Amid the high hills 1923

Front matter

< Ss au

8092 LLOvO LOZL E iia 7 hes ee ee tM w ay in ana

SAD ,

Contents

Tue CuHarm oF Sport AMID THE HicH HItts

. STALKING IN ITs MosT ENsoyaBLeE Form

. A Great Fisu anp a GREATER FISHERMAN

II Stalking In Its Most Enjoyable Form

By far the most enjoyable form of stalking is to be one’s own stalker, but this can only be done satisfactorily in a forest with which one is thoroughly familiar. It is astonishing what tricks the wind will play in certain corries, and as a result what mistakes even a good stalker will make in a forest which is new to him. Moreover, any one stalking by himself, unless he has experience, may easily make another kind of mistake. He may think that he has missed a stag when he has in fact killed him. Any one who has had experience in shooting deer knows that a stag when shot through the heart. will 6 iq Aq

“NONNIMOVI AVI

STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM 7 sometimes gallop for forty or fifty yards or even further and then fall down dead.

Some years ago, preparatory to a few days’ stalking in a deer forest in Inverness-shire, I arrived one evening at the Lodge; and later on about half-past ten there returned from the hill a guest in a state of great dejection who had never stalked until he went out in this forest a few days before. I felt very sorry for him, for he had been keen to secure’ a good head and said that he had had a splendid chance of a fine stag standing broadside at about eighty yards and had missed him. This was his last chance as he was leaving early next morning. Two days later I was out on the same beat when the stalker suddenly grasped me by the arm and said, ‘“‘ There is a stag lying down there to the left of that hill below us. Are you seeing his horns above the ridge ? ”’ We went cautiously down in the direction of the stag, but had not gone far before we discovered that the stag was dead. “‘ That,” said the stalker, ‘““ must be the stag Mr. X. shot at two days ago.”’ We examined the stag and found that he had been shot apparently through the heart from the knoll from which X. had taken his shot; it was obviously the same stag. The stalker then told me that X. wished to stalk the last hundred yards alone and had asked him to stay behind, that X. had the shot and came back saying that he had missed the stag. Neither the stalker nor X. had thought it worth while to look for the stag. In the case of X., who was a novice at stalking, I was not surprised, but I was amazed that the stalker had not done so, although he was young and not very experienced. So X. secured a good head after all, and no doubt both he and the stalker learnt a lesson which neither is likely to forget, but at the cost to X. of much unnecessary misery and humiliation and incidentally to his host of much good venison.

It is sometimes difficult to be sure what is the result of one’s shot, and it is a great assistance to have the opinion of an experienced stalker whether he has his glass on the beast at the moment the shot is fired or not.

I was coming back one evening after a delightful day’s stalking in Glen Carron when the stalker Macdonell said, ‘“‘One moment, sir, there is a stag down there just gone out of sight. If you can shoot off your knee downhill you will have a chance directly.”’ I sat down and waited, and in a few minutes the stag appeared, I

STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM 9 believed I was steady and on him in the right place. Directly I fired he galloped off. “‘ I’m thinking you’d better shoot again,’ said Macdonell. ‘‘ What’s the use,’’ I replied, thinking I had shot the stag through the heart. However, as I spoke, I did shoot again out of respect to Macdonell, whom I knew to be a very experienced stalker, and the stag rolled over like a rabbit which has been, shot in the right place. ‘‘ Now we will see,”’ I said, ‘‘ where the two bullets went.’’ ‘““T’m thinking,” said Macdonell, ‘‘ you missed Meee first time.” ~“ You.may be right,” I replied, “‘ but I don’t think so; one thing I know, and that is that if I did and had known it, I should probably have missed him with my second shot also.” On examining the stag we could only find one bullet mark, and on skinning him we found that one bullet only had struck him, and that was through the heart. Macdonell no doubt thinks to this day that I missed the stag with my first shot, and killed him with my second when he was galloping ; but I still have my doubts. The moral is that though one sometimes hears the unmistakable thud of the bullet striking the stag, there are other occasions when it is difficult to be certain as to what has happened, and there- 2 fore it is always wise to satisfy one’s self in the matter as far as possible. Still more is this essential when stalking alone. In stalking alone there is this advantage, that one can always secure the best position in which to shoot, whereas if one is accompanied by a stalker, he sometimes takes that position himself and it is not easy to get him to move on, or, aS 1s more often the case, there is no time for him to do so.

