Part 17
Now there is no time to mantle the fallen or sing paeans to the victors; the action is at its height. I put my last blue fly on my leader and cast it again and again with success, before those dark open jaws, that come out of the water every time it falls on the surface, have destroyed its beauty forever. Frank says the time is up and we must go.
The boat, propelled with broken oars, is headed for the landing-place, and I sit back in the stern admiring those sleek beauties that lie in the bottom, and that have fought so well and so vainly. My rod is inclined over my shoulder and the blue fly is trailing on the water astern. Suddenly I feel a twitch and hear a splash, and turning around find I am fast to a fish, the noblest Roman of that, day’s struggle. Once, twice, thrice he shows himself in all his fair proportions.
“Two pounds and a half, if an ounce,” says Frank.
I get down on my knees in the water of the cranky boat, as the reel sings the merriest tune that ever delighted the ear of an angler. Two or three mad dashes, and I think the trout is tiring. I reel him slowly in, but the sight of the boat gives him new life and he darts under it in spite of my efforts to swing him around the stern. The rod tip is passed clear of the boat and the fight continues.
Exhausted? The fight is only begun.
The unwieldy boat is far too slow to follow the fish, and I see my line growing rapidly less on my reel with no sign of weakness on the part of the fish. I am compelled to advance the butt of the rod and the tip droops nearer and, hesitatingly, still nearer to it, as though the tip would whisperingly confess that the strain is greater than it can bear, while the stout nature of the wood rebels at the confession. Involuntarily I raise myself by a muscular action as though the cords and sinews of my body could relieve the pressure on the lancewood and save the rod.
“You’ll smash your pole!” is the warning Frank utters.
I care not now, for the fight has been a glorious one, but the “pole” survives to fight many another fight; the trout is turned and, at last, comes side up, to the boat, vanquished but not subdued.
Here, in another paper, are three flies fastened together. A Chicken Red Palmer Hackle, a Grizzly King and a fly with black body, brown wings, red tail and tip. They are large trout flies and won honorable retirement by catching three small-mouthed black bass at one and the same time. Fishing from a boat in the Hudson River, above a long rough rapid, I cast inshore and saw the stretcher fly taken by a small bass; immediately after the two droppers were taken by other bass that did not show themselves when taking the lures. My rod was the same that I have already mentioned, an ash and lancewood of eight ounces—scale weight—and my entire attention was directed to it and the fish, that were bending it like a willow wand; when, suddenly, I discovered that the boatman had also been interested in the play of the fish and allowed the boat to drift into the swift water at the head of the rapids. The boatman made an effort to row up stream at the same time the fish decided to go down, and I found I must either smash my tackle and lose the fish—at this time I had seen but the one bass that took the stretcher fly—or run the rapids at the risk of an upset. I was very anxious to see the size of the fish that were struggling on my leader in that swift running water, and every angler will know the decision that was instantly made, to “shoot the rapids.”
The sight of these old tinseled lures brings back to me the wild excitement of that driving, whirling ride through the racing, seething waters. Hatless I crouch down in the boat, one hand clutching the gunwale of the broad river craft, and the other holding aloft my rod. I give no thought to the possible fate of the occupants of the boat. My anxiety is for the fish. When the curved line is straight again, will I feel the bass at the end or only the bare flies? These very flies!
Very soon the boat is rocking in the lumpy water at the foot of the chute, and I stand up, fill my lungs, and find my fish are still fast. Here in the broad water I bring to net three small-mouthed bass that together weigh four and one-quarter pounds, only one of which, at any time, showed himself above water. As I put the faded flies back into their paper coverings I find that my pulse has quickened and my pipe no longer burns.
I must not exhibit all my treasures here, to the public. These old souvenirs are only for the eyes of sympathizing angling friends when we meet to blow a cloud and talk of other days.
