We had been in camp a week, on the Upper Au Sable Lake. This is a
gem--emerald or turquoise as the light changes it--set in the virgin
forest. It is not a large body of water, is irregular in form, and about
a mile and a half in length; but in the sweep of its wooded shores, and
the lovely contour of the lofty mountains that guard it, the lake
is probably the most charming in America. Why the young ladies and
gentlemen who camp there occasionally vex the days and nights with
hooting, and singing sentimental songs, is a mystery even to the
laughing loon.

I left my companions there one Saturday morning, to return to Keene
Valley, intending to fish down the Au Sable River. The Upper Lake
discharges itself into the Lower by a brook which winds through a mile
and a half of swamp and woods. Out of the north end of the Lower
Lake, which is a huge sink in the mountains, and mirrors the savage
precipices, the Au Sable breaks its rocky barriers, and flows through a
wild gorge, several miles, to the valley below. Between the Lower Lake
and the settlements is an extensive forest, traversed by a cart-path,
admirably constructed of loose stones, roots of trees, decayed logs,
slippery rocks, and mud. The gorge of the river forms its western
boundary. I followed this caricature of a road a mile or more; then
gave my luggage to the guide to carry home, and struck off through the
forest, by compass, to the river. I promised myself an exciting scramble
down this little-frequented canyon, and a creel full of trout. There was
no difficulty in finding the river, or in descending the steep precipice
to its bed: getting into a scrape is usually the easiest part of it. The
river is strewn with bowlders, big and little, through which the amber
water rushes with an unceasing thunderous roar, now plunging down in
white falls, then swirling round in dark pools. The day, already past
meridian, was delightful; at least, the blue strip of it I could see
overhead.

Better pools and rapids for trout never were, I thought, as I concealed
myself behind a bowlder, and made the first cast. There is nothing like
the thrill of expectation over the first throw in unfamiliar waters.
Fishing is like gambling, in that failure only excites hope of a
fortunate throw next time. There was no rise to the "leader" on the
first cast, nor on the twenty-first; and I cautiously worked my way down
stream, throwing right and left. When I had gone half a mile, my opinion