Mr. Charles J. Murray of Loch Carron, to whose kindness I am indebted for many delightful days’ stalking, is particularly devoted to this form of sport. A few seasons ago I was obliged to come south before the end of the stalking season, and received from him a letter which describes, far better than I can, the pleasure of being out alone on the hill.

“You are missing the West Coast,’’ he wrote, at its (weather) best! for we have a spell of gloriously fine weather when the stag can hear a footstep half a mile off, and the wind is so gentle that it cannot make up its mind which way to go, but strays gently to and fro and round in little circles, stimulating evil words among the stalkers.

“Yesterday I was out alone and worked up to a Pasha and his Harem—the ladies between

STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM 11 him and me—he just out of shot on a hillock behind them—approach from the front impossible, but just a chance—almost a certainty with a fair breeze—from a rock to one side, if he should come down to his ladies before they got a puff. I risked it and got a comfy corner in the sun and waited to see which would win—the affectionate impulses of the stag or the more wavering evolutions of the scarcely perceptible puffs of wind, the old lady sixty yards away looking serenely at the top of my head. Needless to say that after two hours, just when the stag stretched one fore foot and began to hum a love ditty, I felt a well-known cool feeling at the back of my neck, and the party adjourned the meeting. Luckily I am not bloodthirsty, but enjoy being among deer, and on these occasions driving snow and rain, or sunshine and a dry tussock to curl up on, make all the difference.”’

Itt

The river Wye goes out to sea

By stealth, in silent secrecy :

Among the hills she winds and wends And wanders by the sombre woods, And cleaves her way in circling bends Through mountain solitudes.?

Towarps the end of March 1921 I received an invitation to fish the river Wye, which, as every one knows, is famous for its heavy salmon. My own rods and tackle were in the North of Scot-

1 “The Death of the Wye,” Images and Meditations, a Book of Poems, by Mary Duclaux. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd., London.

land, and there was not sufficient time to send for them. I knew that in the spring the fishing in this particular river was almost entirely by spinning with the minnow. I arrived at my destination on Monday, March 28, and _ had five days’ fishing before me. There had been a good deal of rain before I arrived, and the river was both too high and too much coloured. The fishing on my host’s beat had so far been very disappointing. During the preceding six weeks the river had been fished almost every day by my host and one or other of his friends; but although hardly any fish had been lost, only five had been killed, all with the minnow, the largest being 29 lb. My kindly host, who is a past master of all things connected with salmon and trout fishing, fitted me up with first-class equipment. I had never used a Nottingham or Silex reel before, and it took me the greater part of my first day to acquire the art of throwing the minnow effectively. For the next two days I fished with the minnow from morning till night without getting a pull or seeing anything. I have been a keen fly-fisher all my life and have killed a good many salmon and many trout, and on Friday morning, as the river had fallen considerably, I told my host that if I might do so I should like to try the fly. He readily assented, and said that I should have one of his own fly rods, and before we started he kindly gave me several salmon flies, and. said that his butler, C., who was an experienced hand at gaffing salmon, should come with me.

Among the flies which my host had. given me was a “‘ Mar Lodge ”’ (size 4/0), and with this I fished all the morning and up to about three o’clock in the afternoon without, however, seeing or touching anything. C. said that he was afraid the day was going to be a blank again. I said that I would like to try once more a particular spot below a rock in the upper part of a pool higher up the river, which I had fished in the morning and which I thought looked a very likely place for a salmon to lie. In order to fish this pool it was necessary to use a boat. It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun was still shining. We crossed over the river at the bottom of the pool and rowed up on the other side, keeping close to the bank so as not to disturb that part of the pool which I was going to fish. C. worked the boat with great skill, and at my first cast I managed to place my fly exactly where I wished it to go below the rock. As the fly swung round with the current I suddenly saw for a second a huge silvery fish in the clear, transparent water upon which the sun was shining. At the same moment the line tightened. ‘“‘ I have him,” I said, as the line went screeching off the reel. The fish ran straight up-stream for about ninety yards, and then leaped twice, high into the air. It was by far the largest salmon I had ever seen, clean-run and glittering like a silver coin fresh from the Mint. This first danger safely passed, I gradually persuaded him to come back again. C. said, “He must be well hooked, and he’s a very big fish.

