Chapter XVII: The Secret of the High Hills 215 (3)

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. 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 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 P.M. the spectators on the bank, seeing no likelihood of the battle being ended at present, went home. About ten minutes 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 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.

From a Photograph by Mrs. NOEL WILLS.]

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.

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 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.”

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.

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 (_Merry Wives of Windsor_, 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 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, _Letters to a Salmon-Fisher’s Sons_, 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.”

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 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.”

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 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.”

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.

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 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.”

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.”

By FINLAY MACKINNON.]

VIII

A STORMY WEEK IN THE FOREST

Amongst my stalking experiences I shall always remember a week which I once had early one season in a famous forest on the west coast, through the kindness of my friend the proprietor, to whom I have been indebted for many excellent days’ sport. I have had long experience in stalking, but have never known worse weather than we had in this particular week. The rifles consisted of my host, Stuart a fellow-guest, and myself. I was out stalking six days. On Thursday, our first day, we killed five stags between us. My host and Stuart each got two, while I got one. So far as my experiences on that day were concerned, I had no opportunity of a shot until near the end of the day, when we came upon two stags, one of which I shot. As it was late in the day and I had only one pony, I did not shoot at the second stag. The following Friday, Saturday, and Monday were terrible days of mist and storm. The mist never left the tops of the mountains all day long, although there was a strong wind blowing--it appeared to come up from the sea in great banks; and although we waited on each day for it to clear off, we did so in vain. On Friday and Saturday I never had a shot.

From a Photograph by the Author.]

On Monday, until late in the day, it looked as though I was to have the same experience. About four o’clock, however, having been lying on a ridge overlooking a wide, deep corrie, the mist suddenly lifted for a very few minutes and we spied some deer moving downwards on the far side of the corrie, and amongst them what appeared to be two or three good stags. There were also a number of hinds rather nearer to us than this lot of deer. We decided that the only way in which we should be likely to get a shot at the stags would be to go right round the upper edge of the corrie and try to get in between the hinds and the other lot of deer amongst which were the stags. This entailed a most uncomfortable walk; the wind was so strong that one could hardly stand, it was quite impossible to keep a cap on one’s head, and it rained or hailed incessantly. At last we got round, and went down to the lower ground; we then managed, with a good deal of difficulty, to crawl safely past the hinds, and found that the other lot of deer were moving slowly, feeding downwards. After a time the deer lay down on a small hill in a sheltered place, and we crawled up to the top of an adjoining hill about 140 yards distant. We there made out that there was one good stag, an eight-pointer, who was lying down, and whose horns only could be seen from the place where we were lying. I got into position to shoot in case the stag should rise and give me a chance. It was now about half-past five, and we thought, considering how late it was getting and the conditions of the weather, that we should not be kept waiting very long. The stag, however, did not move for about half an hour, when he got up and turned round, and immediately lay down again. Time went on, and what with the cold and wet I began to shiver, and felt that I must do something to alter the condition of things. It was close on 6.30, and we were five miles from the point where it had been arranged that Stuart and I were to meet the car, if possible, at six o’clock, and in any case not later than seven. I told the stalker that he must get the deer up somehow or other, and that he had better whistle them up; he strongly advised me not to do this, but to wait a little longer, as, if we did so, they would probably bolt and not give me a chance to shoot. I, however, persisted, and said we could not keep Mr. Stuart waiting any longer; besides, I was getting colder and colder. I therefore whistled; the deer took no notice. “A little louder,” said the stalker. I whistled louder. Two of the smaller stags got up, and then the eight-pointer on the far side of the hill slowly got up, looking in our direction, and exposing his body over the edge of the hill, a fair broadside shot, at about 140 yards. I fired. “Just over his shoulder,” said the stalker, and the stag still stood, as stags often will do when the bullet passes over them. I fired again and the stag instantly fell. “Good shot,” said the stalker. I unloaded the rifle and handed it to the stalker, who began to put it into its cover, when suddenly the stag jumped up and galloped off. The bullet had no doubt grazed the spine, causing temporary unconsciousness. When a stag drops instantaneously, as this one did, he is often only stunned, and it is well to be on the alert and get up to him at once, ready if necessary to shoot again. This was no new experience to either of us. The old stalker had been over fifty years in the forest and had seen the same thing happen many a time; nor was it new to me. We watched the stag as he galloped away apparently none the worse for his narrow escape, and I certainly felt very foolish. The old stalker kindly began to make excuses for me. “The line was right, but you were just a little high,” he said. “Your pozeesyon was not good. You had been lying long, cold and shivering, in the wet. Yon cartridges are lighter than yer regular ones, and that is why you shot over him.” “No, no,” I replied, “I missed because I could not shoot straight; it is a bad business; anyhow, it is better than having wounded him badly and then lost him; it is a comfort to think he is really very little the worse--now we have got to get back as quickly as ever we can.” And then in the gloom and mist, running and walking and tumbling, away we went. The last mile was down a hill path filled with loose stones. At last we reached the end of the road, and saw the car coming up from a point about a mile lower down the road where Stuart had arranged to meet us. “Well,” I said, “I hope at any rate that Mr. Stuart has got a stag, if not two.” The stalker had been looking carefully at the road. “No,” he said, “Mr. Stuart has no stag the day.” I said, “How do you know that?” “Oh,” he said, pointing to the marks on the road, “his ponies have gone home trotting--look at the marks of their hoofs--and if Mr. Stuart had got a stag the pony would be walking.” As soon as the car arrived we found that the stalker was right, and that Stuart, who had only arrived at our meeting-place a few minutes before, had got no stag, never having had a shot. On reaching the lodge about 8.30 P.M. we found that our host had not yet returned from the river, where he had gone to try to get a salmon, and it was not until an hour later that he returned. He too had had bad luck, having hooked a large fish which it was impossible to follow, and which had taken out in its first rush at a terrific pace some fifty yards of line, and then, a strain being put on, broke the casting line, which, it subsequently turned out, had been used in the spring fishing and had not been properly tested before being used again. Thus closed the third chapter in a day which illustrated the truth of the proverb that “misfortunes never come singly.”

