The Greatest Works of Emerson Hough – 19 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Emerson Hough
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the horses on a pleasant grass plat near the road. Rob went exploring for a little way, then, without saying anything, began to get together some dry wood for a fire, and also began cutting some short willow twigs which he sharpened at each end.
“The ‘old way,’ Rob?” said John, smiling.
“Yes,” nodded Uncle Dick. “Rob has seen what I have seen — there’s trout in this water, and grayling, too. Do you see that grayling between the bridge there, over the white bar? I’ve been watching him rise. So, by the time we get a broiling fire, maybe Rob’ll have need for his skewers — to hold a fish flat for broiling before a fire, in the ‘old way’ we learned in the far North. Eh, Rob?”
“That’s the way I figured it, sir,” replied Rob, smiling. “Billy’ll get something on hoppers, at this season, for that’s what the trout and grayling are feeding on, right now.”
Sure enough, in not much over a half hour, Billy and Jesse met them at the bridge, with five fine fish — two grayling and three trout — Jesse very much excited.
“All you have to do is just to sneak up and drop a hopper right in the deep water at the bends, and they nail it!” said he. “Billy showed me. He always carries a few hooks and a line in his vest pocket, he told me. Fish all through this country!”
It took the boys but a few minutes to split the fish down the back and skewer them flat, without scaling them at all. Then they hung them before the fire, flesh side to the flame, and soon they were sizzling in their own fat.
“Now, you can’t put them on a plate, Billy!” said Jesse, as Billy began searching in the pack. “Just some salt — that’s all. You have to eat it right off the skin, you know.”
“Well, that ain’t no way to eat,” grumbled Billy. “It’s awful mussy-looking, to my way of thinking.”
“Try it,” said Uncle Dick, whittling himself a little fork out of a willow branch. And very soon Billy also was a believer that the ‘old way’ of the Arctic Indians is about the best way to cook a fish.
Now, having appeased their hunger, they saddled again and made their way slowly to the ranch of Mrs. Culver at the Picnic Spring, as the place was called — in time for Jesse and John each to catch a brace of great trout before dusk had come.
They now were all willing to vote their experience of the past two days to be about the pleasantest and most satisfying of any of the trip, which now they felt had drawn to a natural close. That evening they all, including their sprightly hostess, bent late over the table, covered with maps and books.
“I surely will be sorry to see you leave,” said the quaint little woman of the high country. “It’s not often I see many who know any history of the big river, or who care for it. But now I can see that you all surely do. You know it, and you love it, too.”
“If you know it well, you can’t well help loving it, I reckon,” said Billy Williams.
CHAPTER XXX
SPORTING PLANS
“Let’s see, Rob — what day of the month is this?” began John, the following morning, when, their bills for the horses and themselves all discharged and their motor car purring at the gate, they bade farewell to their interesting friend and prepared to head eastward once more.
“Well,” said Rob, “we were at the Three Forks on July 27th, and we spent a week getting to the Shoshoni Cove — that’s August 4th; and we left on August 5th, and got to Monida August 6th, and came here that day; and day before yesterday was the 7th, and we came down the mountain yesterday, the 8th; this must be about August 9th, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” said Uncle Dick; “giving us a full week or even more if we want it, to explore the Madison Fork, which is another head of the big river. Then we’ll wind up on the Gallatin head, at Billy’s place, and figure there what we want to do next. We might well stop at the head of Henry’s Lake, and in a day or so we’ll pick up Billy’s car there and be on our way, with a camp outfit of our own again.”
Their journey over the clean, hard road around the rim of the wide Alaska Basin was one of delight. They sped down the farther slope of the Red Rock Pass, along the bright waters of Duck Creek, until early in the afternoon they raised the wide and pleasing view of Henry’s Lake, one of the most beautiful valleys of the Rockies. Around this the road led them comfortably enough to the cluster of log cabins and tents which was now to make their next stopping place. Here they sent back the Monida car, whose driver said he could make the Picnic Creek camp by nightfall if he drove hard. Soon they all were made comfortable in the cabins of this “dude ranch,” as the Western people call any place where tourists are taken in for pay.
The proprietor of this place was an old-time settler who could remember the days of buffalo and beaver in this country, and who told them marvelous tales of the enormous number of trout in the lake.
“Go down to the landing, below the tamarack swamp,” said he, “and get a boat and just push out over the moss a little way. Off to the right you’ll see a stake sticking up in the water. Drop your anchor a little way from it and cast that way; it marks a spring, or cold hole, and they lie in there.”
The three boys did as advised, and to their great surprise began to catch trout after trout as they cast their flies toward the indicated spot. They all were about the same size, just under two pounds, all native or cutthroat trout. They soon tired of it, and returned nearly all of their catch to the water as soon as taken. Sometimes a fish, tired with the struggle, would lie at the bottom, on its side, as though dead, but if touched with the end of the landing-net handle would recover and swiftly dart away.
“From all I learn,” said Rob, “this fishing is too easy to be called sport — they lie in all the spring holes and creek mouths. This is the head of the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, and a great spawning ground. Now, you want to remember you’re not on Missouri waters, but Pacific waters. If Lewis and Clark had come over that shallow gap yonder — the Raynolds Pass, which cuts off the Madison Valley — they’d have been on one of the true heads of the Columbia. But they probably never would have got through, that year, at least.”
The young anglers found that their catch of trout created no enthusiasm at the camp. The cook told them that he didn’t care for these trout very much, because you had to soak them overnight in salt and water to make them fit to eat, they tasted so muddy in the summertime. So they said they would not fish any more at that place.
That evening as they sat about their table engaged with their maps and notebooks, they were joined by Jim, the son of the rancher, a young man still in the half uniform of the returned soldier, with whom they all rapidly made friends, the more so since he proved very well posted in the geography of that part of the country. He readily agreed to take the young explorers on a trip over the Raynolds Pass on the following morning, so that they might get a better idea of the exact situation of the Madison River.
They made an early start, leaving their Uncle Dick and Billy Williams at the ranch to employ themselves as they liked. It was a drive of only a few miles from the northern end of Henry’s Lake, along a very good road, to the crest of the gentle elevation which lay to the northward. The young ranchman pulled up the car at last and pointed to an iron plug driven down into the ground.
“Here’s the Divide,” said he. “You now are on top of the Rocky Mountains, although it doesn’t look like it.”
“Why,” said Jesse, “this looks like almost any sort of prairie country. We have been in lots of places higher than this.”
“Yes,” said his new friend, “you can see lots of places higher than this any way you look. She’s only six thousand nine hundred and eleven feet here. There are snow-topped mountains on every side of you. Where we are right now is the upper line of the state of Idaho. Idaho sticks up in here