whole tide, where the salmon could, and the porpoises could not go, the former avoid them, and, clinging to the deep water, seek vainly the protection of our ship and boats, which do not deter the porpoises in the slightest degree. For two or three days, our eyes, and at night, our ears, tell us that the warfare, or rather massacre, is unceasing; then there comes an interval of several days, during which there are no salmon nor porpoises.
I had formed an idea, a wrong one, that the presence of salmon would be made manifest by the leaping of the fish; on the contrary, were we to judge by this sign alone, but very few had visited us.
The first school had hardly gotten fairly into the harbor, before I, with others, was in pursuit.
The cannery boats, and Indians, with their seines, and I with a trolling line and fly-rod.
A single fish apparently, was at intervals of perhaps a minute, leaping near a point. Indian Dick, one of my staff, excitedly pointed that way, and urged me to go. “There! there! sawmo sugataheen” (plenty). I was inclined to look elsewhere, or wait for a larger school; but Dick remonstrated, “Man see one fish jump, sir, may be got thousand don’t jump, be under.” And Dick was right; but a very small percentage leap from the water, of which I became more fully convinced when I went with Tom McCauley, head fisherman of the cannery, on seining trips, or rather on a seining trip, for the affair disgusted me; and, as with my experience of Spanish bull-fighting, one trial was enough. Imagine so many fish that tons were the units used in estimating, penned up by the walls of the seines, into an enclosure, massed so solidly that five Indians, striking rapidly at random into the mass, with short-handled gaff hooks, at such rate that, upon one day’s fishing, this boat, manned by eight Indians and one white man, secured thirteen tons of marketable fish. It was bloody, nasty butchery, and sickened me. Not a fish attempted to leap out of the net.
McCauley supplied me with some data, from his point of view.
“About the middle of June, the fish are plentiful enough to start the cannery, and the season lasts from ten to twelve weeks” He has observed “Seven different kinds of salmon, all of which are good for canning and for the table; but two species which come latest are the most valuable, the flesh being very red and rich with oil” (Kisutch and Crassna Rebia); that “all of the salmon ‘dog’ more or less, and that the dogging begins immediately after they have attempted to enter the streams, not before August; that after this process has begun (and he discovered it in fish which, to my unexperienced eyes showed no signs of it) the value for canning was depreciated,” and all such he rejected, and gave to the flock of poor Indians, who, in their canoes, followed us to secure them. If McCauley’s ideas are correct, the Alaska salmon caught in salt water, should be superior to those of the Columbia River and elsewhere, caught in brackish water. During the season of 1879 there was packed at this cannery, 144,000 lbs. of fish; the largest catch of any one day was 30,000 lbs. (over 16 tons); the greatest quantity canned, 9,000 lbs.; the largest fish obtained, 51 lbs.; and the average weight 12 lbs. The cost of the fish can be estimated at less than one cent per pound. Just what “dogging” is, I don’t know. McCauley’s opinion, which was shared by many others familiar with the fishing, is that it is a sickness indicated by a change of form and color, produced by contact with fresh water, and that the most hideously hump-backed, hook-jawed, red and purple garbosha, was once a straight-backed, comely fish; which, if true, upsets some theories. All I know about it is, that previous to the advent of the garboshas, in August, no change of form and color is observable in any of the fish, none of which enter the streams. During August, at the same time and place in the creeks, there can be seen garbosha salmon in all stages of the transformation, and the change in form and color is coincident. Some are silvery and nearly straight; others tarnished, and with slight elevation of back; others red, with greater protuberance; and finally, some purple-red, with fully developed humps, which more than double their height above the median line; and these monsters the Indians like best, and say that they are better for smoking than any other.
Another idea which I had imbibed in regard to salmon, became greatly modified by my experience. I thought, and I believe many do, that the instinct which prompts the salmon to run in from the sea, is to reach, by the shortest route, the place of birth; and that they make a straight wake from the ocean to the mouth of their native creeks; and that while impelled by this instinct, they refrain altogether from food. In all of this, I think that I was mistaken; and that the fish which begin to swarm in Sitka Harbor in May, and continue coming and going for nearly three months before any enter the stream, are simply visitors, which, on their way north, are driven in to seek shelter from the porpoises and other enemies.
That they feed at this time, I have plenty of evidence. We caught small ones, on hand-lines baited with venison. Numbers were taken trolling, using any ordinary spoon. I had with me pickerel, bass, and lake trout spoons, of brass and silvery surface. All were successful, the silvery ones the most so.
And I had many good strikes upon spectabilis or salmon trout, of six to eight inches, spun on a gang and trolled. The Indians in Chatham Strait catch a great many upon hooks baited with live herring; these are attached to short lines, which are fastened to duckshaped wooden buoys, and allowed to float away from the canoe. I have myself been present at the capture of a number in this manner.
The Greek Priest, and companies of the least poor of the Creoles, own seine boats, which go out daily; and after every fair clay’s seining the sandy beach in front of Russian town presents a picturesque appearance, dotted as it is with heaps of from one to three tons of salmon, whose silvery sheen reflects the light of the bonfires, around which, knives in hand, squat all the old squaws and children, cleaning on shares. Nearly all of the fish taken by them are smoked for winter’s use.
Every glacial stream in Alaska is, in its season, full of salmon, alive and dead. One, which for want of a better, was given my name, and appears on the charts as Beardslee River, I will describe; for in it I saw, for the first time, that which had been described to me, but which I had doubted; a stream so crowded with fish that one could hardly wade it and not step on them; this and other as interesting sights fell to me that pleasant August day.
As we, in our little steamer, neared William Henry Bay, situated on the west side of Chatham Strait, and an indentation of Baranoff Island, we found ourselves in a pea-green sea, dotted here and there with the backs of garbosha salmon; the fish, which were of the few that had survived the crisis of reproduction, having drifted out of the hay, and with their huge humps projecting, were swimming aimlessly, and apparently blindly (for after anchoring, they would run against our boats, and directly into hands held out to catch them), in the brackish surface water; made so and given its peculiar color by the water of Beardslee River, which arising at the foot of a glacier, had been fed by rivulets from others on its course to the sea, and through its lower specific gravity, rested upon the salt water. These sick salmon were so plentiful that I thought that a large percentage had lived and escaped the danger, but upon landing at the mouth of the river, saw that I was mistaken. For several miles the river meanders through an alluvial flat, the moraine of receded glaciers. The moraine was covered with a thick growth of timothy and wild barley, some standing six feet in height; much more pressed flat by layers, three and four deep, of dead salmon, which had been left by the waters falling. Thousands of gulls and fish crows were feeding upon the eyes and entrails of these fish, and in the soft mud innumerable tracks of bears and other animals were interspersed with bodiless heads of salmon, showing that they, too, had attended the feast. I waded the river for over two miles, and the scene was always the same. That wade was one to be remembered. In advance of me generally, but checked at times by shoal water, there rushed a struggling and splashing mass of salmon, and when through the shoaling, or by turning a short corner, I got among them, progress was almost impossible; they were around me, under me, and once when, through stepping on one I fell, I fancy over me. All were headed up stream, and I presumed, ascending, until, while resting on a dry rock, I noticed that many, although headed up, were actually slowly drifting down stream.
In many pools that I passed, the gravel bottom was hollowed out into great wallows, from which, as I approached, crowds of salmon would dart; and I could see that the bottom was thickly covered with eggs, and feasting on them were numbers of immense salmon trout.
I saw frequently the act of spawning; and I saw once, a greedy trout rush at a female salmon, seize the exuding ova, and tear it away, and I thought that perhaps in some such rushes, lay the explanation of the wounds which so frequently are found on the female salmon’s belly after spawning.
