Kitabı oku: «With Rod and Line in Colorado Waters», sayfa 8
“HE’S NO SARDINE.”
Wagon Wheel Gap ought to have been colonized by Frenchmen. Why, did you say? Well, the Gap proper is a few hundred feet long. On the southwest side of the Rio Grande, a cliff, about six hundred feet at the base, reaches heavenward perpendicularly about the same distance. Opposite, and stretching for two miles or more down the stream, is a beetling wall, in some places, they tell me, thirteen hundred feet high. To reach the summit, one must go two miles up the river to Bellows Creek, strike into a game trail that leads through numberless little parks, bordered with mountain pines, and gorgeous with the hues of wild flowers. If a Frenchman should walk to the summit of his ambition, he would be too tired to fall off; if he rode up, being a mercurial creature, he’d have time to, and would, change his mind, go back to his family, if he had any, and wonder why he had ever entertained the notion that this is not a good world to live in. Looked at from below, there would be such a fascination in the absolute magnificence of the means to his end, that when the melancholy fit enraptured him again, he’d go over the same trail, with the same happy result. With those cliffs hanging over him, the consequences of charcoal, morphine, the pistol or the rapier would become coarse. He would abandon all other routes to immortality, and finally die in his bed with the weight of years, like a Christian. That was my explanation to the Captain, and he believed in it, as we lay peering over the edge and looking down at our six-feet friends turned into midgets.
Those friends of ours, good rodsters, all, stood on the bank of the river, evidently predicting what a day might bring forth. The Rio Grande was metamorphosed from a crystal stream into a river of mud. From our dizzy height, it looked like a demoralized rope, the impeding boulders in the current making the frayed patches. We had seen it in that plight and none other for two weeks. But that we had been assured each day that there would certainly be a change on the morrow, we would have sworn its normal condition was “rily.”
Having been lied to daily for the last fourteen days, our hope had ended in the faith that inspired our comforters. “So much a long communion tends to make us what we are: – even I” promised each newcomer, anxious to test his skill, that the river would “clear up to-morrow.” We had heard, too, about four times a day, of the eight-pound trout captured somewhere in Antelope Park, on a seven-ounce rod, – the trout I mean, not the park. I knew all the history of that trout; it had been skinned and the skin stuffed; I saw a woman who saw the trout, and I, of course, had no hesitation in confidently asserting its weight and the details of its capture.
Our hourly routine had been to go to the river, examine the color of the water, and the mark that registered its stage; every fellow said it would “clear up to-morrow;” then we went back to the house and smoked.
Being on higher ground, the Captain thought he would vary the subject, so he said:
“I’d like to catch a pound and a half trout.”
I told him he should have one; that one of eight pounds had been caught somewhere in Antelope Park, and that it had been skinned and the skin stuffed; then he said he felt encouraged. That night the river did clear a little, and notwithstanding we knew that every fish in the river was gorged, we could not resist going down stream. Having floundered round on the slippery boulders for a couple of hours without sitting down, we reached a couple of good-sized pools at the head of a riffle; the Captain took the upper, I the lower. Making my way out near to mid-stream, I took up my station behind a large flat rock that stood about a foot out of water, and busied myself sending a “coachman” and a “professor” out into my domain with a little hope that I might induce something out of the inviting pool. Before I had been there five minutes a yell from the Captain caused me to look his way. His Bethabara was beautifully arched, and at the end of fifty feet of line something was helping itself to silk.
“I’ve got him – he’s a whopper.”
“That’s the pound and a half I promised you,” I answered, as a beautiful fellow shot across stream not three yards above me; “but you’ll lose him in that current.”
“I know it, unless I work him down your way.”
“Come on with him – don’t mind me.” I reeled in, climbed on the rock, and sat down to see the fun. The noble fish made a gallant fight, but the hook was in his upper jaw, and it was only a matter of time when he would turn upon his side. Working him down stream, through my pool and round into the quieter water near shore, was the work of ten minutes at least; the captive, seeming to readily understand that still water was not his best hold, kept making rushes for the swift current; but each time he was brought back, and soon began to weaken under the spring of the lithe toy in the Captain’s hand. Fifteen minutes were exhausted when the scale hook was run under his gills, and he registered one pound twelve ounces.
