HOPE IN FISHING.
AHOPEFUL spirit, which is an essential part of every angler's nature, is more needed in fishing for salmon than in any other kind of fly-fishing. There are so many blank days, the habits of the fish are so mysterious, we know so little of the causes which prompt the salmon to rise to a fly, that a large stock of hope is necessary, and there is no apparent reason why a day which promises badly should not turn out well. We are, as it were, fishing in the dark ; but sooner or later, if we persist, we shall certainly be rewarded by the supreme satisfaction of hooking a salmon. The present writer was once fishing on the Tay with a youthful angler. After many hours of dreary and fruitless casting, the youth called out for assistance because, as he said, something very odd had happened to his line. The strange mystery was soon solved : a salmon had taken the fly under water, and was fighting sulkily at the bottom of the pool. But in order to persist until success is attained hope is essential; and to cultivate and keep it alive the salmon-fisher resorts to many devices.
It is, of course, different with trout-fishing, where we see the fish, or see their rings, when they rise. We know that at some time or other in the twenty-four hours they will feed. We can tell what fly they will take, and experience gained on one trout-stream seldom fails on others of the same nature. For though no man can compel trout to take a fly when they will not, thg skill of the individual fisherman usually counts for much more with trout than it does with salmon. It is perhaps one of the attractions of salmon-fishing that there is something of a lottery about it, and that the prizes, though few, are big ones. Who is there that has not on a fishing-day abandoned the certainty of a good basket of trout for the faint chance of a small salmon P Again, the attractions of salmon-fishing are vastly increased by the nature of the water to be fished and the pleasure of wielding a big rod and casting a heavy line. There is a passage in one of George Borrow's books in which he describes how he has always loved to gaze upon streams. In this same spirit one may say that no day spent on the banks of even the meanest salmon-river is ever wasted. And a man who has fished diligently all day with a salmon-rod feels that be has done work and earned his rest. These things enable us to face the blank days. For though a man may be tired and disheartened by the evening, the true fisher- man always wakes hopeful next morning. There may even be good reasons for hoping that fortune will change. If there are not, the fisherman invents them. Sir Edward Grey in his book has told us how for five years from the time he was fifteen he had a few days' salmon- fishing every year without ever hooking a fish. Upon a later occasion he fished for ten consecutive days on one of the best spring rivers in Scotland, when the water was in order the whole time ; but he never had a rise. Another season he fished every day for four weeks on a good beat on a good river in September and caught only two fish ; of these, one never rose at the fly at all, but happened to get foul booked by jumping on the top of the gut in a swift stream. The most light-hearted and persistent fisherman could not face such a succession of blank days without despondency did he not artificially cultivate hope. It would seem that one of the most effective ways of doing this is by carrying a large stock of flies and changing from one to the other.
Among the principal mysteries of salmon-fishing is the instinct or impulse which makes the fish seize what is known as a fly. It may be appetite, anger, play, curiosity, annoyance, or merely a predatory instinct. It is now so well established that salmon do not habitually feed in fresh water that the fisherman cannot hope that hunger, or the desire to satisfy it, will impel the salmon in a pool sooner or later to take the fly. On the other hand, if curiosity or annoyance be the moving impulse, there is every reason to go on hoping. And the un- accountable way in which a fish that has been shown the fly at intervals during the day will at last suddenly seize it almost induces one to believe that salmon can be successfully teased into rising. It must be, of course, remembered that salmon have no hands, and the only way that they can gratify their curiosity or exhibit anger is by seizing a little moving object in their jaws. Sometimes they evidently only come up to look at the fly, and having satisfied themselves, go back. Sometimes they rise with an angry snap and miss the fly. In such cases there is hope that they may come again later on.
Hope is very much kept alive in salmon-fishing by the fact that we do not see our fish, and only know of their where- abouts by tradition or experience. The brown, foaming pool is deep, and who knows what may be happening beneath the surface as we cast across and watch the lively fly swimming and struggling, as it were, against the stream P Have the salmon seen it P Have they been following it under water undecided whether to take it P May not another cast be successful ? Then, after hours during which not a fish has apparently moved, we wonder whether there is a salmon in the pool. There is no means of knowing, and all this uncertainty may be made conducive to hopefulness if we look at things from the angler's aspect. It is the tremendous uncertainty of salmon-fishing that keeps us always expectant. Hope is naturally at its highest in the morning when we reel off a little line• at the edge of the first pool, and begin to fish with lively eagerness and tremulous care. We will suppose the state of the river is pronounced good; neither too high nor too low. The weather and the wind we put down also as apparently favourable, as far as we can judge : at least we hope that they are. How often the voice of the gillie, sitting on the bank attentive and watchful, declares, as the fly reaches some part of the pool : "He should come now, if he comes at all." The critical moment passes, we have fished with redoubled care, the fly is cast further down across the swirling stream, and nothing has happened. So we fish over the whole pool fruitlessly. Are we dispirited P Not in the least ; we fully hope that the next pool will produce a rise. We are convinced that the day is not going to be blank. We could not go on fishing were it otherwise.
But then as the day passes without a rise or a pull the spirit sinks a little. The best pools have yielded nothing. We begin to fish like a machine, covering the water foot by foot, and working the fly without the same trembling expectation as at the beginning of the day. When we have fished our beat once over we revive our hopefulness by changing the fly. This is the most fertile expedient for raising fresh hopes, though one may doubt how far a salmon discriminates between minute shades of pattern and small differences in dressing. Size is more important, for there can be no doubt that in deep and heavy water a larger fly is needed than when the river is low. So two courses are open to us: we can try with different patterns, and we can try them of different sizes. At each change of fly we gaze for a moment at the attractive combination of tinsel and feathers, we test the knot, and straighten out the gut with our fingers before launching it to take its trial. Surely it will be irresistible. So hope is again revived.
At last when various patterns are tried in vain we feel once more downhearted ; yet the angler's spirit tells us we must not give up fishing. So we give the river a rest, which means really that we rest ourselves, and begin again in half-an-hour with fresh hopes. Or else we eat some food or have a smoke, both of which are infallible remedies for despondency in fishing. Or else we persuade ourselves that some change has come over the water or the weather since we tried the same pool earlier in the day. If it was cloudy, we hope that sun will make the fish move. If the morning was bright, we welcome clouds because any change makes us hopeful again. It is considered a rule among salmon-fishers that there is a better chance on a dull than on a bright day. But the present writer was recently fishing on a small river in Islay when there were abrupt changes from dark clouds to brilliant sunshine, and the two fish hooked during the day both rose to the fly when the sun was throwing its rays on the pool, though it was fished over before during dull and cloudy intervals. So any change may give ground on which to build our hopes. We also look to the direction and force of the wind. The stagnant pool will now have a good ripple from the breeze. In another place we shall be able to get out a straighter line since the wind has dropped. Or else we look at the water, which may have fallen now and have been too high earlier in the day; or else a shower on the hills has coloured it a little and we hope that now a change will come. By nighttime we are, of course, often disappointed and cast down by fruitless labour. But hope always comes in the morning. Salmon-fishing is such a mysterious business and salmon are such whimsical fish that, as long as there is water in the river, hope need never be abandoned. We could not go on fishing without fresh hopes.
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