<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_85"></SPAN>[85]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="ich7" style="max-width: 46.875em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100" src="images/i_ch7.jpg" alt="Chapter VII" />
<div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">Nearing the End.</p>
</div>
</div>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII<br/> THE LUCK OF SALMON FISHING</h2>
<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> always sympathised with the author of the
lines known as “The Angler’s Prayer,” lines
which are not so well known as they deserve to
be:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Lord, suffer me to catch a fish—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">So large that <em>even I</em></div>
<div class="verse indent0">When talking of it afterwards</div>
<div class="verse indent2">May have no need to lie.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In the spring of 1921 came the tragedy of my
life as a fisherman. I had five days’ fishing in the
famous river Wye. The river was dead low and
my chances of success very small, but I kept
steadily at work during the time at my disposal,
and on the fourth day had the good fortune, by<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_86"></SPAN>[86]</span>
means of the attractions of a Mar Lodge (size
4/0), to hook a salmon which was not only the
largest salmon I had ever seen, but also the
largest seen in that year on the beat I was fishing—a
most exciting struggle of over an hour terminating
in a wild rush of over 100 yards, the wildest
rush I, or the keen fisherman I had with me, have
ever seen, a grand leap high up into the air of this
splendid clean-run fish, and the line came slowly
back, the cast having broken a foot from the end.
Elsewhere (pp. 12-22, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">supra</i>) I have told of how this
splendid fish, no doubt exhausted by the struggle,
was shortly afterwards killed by a far greater
fisherman than any mere mortal man—an otter.
Its estimated weight, as far as could be judged
from its remains, was about 40 lb. The day was
Friday, April 1, an appropriate day and date for
such a catastrophe. In the early part of the
following year I received an invitation from the
same kindly host to try my luck again in April on
the same river, but on another and more famous
beat. I gratefully accepted the invitation, and
set forth in high hopes and, curiously enough,
with a strong sense of expectation, I might almost
say the assurance, of great events.</p>
<p>For several days after my arrival the river was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_87"></SPAN>[87]</span>
so high that fishing was hopeless, but on the
morning of April 18, though still high and
coloured, it had run down to such an extent as
to be in fair condition.</p>
<p>My host was most kind in wishing to give me
every possible chance of getting a good fish, and
had arranged that I should take with me his
butler, C., a first-rate hand at gaffing salmon,
who had been with me in the preceding year when
I was so unfortunate, and was very keen to help
me to kill a big fish. My host sent me to try,
first of all, a pool which had a great reputation.
This pool is about a mile long, and has to be fished
from a boat, trees and bushes running throughout
its entire length along both sides of the bank.
My host had the fishing on one side of the river
only, and on reaching the head of the pool we
found some one fishing from the other side.
After waiting until this rod had fished some way
down the pool, we began operations. I fished
the whole morning with the fly, but with no
success, and about half-past one, as the river was
still so high, we decided to try the minnow, a much
more favourite lure than the fly on this particular
river in the spring. At my third cast I got a pull,
and was fast in what was obviously a heavy salmon.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_88"></SPAN>[88]</span>
I never had a more lively fish to deal with. It
jumped fourteen times clean out of the water,
and, making a constant series of wild rushes, took
me at a great pace down the river. Some ladies
of our party arrived at the head of the pool about
half an hour after I had hooked the fish, and
inquired of the fisherman on the other bank
whether he had seen anything of me. The reply
was, “I saw him fast in a big fish about half an
hour ago going round the bend of the river on
his way to Hereford.” Though I did not get to
Hereford, which was nearly thirty miles distant,
the fish took me about three-quarters of a mile
down the river before I succeeded in killing it,
after over an hour’s battle. It was a beautiful
clean-run hen-fish of 21½ lb. By this time it
was nearly three o’clock, and after a hasty luncheon
we decided to fish down the lower part of the pool.
On our way we had to pass a point where C. had
seen a fish rising as we came up in the morning.
