" I dare say
he is still there.
Late in the day, we got out of that canon. Got out at infinite peril and
fatigue, climbed, struggled, stumbled, held on, pulled. I slipped once
and had a bad knee for six weeks. Never once did I dare to look back and
down. It was always up, and the top was always receding. And when we
reached camp, the Head, who had been on an excursion of his own, refused
to be thrilled, and spent the evening telling how he had been climbing
over the top of the world on his hands and knees. In sheer scorn, we let
him babble.
But my hat is off to him, after all, for he had ready for us, and swears
to this day to its truth, the best fish-story of the trip.
Lying on the top of one of our packing-cases was a great bull-trout. Now
a bull-trout has teeth, and held in a vise-like grip in the teeth of
this one was a smaller trout. In the mouth of the small trout was a
gray-and-black fly. The Head maintained that he had hooked the small
fish and was about to draw it to shore when the bull-trout leaped out of
the water, caught the small fish, and held on grimly.
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