Apologizing for creating a row in my quarters, the Captain went back to his old place, while I again tried my luck. About five minutes elapsed when I heard another, not to be mistaken yell.
“I’ve got another – he’s bigger than the first.”
“Yes, I see you have – I think it’s infernally mean.”
“I know it is, but I can’t help it. I’ve got to come down there again.”
“Well, come on,” and I sat down again to watch the issue. The struggle was not so brave, though the fish, when brought to scale, weighed half a pound more than the first. While we were commenting on this streak of luck, we noticed a change in the water, its partially clear hue began to grow milky, and in less time than it takes to tell it, a boulder six inches under the surface was out of sight.
“We might as well go to dinner, no trout will rise in that mud,” and I reeled up with the reflection that the next best thing to catching a trout is to see one captured by one who knows how to manipulate a two-pounder on a seven-ounce rod.
That evening the river gave promise, as usual, of “clearing up to-morrow,” whereupon six of us made arrangements for a trip up stream half a dozen miles, with a lunch in the wagon. The morrow came and brought with it comparatively clear water. We were off immediately after breakfast; arrived at our lunching place under the shelter of some pines by the river bank, it was at once discovered that the river had gone back on us, so to speak; muddy again. No one swore, we just arranged ourselves along the margin and prayed; all good anglers know how to pray. I am indifferently skilful – at angling I mean – but always endeavor to do the best I can. In the course of an hour the river gave us some encouragement. It grew better as noon approached, and after lunch each man was assigned his quarters and struck out for them.
I went down stream with a six-footer in long waders, who was to cross to the other side at the first riffle, which he did. Our flies overlapped each other in agreeable proximity for two hours or more, with indifferent success to either. The trout were gorged with the food brought down by the repeated rises, and seemed in no hurry to seek the broad road that leads unto death.
Finally we reached a magnificent pool, nearly a mile from our starting point, and my companion had worked his way back to my side of the stream. We started into the edge of the pool together, he above me a couple of rods. The flies went over toward the opposite bank, twenty-five and thirty feet away, time and again, without success. Finally an exclamation from the gentleman above me directed my attention from my own tackle to his.
“Have you got him?” The inquiry was made on the score of good fellowship; the bend of his split bamboo, the tension of his line, and the whirr of his reel indicated that my tall friend had reached the first stage.
“I’ve hooked him, and he’s no sardine, I tell you – whoa boy; gently now,” as a sudden rush strung off full twenty feet of line. “Whoa boy, be easy, now; gently, now; come here; whoa! confound your picture! whoa boy; gently; so, boy.”
Just then a call from behind us announced the arrival of the balance of the party. They had got out of the wagon and were standing along the bank.
“May be you think you are driving a mule,” came from one of them.
“Oh no! I’m trying to lead one – whoa boy, whoa boy – gently now; none of your capers – whoa! I tell you!” as a renewed and vigorous dash for liberty threatened destruction to the slender tackle. “No you don’t, old fellow – so, boy; that’s a good fellow,” and showing his back near the surface the captive exhibited twenty inches, at a guess, of trout.
“By George, he’s a beauty,” came from behind us. I had allowed my flies to float down stream and had backed out to give room for fair play. It was a long fight, but his troutship finally showed side up, and was gently drawn ashore, the water turned out of him, and he drew down the scale three pounds, to a notch. As we gathered around to admire his majesty, I said: “The next best thing to catching a trout is to see a three-pounder brought to creel by one who can handle a seven-ounce rod.” They all agreed with me, and our tall friend modestly doffed his dead grass canvas.