At first, I thought there were two species of salmon in the creek; one unmistakably the hideous garboslia, the other a dark straight-backed fish; but upon examining quite a number of each variety which I had picked up, I found that all the hump-backed fish were males, and the others all females; that is, all that I examined; but as they were all spent fish, I could not be sure. I therefore shot quite a number of livelier ones, and found confirmation.
I saw one female that was just finishing spawning. She lay quiet, as though faint, for a couple of minutes, then began to topple slowly over on to her side, recovered herself, and then, as though suddenly startled from a deep sleep, darted forward, and thrust herself half of her length out of the water, upon a gravel bar, and continued to work her way until she was completely out of water, and there I left her to die.
A very large proportion of the fish were more or less bruised and discolored; and upon nearly all there extended over the belly a fungoid growth resembling rough yellow blotting paper.
The size of the fish was quite uniform, ranging from two feet to thirty inches.
But that I had seen the living spent fish in the bay, I could have readily believed the truth of the impression of many, that the act of spawning terminates the life of the salmon of the Pacific coast.
One more point on the salmon, and I will leave them.
Upon our first arrival, we all indulged very heartily upon them, and in two or three days, a new disease made its appearance among us. A number of us were seized with very severe gripes and cramps, and these lasted, in all cases, for several days, and in some for a much longer period, two of the men becoming so reduced that it was necessary to send them to hospital. The direct cause, our doctor ascertained, was the diet of salmon to which we had taken; and by regulating and reducing the consumption, the difficulties were checked.
In conclusion, I would say that I have made every effort that would naturally occur to a fisherman to take Alaska salmon with flies, of which I had good assortment, and never got a rise.
ALASKA TROUT.
I am indebted to Professor Tarleton II. Bean for a classification of the various trout, of which specimens had been duly bottled and labelled, during our stay in Alaska. I had fancied, from differences in the markings, that I had five species at the least, but Bean ruthlessly cut the number down to three, viz.:
Salvelina Malma, or Spectabilis, or Bairdil
Salmo Gardneri, and
Salmo Purpuratus, or Clark’s trout.
The first named, called commonly by us the salmon trout, was abundant in all of the streams, from about middle of June until middle of September, evidently timing their arrival and departure by the movements of the salmon, upon whose eggs they live. I have noted, on June 1st, “No salmon trout yet in any of the streams. Several fine, large ones captured by the Indians in nets set in sea.” Ten days after, the streams were full of them, and in the earlier part of the interim many would run into the pools of the lower parts with the flooding tide, and out again on the ebb.
When they left us in September, it is probable that they migrated south, for in a letter to Forest and Stream, dated Portland, Oregon, September 28, a correspondent states that, in that month, “there begins to appear in the streams near the Columbia river, a trout,” whose description tallies exactly with that of the spec-tabilis, except that the correspondent speaks of their affording fine sport with the fly; this the trout while in Alaska fails to do. At first, the spectabilis affect the rapids, but after a few days seek the deep pools, where they gather in great numbers, and bite ravenously on hooks covered with spawn and sunk to the bottom. Occasionally, when spawn was out, we used a bit of fresh venison; but at the best they cared little for it, and when the blood became soaked out, the bait was useless. Although fairly gamey when hooked, fishing for these trout was but a poor substitute, for one who had felt and remembered the thrills caused by sudden strikes of our Adirondack fish. I have often when pool-fishing, seen them leisurely approach the bait, and nibble at it as a dainty, full-fed kitten will at a bit of meat, and when one did get the hook, we found it out only by a slight resistance to the series of light twitches which it was necessary to give it. They have evidently been taught by experience that salmon roe is not apt to attempt escape. The usual size of the fish ranged from six to twelve inches—now and then one larger. The largest taken by any of us, near Sitka, fell victim to my “salmon spawn fly,” and gave my little Orvis rod half an hour’s good work. It measured twenty-one inches, but was very light for the length, weighing but two and three-quarter pounds. At the Redoubt river, much larger ones were taken; and two which I shot in Beardslee river were over two feet in length; how much they weighed I never found out, for their surroundings of sick and dying salmon, upon whose eggs they were feeding, prejudiced me against them and I left them.
In shape and color the spectabilis vary greatly, both factors depending upon the length of time they have been in fresh water. When fresh run, they are long and lean, shaped somewhat like the lake trout of Adirondack lakes. The colors are dark lustrous olive-green back, growing lighter as the median line is approached, and blending into a silvery gray tint, which pales to a pure white on the belly; the green portion is sprinkled with golden specks; the flesh is hard, and very good for the table. After a very short sojourn in the creek, bright crimson specks appear among the golden, which, however, fade to a pale yellow; the lustre of the green disappears, they become heavier, but the flesh becomes soft and uneatable, and the skin is covered with slime. Salmon trout taken late in August and early in September, were full of ripe ova.
Professor Bean placed some fish, that had been taken in salt water, into a bucket of fresh, and the crimson spots made their appearance in less than a day.
When fully decked with these, and fattened, they resembled our fontanalis greatly—the head, however, being somewhat larger, and the tail less square.
Salmo Gardneri. My acquaintance with this species is very limited. The first one that I saw I took in Sawmill Creek, well up to the head, in September, 1879. Seeing that it differed greatly from the spectabilis, I preserved it in alcohol, and it was subsequently identified by Professor Bean. It measured a trifle over ten inches, and was very plump, weighing seven and a quarter ounces. In my notes, I describe it thus: “Body, dark green on back, but in general colors very much like a steel head or quinnat salmon; covered with round, black spots, from one-sixteenth to one-eighth inch in diameter; these extend considerably below the median line, and the tail and dorsal fins are covered with them; the second dorsal adipose, but less so than that of the fontanalis, having a slight show of membrane, on which there are four spots; ventral and anal fins, yellowish in centre, bordered with red; belly, dull white; tail, nearly square; scales, quite large, about the size of those of a fingerling chub; flesh, firm; and skin, not slimy. No signs of ova or milt.”
On the 28th of April, 1880, I made note: “The first salmon of the season made their début to-day—that is, if they are salmon, which I doubt.
“Five beauties, from thirty to forty inches long, were brought alongside, in a canoe paddled by a wild-looking and awe-struck Siwash, who, with his crouching Klootchman and papoose, gazed upon our ship, guns, and us with an expression that showed them to be unfamiliar sights. He was evidently a stranger, and was taken in, for he took willingly two bits (25 cents) each for the fish, and no Sitka Siwasli but would have charged treble the price. Through an interpreter, I learned that he had spent the last seven months in a shanty on the western side of Kruzoff Island, and that well up, among the foot-hills of Mount Edgecomb, there was a little lake, from which there flowed a small stream into the Pacific, and that in the headwaters of this stream he had speared these fish, which run up the stream in the fall, remain all winter in the lake, and in early spring spawn in the head of the outlet.”
All of this militated strongly against the theory that they were salmon, and when, on being dressed, the females were found to be full of ripe ova, said theory was upset completely. My ten-inch specimen of last September supplied us with a clue, and it was soon decided that these magnificent fish were indeed trout; for in every respect except size, and size of spots, some of which were a quarter of an inch in diameter, the fish were identical. Whitford, the oldest inhabitant, confirmed the Indian’s story, and gave me in addition the Indian name for the fish—Quot and that of the Russians, which I forget, but it meant “Mountain Trout,” and said that they are found only in the lakes, high up in the mountains, and that in winter the Indians spear and catch them through holes in the ice.