The following day, Tuesday, showed no signs of improvement in the weather. Thick mist on the tops, steady rain, and a wind, as usual, in the wrong direction. Stuart was obliged to drive some miles off to see a friend, but I determined once more to try the hill. This time I was sent out on the home beat. I started off with the stalker and an old gillie named Angus, who had had so much experience that he would have made an admirable stalker, and who is always very keen. I also had two ponies and a pony boy. The pony path goes straight up the mountain-side for two and a half miles. By the time we reached the point where the path stopped we were close to the edge of the mist, and the outlook seemed hopeless. We decided to cross over the opposite hill and go down on the other side, hoping that by that time the mist might have lifted. We left instructions with the pony boy to wait for two hours, and then if he heard nothing from us to go back right round to a point on the other side of the hill and wait there. On our way up the hill I found some beautiful little bastard pimpernel in flower, not very common in this part of the country. As we worked our way up the mountain-side the wind became stronger and the rain heavier. It was intensely cold, and very difficult to see what was in front of us. Having arrived at the ridge, nearly 3000 feet up, we tried to spy the corrie below. What with the tremendous wind and driving rain this was a matter of the greatest difficulty, and in conditions of this kind I always think there is a better chance of picking up deer with first-rate field-glasses than with a telescope. I managed, with my field-glasses, to discover two stags feeding in a sheltered part of the opposite side of the corrie, and, after shifting our position in order to get a better view of them, we found that there were some hinds feeding below them. We came to the conclusion that the only chance of obtaining a shot at the stags was by getting in between them and the hinds. After some trouble we succeeded in doing this, but old Angus, who knew the corrie well, said that the wind at this place was very uncertain, and that it was a question whether the stags would not get our wind. He had hardly uttered this warning before there was a fatal puff in the wrong direction, and away went the stags long before we were near them. We decided to go on and try the next corrie. It is difficult to imagine a greater contrast than the comparative warmth and peace which we were now enjoying as compared with the strife of the elements outside the corrie. The rain, too, had stopped, and I said to the stalker, “No wonder the deer came here; what a haven of rest!”

By FINLAY MACKINNON.]