A little brown-eyed maiden once, looking into my fly-book, asked why I had the old frayed flies tied up in separate papers and marked, while the nice new flies did not show this care. Had she been of maturer years I might have quoted Alonzo of Aragon’s commendation of old friends, but instead, I merely said:
“The nice new flies I can easily buy, but no one sells such old flies, therefore I take the greater care of them because of their rarity.”
The new flies will not be slighted, for they, also, have their season of admiration and caressing touch. When their day has come the old veterans of many a fight will not be forgotten either, but while maturing plans for augmenting their numbers, the recruits in their new, bright dress will be inspected to see what claims they may have for future honors.
The lengthening days and diminishing snowbanks naturally turn the angler’s thoughts forward, and he sniffs the south wind as though he would discover some slight remaining odor of fragrant apple blossoms borne to him from the far southland as the forerunner of warm air, blue sky, bursting buds, open streams, green grass, “gentle spring,” and time to go a-fishing. Then the untried flies are examined and speculation is rife as to their excellence, each for its own particular kind of fish.
Day dreams and evening musings give place to an activity of mind and body when fishing is under consideration. The lessons of the last season and other seasons are brought to bear to perfect all arrangements for a fresh campaign. Consultations with brother anglers are frequent, and plans many and various are weighed and discussed. The tackle box is overhauled again and again, notwithstanding the attention paid to it at the close of the last season, to be sure that nothing is wanting or left undone. Lines are tested; leaders are subjected to the closest scrutiny to see that no flaws or chafed places exist to give way at a critical moment during some future contest, when a trifle will turn the scales; reels are taken apart and carefully oiled; rods sent to the maker for a new coat of varnish, and, perhaps, a few new whippings for the guide rings; fishing shoes, although they have a row of holes just above the soles, get an extra dressing of oil to keep the leather soft; and an inventory of the wardrobe is taken and old garments are selected that appear for the time, considering the use they are to serve, far more faultless than when first sent home by the tailor. “About these days your business letters, if written to people into whose souls the love of angling has entered, may terminate as follows:
“P. S.—What are the prospects for the spring fishing in your neighborhood? Did the late freshets of last fall destroy the trout eggs deposited in the streams about you?” or, “Did the unusual severity of the winter cause destruction to the trout spawn in the headwaters of your brooks?”
Some evening when the “fever is on” you will write to a guide up in the North Woods, some honest, faithful fellow that you have known in all weathers for many seasons:
“Be sure and take a boat over to Mahogany Pond, (that is not the name of it, for its title is taken from a domestic wood that grows on its shores), before the snow goes off and keep me informed as to the condition of things, for I wish to start and be with you as soon as the water is free from ice. I shall bring a friend with me, the gentleman I told you about last summer, who knows the name of every plant that grows in the woods, as well as the name of every fish that swims in the water. The old camp, with a few repairs, will answer, as Mr. ——— is an old woodsman and angler of the first order, and requires no more than the few simples that you usually take to camp. He, like myself, goes into the woods to fish and fill his lungs with the pure mountain air that you live in.”
When Dick reads the letter he smiles, for it contains nothing unknown to him before. It is his own idea to carry a boat to the pond on the snow, for there is no road, path or trail, but he only says to himself:
“He’s got it just as bad this spring as ever. The medicine will be ready for him.”
The angler does all this and more; mind, I say the _angler_, for the other fellow that goes a-fishing because it is the thing to do, or because he has heard some one dilate upon the pleasure to be found in practising the art, will do nothing of the sort. It is too much trouble, or, more likely, these things never occur to him.
How the man of severe aspect who, if he smiles, looks as though he wore a petrified smile that he had bought at a bargain, and whose sole ambition and pleasure is to make money, live as long as he can in doing so, and die as rich as possible; this man, if he could know, and comprehend, what is passing through the angler’s mind at this season, would say such vagabonds are the cumberers of the earth; but he could not find a “cumberer” in all the land who would change places with him, take his joyless life, sapless heart, frozen visage, narrow views and great wealth, and give in return the angler’s light heart, happy disposition, love of God, his fellow-man and Nature; his resources within himself, engendered by his fondness for the wild woods, to enjoy the past and anticipate the future, whatever betide; his desire to see good in every thing, his clear conscience and his fishing tackle.