I fished this place with great care, and about my
second cast as the minnow swung round I got a
pull and hooked the fish. I had a good deal more
of my own way with this fish than with the one I
had previously killed, and in about twenty minutes
it was in the boat. It proved to be another<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_89"></SPAN>[89]</span>
clean-run hen-fish, and weighed 18½ lb. The
question now was whether we should fish another
pool lower down the river or try the head of the
same pool again. I decided in favour of the latter
course, and we accordingly rowed up to the top of
the pool. It was by this time half-past six. My
third cast I was into another fish, which did not
show itself for a long time. It took me down the
river like the fish I had hooked in the morning,
but was not nearly so lively in its movements. It
kept low down in the water and adopted boring
tactics. After rounding the corner, as my fellow-angler
would have said, bound once more for
Hereford, the fish made a violent rush and plunge,
showing itself to be a very big fish and looking not
unlike the fish I had parted company with a year
ago. We continued to go steadily down the river,
the fish making strong rushes, but keeping down
and moving about in a stately, heavy fashion. We
gradually reached the spot where we had gaffed
the 21½-pounder in the morning, our movements
being watched by the ladies of our party from the
opposite bank. The fish showed little sign of
giving in, and about 8 <span class="allsmcap">P.M.</span> the spectators on the
bank, seeing no likelihood of the battle being
ended at present, went home. About ten minutes<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_90"></SPAN>[90]</span>
later the fish began to show unmistakable signs
of exhaustion. After it had turned on its side
two or three times, I managed to bring it near
the boat, which C. had moored near the bank.
Just before the fish came within reach of the gaff
it made another short rush, and once more turned
on its side. Again I coaxed the great fish towards
the boat. Nearer and nearer he came, and then
in a moment C. had the gaff in him, and with a
mighty effort lifted him into the boat. The fish
was a cock-fish, and weighed 38½ lb. After
examining him we came to the conclusion that he
was about the same size as the one I had lost in
the preceding year, but probably longer. He had
evidently been wounded in his side by a seal a
fortnight previously, and though this wound had
healed, it must have caused the fish to lose several
pounds’ weight. When hung up beside the other
fish of 21½ lb. and 18½ lb. he looked huge, and
had the advantage of some inches over my little
grandson, who was nearly five years old. His
length was 50½ inches and girth 24 inches, and had
it not been for the wound inflicted by the seal he
would, no doubt, have turned the scale well over
40 lb. So ended what was for me a day never to
be forgotten. I had six more days’ fishing, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_91"></SPAN>[91]</span>
killed five more fish, two of them with the fly.
The other five fish weighed 22½ lb., 17½ lb.,
17½ lb., 16½ lb., and 15½ lb. respectively.</p>
<p><SPAN name="GRANDSON" id="GRANDSON"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp51" id="i090fp" style="max-width: 42.5em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_090_fp.jpg" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">“HE HAD THE ADVANTAGE OF SOME INCHES OVER MY LITTLE GRANDSON,<br/>
WHO WAS NEARLY FIVE YEARS OLD.”</p>
<p class="pfs80">From a Photograph by Mrs. <span class="smcap">Noel Wills</span>.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>Strange that I should have had such good luck.
Strange, surely, that though others far more
skilful and experienced than I am should have
fished the same beats in that river and fished many
more days than I did in each year, such a great
fish should have come my way in two successive
Aprils, on each occasion by far the largest seen
or heard of in the season on the beat in question.
An old friend of mine, who has fished the same
river for many years, and is an angler of great
experience and success, told me that he has never
killed any fish in that river or anywhere else larger
than 25 lb. Surely, indeed, I was the spoilt child
of the fishing deities.</p>
<p>At the close of this red-letter day two thoughts
crossed my mind—first, whether the fact that so
many of my kind friends had earnestly wished that
I might on this occasion kill a fish as large as the
one I had lost a year ago had really been a factor
in my good luck. Who can tell? The other
thought which crossed my mind last year also
when the great fish parted company with me was
that every fisherman must surely be “a man that<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92"></SPAN>[92]</span>
fortune’s buffets and rewards has ta’en with equal
thanks.” Yet, as one of the keenest fishermen
and gillies I have ever known, and who has now
gone to his long home, used to say, “It’s easy
talking and no easy doing.”</p>
<p>A few days later my host added still more to
my indebtedness to him by giving one of my
daughters, who had never killed a salmon, though
a very successful angler for big trout, the chance
of trying the river.</p>
<p>On her first and second days she drew a blank,
but on the third day killed three fish weighing
20 lb., 19 lb., and 15 lb., all on the same fly,
a silver doctor. Who says there is nothing in
luck? The day I killed my big fish was the third
day in the third week of the third month of the
fishing season; he was the third fish killed on
that day, and I hooked him at my third cast. My
daughter killed her three fish on the third day she
was fishing. Well might Falstaff (<cite>Merry Wives
of Windsor</cite>, Act V., Sc. 1) say: “This is the third
time—I hope luck lies in odd numbers.” My
daughter’s performance was far more satisfactory
in every way than mine, for fishing with the fly is,
of course, incomparably superior to fishing with
the minnow—at least, nearly every angler I have<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_93"></SPAN>[93]</span>
met says so. I venture to think, however, that my
friend, Arthur Chaytor, K.C., one of the most
accomplished and skilful of salmon fishers, in his
delightful book, <cite>Letters to a Salmon-Fisher’s
Sons</cite>, is altogether too severe in his castigation
of minnow-fishing. “Avoid minnow-fishing for
salmon,” he says (page 89), “as a canker that will
eat into some of the very best days of your fly-fishing.”