We now worked our way across the ridge, and then spied the big corrie below. We discovered two lots of stags. Those in the first lot were moving on. The others were lying down in a place where they could be stalked without much difficulty; we therefore crawled some 400 or 500 yards, and, creeping cautiously up to the top of a little hill, saw the stags had got up and begun to feed. There was one quite clean about 90 yards below us, and another also clean about 130 yards from where we were lying. I fired at the near stag, who fell dead at once; I then covered the other stag and pulled the second trigger--result a missfire. I hastily reloaded and fired, killing the stag. We then went down to the stags which I had shot. The first was a six-pointer, whose horns and teeth showed him to be an old warrior. The second, a nine-pointer, was a younger beast, rather heavier. Both stags were in good condition, and weighed 13 st. 9 lb. and 14 st. 3 lb. clean. After gralloching the stags, we dragged them down the hill to a point from which we could signal to the pony boy. The ponies had long been used for carrying stags, and stood quietly whilst the stags were put on them. We soon reached the pony path, and after a walk of five miles reached the lodge.

The following day, Wednesday, it rained and blew all day, and the mists hung low on the mountains, so that it was quite useless to attempt any stalking.

The next day, Thursday, was the last day of my visit and that of Stuart. Stuart was particularly anxious to kill one more stag in the company of the second stalker, because he had killed his first stag in his company sixteen years ago in this forest, and had since then killed forty-eight stags in various forests. The day looked anything but propitious; there was mist and rain, and the wind was again in the wrong quarter. My host said he would go fishing up the glen; Stuart was sent to try one of the far beats in the company of his old friend the second stalker, whilst I was left to try the home beat again. As we went up the hill the mist gradually lifted, and we saw two huge golden eagles circling round and round. We saw no deer up to two o’clock; but whilst taking lunch we suddenly saw several stags coming round the side of a distant hill. We hastily finished our lunch and set out on what proved to be a long and exciting stalk. From time to time we had to remain lying perfectly flat, not daring to move a muscle. Once we thought every chance of success was gone, for an old cock-grouse rose with his “Go-back,” “Go-back,” as we were nearing the rock from which we hoped to get a shot. The sun, of which we had seen nothing for so long, kept coming out and going in again. On a long stalk of this kind it is extraordinary what one sees and how ineffaceable is the memory of these sights--the eagle circling over the high tops not far distant; the blue hare leisurely making off, then stopping, sitting up and looking back; the ptarmigan, so beautiful in its mottled plumage, running in front of us, stopping now and again and peering around; the old cock-grouse rising with his warning described above, which too often brings the stalk to an untimely end; the many insects, some of them so strange and weird, that we see as we lie flat gazing into a clump of grass and moss; the granite boulders sparkling in the sunlight as if studded with many diamonds--most, if not all, of these things I saw in this particular stalk. Everything, however, comes to an end, and so at last I succeeded in getting a shot at the heaviest of the stags, who was standing on the side of a very rocky and precipitous hill. He ran a few yards and fell down dead. It was, indeed, fortunate that he fell where he did, caught between two rocks, for immediately below these rocks nothing could have stopped him from rolling down a precipice of several hundred feet, and, as old Angus said, the venison would not have been worth taking home and the horns would have been smashed to atoms. The stag, an old one in good condition, was dragged down to a place where the pony could come up, and, leaving Angus to find and help the pony boy, the stalker and I started to work our way homewards across the hill. We had been moving slowly onwards, spying from time to time, when we discovered a large number of stags feeding below us. A circuitous stalk brought us up to them, but in a very awkward position. It was impossible to get a shot, except by coming up to a point at the top of the hill below which they were feeding, and we should then be much too close to them. There was, however, no choice, and after a cautious crawl we reached a point from which we could see the horns of stags moving away from us, at a distance of not more than 30 yards. Crawling as flat as possible to the top of the little hill, the stalker slowly raised his head, and as slowly lowered it. He then whispered to me, “There’s a fine stag there, but he won’t wait long, and you’d better shoot over my back.” I cautiously raised the rifle over the stalker’s back in the direction indicated, and, slowly raising my head, saw a fine stag, with a good head, standing broadside on, about 70 yards away, looking straight at me. As quickly as possible I covered the stag’s heart and pulled the trigger; there was the unmistakable thud as the bullet struck the stag, who instantly turned and disappeared. “He’ll be all right,” said the stalker; “you don’t often hear a bullet strike more distinctly than that one did,” and on reaching the point where the stag had been standing we saw him about 80 yards below, lying dead. He turned out to be a royal, with very regular points and a good head, although he was going back and had evidently been better. Like two of the four stags I had previously shot, he was an ancient warrior. The mist, which had temporarily lifted, now came down again thicker than ever, and the stalker said that we should have an awful job to get the stag down, as it was a heavy one, and the ground was very awkward. We gralloched the stag, and took out the heart and liver in order to make him as light as possible, and then set to work to get the stag down. This was a very heavy job, and I could not help thinking, as I had often thought before, what an excellent thing it would be if every one who is going to stalk, whether proprietor, tenant, or guest, were obliged some time or other to take part in dragging a stag to the place where he is to be put on the pony, and help in putting him on the pony. We succeeded at last in getting the stag down, and the stalker then arranged to wait on the pony path lower down, in order to meet old Angus and the pony boy, who would be bringing the first stag I had shot and the ponies. I took my rifle, the luncheon bag, and the sticks and glasses, and struck across the hill for the lodge. On my way down I began to speculate as to the age of the two old stags I had shot that day, and came to the conclusion that they were probably not less than fourteen or fifteen years old. The old Gaelic saying, which shows how little was formerly known as to the age of a stag, came into my mind:

Tri aois coin, aois eich;
Tri aois eich, aois duine;
Tri aois duine, aois feidh;
Tri aois feidh, aois firein;
Tri aois firein, aois dbaraich,

which may be translated:

Thrice dog’s age, age of horse;
Thrice horse’s age, age of man;
Thrice man’s age, age of deer;
Thrice deer’s age, age of eagle;
Thrice eagle’s age, age of oak.

It is probably true to say that a stag in its wild state rarely lives beyond sixteen or seventeen years of age. In those forests which are on islands, for example Jura, stalkers have unusual opportunities of observing and learning the history of particular stags, and I recollect when stalking in North Jura two years ago discussing this subject with John Mackay, the head stalker. He told me that he had several times been familiar with a stag all through its life, and in more than one instance had seen a stag with a fine head gradually lose its points, until at last it had only comparatively short upright narrow horns with two, short brow points, the stag itself losing steadily both in size and weight and becoming very light in colour.

By V. R. BALFOUR-BROWNE.]

I reached the lodge about 6.30. The stags weighed very nearly the same weight--16 st. 2 lb. and 16 st. 5 lb. clean--the royal being slightly heavier than the other. Our host returned about eight o’clock, having waited an hour past the time at which he had arranged to meet Stuart. The car was sent back for Stuart, who, however, did not reach the lodge until half-past ten, after a very long and strenuous day. He had, however, secured his fiftieth stag after a most troublesome stalk. He was not able to get his shot till past seven o’clock, at which time he was about seven miles from the lodge. So ended a most delightful week’s sport, notwithstanding the awful weather which we had had.

IX

A SALMON LOCH IN SUTHERLAND

Fishermen’s stories are said to be proverbially untrustworthy, and the great majority of people--at any rate of those who are not themselves fishermen--never seem to suppose that in the case of a fisherman, as in the case of every one else, truth may sometimes be stranger than fiction.

I have been a fly-fisher since my earliest days, and have had many good days both with the salmon and the trout, but I have never had a day full of such surprising contrasts as the day which I had with a brother of mine many years ago in the early part of September, on a loch through which flows one of the best of the smaller salmon rivers in the North of Scotland. Strange as were the events of that day, I can vouch for the absolute veracity of the following story.

The loch in question is not very large, and is not deep in any part. It contains a good many trout about three to the pound, and at certain periods of the year many salmon. We had a long drive from X., where we were staying, and reached the loch about 10 A.M. We had with us a gillie, a salmon-fisher of long experience and a typical Highlander, in height about 6 ft. 3 in., whose name, like his hair, was Sandy. We had not expected to have any salmon-fishing while we were at X., but fortunately I happened to have with me my salmon rod as well as a trout rod, and we arranged on this day that we would fish with the two rods alternately, and that as soon as one of us caught a salmon the other would take the salmon rod.

