ON’T be frightened! The writer has not turned desperado, neither has he fallen among men of bloody practices. In order that all minds may be set at rest before we go further, be it known that this is but a fish story pure and simple. The brother with the melancholy mind and ossified piety will do well to stop here and turn to “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs” or some other literature of that order. The elect few who love the open, rejoice in God’s out-of-doors and the beauty of lake and mountain, may safely venture to read this frivolous story of a side-trip made by one of the delegates to a church convention.

What have cut-throats to do with fishing? Patience for a moment, you who live east of the Mississippi! The Pacific Coast dwellers will need no explanation, but for the benefit of the unenlightened it may be said that in common parlance the “Salmo Clarkii” is known as a “cut-throat.” This appellation has nothing to do with the character of the fish, for he is an eminently respectable citizen of the watery world, but is due to the presence of a blood-red line on either side of his throat which by an extreme stretch of the imagination may be made to resemble a bloody cut. It is said that when he has access to salt water the cut-throat ranges far seaward, in which case he loses his black spots and takes on a coat of silver; but he still holds fast to his crimson necktie.

Doubtless the next question will be, “Where is Lake Chelan?” If you are too indolent to look it up on the map of Washington, follow the trail of the fisherman. He took the Great Northern road from Seattle, crossed the beautiful Cascade Mountains and left the train at Wenatchee. It is alleged in a multitude of highly coloured circulars that this is the “home of the big, red apple.” A trustful habit of mind makes us ready to believe this, although the aforesaid big, red apple was not at home when we were there. He is expected to return in the fall. There are orchards and orchards, and then more orchards.

An enthusiastic friend had pictured the beauties of the Columbia River Valley, and when we took the boat at Wenatchee for a forty-mile ride up-stream, anticipation stood on tip-toe. To be sure, aside from the orchards there was nothing attractive in the country around Wenatchee, but we felt sure that it would be “better farther on.” But it wasn’t. Possibly our Æsthetic sense had suffered from a stroke of paralysis; if not, a muddy river, sage brush and alkali dust, brown, treeless hills and a general air of desolation do not combine to form an entrancing picture. To be sure, there are spots of green where fruit-trees have been planted and water from the river or from some irrigation ditch is led in and out through the orchard. But to one who has seen the beauty of an eastern landscape, before whose eyes comes a vision of stately trees and luxuriant meadows and babbling brooks of clear, cold water, those little dabs of green in the midst of wide stretches of dreariness awaken pity and not admiration. There is nothing either in the accommodations on the boat or in the scenery to make the traveller long to repeat his ride from Wenatchee to Chelan Falls.

It is said to be four miles from Chelan Falls, on the Columbia River, to the foot of Lake Chelan. We believe it, and would just as readily believe that it is ten miles. The fact is that the miles are perpendicular. You are either going up or down all of the time. Lake Chelan lies four hundred feet above the Columbia River, and the road borders the stream through which Lake Chelan discharges its waters. On second thought that word “borders” does not fit. The road transcends the stream; looks down upon it. At one point in the journey you gaze downwards some five hundred feet upon the boiling, turbulent waters which have made a way for themselves through a crevice in the rock. The colour reminds one of his boyhood when he interviewed the bluing water in the family wash-tub.

Lake Chelan, at last, and a hotel for the night, as the boat does not leave for the upper end of the lake until morning. It was an eventful night not only because the inhabitants of the village were celebrating the “glorious Fourth,” but chiefly from an important archaeological discovery made by the writer. Many of our readers are familiar with the account given in the Bible of the pillow upon which Jacob spent a dream-filled night. That identical pillow is in a hotel at Lakeside. It must be confessed that this is a deduction and lacks absolute historical verification; but as Jacob’s pillow was of stone and the Lakeside pillow is of the same material, and inasmuch as we have no record of any other pillow of that kind, it is a fair inference that Jacob’s famous head-rest has been identified. If any one questions the deduction let him try the pillow.

It is fifty-one miles from the foot of Lake Chelan to its head, and with each mile as one goes north the scenery grows more beautiful. The mountains at the lower end of the lake rise to a height of three or four thousand feet, while at the upper end they tower nine thousand feet almost precipitously from the water. The water of the lake is clear and blue, the mountains crowd upon it in their silent majesty, the air is clean and refreshing.

On some still morning when the winds do not disturb the bosom of the lake, nature is at its best. In the lake we saw pictures that cannot be reproduced by any skill of man; miles of flawless mirror in which mountains and crags and trees and clouds were reproduced with matchless fidelity. Sometimes the clouds hung for hours over the summits of the mountains, and here and there were great masses of snow which no summer heat could banish. Looking up the valley of the Stehekin towards the north, twenty-five miles away rises a huge mountain, down the side of which a giant glacier makes its way. And the best of all is that here one is “far from the madding crowd.” At the head of the lake is a hotel and a fish hatchery; no store, no factory, not even a Chautauqua.

