TROUT-TICKLING.

Clutha Leader, Volume XXXVI, Issue 38, 26 October 1909, Page 2

TROUT-TICKLING.

AN UNORTHODOX SPORT.

The indignant orthodox fiskerman may deny that trout tickling is a sport at all (writes H. C. Byng in the 'Daily Express'). In a manner he may be right, and yet in a manner he is most certainly wrong. Trout tickling is no sport in the orthodox sense of the word, and yet I must oonfess that I have taken trout in manner orthodox and unorthodox and that, next to dry fly fishing in the clear chalk streams of Hampshire, there is for me no moment more enthralling, no excitement comparable to the moment when with the slightest touch the fingers glide slowly, almost caressingly, along the back of some finetfout tracked with infinite care and patience to his ultimate inaccessible lair where no worm, no fly, no line of any sort could ever find him. Perhaps it is just this very inaccessibility that affords alike the excuse and the excitement, for it is only where the trout are quite inaccessible, when the underwood surrounds their pools so closely that neither fly nor worm could ever penetrate, that the trout may be treated with an easy conscience; and here let it be said that were I offered the alternative of worm fishing or tickling in a blind pool, I would give my choice for tickling. There is infinitely more sport, more science, in tickling than in any worm fishing, and to the worm fisher I would way: "If you are keen enough to bear a little discomfort, away with your rod and into the water." Cold, tedious, unsportsmanlike! Not a bit of it. Cold it may be,, and very seldom will you return with a dry stitch of clothing; but it is far loss tedious than deerstalking, when the science of the game is played by a man at your elbow, and infinitely more sportsmanlike than worm fishing; the excitement is greater, and the chances —the chances are what you make them. I have tickled trout in many streams, and I am still inclined to give the odds on the fish. THE SLIGHT MISTAKE. The slightest clumsiness, the slightest mistake, or the slightest discoloration of the water, and the game is up, the trout is gone; waste 110 more time over him, but go on. Further away among the jungle-like undergrowth another pool awaits you, where with infinite patience, infinite care, infinite quiet, you may retrieve your mistake. The oldest of clothes and an old pair of Tubber waders or sand shoes are the best protection. Turn your sleeves up to the uttermost. Do not mind a few scratches or thorns; you will get plenty of them, but if you are courageous, if you are really keen, no scratches, no bitter cold of the sunless water will deter you. You will' have no time to think of cold or scratches; all your senses are required at their very keenest for other things. Now the sunlight lies behind you, among the overhanging boughs scarcely a single ray penetrates, and over the water hangs a sense of secrecy and infinite calm, accentuated by the monotonous ripple of some tiny cascade mysteriously near and yet mysteriously far away. The overhanging tree with deep roots enables you to locate the pool, and Xou approach with infinite care. The slightest slip will prove fatal, for though you are advancing up water the noise of your stumble will give warning to the trout and he will seek refuge before you can see him.

And to see him. That is your ambition. The brambles obscure your way and hold you back. Turn them aside slowly, gently; if they are dead, break them quietly; avoid them when you can; above all, let nothing drop into the water, for the least splash will prove your undoing. CATLIKE MOVEMENTS.

The moments pass slowly enough while you achieve your aim, now bending, now erect, waiting ever alert ever watching the pool in front for the slightest ripple, the smallest movement that will betray to you the secret of the silent pool. All your movements are catlike, all your attention is fixed; unconsciously you imitate the animals. When you rise you are Motionless, silent as the heron; when' you scan the water you are swift and alert as the otter.

At last a faint ripple at the head of the pool gives you the clue. The fish lias turned from the shallows and is swimming lazily back into the deep water. Has he seen or heard anything? You hold your breath for a moment—rigid, unstirring, one with the trees ■i nd the rocks.

You can see him now quite clearly—a long grey line; a shadow, visible at one moment, curiously invisible the next; a long grey line just perceptible m the water, with tail that moves and undulates gently with the motion of a piece of weed swayed by the current Has he seen you? No. He lies still in the open. Had he seen you or even suspected you he would have gone at once straight to his cave. You draw a quiet breath and prepare for the final moment, the uttermost sensation that the world of sport can give, the personal capture of a living prey. INFINITE PATIENCE.

Every motion now must be one of infinite patience, infinito delicacy. You must make progress in the water inch by inch You have, indeed, the knowledge that if he Suspects you, becomes frightened he will make for his cave; but then the game will be against you; the disturbance of the water, the fact that the fish is frightened, all diminish your chances of success, and for one fish that you get in the open water you will rn* ® under the bank. Time passes in the approach, but you heed it not. It may have been five minutes, >r twenty, before you find yourself within, gripping distance, and it ib then, alas! most often that the fish turns and makes, as if instigated bv an unknown fear, for his home in the deep water among the inaccessible

But fortune is still with you. Very rery slowly you lean forward till your hand touches the water about half a foot behind the motionless fish. Thence very quietly you move forward till vou can just touch the slippery, eel-like , an ™ at touch how many have failed! There is nothing quite like it in the world of sport, this touch of a living nsh, so yielding, so soft, so electric. , ery nerve is now restrained; you no longer breathe. The water is icy oold, but you do not feel it. You feel only the faint outline of the supple and fixed* 118 1111 ° H our eyes are

And go your fingers travel onward surely, caressingly, obeying some ancient law which you seem to have known all your life and suddenly to have discovered, till the monfbnt arrives wh i n 5, 6 tltllunl) and first finger close in a, deadly, death-like grip and the fish for all hia struggles is yours,