UNDER DIFFICULTIES
The clouds would assemble daily about the summits of the Sierra Mimbres, whence come the waters of the Rio Grande. Prayers were unavailing; the morning brought the usual complement of fleecy harbingers, and by noon the hosts were marshaled in mighty platoons of black and gray; the artillery was unlimbered, the sun retreated in dismay, and the spree commenced. For two or three hours there would be a terribly sublime row up in the vicinage of the granite and dwarfed timber, that would reach down to the lower hills, and with its results set roaring the little rivulets and usually dusty arroyos, to swell the already turbid waters of the beautiful river. The daily dull monotony was wearing; I thought, more than once, that “hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” and concluded I had struck the inspiration of the proverb.
The Old Man sat on Jordan’s rugged banks, waiting for that creek to clear up so that he could indulge himself in his favorite amusement. He’d been there a week, camped out, restricted to potato and flitch diet, and had not wet a line. His fly books were an aggravation, and his split bamboo a source of misery. The evening would give promise of crystal water on the morrow, and each morning brought with it a stream of thick, yellow fluid. A trout would no more rise in it than upon the heaven-kissing hills that gathered the cause of his tribulation about their cloud-compelling peaks. The fir-crowned hills and majestic cliffs had lost their charm, the grasshopper had become a burden, and there was no more music in the roily water than in the mosquito’s song. I presume he has forgotten all about it by this time, yet my soul cried out in sympathy.
But I was better off than he. He had no John to console him with stories of leviathans caught by other rodsters “last summer.” John would scorn anything less than a three-pound trout to embellish his romances; five, six, and even nine pounds were evolved in his imagination. I took him for a Vermont Yankee, but it transpired that the Ozark Mountains claimed him for their own, without the prospect of any other place setting up a demand for him when he dies – if he ever does. He is tall and thin, has a stoop in his shoulders and slouches in his gait; his garments, such as he has, fit him – not so well as they would the clothes line; he has a Roman nose and gray eyes, he chews the fragrant “nigger head,” and his saffron-hued incisors habitually caress his nether lip. His mouth is always open, and his scraggy beard would vie in symmetry with a patch of hazel brush demoralized by a Kansas cyclone. A few days ago I wagered him a quarter that he could not close his lips and keep them so three minutes. I won the bet, but have not yet realized upon it. John is a booley, fortunately for the rest of humanity.
Becoming a little impatient at John and the periodically feculent condition of the river, I suggested to the Captain a run up to Antelope Park, twenty-five miles away, and a few casts for the denizens of certain minor tributaries to the Rio Grande. The suggestion proved agreeable to him.
The next morning after an early breakfast we mounted the buckboard, and in company with the United States mail for somewhere, a nervous driver and a pair of wild mules, we arrived at our destination before noon. Telegraphic facilities being somewhat limited, our coming had not been heralded. Our driver left us with our traps in front of a comfortable-looking house, but it required half an hour to find the landlord. We had lived long enough in the country to recognize in every house a hotel. We would have taken ourselves and belongings into the first convenient room, but that a large black dog kindly took us under his immediate supervision. It began to rain, but the dog gave no intimation whatever of inconvenience on that score; indeed, I think he rather enjoyed it. The Captain, after we had admired the dog for a quarter of an hour, slipped his hand into his hip pocket. I don’t know whether to attribute the dog’s sudden disappearance to his superior intelligence and knowledge of the ways of the country, or to the coming of the landlord. Her greeting was cordial when she hove in sight:
“Glad to see you gentlemen suppose you’ve come afishin’ didn’t know as you was comin’ or I’d a had dinner instead of bein’ out to see to them colts the last two died and I don’t propose to have no more of that kind of business not if I know myself you bet these has been tended to right and I know it they was risin’ three year and of course gettin’ too big to run loose that husband of mine run away with another woman two year ago and he come back in less’n three months for me to take him back again but I told him to pack and he did since then I’ve ran this ranche alone and propose so to do she was older than him” —
“Can you give us a glass of milk,” I broke in, irreverently, on this bit of family history, delivered without a pause, with the end, if it had any, promising to outlive us and run into the next century, “you can get us something to eat later in the day.”
