In the stern of each canoe there
is a guide with a long-handled net; in the bow, an angler with a
light fly-rod; in the middle, a smudge-kettle, smoking steadily. In
the air to the windward of the little fleet hovers a swarm of flies
drifting down on the shore breeze, with bloody purpose in their
breasts, but baffled by the protecting smoke. In the water to the
leeward plays a school of speckled trout, feeding on the minnows
that hang around the sunken ledges of rock. As a larger wave than
usual passes over the ledges, it lifts the fish up, and you can see
the big fellows, three, and four, and even five pounds apiece,
poising themselves in the clear brown water. A long cast will send
the fly over one of them. Let it sink a foot. Draw it up with a
fluttering motion. Now the fish sees it, and turns to catch it.
There is a yellow gleam in the depth, a sudden swirl on the surface;
you strike sharply, and the trout is matching his strength against
the spring of your four ounces of split bamboo.
You can guess at his size, as he breaks water, by the breadth of his
tail: a pound of weight to an inch of tail,--that is the traditional
measure, and it usually comes pretty close to the mark, at least in
the case of large fish. But it is never safe to record the weight
until the trout is in the canoe.
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