i have always sympathised with the author of the lines known as “the angler’s prayer,” lines which are not so well known as they deserve to be:
lord, suffer me to catch a fish—
so large that even i
when talking of it afterwards
may have no need to lie.
in the spring of 1921 came the tragedy of my life as a fisherman. i had five days’ fishing in the famous river wye. the river was dead low and my chances of success very small, but i kept steadily at work during the time at my disposal, and on the fourth day had the good fortune, by[86] means of the attractions of a mar lodge (size 4/0), to hook a salmon which was not only the largest salmon i had ever seen, but also the largest seen in that year on the beat i was fishing—a most exciting struggle of over an hour terminating in a wild rush of over 100 yards, the wildest rush i, or the keen fisherman i had with me, have ever seen, a grand leap high up into the air of this splendid clean-run fish, and the line came slowly back, the cast having broken a foot from the end. elsewhere (pp. 12-22, supra) i have told of how this splendid fish, no doubt exhausted by the struggle, was shortly afterwards killed by a far greater fisherman than any mere mortal man—an otter. its estimated weight, as far as could be judged from its remains, was about 40 lb. the day was friday, april 1, an appropriate day and date for such a catastrophe. in the early part of the following year i received an invitation from the same kindly host to try my luck again in april on the same river, but on another and more famous beat. i gratefully accepted the invitation, and set forth in high hopes and, curiously enough, with a strong sense of expectation, i might almost say the assurance, of great events.
for several days after my arrival the river was[87] so high that fishing was hopeless, but on the morning of april 18, though still high and coloured, it had run down to such an extent as to be in fair condition.
my host was most kind in wishing to give me every possible chance of getting a good fish, and had arranged that i should take with me his butler, c., a first-rate hand at gaffing salmon, who had been with me in the preceding year when i was so unfortunate, and was very keen to help me to kill a big fish. my host sent me to try, first of all, a pool which had a great reputation. this pool is about a mile long, and has to be fished from a boat, trees and bushes running throughout its entire length along both sides of the bank. my host had the fishing on one side of the river only, and on reaching the head of the pool we found some one fishing from the other side. after waiting until this rod had fished some way down the pool, we began operations. i fished the whole morning with the fly, but with no success, and about half-past one, as the river was still so high, we decided to try the minnow, a much more favourite lure than the fly on this particular river in the spring. at my third cast i got a pull, and was fast in what was obviously a heavy salmon.[88] i never had a more lively fish to deal with. it jumped fourteen times clean out of the water, and, making a constant series of wild rushes, took me at a great pace down the river. some ladies of our party arrived at the head of the pool about half an hour after i had hooked the fish, and inquired of the fisherman on the other bank whether he had seen anything of me. the reply was, “i saw him fast in a big fish about half an hour ago going round the bend of the river on his way to hereford.” though i did not get to hereford, which was nearly thirty miles distant, the fish took me about three-quarters of a mile down the river before i succeeded in killing it, after over an hour’s battle. it was a beautiful clean-run hen-fish of 21½ lb. by this time it was nearly three o’clock, and after a hasty luncheon we decided to fish down the lower part of the pool. on our way we had to pass a point where c. had seen a fish rising as we came up in the morning. i fished this place with great care, and about my second cast as the minnow swung round i got a pull and hooked the fish. i had a good deal more of my own way with this fish than with the one i had previously killed, and in about twenty minutes it was in the boat. it proved to be another[89] clean-run hen-fish, and weighed 18½ lb. the question now was whether we should fish another pool lower down the river or try the head of the same pool again. i decided in favour of the latter course, and we accordingly rowed up to the top of the pool. it was by this time half-past six. my third cast i was into another fish, which did not show itself for a long time. it took me down the river like the fish i had hooked in the morning, but was not nearly so lively in its movements. it kept low down in the water and adopted boring tactics. after rounding the corner, as my fellow-angler would have said, bound once more for hereford, the fish made a violent rush and plunge, showing itself to be a very big fish and looking not unlike the fish i had parted company with a year ago. we continued to go steadily down the river, the fish making strong rushes, but keeping down and moving about in a stately, heavy fashion. we gradually reached the spot where we had gaffed the 21½-pounder in the morning, our movements being watched by the ladies of our party from the opposite bank. the fish showed little sign of giving in, and about 8 p.m. the spectators on the bank, seeing no likelihood of the battle being ended at present, went home. about ten minutes[90] later the fish began to show unmistakable signs of exhaustion. after it had turned on its side two or three times, i managed to bring it near the boat, which c. had moored near the bank. just before the fish came within reach of the gaff it made another short rush, and once more turned on its side. again i coaxed the great fish towards the boat. nearer and nearer he came, and then in a moment c. had the gaff in him, and with a mighty effort lifted him into the boat. the fish was a cock-fish, and weighed 38½ lb. after examining him we came to the conclusion that he was about the same size as the one i had lost in the preceding year, but probably longer. he had evidently been wounded in his side by a seal a fortnight previously, and though this wound had healed, it must have caused the fish to lose several pounds’ weight. when hung up beside the other fish of 21½ lb. and 18½ lb. he looked huge, and had the advantage of some inches over my little grandson, who was nearly five years old. his length was 50½ inches and girth 24 inches, and had it not been for the wound inflicted by the seal he would, no doubt, have turned the scale well over 40 lb. so ended what was for me a day never to be forgotten. i had six more days’ fishing, and[91] killed five more fish, two of them with the fly. the other five fish weighed 22½ lb., 17½ lb., 17½ lb., 16½ lb., and 15½ lb. respectively.
