Speaking of Izaak Walton

SPEAKING OF IZAAK WALTON— By G. P. Barber Impatiently the Boss prodded his horse into the stream. The raindrops fell gently upon his bare back and legs. The whole world seemed to drip. Suddenly I shouted, "She's loose!" The Boss turned in his saddle. I raised the pole a scant foot and gave a tentative pull on the line. It was certain that the hook was no longer fast between the rocks. Splash! "What the dickens!" I yelled, as the tip of the pole brushed the surface of the water. "It came loose in the night and a fish swallowed it," said the Boss, chuckling. Just then I was too busily engaged in landing the lively fellow who was cutting circles in the waters of Little Grey's to pay much attention to the Boss's words. I saw a wide tail flap the water once, and I knew from the tug on the line that I was hooked in a sizable trout. He must have been almost drowned, however, as I had him on the bank in a moment or two, and he ceased to struggle imme- diately. "About two pounds," guessed the Boss, answering my unspoken query. This was the climax of one of the strangest fishing episodes I have ever known. The evening before, the Boss and I had arrived on Little Grey's for a few days' fishing. We had had supper, and then had strayed down on the river for1 a few casts before darkness fell. It was raining, a gentle drizzle, and the trout were biting hungrily. We stood on the bank and cast into a series of deep riffles fifty yards in length. Suddenly I noticed three glossy creatures coming down stream, riding the waves. Only their long, satiny necks and beautiful slender heads were visible. "Otter," pronounced the Boss. He has a way of answering my greenhorn questions before they reach my lips. They were almost as tame as kittens. Twenty yards below us they swam out of the stream and waddled into the brush, appearing to be unconscious of our presence. "They don't often see anybody. Too far up the river. An occasional sheepherder, perhaps. The fur is no good this time of year." The Boss again volunteered interesting information. During this time we had both allowed our lines to sag in the water, and when my companion raised his pole to re-cast he found the hook to be caught fast between two rocks. All the wiles known

358 IMPROVEMENT ERA to an angler of fifty years' experience failed to dislodge the hook. We planted the butt of the pole in the mud, and as it was then dark the Boss decided to leave the snag as it was for the night. He planned to strip off his clothes in the morning and ride out on his horse and pry the hook loose. But Speckled Trout, Esq., obligingly did the job for him while we slept beneath the pines. As I told the Boss at breakfast, between bites of the intrepid one's deliciously fried flesh, it was a mighty poor way to show our gratitude — cooking him over the coals! I regret to say that on that trip we were hard-hearted marauders — after prey, not to be deterred by mere sentiment. Luck was with us. It continued to rain. Drenched to the skin, and slightly numbed with cold as a result of sitting still and working my jaws only, I ventured a mild imprecation upon the wetness of the weather. "Mighty good thing, too, boy," stated the Boss, emphatically. These fellows up here in this clear water bite lots better when it's raining. The water's full of bugs and things, and they have a gay time roping them in. We'll get twice the fish if it keeps raining." While the fisherman, always unsparing of his own strength in order to save me the routine toil of these trips, attended to staking out the pack horses and putting out the campfire with a dozen buckets of water, I followed his movements with eyes that lingered long and affectionately upon his diminutive form. To be on a trip in the hills with the Boss is the event of a life time. We entertain a mutual understanding, sympathy and regard that defies the ravages of time and adversity. Beyond the confines of my immediate family there is no one whom I regard with the same deep and sincere affection. "You dear old scout," I murmured to myself while a mist for the moment obstructed my vision. "You'd break your neck to show this worthless chunk of horseflesh a good time." A lull in the storm had come. My gaze wandered to the distant hills, pine-dad and shining vividly green, laden with their mantle of resplendent pearls. The river below, nosing its way (between abrupt walls of towering rock, went its serene but inexorable way to the majestic Snake, seventeen miles below. I have always marveled at the peculiar color of Little Grey's — a light jade green, unlike the waters of any stream I have ever known. Another characteristic is the extreme clearness. I can describe that transparent, crystal-like quality best by adding that the waters of Little Grey's are as clear as those of Crater Lake in Oregon are blue. Those of you who have visited Crater Lake National Park will readily grasp the significance of the comparison. I gazed upon the flowing river and dreamed. All lovers of na- ture are dreamers. The vast phenomena of nature, unfolding in con- stantly changing vistas of wonder and sheer delight, grips the sensi-

SPEAKING OF IZAAK WALTON— 359 bilities as nothing else does. It purges the soul of dross, and the idealist and dreamer emerges. Perhaps I should have still been there had not the Boss brought me back to earth with a jab of a fishing pole in my ribs. "Let's be going, boy. Say, what the Sam Hill have you been looking at — a mirage," he demanded, noticing the mesmerized glow that shone from my eyes. For once I felt too sheepish to take the Boss into my confidence. Not that he wouldn't have betrayed a keen interest and a sympathetic understanding, but I was a little ashamed of my emotion, perhaps. The clouds were again lowering and the rain beginning to patter down as I mounted the spirited Red, and the Boss "climbed aboard" staid old French, veteran of a hundred trips to the hills. We rode slowly down the grassy slope, through the dripping underbrush to the river. Once more I had become the materialist, and looked forward to an exciting day of fishing with keen relish. We baited with grasshoppers caught at the ranch two days be- fore, and let our lines float downstream as we forded at the place where we had seen the otters the night before. "Good thing we brought these 'hoppers along," said the Boss. "We'd never have been able to catch any here in the rain; there's none out. It's a queer thing. The fish in Grey's will usually take 'hoppers anytime — rain or shine. I've an idea a bullhead on a spin- ner would appeal to some big fellow this morning, though. I'll try and get on when we reach the shallows." By this time we had clambered upon the trail and for a few minutes trotted briskly along. After riding for perhaps a mile the Boss swerved off into the bushes and followed a faint trail to the water's edge. I was delighted with the sight of the beautiful fishing water that met my eyes. On both sides of the river were deep bluish-green holes, some in the curvature formed by rocks and others swirling beneath giant pines. I noted with appreciation that riffles led into each hole, and knew before ever casting a line that trout, without doubt, large ones, were feeding on those ripples. "I'll go across," volunteered the Boss, and without further parley coaxed old French into the stream and plunged to the other side. I baited with 'hoppers and fished the likely-looking eddies along my side of the river. Several nice trout were added to my basket, but the big fellows refused to swallow the bait. Several times I saw the broad brown back of some redoubtable old he-trout as he came to the surface to investigate the prize I had to offer. Each time he retired, disgusted. "A little too dark for 'hoppers," I decided after fifteen minutes' unsuccessful attempts to entice the wary rascals to take the morsels offered them. "I'll see if they will stick up their noses at flies." They did, Grey Hackle, Brown Hackle, Coachman, Royal

