19 NOVEMBER 1954, Page 27

Count y Life

Ar the end of the trout season I usually find my tackle spread about in various places and have to bring it all to the small cabinet where it rests between October and March. The last thing I do before packing it away is to clear the eyes of flies that, through my haste, have been snipped from the cast, leaving a knot that might frustrate me on some future occasion at the lakeside. I was doing this the other evening when I began to think of the season and how it had gone. It was cold in March, as always. In the first week in April I climbed a mountainside that was covered in thick, crisp snow. I took my first lake trout on a March Brown—the only fish I caught on this fly all season. Those that followed were on a dark Greenwell and a Blue Quill in the main. A dry Greenwell took my largest fish until I changed to- a fly of deerhair and caught four that were for me a record. I lost a few good fish and a few casts and flies that got hitched on trees and bushes, but I had a good season, some peaceful days and some battles with trout that rose and danced on their tails while others bored down into the depths. These thoughts brighten the darker days between the seasons.