Bear in mind that the pleasure of angling is not alone the consummation of your hopes for a large score. Hear what Sir Humphrey Davy says on this subject:
“From the savage in his rudest and most primitive state, who destroys a piece of game, or a fish, with a club or spear, to man in the most cultivated state of society, who employs artifice, machinery, and the resources of various other animals, to secure his object, the origin of the pleasure is similar, and its object the same: but that kind of it requiring most art may be said to characterize man in his highest or intellectual state; and the fisher for salmon and trout with the fly employs not only machinery to assist his physical powers, but applies sagacity to conquer difficulties; and the pleasure derived from ingenious resources and devices, as well as from active pursuits, belongs to this amusement. Then, as to its philosophical tendency, it is a pursuit of moral discipline, requiring patience, forbearance, and command of temper.
“As connected with natural science, it may be vaunted as demanding a knowledge of the habits of a considerable tribe of created beings—fishes, and the animals that they prey upon, and an acquaintance with the signs and tokens of the weather, and its changes, the nature of waters, and of the atmosphere. As to its poetical relations, it carries us into the most wild and beautiful scenery of nature, amongst the mountain lakes, and the clear and lovely streams that gush from the higher ranges of elevated hills, or that make their way through the cavities of calcareous strata. How delightful in the early spring, after the dull and tedious time of winter, when the frosts disappear and the sunshine warms the earth and waters, to wander forth by some clear stream, to see the leaf bursting from the purple bud, to scent the odors of the bank perfumed by the violet, and enamelled as it were with the primrose and the daisy; to wander upon the fresh turf below the shade of trees, whose bright blossoms are filled with the music of the bee; and on the surface of the waters to view the gaudy flies sparkling like animated gems in the sunbeams, whilst the bright and beautiful trout is watching them from below; to hear the twittering of the water-birds, who, alarmed at your approach, rapidly hide themselves beneath the flowers and leaves of the water-lily; and, as the season advances, to find all these objects changed for others of the same kind, but better and brighter, till the swallow and the trout contend as it were for the gaudy Mayfly, and till in pursuing your amusement in the calm and balmy evening, you are serenaded by the songs of the cheerful thrush and melodious nightingale, performing the office of paternal love, in thickets ornamented with the rose and woodbine.”
While it is not all of fishing to fish, it does not consist entirely of preparation, and it must have something substantial as a basis for the day dream or fireside musing. You must catch some fish, as capital stock, to talk about. I never knew an angler that was satisfied to do all the listening.
In my native State the law makes it legally possible to wet a hook for speckled trout, for the first time each year on April first, and this day has come to be called “Opening Day,” and is spoken of in such glowing language that one might think it the opening of some vast commercial enterprise instead of the opening of the fishing season. As the result of an angler’s hopes and preparations, as I have tried, imperfectly, to sketch them, I will quote from my fishing diary what is there set down as one consummation:
“_April 1st_, 1878.—Opening day. Fished Halfway brook from Morgan brook to, and through the woods; then fished Ogden brook from Van Husen’s road to Gleason’s. Banks more than full of roily snow water; weather decidedly cold; strong wind from the Northwest; cloudy sky. Caught one small trout that I returned to his native element to grow; discovered from my single specimen of the _Salvelinus fontinalis_ that they have the same bright spots that they have always had; look the same, smell the same, _feel_ the same; other peculiarities lacking. Warm sun and rain required to develop the characteristics we so much admire in our leaping friend. Managed to fall into the Ogden brook—in fact, went in without the slightest difficulty, amid applause from the bank; discovered from my involuntary plunge that the water is just as wet as last year, and if memory serves, a trifle colder. Reached home in the evening, cold, wet, tired and hungry. Nevertheless, had a most _glorious time_.”