We found the flesh to be very delicious—far more so than the best of the salmon. The processes of cooking, both by broiling and boiling, had a curious effect, for the flesh, which, when uncooked, was of a very bright red, blanched to pure white.
The trip to Mount Edgecomb, in the early spring, involved hardship and danger; and although several of us resolved that we would undertake it, for the sake of such fish, somehow we never did, and I have thus described all of the gardneri that I ever saw.
Salmo purpuratus (Clarkii). The most beautiful of the trout family, although in no way equal to our Eastern trout in any other respect.
The purpuratus is a lake trout, and found only in low-lying lakes. Just back of Sitka, at the foot of the mountains, and elevated perhaps twenty feet above the sea, is a little lake dubbed by me “Piseco”.
Handy to get at, and its outlet running through the centre of the town, it became, in early spring, our first resort for fishing. Arriving in June, 1879, many of us had, through days of fruitless endeavor, during the summer and autumn, grown to disbelieve the tales of the inhabitants, that this lake abounded in trout; but on the 20th of May, 1880, from somewhere, there thronged the shallow edges, among the lily pads, great schools of these trout, and for about two weeks there was no limit to the number one could take of them. Salmon spawn was the best bait, but a bit of venison would answer. A fly they would not rise to. In size, they ranged from six to twelve inches—the latter size being, however, very exceptional; their average was about eight inches. The description in my notes is: “Specimen, May 27th. Length, nine and one-half inches; depth, two and three-eighth inches; weight, five ounces; colors—back, rich, dark brown, growing lighter toward medial line; at which, covering it for a space of half an inch, there is a longitudinal stripe of rich purple, extending from opercle nearly to tail; below the median line, bright olive-green, lightening to silvery white on belly. All of the tinted portion is profusely sprinkled with oval black spots, which mark also the dorsal, caudal, and adipose fins; the ventral and anal fins are yellowish bordered with crimson; tail, nearly square.
“The entire tinted portion has a beautiful golden iridescence, so that when held in the sunlight, and looked at from the rear, it seems to be gilded.” It may be noticed that, with the exception of the purple stripe and the golden iridescence, the description of this fish is almost identical with that of the gardneri. I think it quite possible that they are the same at different ages, and that later in life these Clarkii may become ambitious and seek more lofty lakes. None that were taken contained ova.
Where they came from, unless they run up the inlet at night, no one found out, for although closely watched in the daytime, none were ever seen in it.
After about two weeks the greater portion disappeared, and although sought in the deep waters of the lake, could not be found. Major William Governeur Morris, the Collector of Customs of Alaska, assures me, however, that during the summer of 1882, he found certain places in the lake where he caught them until August. On July 4th he with a friend catching four hundred and three in three hours, baiting with a single salmon egg.
I am not sure that we could not have again found them, but the fishing having grown slack in the lake, and growing daily better in the creeks, we spent most of our time on the latter.
COMPARISON OF ALASKA WITH EASTERN TROUT.
The principal differences between the Alaska and Eastern trout are, first, all Alaskans have hyoid teeth, the eastern trout have not.
No Alaskan trout will take a fly. All Alaskan trout, I think, spend a portion of their lives in salt water. Length being equal, the Alaska trout, with the exception of the Gardneri, or mountain trout, are lighter than those of our eastern streams.
Using as a standard the average weight of a number of ten-inch Adirondack trout, the following table will show this:
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In conclusion, I must again request that this contribution shall not be considered and judged as an attempt to scientifically describe the fish treated upon, but rather as what it really is, a condensation of the field-notes of an amateur angler.
I have, in giving the sizes, weights, and other data in regard to the Alaska salmon and trout, depended almost entirely upon my personal knowledge and experience; it may not be out of place to add to them some data gathered from reliable authorities.
In his report on the resources of Alaska, Major Mm. Governeur Morris writes: “Sixty thousand Indians and several thousand Aleuts and Esquimaux depend for the most part upon dried salmon for their winter sustenance.”
The Hon. Wm. S. Hodge, formerly Mayor of Sitka, states in an official report: “And additional testimony comes to us from numerous persons, that at Cook’s Inlet the salmon average in weight sixty pounds, and some of them reach a weight of one hundred and twenty pounds, and Mr. T. G. Murphy only last week brought down from there on the Newbern a barrel full, containing only four fish.” Surgeon Thomas T. Minor, who some years ago visited Cook’s Inlet, in connection with business of the Smithsonian Institution, makes statements which confirm the foregoing.
In the vicinity of Klawaek a cannery is established. A catch of seven thousand fish at one haul of the seines is not unusual, many weighing over forty pounds.
Mr. Frederick Whymper, artist to the Russian Overland Telegraph Expedition, says in his well-written and interesting account of his adventures: “The Yukon salmon is by no means to be despised. One large variety is so rich that there is no necessity when frying it to put fat in the pan. The fish sometimes measure five feet in length, and I have seen boats whose sides were made of the tough skin.”
And a writer who, if disposed to strain the truth would not do so to say anything in favor of Alaska, says in an article in Harper’s Magazine, Vol. LV. page 815: “The number of spawning fish that ascend the Yukon every June or July is something fabulous.... It would appear reasonable to anticipate, therefore, the adoption by our fishermen of some machinery by which they can visit the Yukon when the salmon begin to run, and while they ascend the river catch a million pounds a day, for the raw material is there, of the largest size, the finest flavor, and the greatest number known to any stream in the world.’”
My general views about Alaska differ widely from those of the writer, but on the salmon question, I indorse all I have quoted, excepting only the word flavor.
I do not think the Alaska salmon equal in this respect to those of the Atlantic coast, and far behind those of the Rhine; they are, however, superior to those of the Columbia River.
In speaking of the salmon, I find I have omitted to mention that in early spring, before the arrival of the salmon trout, and after their departure in fall, great quantities of fingerling salmon pervaded the streams, and bit eagerly at any kind of meat bait.
While the spectabilis were present, these little fellows kept out of sight and notice.
Since the body of this paper was written there has been on exhibition by Mr. Blackford, of Fulton Market, Yew York, a number of trout, pronounced to be the salmo irideus, one of which, weighing fifteen pounds, was sent to the Smithsonian Institution, and there identified by Professor Bean as being “Salmo gardneri, the great trout of Edgecomb Lake.”
I, studying these fish in their glass tank, did not form this opinion, for Blackford’s trout had a broad red band extending from just back of the eye to the tail, covering the opercule, a marking not existing on any of the Edgecomb trout I have seen. But the Professor assures me that “color on the lateral line is not a specific character.” On comparing my notes of description of these fish, I find that in all other respects they did appear identical, hence that the conclusion arrived at by Prof. Bean, that “the gardneri and the irideus (or rainbow trout of McCloud River), are identical seems well founded. If so, and my crude supposition that the Clarkii, obtained in Piseco Lake near Sitka are also identical with the gardneri turns out to be correct, there can be a condensation of nomenclature, which will lead to at least one valuable result from this paper.
“No sooner had the barbed hook fastened in its insidious hold, and the impaled monarch learned that he was captive, than every effort of his lithe and agile frame was brought into play to recover freedom. In every struggle, in every effort to burst thee bonds that made him captive, there was an utter recklesness of consequences, a disregard for life that was previously unknown, as from side to side of the pool he rushed, or headlong stemmed the sweeping current. Nor did the hero confine himself to His own element; again and again he burst from its surface to fall back fatigued, but not conquered. The battle was a severe one, a struggle to the death; and when the landing net placed the victim at my feet, I felt that he had died the death of a hero. Such was my first sea-trout, no gamer, truly, than hundreds I have captured since; but what can be expected of a race of which every member is a hero?”—Parker Gilmore.