When we arrived at the loch there was a good breeze blowing from the west, with no sun. We put a medium-sized “Jock Scott” on the salmon cast, while on the trout cast we put, as a tail fly, a queer, nondescript fly, which Sandy fancied, and, as a bob fly, a “March Brown.” These two latter flies were the ordinary medium-sized loch-trout flies, and we thought it wiser, as we knew that there were a lot of salmon in the loch, to put only two flies on the trout cast. My brother began fishing with the salmon rod in the stern of the boat, while I tried in the bow for trout. I very soon rose three or four trout, and managed to secure two, but my brother had no luck with the salmon. We had not been fishing for more than half an hour when the wind went down and the sun came out. The surface of the loch became absolutely calm, just like a sheet of glass, and fishing appeared to be hopeless. The salmon now began to jump in different parts of the loch, and, although Sandy said it was perfectly useless, we kept trying to cast over them. At length, however, we gave it up, and sat waiting for the breeze. Suddenly a salmon rose about twenty yards from the boat. I said, “Come on, Sandy, put me over that,” and, taking up the salmon rod, proceeded to cast over the place where the salmon had risen. With great difficulty I got the line out, as it was dead calm. I cast once, twice, and for a third time, and just as I was getting to the end of my cast on the third attempt, up came the salmon, rising apparently not with the intention of taking the fly, but with the intention of drowning it. I struck at him and hooked him, as we discovered later, by the tail, and a very lively time he gave me. He played for about twenty-five minutes, during which time he never showed himself, and we all thought he was much larger than he turned out to be. He was a nice clean fish about 9¼ lb. By the time we got him in the wind had risen, and we began to fish again, my brother taking the salmon rod, whilst I fished with the trout rod from the bow. I had not been fishing for more than a few minutes before I rose something which did not show itself. I struck, and exclaimed, “I’ve hooked him!” Away went the line off my reel for about thirty yards, and at the end of this run the fish, a salmon which looked considerably larger than the one we had already caught, jumped right out of the water, high into the air. Then began the longest and most exciting struggle I have ever had with any fish. The rod with which I was fishing was a light 11-feet trout rod; the cast was a medium-sized trout cast, and I had on my reel about forty to fifty yards of medium-sized trout-line. There is no doubt that I should have several times lost the fish had it not been for the extraordinary skill and speed with which Sandy followed him and managed the boat. Three times nearly all my line was taken out, and once I had only a few inches left on my reel. After his first rush the fish plunged deep down, and for a time adopted boring tactics. I was able to recover most of the line he had taken out, and then he made another run and a jump, and for some time after that we followed him over the loch. On two occasions he made the most determined efforts to get into some weeds, and it was only by keeping a very severe strain upon him that I managed to keep clear of them. I never played a fish which jumped so many times or sulked less. On one occasion, after taking a large amount of my line, he suddenly turned and headed straight back again for the boat, and although Sandy did all he could to keep out of his way, the fish startled us at the end of his mad run by jumping suddenly clean out of the water within three or four yards of the boat, and falling with a tremendous splash.

Do what I could I did not seem to have any real effect on the fish, who seemed to do almost exactly as he liked with me, except on the two occasions when he tried to get into the weeds, when, expecting every minute that we might part company, I was determined, whatever happened, that he should come where I wished him to come.

We saw that the fish had taken the bob fly, and this added to my apprehensions, as I was afraid, particularly as I knew the loch was not deep, that the tail fly would catch in something at the bottom of the loch, and there would then be a catastrophe. Time wore on, and my back and arms began to ache most prodigiously. Still the fish seemed as strong as ever. My brother said he must have some lunch, and whenever Sandy and I got the chance we managed to eat some sandwiches. I began to wonder how much longer the fly would hold, and whether this fish would prove to be one more of the many good fish lost through the fly working out at the end of a long fight.

