The Scenery Was Grand In Many Places Along The Latter Part Of The
March, And It Is Grand Here, Also.
We are in a beautiful broad valley
with snow-capped mountains on each side.
From all we hear we conclude
there must be exceptionally good hunting and fishing about Camp Baker,
and there is some consolation in that. The fishing was very good at
several of our camps after we reached the mountains, and I can assure
you that the speckled trout of the East and these mountain trout are
not comparable, the latter are so far, far superior. The flesh is
white and very firm, and sometimes they are so cold when brought out
of the water one finds it uncomfortable to hold them. They are good
fighters, too, and even small ones give splendid sport.
One night the camp was by a beautiful little stream with high banks,
and here and there bunches of bushes and rocks - an ideal home for
trout, so I started out, hoping to catch something - with a common
willow pole and ordinary hook, and grasshoppers for bait. Faye tells
everybody that I had only a bent pin for a hook, but of course no one
believes him. Major Stokes joined me and we soon found a deep pool
just at the edge of camp. His fishing tackle was very much like mine,
so when we saw Captain Martin coming toward us with elegant jointed
rod, shining new reel, and a camp stool, we felt rather crestfallen.
Captain Martin passed on and seated himself comfortably on the bank
just below us, but Major Stokes and I went down the bank to the edge
of the pool where we were compelled to stand, of course.
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