“If, indeed, you be an angler, join us and welcome, for then it is known to you that no man is in perfect condition to enjoy scenery unless he have a fly-rod in his hand and a fly-book in his pocket.”—Wm. G. Prime.
“It was something more than a splendid trout that he brought to our view as we met him at the landing. The young heart in the old body—the genuine enthusiasm of the veteran angler—the glorification of the gentle art which has soothed and comforted many an aged philosopher—all this he revealed to us, and we wanted to lift the grand old man to our shoulders and bear him in reverent triumph up the ascent.”—A. Judd Northrop.
“From the fisherman’s point of view, the sea trout is equal to the finest grilse that ever ascended Tay or Tweed, exceeding, as he does, for gameness and pertinacity every other British fish.”—David Foster.
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1. Silver Doctor.
2. Scarlet Ibis.
3. Black June.
4. Gray Drake.
5. Captain.
6.’Academy.
“As to flies, the indifference of sea-trout about kind, when they are in the humor to take any, almost warrants the belief of some anglers that they leap in mere sport at whatever chances to be floating. It is true they will take incredible combinations, as if color-blind and blind to form. But experiments on their caprice are not safe. If their desire is to be tempted, that may most surely be done with three insects, adapted to proper places and seasons. One need not go beyond the range of a red-bodied fly with blue tip and wood-duck wings for ordinary use, a small all gray fly for low water in bright light, and a yellowish fly, green striped and winged with curlew feathers, for a fine cast under the alders for the patriarchs.”—A. R. Macdonough.
“His tackle, for brieht airless days, is o’ gossamere; and at a wee distance aff, you think he’s fishin’ without ony line ava, till whirr gangs the pirn, and up springs the sea-trout, silver-brieht, twa yards out o’ the water, by a delicate jerk o’ the wrist, hyucked inextricably by the tongue clean ower the barb o’ the kirby-bend. Midge-flees!”—The Ettrick Shepherd.
“O, sir, doubt not but that Angling is an art; is it not an art to deceive a trout with an artificial fly?”—Izaak-Walton.
“Sea-trout show themselves wherever salmon are found, but not always simultaneously with them. In rivers where the salmon run begins in May or early June, you need not look for sea-trout in any considerable numbers before well on into July. Intermediately they are found in tide-water at the mouths of the salmon rivers, and often in such numbers and of such weight as give the angler superb sport.”—George Dawson.
SEA-TROUT.
By Fitz James Fitch.
Sunday morning, August 2, 1874, found us, Mr. A. R. Macdonough and me, at Tadousac, a French. Canadian village, very small for its age, situated on the northeast shore of the Saguenay River, one and a half miles from the junction of its dark and mighty waters with the turbid and mightier St. Lawrence. This day was the beginning of the culmination of four months of preparation for a month’s release from the business world, its toil, care and worry. The preparations began with the payment of $150 in gold—$171.20 currency—the rent named in a lease securing to us the exclusive right to fish a river on the north shore of, and emptying into, the St. Lawrence many miles below the Saguenay. We left New York sweltering in a temperature that sent the mercury up to the nineties; were fanned by the cool evening breeze of the Hudson, and later by the cooler breath of the old Catskills, around which cluster the recollections and associations of thirty years of my life. We had travelled by rail to Montreal, 412 miles, and spent a day there; by steamboat to Quebec, 180 miles, where we passed twenty-four hours. We had left this, the most interesting city of English-speaking North America, in the morning by steamboat, and, after a day of delights upon this majestic river, the St. Lawrence, reached L’Anse à l’Eau, the landing for Tadousac, 130 miles, in the evening of August 1st.
We felt as we walked out upon the wide piazza of the Tadousac Hotel that
“summer Sunday morn
When Nature’s face was fair,”
and looked up that mysterious river, the Saguenay, and upon its castellated mountains of granite, that indeed “the lines had fallen to us in pleasant places.” We had reached the end, as our course lay, of railroads and steamboat lines, and must finish our journey in chaloupe and birch-bark canoe. We were there to leave civilization and its conveniences for nature and primitive modes of life. In the story I am relating my progress up to this point has been as rapid as was our transit. From this point on it must correspond with our slower mode of progression; and hence there must be more of detail in what follows. I hope, but cannot expect, that the reader will find the change as agreeable and free from irksomeness as we found our chaloupe, canoe, tent, and life in the woods.
After an excellent breakfast, we lighted cigars and walked down to the humble cottage of my guide, David, on the beach of the little bay of Tadousac, who had in charge our tents, stores, camp equipments, and three new birch-bark canoes, ordered months before, and for which we paid $75 in gold. David paddled us out to our chaloupe, anchored in the bay, and introduced me to Captain Edward Ovington, master, and his nephew, Fabian, a lad of sixteen or seventeen years, his mate. The chaloupe was thirty feet “fore and aft;” beam, 9½ feet. Six or eight feet aft we called the quarter-deck. A comfortable seat surrounded three sides of it, affording sittings for eight or ten persons. Next forward of this, and separated from it by a bulkhead, was a space of six or eight feet for freight. Next came our cabin, eight by nine feet, and just high enough to enable us to sit upright on the low shelf which was to serve as a seat by day and bed at night. Then came the forecastle, in which was a very small cooking stove. The vessel was rigged with main and topmast, strengthened by iron shrouds, with a large mainsail, topsail, jib and “jigger,” as it is called by Canadian boatmen. It was in respect to the jigger that the craft differed from a sloop-rigged yacht or boat. Clear aft, and back of the rudder-post, was a mast about fifteen feet high; running from the stern of the vessel was a stationary jigger boom, something like the jib-boom, except that it was horizontal; on these was rigged a sail in shape like the mainsail. The boat was a fair sailer, strong, well built, and from four to six tons burden. In returning to the hotel we stopped at and entered the little French Roman Catholic Church. It is not known when it was erected. Jacques Cartier, in his second visit to America, in 1535, explored the Saguenay; and Father Marquette made Tadousac his residence for a short time. When he first came to this country in 1665, tradition tells us, he established a mission there and built a log chapel on the site where the church we entered stands. The latter is a wooden building, about twenty-five by thirty feet, with a handsome altar placed in a recess chancel, the rear wall of which is adorned with three oil paintings. The centre one, over the altar, was the Crucifixion. A small porch, or vestibule, of rough boards, had been added in modern times. A little antique bell swung in the belfry on the east gable, which was surmounted by an iron floriated cross. The church was filled with devout habitans, mainly—there was a sprinkling of summer boarders and anglers—who listened with apparent interest to the extempore sermon of a young French priest of prepossessing appearance and manner. In the afternoon I attended the English Episcopal Church, about a mile from the hotel, and midway between Tadousac and L’Anse à l’Eau. Here I felt quite at home, enjoyed the services, and joined heartily in the prayer for the “Queen, the Royal Family, and all who are in authority.” I was compelled to put a U. S. greenback, to represent my contribution of one dollar, upon the plate. I have been sorry ever since that I did not secure a reputation for honesty and fair dealing by adding a dime to pay the premium on gold, and thus make good our (then) depreciated currency.
August 3d.—A gray flannel suit and shirt were donned this morning. Our fishing clothes and paraphernalia were packed in large canvas bags, toilet articles, etc., in grip sacks, and all else left in our Saratoga trunks, and in charge of the hotel manager until our return. At 11 o’clock we walked down to the beach where David and the Captain met us with our respective canoes. I asked “Dah-veede” (he was very particular about the pronunciation of his name), “how shall I dispose of myself in this cranky thing?”