I could do nothing except hold on for all I was worth, keeping as tight a line as I could, and, of course, lowering the point of the rod whenever the fish jumped, as he frequently did. As time went on, however, the rushes made by the fish were not so long, and he seemed, at last, to have abandoned his leaping tactics, which had given me so much anxiety in the earlier stages of the struggle. The fish was gradually becoming exhausted, and the strain on the rod and line seemed to be much greater. “He’ll be turning soon, I’m thinking,” said Sandy. The end, one way or the other, could surely not be far off now, and we discussed the question whether or not we should try to land, but, on the whole, we thought we had better not run the risk of getting into very shallow water. At last the fish turned on his side, though he quickly righted himself and made another short run. Sandy had got the boat in about three feet of water, a few yards from the bank; he handed the oars to my brother, seized the gaff, and got out of the boat. I slowly reeled in my line; there was another short rush from the fish, and again I reeled him up. Nearer and nearer he came to the boat, and again turned on his side. Suddenly, in less time than it takes to tell, Sandy had the gaff into him, and was struggling to the shore. Safely landed, the fish was speedily given his _coup de grâce_. He was a very red male fish, weighing rather over 10¼ lb., and I had hooked him in the hard part of his upper jaw, which accounted partly for the fact that I had so little power over him, and also for the fact that the hook had kept its hold so well. “Now then, Sandy,” I said, as I got out my flask, “if any man ever deserved a drop of good whisky, you do.” “Shlàinte” (Gaelic for “Your good health”), said Sandy. “It was a grand fight, sir; I’ve never seen a better.” “How long do you think you were playing him?” said my brother. “Somewhere about an hour, I should think,” I replied. “Four hours and six minutes,” he said. “I looked at my watch when you hooked him, and it was then just a minute or two before half-past one; and I looked at my watch when Sandy gaffed him--it was then twenty-five minutes to six. I counted the number of times the fish jumped, and it was seventeen. I don’t suppose you noticed it,” he added, “but there was a cart going off with peats, near the loch, soon after you began to play the fish, and it came back again not long ago.” We heard afterwards that the men in the cart thought I was playing another fish when they passed us on their return journey.

The light was going as we pushed the boat out again. I handed the salmon rod to my brother, and he began to fish from the stern of the boat, while I fished again from the bow with the trout rod. Sandy allowed the boat to drift slowly along the edge of some weeds. I do not think that I had more than three or four casts when, just as I was nearing the end of my cast, a salmon, which looked as bright as silver, and about the same size as the one we had just killed, rose at my tail fly, with a head and tail rise as if it meant business; and, as it turned to go down, I felt the hook go home. The fish did not run, but worked about near the surface of the water, close to the weeds, as if it did not realise that it was hooked at all. “Back the boat quickly, sir,” said Sandy, handing the oars to my brother, and seizing the gaff. My brother took the oars and backed the boat quickly in the direction of the fish. I reeled up my line; there was a momentary vision of about three-quarters of Sandy leaning out of the boat, a tremendously quick lightning-like movement of the gaff, and the salmon, gaffed with extraordinary skill behind the shoulder, was in the boat.

I do not think that more than four minutes could possibly have elapsed from the time that I hooked the fish to the time it was in the boat. It was a beautiful, clean-run female fish, with a small head, and in perfect condition. It was very lightly hooked, and if it had run or jumped at all it would almost certainly have got off. It weighed within a few ounces of the weight of the fish which had given me such a tremendous battle, and yet, owing to the extraordinary skill of Sandy with the gaff, and the speed with which my brother had acted, this fish occupied us only as many minutes as the other one had hours!

We continued to fish for a short time, but it became dark so rapidly that very soon we had to stop, and without a further rise of any kind.

X

THE HOMING INSTINCTS OF WOUNDED DEER

In these days one hears so much of the homing instincts of animals and birds that the two following authentic instances of deer, whose habits are not so generally known as those of some other animals, may be of interest.

Stalkers, and those who know the habits of the red-deer, know well that a stag when wounded will seek what he knows from experience to be a haven of safety. Thus, if he has come in the rutting season from his native forest and is wounded on other ground, he will assuredly make for the sanctuary in that forest. So, too, if he has been born and reared in a particular part of the forest and has come to regard that place as his home, he will struggle to reach it if wounded. One interesting illustration of this has come within my own experience, and another was related to me by the stalker who was with me on the occasion referred to.

I was stalking in a forest upon part of which unusual conditions prevailed. That part which was nearest to the lodge was enclosed by a deer fence, but, owing to careful management, and the introduction from time to time of fresh stock, there are some very good heads in this part of the forest. I always prefer, however, when I have the chance, to stalk on the open ground outside the fence, although it means harder work, as it is the far beat and part of it is on very high and precipitous ground. It has, however, this great fascination--that one never knows what sort of stag one may find there. The forest itself is an exceptionally good one, and marches with several of the finest forests in the Highlands.

By FINLAY MACKINNON.]