360 IMPROVEMENT ERA Coachman, Queen of the Water, White Miller, Black Knat — these and sundry other favorites from my collection of approved flies for Star Valley waters failed to arouse any enthusiasm whatever in the indiffer- ent inhabitants of the deep. Several times I thought I discerned a sardonic grin wrinkle the nose of some old grandpa as he ponder- ously played hide-and-go-seek with the gaudy bit of color. "Darn it all! What in time do these old greybeards want, any- how," I muttered, disgustedly, sitting down on the wet bank to think it over. I glanced down the river, The Boss was nowhere in sight. "He's down in the shallows, looking for a bullhead, I'll bet all the trout in Grey's River," I thought. That random thought called to mind the Colorado spinner, and I searched my fly book and leader box for one of suitable size. I was able to find but one a copper No. 2, and with little hope of obtaining any results, tied it to the leader. I had no bullhead, and there was no possibility of getting one where I was, as the water along the shore was deep and swift. Bullheads lurk in shallow places, under the rocks, and I knew that my chances of capturing one in that particular spot were slim. Most fishermen use the Colorado spinner without bait. Under the expert coaching of the Boss I had learned that the spinner was far more effective when used with angle worm, grasshopper or bull- head impaled on one hook. This is a weapon devised to lure the largest trout that swim the waters to a speedy reckoning with Fate, and it is to be said to the credit of the diabolical contraption that it often does as it is intended to do. If my folks hadn't christened me "George" for a first name, and thought seriously of "Washington" for a second (they intended to make me the recipient of this honor until my mother's mother sug- gested another and insisted upon its adoption) I could cause the bored reader to prick up his ears at this point by describing an exciting battle with, and capture of, at least an eight pounder. But with my name it is impossible to stray from the truth. I'm sorry, gentle reader. The spinner failed to dislodge the finny Goliaths from their apathy, so I wrapped the line tightly about the fishing pole, untied Red's bridle rein, and rode down the trail, intent on finding the Boss and getting his line-up on the speckled tribe. Five minutes later I came in sight of the one whom I was seek- ing. He was still on the other side of the river, and was fishing in the still water just back of a huge boulder half way out in the stream. A bank fifty or sixty feet high sloped to the water's edge, and was of shaly formation. Just as I arrived opposite the Boss, and was about to call to him, I became aware of the fact that he was hooked in a fish of more than ordinary proportions. His line was moving rapidly down stream, impelled by some irresistible force, and the Boss

SPEAKING OF IZAAK WALTON— 361 was following the line in desperate haste, scrambling over the rocks in a frantic endeavor to keep up with the maddened trout, stung by the tearing hook that clung tenaciously to his jaw. He dared not snub, as to do so would have snapped the line or leader as a seam- stress snaps a thread, and he could play out no more line as it was tied at the tip of his pole. The Boss had always scoffed at the idea of fishing with rod of split bamboo or steel, with a reel attached. His old-fashioned cane pole enabled him to play just so much line, and he had played the limit. So he needs must follow where the fish led, and the furious old dragon led him a merry chase. At times my heart jumped into my mouth when the pole bent sharply and it appeared as if the line must snap. But by the skin of his teeth the Boss would prevent the tragedy, or rather I should say by the clever- ness of his footwork. The excitement of the struggle is impossible to picture in words — Izaak Walton with his vivid angler's vernacular perhaps could have done it justice — and as I then stood petrified unable to help with word or deed I now find it impossible to paint a word picture of that intensely dramatic struggle. Down stream would dash the shackled swimmer, then he would whirl giddily and lash the water in an upstream run for freedom. High into the air he would leap, shooting spray that gleamed like highly polished bits of steel. In these leaps he would shake his jaws savagely to free them from the barb — then splash! his broad, mobile tail would strike the water with a resounding clap. I knew the trout must tire, but I was afraid the Boss would tire first. He showed signs of weariness; the hand that held the pole visibly trembled. I did not, however, correctly estimate the amount of endurance in that hardened frame. I was to see him pilot the van- quished but gallant warrior gently to the water's edge and lift him out of the water. Then the Boss sat down to rest. He regarded his victory modestly. He did not exult in the capture. In fact, he appeared a bit rueful. The Boss admires pluck And why should he gloat over the unusual dimensions of this trout? He had caught dozens as large. And he wrote me one time that he had landed a fourteen pounder on Salt River. How much did it weigh? Of course you must ask that. The Boss didn't say. He said it was a "pretty nice fish." That is strong language for him. When I looked up from the typewriter at this point and asked my wife what the usual climax in a fish story is, she said, "A great big lie!" So I guess this story hasn't any climax. Boneta, Utah