“Sit down on the bottom, sir.” The latter part of the sitting process was rather emphatic. I wondered how I was to get up! All being on board the good chaloupe Quebec, the sails were spread to the breeze, and by one o’clock we had beat out of the bay, down the Saguenay, and were on the St. Lawrence. As we sailed, the canoes which had been in tow were hoisted on deck; one, turned upon its side, was lashed to the shrouds of the vessel on either side, and the third, turned bottom up, was laid upon the cabin deck. The wind was N. W., and favorable, so that we made about eight knots an hour. We landed at Escomains, to take on board Pierre Jacques, a full-blooded Indian, possessing the usual characteristics of his race—laziness and love of whiskey. He was Mr. Macdonough’s guide; and, despite the weaknesses mentioned, proved a good guide and a most skilful canoeist. We continued to sail until ten o’clock at night, when we dropped anchor. The night was dark and rainy, the wind fresh, and the river very rough, causing our little craft to dance, roll, and pitch in a most disgusting manner. We had no seasickness on board, but much wakefulness on my side of the cabin. Being thus “Rocked in the cradle of the deep,” was not a success as a soporific, in my case, at least.
August 4th.—Seven o’clock, A. M. We have been sailing since daylight this morning, and are now at anchor near the Sault au Cochon. Mr. Macdonough had occasion to visit a country store near the falls, and suggested that I try to catch a trout for breakfast. The stream which empties into the St. Lawrence here is of considerable size—say forty feet wide—and pours over a ledge of rocks, or precipice, about fifty feet in height, into the head of a small bay. The water under and near the fall is very rough and swift. My guide launched my canoe, paddled me out, and placed me in such a position that I could cast in the eddy formed by the swift waters from the fall. With a hornbeam rod, of ten ounces in weight, and twelve feet in length, armed with two flies, I whipped the waters. A few casts brought up a trout. I saw its head as it rose for my dropper, struck, and hooked the fish. It ran down with the current, my click reel singing the tune so delightful to anglers’ ears, until near one hundred feet of line was out. Placing my gloved thumb upon the barrel of the reel, I checked its progress. The trout dashed right and left, from and towards me, at times putting my tackle to a severe test. It kept below the surface of the water; therefore, I could only judge of the size of my captive by the strength it exerted in its efforts to escape. My enthusiastic guide was much excited, and cheered me by such remarks as, “Juge he big trout. He weigh three, four, five pounds! He very big trout!” I concurred in his opinion, as it often required the utmost strength of my right hand and wrist to hold my rod at the proper angle. After playing the fish fifteen or twenty minutes, without its showing any signs of exhaustion, I slowly, and by sheer force, reeled the fish to the canoe, and my guide scooped it out with the landing net. I then discovered it was not the monster we had supposed it to be, but that it was hooked by the tail fly at the roots of the caudal fin. The fish was killed, by a blow upon the head, and weighed. The scales showed two pounds two ounces. The guide paddled ashore, and upon the rocks near the falls built a fire, and prepared our breakfast. The fish was split open on the back, spread out upon a plank, to which it was secured by wooden pegs, set up before the fire, and thus broiled, or more properly, roasted. A more delicious trout I never tasted.
Up to this point, what has been written has been abstracted from the prolix journal that I kept of this bout.
As I have taken my first sea-trout from Canadian waters it is fitting that I turn to the subject of this article,
SEA-TROUT.
Like all anadromous fishes its “ways are dark and past finding out.” Hence scientists, naturalists, anglers and guides differ widely and materially in regard to its proper name, its species, and its habits. Scarcely any two writers upon the subject have agreed in all these points. Sea-trout (Salmo Trutta) abound in northern Europe. As stated by Foster in his “Scientific Angler,” in “nearly every beck and burn, loch and river of Scotland and Ireland; and are readily taken with a fly.” These sea-trout have been mentioned and described by many eminent writers—Sir Humphry Davy, Yarrel, Foster, and others. The description given of this fish, the number of rays in its fins, its coloring and markings, and lastly the absence of all red or vermilion spots render it absolutely certain that they are not in species identical with the sea trout of the Dominion of Canada.
As is shown by Thaddeus Norris, in his admirable work, “The American Angler’s Book,” conclusively I think, the supposed identity of the two kinds of sea-trout mentioned have led many writers astray when speaking of the sea-trout found in American waters.
Norris has applied to the latter fish the name Salmo Canadensis, given, I believe, by Col. Hamilton Smith, in 1834. Whether icthyologists can find a better or more appropriate one matters not. It is desirable that there be a name to distinguish this fish from all others, and this one, if generally adopted, will serve all necessary purposes.
In describing the fish Norris writes thus: “A Canadian trout, fresh from the sea, as compared with the brook trout, has larger and more distinct scales; the form is not so much compressed; the markings on the back are lighter and not so vermiculated in form, but resemble more the broken segments of a circle; it has fewer red spots, which are also less distinct.” He also thinks the sea-trout, until they attain the weight of two pounds, more slender in form. Again I quote verbatim: “In color, when fresh run from the sea, this fish is a light, bluish green on the back, light silvery gray on the sides, and brilliant white on the belly; the ventral and anal fins entirely white; the pectorals brownish blue in front and the posterior rays rosy white. The tail is quite forked in the young fish, as in all the salmonidæ, but when fully grown is slightly lunate.”
Genio C. Scott, who laid no claim to being a scientist, but who was a close observer, also compares the same fish, which he calls the Silver-trout or sea-trout, Trutta Argentina, or Trutta Marina, with the brook trout. He says, “The sea-trout is similar to the brook-trout in all facial peculiarities. It is shaped like the brook-trout. The vermicular marks on the back, and above the lateral line, are like those of the brook-trout; its vermicular white and amber dots are like the brook-trout’s; its fins are like the brook-trout’s, even to the square or slightly lunate end of the tail. It has the amber back and silver sides of such brook-trout as have access to the estuary food of the eggs of different fishes, the young herring,” etc.
These descriptions differ but little, and are, I believe, as accurate in the main as can be given. Both these writers, as will be seen, are discussing, and have taken opposite sides upon the question, whether the Canadian sea-trout is an anadromous brook-trout. This question was very well presented by Mr. Macdonough (my companion) in an article entitled “Sea-Trout Fishing,” published in Scribner’s Monthly Magazine for May, 1877. He begins thus: “What is a sea-trout? A problem to begin with, though quite a minor one, since naturalists have for some time past kept specimens waiting their leisure to decide whether he is a cadet of the noble salmon race, or merely the chief of the familiar brook-trout tribe. Science inclines to the former view upon certain slight but sure indications noted in spines and gill covers. The witness of guides and gaffers leads the same way; and the Indians all say that the habits of the sea-trout and brook-trout differ, and that the contrast between the markings of the two kinds of fish taken from the same pool, forbids the idea of their identity. Yet the testimony of many accomplished sportsmen affirms it. The gradual change of color in the same fish as he ascends the stream from plain silvery gray to deepest dotted bronze; his haunts at the lower end of pools, behind rocks, and among roots; his action in taking the fly with an upward leap, not downwards from above—all these resemblances support the theory that the sea-trout is only an anadromous brook-trout.... Indeed the difference in color between the brook-trout and sea-trout ranges within a far narrower scale than that between parr, grilse, and salmon.” The reader who has not read the paper would doubtless thank me for quoting it entire.
As will have been seen, the conscientious and lamented Thad. Norris, when he wrote as above quoted, thought that the Canadian sea-trout were not the English Salmo Trutta, nor the Salmo Fontinalis, and as proof gave this table showing the number of rays in the fins of the following fish:
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He adds, speaking of the last two fish—“there being only a difference of one ray in the pectorals, which may be accidental.” I am credibly informed that some years after his book was written, and after a more familiar acquaintance with the S. Canadensis, his views underwent an entire change, and that he wrote “the S. Canadensis is the S. Fontinalis gone to sea.”