“These flies, I am sure, would kill fish.”—_Charles Cotton_.
“I would advise all experts to keep a well-filled fly-book. It is a pleasure to experiment, and the educated eye takes delight in looking at the varieties of colors, shapes and forms which the skilled workman in fly-art has provided as lures for the speckled beauties.”—_George Dawson_.
“Fly-fishing and bait-fishing are co-ordinate branches of the same study, and each must be thoroughly learned to qualify the aspirant to honors for the sublime degree of Master of the Art.”—_Charles Hallock._
“Americans have reason to be proud of the black bass, for its game qualities endear it to the fisherman, and its nutty, sweet flavor to the _gourmand_.”—_Parker Gilmore._
20. Black Maria.
21. Tipperlinn.
22. Premier.
23. Grizzly King.
24. Ferguson.
25. Californian.
“‘What flies do you most affect here?’ ‘Any, at times, and almost all. In some weather I have killed well with middlesized gaudy lake-flies; but my favorites, on the whole, are all the red, brown, orange and yellow hackles, and the blue and yellow duns.’”—_Henry Wm. Herbert._
“Fish will frequently, although breaking freely, refuse the fly, but generally a few will be misled, and occasionally one will be caught.”—_P. B. Roosevelt._
“The _natural_ and acquired skill actually necessary before any man can throw a ‘neat fly’ is only known to those who have made this method of angling their study and amusement.”—“_Frank Forester_.”
“Luck has little to do with the size of an angling score; for skill in handling, a knowledge of the haunts of the fish, of the conditions of wind, weather and water, character of baits to be used, of the changes and drift of tideways, sun-rays and shadows, and a familiar acquaintance with the natural history of the family pisces, their habits, habitat, and idiosyncrasies (for no other animal is so erratic as these scaly fins), all go to make up the complete angler, known as such from the days and writings of Izaak Walton, in the seventeenth, up to this great nineteenth century.”—_Wm. C. Harris_.
“What is the use of my telling you what manoeuvres that trout will perform before he comes to the landing-net, gently as a lamb? I don’t know what he will do; never saw two of them act alike.”—_Oliver Gills, Jr._
“Probably the secret of the infatuation of this amusement to most or many of the brothers of the angle, is to be found in the close and quiet communion and sympathy with nature essential to the pursuit of the spoil of the water.”—_John Lyle King_.
“The principle of the rod is in reality only this, that it is the home end of the line, stiffened and made springy, so that you can guide and manage it—cast and draw it, keep a gentle pressure with it on the hook, so that the fish shall not rid himself of it, and finally lift him to the landing net.”—_W. C. Prime._
FLY-FISHING IN FLORIDA
By Dr. J. C. Kenworthy.
The votaries of the rod and reel have overlooked an important field for sport, for, in my opinion, no portion of the United States offers such advantages for fly-fishing as portions of Florida during the winter months. The health of the State is beyond cavil or dispute; the climate is all the most fastidious can ask; there is an almost total absence of insect pests, and last though not least, a greater variety of fish that will take the fly than in any other section of the Union. My own experience is mainly based on opportunities for observation on the south-west coast, and it is possible that points on the eastern coast, as the Indian River inlet and the outlet of Lake Worth, may offer advantages over the section referred to.
As far as my knowledge extends, fly-fishers are indebted to my friend, Geo. C. Johnson, of Bridgeport, Conn., for the development of fly-fishing in Florida. Some years since I met Mr. Johnson on his arrival in this city _en route_ to Homosassa. He remarked that he had brought his fly-rod with him, and I suggested that a heavy bass rod would prove more serviceable.
On the evening of his arrival at Homosassa he visited the dock in front of Jones’ house, and noticed fish breaking water near the shore. He proceeded to the house, rigged his rod, and was followed to the dock by a number of laughing sceptics, who ridiculed the “spindly rod and feather baits.” In compliance with Mr. Johnson’s request, Dr. Ferber rowed him a short distance from the dock, and the fun commenced with large-mouthed bass and red trout; and from that evening fly-fishing became an established institution on the south-west coast of Florida. For a number of years Dr. Ferber has devoted his winters to fly-fishing on the south-west coast, and it is to be regretted that he was not requested to give his ripe and ample experience, instead of one who is far beneath him in experience and ability to wield the split bamboo or pen.