“Milk certainly you can have all the milk you want and whatever else there is in the house to eat ’taint much but I’ll do the best I can what’s your business?”
“Just at present we are in search of clear water and trout.”
“Plenty of trout in the creek though the river’s rily and trout won’t rise in rily water I suppose you know there’s some big ones in the creek one took off a leader and fly for me yesterday but I’m goin’ to snatch him out of that hole yet but what I want to know is what do you do for a livin’ people have to rustle in this country or tramp.”
Having deposited our traps in the front room, I told her I was a preacher and the Captain a Sunday-school superintendent.
“Well stranger I haven’t got but mighty little use for gospel sharps they don’t give anybody’s house a good reputation leastways I’ve so hearn tell but perhaps if you doesn’t go psalm singin’ and prayin’ round here nobody ’ill know any better you doesn’t look much like preachers anyway.”
The conclusion was fired at us over her shoulder as she disappeared after the milk. I looked at the Captain seriously and asked him if he thought he could stand it for a day or so; he said he thought he could by going out early and coming in late and going to sleep the balance of the time.
The milk was rich and sweet, but a word of commendation inadvertently uttered by the Captain resulted in a history from birth to maternity, and the details of travail of each of thirteen cows, with the condition of their offspring, their present and prospective value and probable increase.
Leaving him to be further enlightened by this disquisition on bovine tocology, I escaped, and with rod and creel started up the creek. Five minutes after, and before I had lost sight of the house, a hail from the Captain brought me to a halt.
“What puzzles me,” said the Captain wearily, “is to learn how that landlord’s husband had strength enough left to run away; he had three years of it; his vitality must have been something remarkable.”
“His coming back is harder to comprehend.”
“I think not; that gives me the only solution to the mystery. You see, he must have been a lunatic; that will account for his strength physically; and for his returning. But do you see that pool? That’s the home of the trout that took the landlord’s leader. I’m going for him.”
“All right; I’ll wait and see you do it.”
The Captain slipped down the bank, seeking the shelter of a clump of willows, and made a cast into the center of a pool, the bare appearance of which suggested the certain lurking place of trout. He did not have out over twenty feet of line, and the coachman lit cleverly, but without effect. Another cast, a little further toward the lower end, and yet no rise. A third – there is luck in odd numbers – where the water began to break at the head of the ripple, and the landlord’s trout got himself into trouble. There was no stiff cane pole with a tyro at the end of it this time, but a lithe Bethabara of seven ounces, in the hands of one who knew the use of it. It was a very pretty ten minutes’ fight, when the despoiler of the landlord’s tackle turned up his side and was towed ashore; the fish had a remnant of the broken leader still in its jaw. He weighed a little less than a pound, though we had been informed, as usual, that his weight was four pounds, at least.
We trudged on up the creek, crossing four or five times to shorten the walk, until we reached a point two miles from the ranche. Each taking his side, we began moving down stream, snaking out the little fellows, from seven to ten inches in length, until we had more than enough for a late dinner. Concluding that the trout in these grounds might grow a little if let alone, we walked back. The manner in which the catch was served up with warm biscuit, fresh butter, and coffee with cream in it, made the conversation of the landlord interesting.
We were advised, that, had we gone a mile further, larger trout would have rewarded us. It being affirmed beyond contradiction that the larger fish were holding a sort of salmon tea higher up stream, and the Rio Grande still being muddy, the next morning found us nearly a couple of miles further toward the head waters. But if there were any trout exceeding a half pound in any of the pools industriously tickled by us, they must have known who we were, and, therefore, declined an interview.
This kind of sport had not been bargained for; a strict adherence to the trail, with diligence, would enable us to reach the ranche in time for a lunch and the buckboard “going down.” We made it, besides having time to bid our landlord adieu, the sound of her melodious voice gradually dying out as the wild mules increased the distance between us.