The space allowed me for this paper will not admit of my quoting further from the writings of those above mentioned or of others upon this subject.
I will now state, as briefly as I can, my own views resulting from long familiarity with brook-trout, gained by thirty-five years of angling for them, my acquaintance with the sea-trout of Long Island, and those found in Canadian waters. In regard to the markings of the fish immediately after migrating from salt to fresh water it is unnecessary to say more, except that the vermicular marks differ somewhat in different fish. Some that I caught and examined closely had, as Scott says, “vermiculate marks on the back very plain and distinct.” And on others, as Norris writes, “the markings on the back were lighter and not so vermiculated in form, but resembling more the broken segments of a circle.” The fish in this respect differ from each other far less than often do brook trout, taken from the same pool. Norris thinks the sea-trout more slender in form than the brook-trout until the former attains the weight of two pounds. I have not been able to discover this difference between sea-trout and the brook-trout taken from the waters of this State. The trout of Rangeley Lake, and waters adjacent in Maine (I assume, as I believe, they are genuine brook trout), are thicker and shorter than trout of the same weight caught in the State of New York, or the Canadian sea-trout. I have two careful and accurate drawings—one of a sea-trout which weighed four and one-quarter pounds, and measured twenty-two and one-half inches in length, and five and one-eighth inches in depth—the other of a Rangeley trout that weighed eight pounds, and measured twenty-six inches in length, and eight and a half inches in depth. I have seen and measured several Rangeley trout two of seven pounds each, one of four and one-half pounds, etc., and in all I think there was a similar disproportion as compared with the other trout above mentioned.
As regards the number of rays in the fins of sea-trout I can only say that while fishing for them I counted the rays and found them to compare in number with those of the brook-trout as given by Norris in the table inserted ante.
All the writers from whom I have quoted, and all persons with whom I have conversed who have fished for these sea-trout, concur in the opinion that soon after the sea-trout enters fresh water, a change in color and appearance begins, which ends in assimilating, as nearly as may be, the fish in question to the brook trout. On the first day’s fishing, when my guide accompanied me, he opened the mouth of a trout and called my attention to small parasites—“Sea-lice,” he called them—in the mouth and throat of the fish. He said that the presence of these parasites was a sure indication that the fish had just left the salt water; that they would soon disappear in fresh water. As a matter of curiosity I examined the mouths of several fish, and invariably found that if they presented the appearance described by Norris and Scott, the parasites were present; but if they had assumed a gayer livery none were to be found. The change in color, which begins with the trout’s advent to fresh water, is progressive, and ceases only when the object of its mission, the deposit and impregnation of the spawn, is accomplished. In proof of this I will state that during the last days of our stay on the stream, and notably in fish taken fifteen or twenty miles from tide water, it was not infrequent that we caught trout as gorgeous and brilliant in color as the male brook trout at the spawning season. Whether this change of color is attributable to the character of the water in which it “lives, moves, and has its being,” to the food it eats, or other causes, it is impossible to say. I often caught from the same or adjacent pools, trout fresh from the sea and dull in color, and those showing in a greater or less degree the brilliancy of the mountain brook trout. Of course they differ widely in appearance, and therefore it is not surprising that the “Indians all say,” as expressed by Mr. Macdonough, “that the contrast between the markings of the two kinds of fish forbids the idea of their identity.”
As mentioned by Mr. Macdonough the sea-trout have their “haunts at the lower end of pools” [and upper end he might have added with truth], “behind rocks, among roots,” in short, in the same parts of a stream that an experienced angler expects to find and does find the brook trout.
The sea trout will take the same bait, rise at the same fly, and rest at the same hours of the day, as brook trout. The flies that I ordered, made from samples furnished by Mr. Macdonough, who had had some years’ experience on the stream before I accompanied him, were much larger and more gaudy than the usual trout flies, and ordinarily were sufficiently taking in character; but, on very bright days, when the water was low and clear, we found that the flies used by us on the Beaver Kill, and Neversink, in Sullivan County, New York, were better. The largest trout taken by us on this bout—four and one-quarter pounds—was hooked with a stone fly made by Pritchard Brothers, of New York, for use on those streams. On one occasion, I took at one cast, and landed safely, two trout, weighing three pounds and one-quarter, and one and three-quarters pounds, respectively, upon one of the said stone flies and a mediumsized gray hackle.
In conclusion of this part of my article, I will say that, for the reasons above given, I have no doubt but that the Canada sea-trout are anadromous brook trout, and that they should be classed with the salmo fontinalis, or, if preferred, salvelinus fontinalis.
The trout in question come up the St. Lawrence from the ocean in large numbers, and file off, probably in accordance with the instinct of anadromous fishes, to the streams in which they were severally hatched. The detachment for our stream reaches it invariably in the first days of August. “When once fairly in the current” (I quote from Mr. Macdonough’s paper), “their movements up-stream are very rapid. Passionless and almost sexless, as the mode of the nuptials, they are on their way to complete, may seem to more highly organized beings, they drive with headlong eagerness through torrent and foam, toward the shining reaches and gravelly beds far up the river, where their ova are to be deposited.” They stop for but a short time for rest in certain pools; one of these resting places was directly in front of our tents. Two, three, or more, could be taken from it in the morning; sometimes, not always, in the evening; but assuredly the ensuing morning; and so on, until the beginning of September.
When these fish return to “the ocean, that great receptacle of fishes,” as Goldsmith styles it, is a problem not yet solved. Some think they remain until winter, or spring. I incline to the opinion that they go back to the sea in the fall soon after their procreative duty is performed. It is well known that the salmo fontinalis gives no care or thought to its offspring; and evinces no love or affection for it after it passes the embryotic or ova-otic stage; and that during that stage their parental fondness is akin to that of the cannibal for the conventional “fat missionary.” The voraciousness that prompts the parent trout to eat all the eggs they can find as soon as deposited and fertilized, would also prompt them to return to the estuaries so well stocked with food suited to their taste and wants.
What becomes of the young fry during early fishhood is another problem. From the fact that no small trout are caught or seen in the rivers, at the source and in the tributaries of which millions are hatched, it is fair to assume that the young remain where they were incubated until they attain age, size, and strength that enable them to evade, if not defend themselves against, the attack of their many enemies. When this time arrives, they doubtless accompany their parents, or the parents of other troutlings (it is, indeed, a wise fish “that knows its own father”—or mother), on their migration to the sea. During our stay upon the stream I caught but two trout as small as one-fourth of a pound, but one of six ounces, and few as small as half a pound. The average size of our whole catch was one pound four ounces.
Since writing the foregoing, I have received from Dr. J. A. Henshall, an answer to a letter that I addressed to him, before I began this article, in which I asked him to give me the nomenclature of the sea trout of the lower St. Lawrence, and also to inform me whether he thought these fish anadromous brook trout.
I here record my thanks to the Doctor for his courteous compliance with my request, and give a copy of so much of his letter as relates to the fish under consideration, which, to my mind, settles the question of the status of the sea-trout of Canada.
“Cynthiana, Ky., Jan. 29, 1883.