The next season after Mr. Johnson’s visit to Homosassa Mr. Francis Endicott, of New York, visited the locality and indulged in fly-fishing. He informed me that he had captured with the fly eight distinct species of fish on the Homosassa River; and I will ask where else in the United States can the devotee of the gentle art capture eight distinct species of fish with the fly on a river but ten miles in length?
My friend, Dr. Ferber, on his return from the southwest coast in April last, visited me, and stated that he had caught on that coast, with artificial flies, eleven distinct species of fish. Among the number I may mention large-mouthed bass (trout of the South), channel bass, cavalli, ravallia, skip jacks, sea trout, brown snappers, roach, and three species of bream.
Instead of wading icy-cold and over-fished brooks, tearing clothes and flesh in creeping through briers and brush, and being subjected to the sanguinary attention of mosquitoes and black flies in bringing to creel a few fingerlings, in Florida the angler can cast his fly from a sandy beach or boat, inhale an invigorating atmosphere, bask in the sunshine, and capture specimens of the finny tribe, the weight of which can be determined by pounds instead of ounces.
Sea trout of the South are closely allied to the weak fish of the North, and frequent rapid waters, oyster beds and weedy flats. They range from one to five pounds, are good biters and make a noble resistance to avoid the landing net.
Large-mouthed black bass (trout of the South) exist in great numbers in the lakes and streams of the State. In very clear lakes and streams they are not disposed to indulge in artificial baits. As fighters they are unworthy of the notice of experts. It has been my lot to capture them in many localities, and I have found that after the first few struggles they open their mouths and come to gaff like a grain bag.
Brown snappers exist in countless numbers in some of the streams of the State—as in the Homosassa. They range from six ounces to one pound, and cannot resist the temptation to capture a hook decorated with feathers. They are good biters and full of game. Owing to the presence of a number of rat-like teeth, they play sad havoc with flies; and we would advise those who propose engaging in the capture of this fish to provide an ample supply of feathery lures.
Skip-jacks (or bone-fish) visit the streams in schools. They range from two to six pounds. They readily take a fly and die game. Owing to their build, size of fins, and muscular development, they are worthy of notice. On one occasion I was camped at Little Gasparilla pass, and at the bay side of the inlet there existed an eddy in which I could see hundreds of skip-jacks. For some time I amused myself by casting, and the moment the bait would touch the water the surface would be in a boil. I would strike and the next instant a bone-fish would be two or three feet in the air. As a rule they enter the streams with the flood tide, and as they are constantly breaking the water they can be followed in a boat. By following the fish on the flood and ebb the rodster may enjoy a number of hours of exciting sport. Between Esteno and Marco passes I have seen them for hours at a time feeding on minnows near the beach.
The Ravallia is a fish with which I am unacquainted, although I have reason to believe that it exists in quantity at certain points on the south-west coast. My friend Dr. Ferber, informed me that in one of his cruises he entered Billy Bow Legs Creek and noticed a deep pool. He made a cast and landed a ravallia. Nearly every cast he would land one or two ranging from one to three pounds, unless a ravenous cavalli interfered.
The cavalli of large size would seem to tire of the flouncing and floundering of their neighbors, and would join in the fray, when the doctor would part with a fly or leader. The doctor assured me that the sport was kept up until he was surfeited. He describes the fish as resembling a pike perch of the North, and is loud in its praise as a game fish. Friends have informed me that they have captured specimens of this fish, with cut bait, weighing thirty pounds. My impression is, that if pools and inlets south of Punta Passa were thoroughly tried with the fly that the piscator would be rewarded with large-sized specimens.