NIGHT-FISHING IN MOUNTAIN TARNS.
EVEN by those who have walked the fells for several years, it must be confessed that the finest series of experiences are met with in a ramble under the moonlight. Many fell-walkers in their nights of tramping make for some famous summit and wait there half-frozen to see the sun rise. Let the present brief narrative prove that it is better to be free from such restriction.
My companion was an angler; we had been staying awhile in Great Langdale ; and now, having heard that splendid fishing was to be had in the mountain tarns during the hours of darkness, he was all eagerness to try such an expedition. Thus it was that we were steadily climbing the steep path to Stickle Tarn when—
"The farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of night."
The day had been hot and cloudless, but now small, wavy clouds were borne along in the breeze which sprang up as the sun desc,ended into a crimsoned west. When at last we arrived at the edge of the upland mere, my Mend, steeling himself against the beauties of the scene, put his rod together, and in the half-light began to select his flies. My mind, as I sat on a lichen-covered rock near by, was fully occupied in taking in the surrounding loveliness; the pale czags of Pavey Ark sheered up their bases laved by the steely blue water of the tarn, their sky-line standing clear against the darkening, star- spangled blue. The shades in this rock-bound recess gradually thickened into darkness, though the surface of the tarn—like a mirror—reflected every moment more strongly the night- glow rising on the northern horizon. A great peace seemed to close around, and soon the silence was only broken by the splash as an occasional trout leapt to the banquet of night. flies, and by the tinkle and gurgle of tiny mountain streams. A strange restlessness possessed me, and I rambled about the hillside bordering the tarn, crossing many dry, rough water- courses, and ppsqing through wide-spreading beds of moist bracken. Then the sharp summit to my right drew attention. It was Harrison Stickle, the highest of the Langdale Pikes and on the moment I decided to extend my prowl to its top My companion was apparently busy among the trout, and would not move far. Ten minutes' climb brought me to the cairn; what a splendid view there was ! In the grey light, on all hands, tumbled grey mountain masses appeared ; the valleys were completely hidden by long narrow clouds of night-mist, and even the damp patches on the moors were canopied with shifting white vapour. It was a glorious night to be out of doors. As I anticipated, a cold breeze was circulating around the crest of the hill, so after a brief survey I made down to the tarn-edge as rapidly as was advisable. The fisher was still pursuing his craft, but he was not meeting with much success, for the fish had now sated them- selves with the insects which hang like a cloud of dust over the tarn. We were slowly moving along the water's edge, trying new casts, when my friend bethought him of Cockle Tarn, about an hour distant across the fell. The ramble was exactly to my taste, so he took his rod to pieces and prepared for the walk. At first our route wound about among the boulders near the tarn-side, and as we suddenly came upon a tiny bay my companion clutched me, pointing to a dark mass not thirty yards distant. A poacher was rigging up his lath, by means of which the best fish are still harvested from our mountain tarns and beck dubs. In a few minutes the instru- ment was being floated out into the almost imperceptible current. To the uninitiated it may be explained that the lath is a small board of light wood, to the lower edge of which a sufficiently heavy strip of lead has been affixed to make it float edgeways up. To this float are appended four or five hooks, on lengths of fine gut or horsehair. The board is floated out so that in its course from shore to shore it will cross the most " fishy " pools and shallows. To assist in guidance the poacher usually has a fine line attached. The lath, long an illegal instrument, has the advantage of reach- ing the fish in large areas of water beyond the cast of the shore angler. It was prohibited mainly on the ground that many trout which ultimately escaped were ensnared on the hooks, and so damaged for more legitimate fishing. After getting his lath away, the poacher walked smartly towards the head of the tarn, possibly with the intention of recapturing the board as it ended its voyage.