But need it do so? “It is a dangerous
thing for you to begin its use.”</p>
<p>Then in a most entertaining passage he
describes how “the river has cleared and has
become perfect for the fly. It ought to be a tip-top
day, but you are tempted of the devil to try
just for an hour the phantom minnow ... and then
you go on with the minnow all the day long ...
dragging out the fish ... and at the end of the
day feeling that you have been rather a butcher
than a fisherman and that you might almost as
well have used a net.” This means, of course,
that success in minnow-fishing is simply a matter
of luck, and does not depend on the fisherman’s
skill. In a later passage he describes in most
forcible and amusing language “the relapse to
minnow, when after a good day minnowing you
find next morning that the water is right for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_94"></SPAN>[94]</span>
the fly and you resolve to make it a day of fly only.
You put on your best fly and you begin, full of
hope. For an hour or two you cover much water
without a single rise, and you begin to doubt
whether the fish mean to take at all to-day. Soon,
just to see whether they will move at all, you put
up the spinning-rod just merely to have one try
down the pool. A fish takes the accursed thing
and you are lost. Abandoning all sense of
decency, you pursue the horrible craft, and at
dusk you stagger back to the fishing-hut with
half a dozen great fish upon your back and with
your conscience hanging about the neck of your
heart, which keeps on protesting in vain that this
was really no day for the fly.”</p>
<p>Even Chaytor, however, admits that “in a
cold, wet season, when the river is in flood
for weeks together, with only odd days when
fishing is possible, the minnow can be really and
legitimately useful.” On the other hand, in
contrast to the above warnings and diatribes,
Mr. J. Arthur Hutton, who is so well known,
particularly in connection with the Wye, and is,
of course, a most experienced and successful
salmon fisher, as well as one of the most learned
in the life-history of the salmon, describes spinning<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_95"></SPAN>[95]</span>
for salmon as “a form of fishing requiring
a very large amount of skill and experience
which may provide one with sport on those
many occasions when the fly is useless ...
a fine art which requires much practice and
long experience, far more so than fly-fishing.”
“For every good hand with the spinning-rod,”
he says, “you may find twenty who are excellent
fly-fishermen.”</p>
<p>I remember a friend of mine in the north,
whose old keeper had been with the family for
many years and known him since his boyhood,
telling me that he knew so well the old man’s
contempt for and abhorrence of minnow-fishing
that he did not dare to use the minnow when the
old man was out with him, and never allowed him
to know that he did use it. This old keeper
would have applied Chaytor’s epithets to minnow-fishing
on every occasion, but would never have
agreed with him for a moment that even on rare
occasions it can be legitimately used.</p>
<p>Those like the old keeper—and I doubt if in
these days there are many such—might, to use
Mr. Hutton’s words, “seriously consider whether
they might not add largely to their sport and also
to their opportunities of fishing by learning to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_96"></SPAN>[96]</span>
spin for salmon. The river is not always in fly
order; there are many occasions on which the
water is too high or too much coloured for the
fly when salmon might be caught with a minnow
or other bait. In the same way, in deep sluggish
pools, when it is almost impossible to work a
fly effectively, a bait properly used may effect
wonders.”</p>
<p>What, then, is the conclusion of the whole
matter? It is this, paraphrasing the words of the
famous authority on all things piscatorial, Mr.
H. T. Sheringham: “It is certain that good
luck is the most vital part of the equipment of
him who would seek to slay the big (salmon).
For some men I admit the usefulness of skill and
pertinacity; for myself I take my stand entirely
on luck.”</p>
<p><SPAN name="SLIGACHAN" id="SLIGACHAN"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i096fp" style="max-width: 62.5em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_096_fp.jpg" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">SLIGACHAN, ISLE OF SKYE.</p>
<p class="pfs80">By <span class="smcap">Finlay Mackinnon</span>.</p>
</div>
</div>
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