It has taken a long time to get to the cut-throats, but we have arrived at last. The books on fishing assure one that the cut-throat “takes the artificial fly greedily,” and all the way the right arm has been fairly tingling with anxiety to begin casting. Alas! and again alas! The hotel clerk says that it is too early for the fly; we must use bait or a spoon. It is the old story over again. Did you ever travel far to a famous fishing ground and find the conditions just right? It is always too early or too late, the water is too high or too low, something is the matter which effectually prevents the best sport. But the man who has lugged a bundle of fly-rods to the church convention that he might use them on Lake Chelan is slow to believe that all his enterprise has been in vain. He will give them a try before abandoning hope. Behold him, then, whipping patiently on the edge of sand bars, in the swift water, under over-hanging bushes, in the shadows of great rocks, here, there, everywhere except on the board walk and the roof of the hotel; but so far as results are concerned he might as well have cast his flies in State Street, Chicago. Nothing doing; not even the feeblest answer to his invitation. Meanwhile a fellow-boarder is fishing with bait, using a bamboo pole about sixteen feet long and derricking fish in with a regularity that is equalled only by his evident ignorance of all the fundamental principles of true sport. But he gets the fish. If one is fishing for market he may use a telegraph pole or a net; but if he has in him something of the temper of the famous Izaak, fishing is more than meat. He loves the water and the sky, is made captive by the beauty of stream and mountain, delights to pit his wits against those of the wary citizens of the pool.

But what is to be done? No one has yet been found who can compel a trout to go after the fly when he does not wish to. We troll with a Dowagiac spinner, and the result, in number of fish, is distinctly satisfactory. As the trolling is done with a steel rod there is a certain amount of sport in the exercise; but at the best it is far below fly-fishing.

This story, thus far, has been written with careful attention to facts in order that it may bear the scrutiny of certain friends who companied with the writer for a short time at the head of the lake. They were good men and true, lovers of God’s out-of-doors, delightful comrades. Their company was a joy, but their presence was embarrassing. Every one knows that witnesses are unnecessary in fishing. To have some one at your elbow who wants to know just how many you have caught and what they weigh, allows no room for that play of the imagination which gives to fish stories their indefinable charm. It was a dark hour for the writer when these good friends turned their faces towards the south and left him desolate, but it was then that the fishing really began.

Just where the Stehekin makes its final plunges before joining the lake, there is a reach of rippling water bordered on one side by low-growing trees, and on the other by a great bunch of drift-wood. The fly-rod was put in commission, a sinker was used, and a bit of the white throat of a trout took the place of the artificial lure. With the boat lying against the drift-wood a cast was made towards the trees, the bait allowed to sink and then drawn slowly towards the boat. Was that the bottom? Hardly, for it is tugging and lunging and rushing back and forth across the narrow water. The light bamboo meets every lunge, and the fight goes merrily on for ten minutes or so, when a beautiful Dolly Varden trout is brought to net. Another cast and another strike. This time the visitor has succeeded in getting on the other side of a log that juts out into the stream from the drift-wood. So much the better for the sport. Gently, little by little, he is persuaded to travel towards the end of that log, until, after many efforts, the line swings free. A long, delightful tussle, and he joins his comrade in the bottom of the boat. Lest the reader’s patience should give way under the strain of detailed description, suffice it to say that from that one spot six Dolly Vardens were taken, not one of which weighed less than three pounds.

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But fly-fishing was found, such as it was. Two miles up the valley Boulder Creek comes down the canon and empties into the Stehekin. We were told that here one could catch mountain trout with the fly. A mile beyond Boulder Creek are the Rainbow Falls, where a stream drops over the eastern mountains for a sheer plunge of three hundred and twenty feet. One day was all too little to devote to the beauty of this scenery and an excursion up Boulder, but it was a day well spent. The trout were there; little fellows among whom a nine-inch fish was a giant. The farther one went up the canon the better the fishing grew and the more plentiful and vindictive the mosquitoes became. The fish bit readily and the mosquitoes more readily. One could have filled a basket with small fish, but after saving a dozen for dinner the rest were thrown back. Zest was added to this excursion by the information that rattlesnakes frequented these rocky slopes; so the fisherman walked softly and kept an eye to windward.

Mountains and forests, dancing streams and beautiful lake, quiet and—fish! What more could one wish who seeks rest for tired nerves? Some time they will build a railroad in there, and then Lake Chelan will be easier of access, but less to be desired than now. When the crowds come, half of its present charm will be lost.

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There is green on the hill, there is

gold on the river,

And the wind on the rye sets my

spirit aquiver,

There’s a thrill in the sod

At the touch of the God,

And a song in my heart for the gift

and the Giver.

—Edwin Markham,

The Wind on the Rye.

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