That fish of 29 lb. which the Major got would look quite small beside him.’ For some time after this the fish moved about the pool, but made no attempt to run. He then made a violent rush of about sixty yards, and lashed about on the top of the water, once more showing himself and giving us a fair idea of his size. Again I got him well under control, and for a considerable time he adopted the same tactics as_ before, moving slowly and steadily backwards and forwards at varying depths. I had been thinking for some time that perhaps I had been rather too easy with him, and that I had not acted on the maxim with which, I suppose, almost every salmon fisher will agree, that one ought never to let a fish rest, and that a big fish may take hours to land if he is not worried enough. The line and cast had been thoroughly tested before we started, and I felt that I might depend upon them. C. told me that as soon as I had hooked my fish he had looked at his watch, and that I had now had him on for an hour and twenty minutes. This greatly astonished me, as I had not realised how — the time had gone. But it was nevertheless the fact, and I felt that we must do something to stir the fish. We accordingly decided to move a little way up-stream. C. had hardly begun to move the boat with this object in view when the salmon suddenly moved, and moved to some purpose. Neither I nor C. had ever seen anything in the movements of any fish to compare with the strength and rapidity of that rush. The salmon went at a terrific pace, straight up the river as hard as he could go for about 110 yards, and then leaped twice, straight up into the air, about a couple of feet above the surface of the water, broadside on, showing that he was a tremendously thick fish. At the very moment he was in the air the reel fell off the rod, and at that moment I became conscious, although, of

“UIV AHL OLNI dA LHDIVULS AOIML GAdVa1 NOWIVS AHL,, course, I had lowered the point of the rod when he leaped, that the great fish had parted company with me for ever. ‘‘ He has gone,” I said, as with a sickening sense of disappointment I reeled in the slack line in the faint hope that he might still be on, having turned and come down the river again—but no, it was not to be, and the line soon came back to me, the cast having been broken about a foot from the end. C. said not — a word, nor did I for a time. No mere words are appropriate on such an occasion and cannot diminish the loss of a fresh-run spring salmon, so marvellously brilliant and beautiful, and in this particular instance probably half as large again, perhaps twice as large, as the biggest fish I have ever landed during the time, now more than forty years, that I have been a salmon fisher. Within a short time I started fishing again, but the day was done and we saw nothing more. After the catastrophe I found that the reel had been loose, and that the wedges used to make it fit closely to the rod had shifted and finally fallen out in consequence of the rushes made by the fish. I also learnt later on that the rod did not belong to my host, and that by a misunderstanding this rod, which happened not to have been taken 3 down, but was among the other rods ready for use, was given to me. Probably, had I been warned about the reel, I could have prevented it from falling off, though whether this would have made any difference it is impossible to say, as many a good fish has broken the cast by falling back on it after jumping at the end of a long rush, and the more line there is out the more danger of losing the fish when he jumps.

In the words of one of the most experienced of fishermen, Mr. Horace G. Hutchinson: ‘‘ There is one antic that a fish may perform which may, if you are unlucky, defeat you, however quick and skilful you are—that is, if he jumps and falls back on the cast. If you do not drop the point of the rod so as to let the gut go slack when he jumps, you are nearly sure to be broken if he falls back on it. If you drop quickly enough, it is bad luck if you are broken, but it is bad luck which sometimes does befall. If much of the reel line is in water, the drop of the rod top does not communicate slackness to the cast quickly enough; the fish may come on to it when it is tolerably taut— result disaster ! ”’