For some twenty minutes we wound up the damp slope towards Sergeant Man, thus avoiding the cliffs of Pavey Ark. It was not a pleasant walk : the lush grass was dripping with dew, and the track kept among peat bogs and bog-holes, besides crossing deep, narrow beck courses without the slightest warning. Many a time we almost stumbled into these waterworn excavations. From the top of the rise there was an almost bird's-eye view of the tarn : the shoals in the bays and near the outlet showed grey through the clear water, while the deeper places were dark to intensity. My companion pointed out that I was now in a splendid position to understand the theory of tarn-fishing. "Just at the point where the grey fades into the inky-blue depths is the place where the trout most congregate." A faint " cats- paw " was ruffling the water; the great poet of the open fells, William Wordsworth, must have surveyed some such scene when he wrote :—
"Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale, Tracking the motions of the fitful gale."
A line of silvery light now showed on the upper edge of a cloud bank in the east, and in a few minutes the moon appeared. Its pale light gradually gained strength, and the whole scene was hung with a silvery haze as we dropped down the slope to Codale Tarn. This water is famed for its monster trout, and my friend hoped to get a fair-sized specimen. This is one of the quietest and most out-of-the-way corners in the Lake Country. Tall cliffs rise abruptly from its shores, their screes falling in fan-shaped beds into the very water. As yet the gully—it is little wider—was in complete darkness, and it would be long before the moon rose sufficiently high in the heavens to flood it with light. In my walk round I raised a brace of summer snipe from the swamp at the head of the tarn; with wild cries and loud drumming of wings they rushed np into the air and out of sight. A long whistle from, my friend ring out Over the silent dale ; the fish were not in biting humour, and he was tired of his unproductive labour. As it was yet early, we decided not to return to Langdale, but to continue down the beck side to Easedale Tarn. At 2 a.m.
• we began our three-mile walk, and an hourlater sighted, through a gap in the wall of mountains, the gleaming surface • of the tarn. On two or three occasions we had stopped to admire the effect of- the moonlight: once on a clump of - mountain ashes swaying on a lofty crag; again, on a waving . bed of bracken. But the main part of our way lay through darkened gorges. A couple of anglers had -apparently re- - served the boat, and were having a jolly time of it. As we approached they invited us to a row, while they rested in the roughly-built hut close to the water's edge. Silvery moon- light pervaded everything, the surface of the water " glished," the sky was deeper blue than before, and thousands of stars gleamed. 'or an hour we paddled round, visiting the bays where the brooks brought down the tributes of hidden caves, and the beds of luxuriant water-weed by the outlet. A few small trout were panniered ; then one of the boat-hirers sug- gested that my friend should try trolling,—i.e., towing his line through the water. -Almost immediately I saw a sudden straightening of my companion's arm, a tightening of the thin line, and beyond a tiny curl in the water. The rod-point was gradually raised, another circle broke the surface where the trout had maybe approached it, a mighty whirr of the reel, a few passes of the rod right and left, and a fine fish was being hauled in. The sport improved as dawn neared. Already the moon was gleaming over the rough summits of Blakerigg, and a faint glow rising arch-like above the eastward fells. Accordingly we came to shore, and handed over the boat to its hirers, who were almost indignant at our refusal to enjoy the sport which was most justly theirs. My friend roved the shore, and his triumphant whistle again and again came to my ear as I explored gully after gully whence tinkling becks came down into the tarn. There is nothing more beautiful than these corners, where dripping moss and spray-washed rocks, clinging water-weed and rough heather, feathery moun- tain ash and pendent-branched birches, combine to make attractive scenes. Brighter and brighter glowed the sky; the intakes of Grasmere grew clearer through the blue dawn shadows, and then the glorious sun appeared. By this I had rambled back to the hut, and at 5 a.m. we four were break- fasting off fish which a short hour previously had swum freely in the tarn rippling outside.
There is no doubt that, after a life of fell-walking, I will still have to confess that the finest series of experiences are to be met with in a ramble under the -moonlight on the fells.
WILLIAM T. PALMER.
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