strange that i should have had such good luck. strange, surely, that though others far more skilful and experienced than i am should have fished the same beats in that river and fished many more days than i did in each year, such a great fish should have come my way in two successive aprils, on each occasion by far the largest seen or heard of in the season on the beat in question. an old friend of mine, who has fished the same river for many years, and is an angler of great experience and success, told me that he has never killed any fish in that river or anywhere else larger than 25 lb. surely, indeed, i was the spoilt child of the fishing deities.
at the close of this red-letter day two thoughts crossed my mind—first, whether the fact that so many of my kind friends had earnestly wished that i might on this occasion kill a fish as large as the one i had lost a year ago had really been a factor in my good luck. who can tell? the other thought which crossed my mind last year also when the great fish parted company with me was that every fisherman must surely be “a man that[92] fortune’s buffets and rewards has ta’en with equal thanks.” yet, as one of the keenest fishermen and gillies i have ever known, and who has now gone to his long home, used to say, “it’s easy talking and no easy doing.”
a few days later my host added still more to my indebtedness to him by giving one of my daughters, who had never killed a salmon, though a very successful angler for big trout, the chance of trying the river.
on her first and second days she drew a blank, but on the third day killed three fish weighing 20 lb., 19 lb., and 15 lb., all on the same fly, a silver doctor. who says there is nothing in luck? the day i killed my big fish was the third day in the third week of the third month of the fishing season; he was the third fish killed on that day, and i hooked him at my third cast. my daughter killed her three fish on the third day she was fishing. well might falstaff (merry wives of windsor, act v., sc. 1) say: “this is the third time—i hope luck lies in odd numbers.” my daughter’s performance was far more satisfactory in every way than mine, for fishing with the fly is, of course, incomparably superior to fishing with the minnow—at least, nearly every angler i have[93] met says so. i venture to think, however, that my friend, arthur chaytor, k.c., one of the most accomplished and skilful of salmon fishers, in his delightful book, letters to a salmon-fisher’s sons, is altogether too severe in his castigation of minnow-fishing. “avoid minnow-fishing for salmon,” he says (page 89), “as a canker that will eat into some of the very best days of your fly-fishing.” but need it do so? “it is a dangerous thing for you to begin its use.”
then in a most entertaining passage he describes how “the river has cleared and has become perfect for the fly. it ought to be a tip-top day, but you are tempted of the devil to try just for an hour the phantom minnow ... and then you go on with the minnow all the day long ... dragging out the fish ... and at the end of the day feeling that you have been rather a butcher than a fisherman and that you might almost as well have used a net.” this means, of course, that success in minnow-fishing is simply a matter of luck, and does not depend on the fisherman’s skill. in a later passage he describes in most forcible and amusing language “the relapse to minnow, when after a good day minnowing you find next morning that the water is right for[94] the fly and you resolve to make it a day of fly only. you put on your best fly and you begin, full of hope. for an hour or two you cover much water without a single rise, and you begin to doubt whether the fish mean to take at all to-day. soon, just to see whether they will move at all, you put up the spinning-rod just merely to have one try down the pool. a fish takes the accursed thing and you are lost. abandoning all sense of decency, you pursue the horrible craft, and at dusk you stagger back to the fishing-hut with half a dozen great fish upon your back and with your conscience hanging about the neck of your heart, which keeps on protesting in vain that this was really no day for the fly.”
even chaytor, however, admits that “in a cold, wet season, when the river is in flood for weeks together, with only odd days when fishing is possible, the minnow can be really and legitimately useful.” on the other hand, in contrast to the above warnings and diatribes, mr. j. arthur hutton, who is so well known, particularly in connection with the wye, and is, of course, a most experienced and successful salmon fisher, as well as one of the most learned in the life-history of the salmon, describes spinning[95] for salmon as “a form of fishing requiring a very large amount of skill and experience which may provide one with sport on those many occasions when the fly is useless ... a fine art which requires much practice and long experience, far more so than fly-fishing.” “for every good hand with the spinning-rod,” he says, “you may find twenty who are excellent fly-fishermen.”
i remember a friend of mine in the north, whose old keeper had been with the family for many years and known him since his boyhood, telling me that he knew so well the old man’s contempt for and abhorrence of minnow-fishing that he did not dare to use the minnow when the old man was out with him, and never allowed him to know that he did use it. this old keeper would have applied chaytor’s epithets to minnow-fishing on every occasion, but would never have agreed with him for a moment that even on rare occasions it can be legitimately used.
those like the old keeper—and i doubt if in these days there are many such—might, to use mr. hutton’s words, “seriously consider whether they might not add largely to their sport and also to their opportunities of fishing by learning to[96] spin for salmon. the river is not always in fly order; there are many occasions on which the water is too high or too much coloured for the fly when salmon might be caught with a minnow or other bait. in the same way, in deep sluggish pools, when it is almost impossible to work a fly effectively, a bait properly used may effect wonders.”
what, then, is the conclusion of the whole matter? it is this, paraphrasing the words of the famous authority on all things piscatorial, mr. h. t. sheringham: “it is certain that good luck is the most vital part of the equipment of him who would seek to slay the big (salmon). for some men i admit the usefulness of skill and pertinacity; for myself i take my stand entirely on luck.”