That evening the river gave promise, as usual, of being clear in the morning, always provided, of course, that it had not rained “up above.” But the next day we learned that the customary entertainment had taken place among the lofty peaks of the San Juan. When any man again tells you that “it never rains in Colorado,” remind him of Ananias’ fate.
A day did come, finally, and go, through all the hours of which the sun had an easy time of it in making things warm; in the evening we could fairly see the boulders in the river, and the next day it was clear. But back in the west the clouds had already gathered, and if any trout were to be captured we could not stand upon the order of our going. After breakfast half a dozen of us piled into the wagon, rode five miles down the river and began operations, which we were satisfied must cease by noon. For half an hour or so the trout raised fairly, and then the casts increased from one to a dozen, and this was finally resolved into a devoted whipping of every likely place without avail.
Toward lunch time I waded ashore, clambered up the bank ten feet above the river, and stood waiting for my comrade of the morning. He was standing in the stiff current, thigh deep, and faithfully sending his flies into a long eddy thirty feet away. I called him, but the response I received was that the place had never failed him, and he wanted to go the length of it. So I stood watching the play of his split bamboo and the curl of the light silk line; now and then the heel of his leader would strike, but generally the coachman on the end was first to touch the water. He had told me only the day before, though he acknowledged it was beyond his skill, that in casting, one should never use more than the forearm; that to confine the movement to the wrist was still better. The awkwardness of the full-stretched arm swinging back and forth was apparent, but to one unaccustomed to light tackle the habit is hard to overcome. I told him to keep his arm down, and he did for two or three casts; then up it went again, he forgetting the admonition in his desire to reach a few feet further. When I reminded him of it he looked round, laughingly, and said he couldn’t. Just then my attention was called to a pilgrim with weak eyes peering out from under the broken-down brim of an old felt hat, sallow as the mug it covered; his butternut jeans tucked in his boots, and his woolen shirt suggestive of other occupants than himself.
“What does a pole like that cost, Mister?” motioning with his head to the bamboo I held in my hand. Being disposed to treat everybody with civility, I told him.
“I don’t think anybody kin ketch fish with that ’ar thing, ’cept little ones. I like one o’ them long stiff fellers to jerk ’em with; I shouldn’t think this here thing was no account,” and he gesticulated with his head again. “Now, the best way to git fish is with a net; now, I wish I had a net; look at that ’ar man thar, he’ll not git a fish in a week.”
“Mark you, my friend!” The libel stepped back a couple of paces; I don’t know why. “If you catch fish in that way, they will cost you ten dollars each,” I continued mildly. “Try it, I wish you would; there is a standing reward of five hundred dollars for such fishermen as you claim to be; perhaps I might get the money and you a rope.”
“See here, Mister, I ain’t got no net; I ain’t goin’ to ketch no fish; I’m goin’ to Silverton; I don’t keer ’bout fishin’ no way; hits mighty po’ business.”
“The sooner you get to Silverton the better – every man, woman and child in this park wants to earn that five hundred dollars.”
What further I might have said I don’t know, but just then my friend with the split bamboo hailed me; he had made a strike, to his own surprise as well as mine, for the water had become quite cloudy. With his face down stream and rod well up, he was talking to his victim much as one would address a fractious colt. It was pleasant to listen to his expressions of assurance that no harm should come to his troutship if he would only behave himself, followed by a threatening admonition at every rush for liberty. If my tall friend was not skilful enough to carry away the first prize at a casting tournament, he knew at least how to handle and save the victim he had struck. Having quite exhausted him, he was reeled in till the line could be grasped, and the trout was drawn cautiously within reach; the line was then changed to the rod hand, and with a quick movement, evidently not acquired without practice, that trout was scooped up against the angler’s stomach; the next movement was to run his dexter finger into the trout’s mouth, press his thumb upon its neck and break it, the fish being held in the left hand, and the three fingers of the right holding the rod. Having thus killed him, the hook was removed, and he was held up triumphantly to be admired. The rest of the party had arrived in time to see the close of the struggle with a handsome two pounds and three ounces of salmon-colored luxury.
The misery under the felt hat had departed.
