of gentle art of the Sierra Club a notable month in the summer of 1902. Dangling go far afield in search of rippling brook and foamy rapid, seeking grassy banks and tree-canopied vistas overhanging and hiding deep pools and dancing riffles, the haunts of the iridescent rainbow trout, the dotted Dolly Varden and the elusive speckled beauty of the smaller streams. But far in the heart of the Sierra dwells tribe of trout that are lordlier than these in their mature growth, fiercer in their spirit when hooked and less wary of the stranger man than their cousins of more frequented waters. Amidst the glacier hewn temples of the high Sierra the Kings river meanders in the cyclopean depths of its magnificent canyon, its sources drawn from many a glacial lake benched on lofty levels of the treeless slopes of highest mountains. Here is trout fishing of unusual variety and fascination, and in this region I spent with my confrères of Under the overhanging banks at the bends of the river, in the larger riffles, in the pools below large rocks and about log jams, the trout lurked in plenty and the early morning or late afternoon angler never failed to fill full baskets, the fish rising eagerly to gray and peacock hackle, to royal coachman, and at dusk to white miller. When the festivities of camp life palled, when inclination did not impel to strenuous mountain tramps, then a certain coterie went on "fish-frys." Two or three of the men would start off at early morning up toward Mist Falls or down stream toward Roaring river outlet where at some shady spot the ladies joined us later with attendant squire bringing bread, butter, condiments and the frying pan. Then followed a lunch of trout fresh from the river. Sometimes a fire on a large flat rock brushed off after a short interval served to heat a stone age grill and with slices of bacon neatly skewered within them the fish were cooked to a turn with a flavor to be acquired in no other way. Post prandial story telling and gentle dalliance when time was of no account passed the afternoon to a late return for dinner with usually enough trout left for our friends at camp. One day I started out before the camp was astir to fish up the river and about BULL FROG LAKE a large log jam which I had noted as a likely place for fly casting. After a fair morning's sport I started to join the fishfry party of the day near the outlet of Bubbs creek, crossing over on the log jam to the south side of Kings river. Failing to find the party, I returned to the log jam and inadvertently put a scarlet ibis on my leader. Then there was a commotion in the river, and I landed trout after trout who took this fly most fiercely until I had a completely filled basket and returned to camp about five P. M. with the best catch of the outing, in number at least. And so it was in the large party, one could be as sociable or as solitary as one wished. I never knew whether the fish-fry party was well supplied with trout that day or not, but my day at least was filled with enjoyment. The sport, the silent contemplation of the beautiful river in its glorious setting, the music of nature, animate and inanimate, sunlight and shadow-all were a symphony indeed. Whether due to their greater fascinations or the favors of fortune, the women as usual, surpassed the men on the trip even as anglers. Miss Vida Redington caught the largest trout of the outing, a three-pounder, and was in turn caught by the camera as she held it up for the inspection of a friend. A large party was enrolled for mountain climbing and a visit to the higher Sierra, and, after surveying from the top A FANTASY river in the canyon below. A cast of sixty feet, somewhat further than the average of the party, reached the spot where the trout were lying and it was not at first understood why one of the party landed goodly trout right along till dark while the neighboring fishermen to right and left, whose casts fell short, scarcely scored a rise. A mile away at Lake Charlotte, where grassy gravelly border offered no impediment to the fly casters who literally circled its shores, large catches were made of truly noble fish. A few anglers caught in these lakes all the trout the 141 large party of ninety-five people could eat during their week's sojourn at this interesting spot. Throughout the entire Sierran region are lake after lake and stream after stream actually filled with gamey trout. It is far from railroad and wagon road, but those who, like the Sierra Club, traverse with packhorse and knapsack the trails of this magnificent region, can revel not only in the delightful scenery and the exhilaration of strenuous mountain climbing, but also in the fascinations of the gentle art of angling. Whene'er the summer moon, all dim and blurred, The fair young dead walks with me on the shore, The fleeting fragrance of the flowers she wore Lo, are my buried hopes all quick once more, |