“Dear Sir,—The so-called ‘sea-trout’ or ‘salmon-trout’ of the lower St. Lawrence, is the brook trout (S. fontinalis), but having access to the sea, becomes anadromous, and like all anadromous and marine fishes, becomes of a silvery appearance, losing, somewhat, its characteristic colors. The brook trout has a wide range (from northern Georgia to the Arctic regions), and of course presents some geographical variations in appearance, habits, etc...but does not vary in its specific relations. Mr. ———” (naming an American author to whom I referred), “was wrong in calling this fish Salmo trutta, S. trutta is a European species; and if he applied the name to the Canadian brook trout it is a misnomer. I cannot say, not having read ————” (a work by said author mentioned by me). “Trusting this may meet your wants, I am,
“Yours very sincerely,
“J. A. Henshall.
“P.S.—On next page please find nomenclature of the sea-trout of the lower St. Lawrence.
“Canadian Sea-Trout.
“Salvelinus fontinalis, (Mitchell), Gill & Jordan.
“Synonomy.—Salmo canadensis, Ham. Smith, in Griffith’s Cuvier, x, 474, 1834. Salmo immaculatus, H. R. Storer, in Bost, Jour. Nat. Hist., vi, 364, 1850.
“Vernacular Names.—Canadian brook trout, sea-trout, salmon trout, unspotted salmon, white sea-trout, etc.
“Specific Description.—Body oblong or ovate, moderately compressed; depth of body one-fourth to one-fifth of length; back broad and rounded.
“Head large, not very long, sloping symmetrically above and below; head contained four or five times in length of body. Nostrils double; vomer boat-shaped; jaws with minute teeth; no teeth on hyoid bone; mouth large, the maxillary reaching to the eye; eye large.
“Scales very small, in two hundred and twenty-five transverse rows; caudal fin slightly lunate in adult, forked in young; adipose fin small.
“Fin rays: D. 10; A. 9; P. 13; V. 8; C. 19.
“Color: back mottled with dark markings; sides lighter; belly silvery white; red and yellow spots on body, mostly on sides.
“Coloration often plain and silvery in sea-run individuals.”
The so-called “sea-trout” of Long Island, as stated by Mr. Charles Hallock, in his “Fishing Tourist,” and of certain streams in Connecticut, as mentioned by Mr. W. C. Prime in “I go a-Fishing,” are genuine brook trout. Although they have access to the salt water, and go there for food—and hence are fat and delicious in flavor—they are not anadromous brook trout. They do not “pass from the sea into fresh waters, at stated seasons” (Webster’s Dic.). They are caught at all times from February or March until the following autumn in fresh water, and, as Hallock expresses it, “they run in and out with the tide.”
When this article was commenced it was my intention to write not only of the sea-trout, but to give an account of our excursion in 1874; and in doing so to speak of the events of each day succeeding those of which I have written. It has already exceeded in length the measure that was fixed upon, hence I can give the reader only a casual glance at us as we proceed to our destination; and a look now and then into our camp.
I left our party—breakfast over—at the Sault au Cochon, at about eight A. M. of August 4th. Soon thereafter we set sail and made such progress that a few hours brought us to the mouth of our river. It was low tide when we reached it—low tide means something here, as the tide has a rise and fall of fifteen feet—and hence the anchor was dropped near the river’s mouth, canoes launched, our personal baggage transferred to our respective canoes—Macdonough’s was named Commodore, in honor of his father, who made an imperishable name on Lake Champlain in the war of 1812, and mine La Dame, in honor of some one who lived in my imagination; I never met her elsewhere. In the third canoe were placed the tents, camp utensils, and stores for twenty-four hours. When all was in readiness I lighted my pipe, seated myself on the bottom of my canoe, leaned back against one of the bords or cross bars; then David, sitting upon the V formed by the sides of the canoe at the stern, with paddle in hand, sent the birch bark flying up our river. Like most Canadian trout streams it consists of a series of still, deep pools, and swift, rocky rapids, alternating. Often the rapids have a fall of one foot in ten, and are from one to five, and sometimes ten or more rods in length. It is marvellous how these canoeists will force a loaded canoe up them. In doing so they stand near the back end and use a long, iron-pointed “setting pole.” Before sunset we reached our camping place, five or six miles from the St. Lawrence. The guides built a fire to dispel the mosquitoes, which were fearfully numerous and bloodthirsty, and then set about pitching our tents. M. and I lighted cigars, put our rods together, and in ten minutes’ time had taken from the pool in front of us, each two trout, weighing from one pound two, to one pound eight ounces each. Having caught enough for dinner we busied ourselves in arranging our tents, preparing our beds, etc. My journal for the day ends with the following brief entry: Nine P. M.—We are now settled in camp, have eaten a good dinner, smoked our cigars, and are going to bed.
Aug. 5th.—Having had a good night’s sleep I rose at five A. M., made a hasty toilet, took my rod and threw into the pool, within forty feet of my tent, and took during a few minutes three trout weighing three-quarters, one and a-quarter, and one and a-quarter pounds respectively. M. soon followed and caught two of one and a-quarter pounds each. Breakfast over we sent our guides with the canoes down to the chaloupe for the rest of our tents, stores, etc., and consequently we can only fish the home pool to-day. With a hatchet I cut out a path through the laurel thicket to the head of the pool, six or eight rods distant; returned to camp, put on my India rubber wading pants and rubber shoes (having a leather sole filled with Hungarian nails), took my rod, walked to the head of the pool, and cast my flies on the swift waters. In an instant a pair of capacious jaws emerged from the water. I struck, and as the head disappeared, saw the tail and half the body of an enormous trout.... In twenty minutes the fish was in my landing net. I walked proudly and in a most contented frame of mind back to camp. “That,” said Mr. Macdonough, “looks like old times.” The scales were hooked in his jaw, the index showed three pounds, eight ounces.... Our camp is on a sandy point of land around which curves the pool, and from which, for the space of about one-eighth of an acre, all trees were cut and the land cleared off, under the direction, tradition states, of Sir Gore Ouseley, who first encamped here about twenty years ago, with eighteen servants, retainers, and guides, of whom my guide was one, and the cook. The stumps have rotted away, and the clearing is covered with timothy and red-top grasses. We have cut much of this with our knives, and intend to finish haying to-day. The grass when cured is to be used in making our beds more luxurious. The pool in front is nearly two hundred feet across at one point, and in places ten or fifteen feet deep. In the centre and near the foot is a rock island about seventy-five feet long. In the foot of the pool between this rock and our camp large trout have been seen at all hours of the day.
Opposite our camp is quite a hill covered with spruce, larch, and white birch. We have canvas beds, supported by crotched sticks about eighteen inches high, upon which poles are laid and the canvas stretched. 5 P.M.—I have filled two canvas sacks with hay for a bed, and a pillow-case with the same, for a bolster. These, with my small feather pillow, sheets, blankets, and night-shirts, will render sleeping in the “bush” Christian-like and endurable. 7 p. m.—I have just cast into the pool and caught a pound and a-half trout, making for the day six trout, weighing nine pounds four ounces, and have not fished in the aggregate one hour. The guides, Captain and Fabian, have arrived with the three canoes and all stores.
Aug. 6th, 7.30 a. m.—We have just finished breakfast. It consisted of coffee, trout fish-balls, broiled ham, rice and wheat crepes (pancakes) with butter and maple sugar. My guide is an excellent cook and our stores abundant and of good quality. We purchased them in Quebec at a cost of $73.59 in gold. A tub of butter, barrel of bread, and sack of coarse salt, to preserve the trout, were purchased at Tadousac, and cost $11.34 in gold.
5 P.M.—I have just come in from my first day’s fishing. Began at 10 A. M., quit at 4 P. M. I fished below and Macdonough above the camp.
“M. killed 15 fish, weight 26 lbs., 4 oz.
