The Flathead River in these upper reaches is fairly alive with trout. On
the second day, I think it was, I landed a bull-trout that weighed nine
pounds, and got it with a six-ounce rod. I am very proud of that. I have
eleven different pictures of myself holding the fish up. There were
trout everywhere. The difficulty was to stop the boat long enough to get
them. In fact, we did not stop, save in an occasional eddy in the midst
of the torrent. We whipped the stream as we flew along. Under great
boulders, where the water seethed and roared, under deep cliffs where it
flew like a mill-race, there were always fish.
It was frightful work for the boatmen. It required skill every moment.
There was not a second in the day when they could relax. Only men
trained to river rapids could have done it, and few, even, of these. To
the eternal credit of George and Mike, we got through. It was nothing
else.
On the evening of the first day, in the dusk which made the river
doubly treacherous, we saw our camp-fire far ahead.
With the going-down of the sun, the river had grown cold.
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