Being a Highlander and therefore of a superstitious race, need I emphasise the fact that the day of this, the greatest, tragedy of my life as a fisherman was a Friday, and that Friday the Ist of April. In this connection it is worth recalling that no references to April Fools’ Day have been found in our earlier literature, and it seems that this country has derived the fashion from France, where April Fools’ Day is a very ancient institution, and where the dupe is known as “ poisson d’avril.” The April fool in this story was the fisherman, not the fish. The following day, Saturday, I tried to make the most of my last chance and fished all day long, but without a sign of anything. Of course, there was a great discussion as to the probable weight of the fish, which had given both C. and myself several opportunities of forming some estimate on the subject. We both agreed that it could not have been less than 35 lb., and was more probably round about 40 lb. But my story has an interesting sequel. On the following Monday I returned to London; and on the Tuesday, when fishing the pool which was the scene of the catastrophe, my host made a discovery which I can best relate by quoting from a letter which he wrote to me on the following day.

“Yesterday afternoon,” he wrote, ‘“ when fishing your famous pool I found what I feel pretty sure were the mortal remains of your big fish. He had fallen a prey to an otter, which after your long fight with him is easy to understand. He lay on a rock just above the place where you hooked him, and considerably below where you parted company. A large ‘steak’ from the middle had been removed by his ultimate captor, but the head and tail portions were there. From examination of his head he had certainly been recently hooked firmly on the right side of the upper jaw. He was extremely thick, and must have been a most handsome fish of at least 35 |b. I took home two or three scales, and his age appears to have been between four and five years.”’

I subsequently learnt that from its condition this fish had no doubt been killed some days before it was-found, and as it seems highly likely it was the fish that had defeated me, it must somehow or other have got rid of the fly by rubbing it against the rocks, a feat which is generally believed to be by no means unusual and which in this instance would, no doubt, be rendered easier by the fact that the hook was a good-sized one, being about 2 in. long.

C., who was with my host at the time, said that he also felt sure that it was the same fish. So it would appear that the victory of the great fish was after all shortlived, and that he was probably captured by a far greater fisherman than any mere mortal man—let alone my humble self.

It is a very interesting fact that in the week before that in which I was fishing, among the salmon which were killed on the neighbouring beats were three, each of which weighed slightly over 41 lb. It seems not unlikely, therefore, that my fish may have run up from the sea in the company of these splendid fish, and have been much the same weight as they were.

Notwithstanding my great disappointment I heartily agree with the words of Arthur Hugh Clough in Peschera :}

"T is better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.

On describing my battle to an old friend, who

is himself no fisherman, but a great sportsman,

1 It is singular that this poem was written and published in 1849, and that Tennyson’s In Memoriam, which contained the famous lines :

‘** "T is better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all,”

was written in 1834 but not published until 1850, and then anonymously. This is surely very remarkable, for it is impossible to believe that a man of the high and noble character of Clough would have consciously plagiarised any other poet.

a 4 AMID THE HIGH HILLS he replied by quoting from a writer, whose name he did not know, the following lines, which I had never heard before and the authorship of which was at that time unknown to my friend also:

Upon the river’s bank serene

A fisher sat where all was green And looked it.

He saw when light was growing dim

The fish or else the fish saw him And hooked it.

He took with high erected comb

The fish or else the story home And cooked it.

Recording angels by his bed

Weighed all that he had done or said And booked it.?

1 After the publication of these verses in the above article, as it originally appeared in the issue of Country Life for August 6, 1921, their authorship was discovered through the kindness of some of the readers of that journal and the enterprise of its editor. In a letter in Country Life for August 27, 1921, Bishop G. F. Browne, late Lord Bishop of Bristol, thus describes their origin. ‘‘ The first three stanzas were composed at Lowick Rectory, Northants, by the rector, J. S. Watson, his daughter Betty, and Dean Ingram of Peterborough. The authors felt that there ought to be a concluding stanza, ambiguously stating a final result. I told the story to Father Waggett on our way from Bournemouth to Clouds, and he suggested ‘ booked it’ as the point of a last stanza. On that hint I wrote the stanza. In my book I remark that its tendency would be unjust to any real fisherman’s imaginative powers.”