“F. „ 25 „ „ 31 lbs., 4 oz. = 57 lbs., 8 oz.
Aug. 7th.—... Dinner is a great institution with us. Next to catching a trout of three pounds or over it is the event of the day. Ours of this evening was as follows:
“Soup: bean with extract of beef.
“Fish: boiled trout.
“Vegetables: potatoes and boiled onions.
“Pastry: rice cakes and maple sugar.
“Dessert: crackers, cheese, and orange marmalade.
“Wines: claret and sherry.
“Tea: English breakfast.”
Our canoes are beauties. They are eighteen feet long, three feet three inches wide in the centre, and fifteen inches in depth. With two men in they draw but three or four inches of water.
Aug. 9th.—We left our camp with one tent, two canoes, and provisions for four days; walked through the woods three miles to a lake, through which our river runs, which is eight miles above us by the stream.
... It is a lovely sheet of water about three and a-half miles long and one and a-half wide, surrounded, except at the inlet and outlet, by rocky cliffs, in many places five to eight hundred feet high....
Aug. 10th.—To our usual breakfast was added this morning a broiled partridge (ruffed grouse) which Fabian killed with a stick or stone yesterday, in making the portage. While at breakfast a gray or silver fox ran past us within twenty feet of where we sat. The woods are filled with squirrels; their chattering is heard constantly. Large and very tame fish-hawks abound—reminding one of the beach from Sandy Hook to Long Branch.... We have tickled the lake with a spinner, trolled with a long hand line, for pickerel. We fished but an hour with two lines. We caught fourteen, weighing thirty-four pounds.
Aug. 11th.—We fished down from the Middle Camp (as our present one is called). M. had the morning’s fishing in the “spring hole,” and took six fish averaging two pounds each. In the Magdalen pool I took three one pound trout immediately upon throwing in. Suddenly not ten feet from where I stood (I was in the water up nearly to my waist), and directly in front of me, a monster fish from three to four feet long, and of thirty or thirty-five pounds weight, shot up from the water, stood seemingly upon its tail for an instant, and with a heavy splash fell over into the pool. “My God! what is that?” I asked my guide. “It’s a saumon, sir,” he calmly replied. I was all excitement and began whipping vigorously where it rose. Failing to get it up, I put on a salmon fly. By this time salmon were leaping above me, below me, and at my very feet. I whipped diligently, letting my fly fall like thistledown upon the water, and then with a splash to attract attention, and now letting it sink and float with the current. It was all in vain; three hours of my most skilful fishing failed to entice one of the wily monsters. Neither could I get up a trout; they had all been driven away by the salmon. I caused my guide to paddle me over the still pool just above, and saw in the pellucid water, three or four feet beneath the surface, ten or fifteen large salmon. They lay perfectly still for a time, and then darted through and around the pool in every direction, as if in play. Suddenly they would congregate in the centre of the pool and lay with their heads up stream, the largest slightly in advance of the rest, as motionless as if the water had become ice, encasing the fish.
Aug. 12th.—At Main Camp.... The canoeing down from the Middle Camp—five miles—was delightful, and at times very exciting; that is, in running the rapids, which are numerous. In making a portage around the “Little Falls” we started up a cock partridge. It alighted upon the limb of a dead tree no higher than my head. “We approached within six feet of it, and stood for a minute or two gazing at the graceful bird. It returned our gaze with head turned aside, and a look of curious inquiry which said, as plainly as if it had spoken, ‘What kind of animals are you?’ I could easily have hit it with my landing-net handle but would not make it a victim of misplaced confidence.” This incident reminded me of the lines of Alexander Selkirk, in the English Reader, which was in use in my early school-boy days:
“They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.”
I may add that squirrels were constantly running about our camp, exhibiting no more fear than those in the parks of Philadelphia.
Aug. 14th.—“David build a fire between our tents, it is cold,” I called out about five o’clock this morning. “Yes, sir,” he replied; “a black frost this morning, had to thaw out my boots before I could get them on.” Our little encampment consists of two wall tents, ten feet square, for the use of Mr. Macdonough and myself. They are about fifteen feet apart, opening towards each other, upon a line twenty feet from the pool, upon ground five or six feet above it. Back of our tents is our dining-table, made of planks split from the spruce, and sheltered with a tent fly. In rear of this is the kitchen fire; and still farther back, two “A tents,” one for the use of our men, and the other for-the protection of our stores.
I do not often look into our kitchen: Seeing Fabian wipe my silver-plated fork upon his pantaloons, between courses, cured me of this. “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” I did, however, look into the kitchen to-day to see how our excellent bread was baked. It was properly made with “raising powder,” kneaded and formed into loaves. A trench was dug in the ashes and sand, forming the bed of our camp fire, wide and long enough to admit of three loaves. They were put into the trench, without any covering except the hot sand and ashes, with which they were surrounded on all sides, top and bottom. Live coals were raked over the mound, and it was left for time and heat to do the rest. An hour or so after I saw the bread taken from the ashes. It was brushed slightly with a wisp broom, which removed the little of ashes and sand adhering; and the bread was as clean as if it had just left the baker’s oven, and was of a uniform rich brown color. Lamb and green peas (French canned) formed one course at dinner to-day. The flavor of fresh mutton is much improved by non-intercourse with the butcher for two weeks.
Sunday, Aug. 16.—Another bright and beautiful day. It would be pleasant to hear “the sound of the churchgoing bell, which these rocks and these valleys ne’er heard,” It is now near two weeks since we entered upon our camp life, and we have seen no signs of civilization, save in our camp; nothing but forest, rock, water and sky, all as they came from their Great Creators hand. No sounds have been heard to carry us back in thought to the world of life and labor, save the occasional booming of the fog cannon at a government station on the south side of the St. Lawrence. How strangely did the warning voice of this gun, telling us of danger to the mariner, break upon the silence of the hour as we sat watching the fairy forms and fantastic shapes in our first evening’s camp-fire!
Pleasant as it is to the writer to live over again the days of which he has written—to dwell upon the scenes in which he was an actor, so vividly presented to his mind’s eye as he writes of them—pity for the too-long suffering reader has prompted him to close the lids of his journal and restore it to its place in the book-case.
It only remains to write somewhat of our success in fishing. The season was a very dry one, our river very low, and no rain sufficient to affect it fell during our stay, consequently the trout did not come up in as large numbers as usual, and the clearness of the water rendered successful fly-fishing more difficult. We caught on this occasion but two hundred and forty-three trout, of the aggregate weight of three hundred and four pounds. All these fish were taken with a fly, save one: thereby hangs a tale heretofore untold. At Tadousac, on our way out, I saw a gentleman, to whom I had been introduced, making something in the construction of which he used three snelled hooks and about three inches in length of thin white rubber tubing. I asked,
“What is it?”
“A devil,” he replied. He gave me materials, and while sailing down the river I made one. One day at the Home Pool I saw ten or a dozen large trout. They paid no heed to my flies. “Try the devil,” my guide whispered. In a moment of weakness I yielded to the tempter and put it on. The first cast caused commotion in the watery camp. At the second I struck and soon drew out on the beach a pound and a half trout. I looked upon the beautiful fish with compassion, cursed myself for resorting to such unfair means, removed the cruel hooks as tenderly as I could from the mangled and bleeding mouth, and taking off the devilish invention threw it as far as possible into the woods.
... “The beasts of game
The privilege of chase may claim.”
I have not since used, and shall not in the future use, this rightly named instrument, and hope no angler will. I have narrated this only unpleasant feature of my bout to illustrate the devilish ingenuity of “pot fishermen” and the curiosity of sea-trout. I wonder what was the gender of the fish!