CHAPTER VII

DOWN IN THE DEEP VALLEYS BY THE STREAMS

THE necessity of leaving the high elevations and following the course of deep valleys for several marches, in order to get from one point to another, frequently brings the Himalayan traveller to the haunts of the best of all Indian fish for sport, the mahseer. To answer the question, What is he like? one must have seen him in the big and rapid rivers which flow for great distances through the lower hills before debouching into the plains. The larger the river the finer the fish. In the upper reaches of these rivers, provided there is no snow-water coming down to chill the water and render it turbid, there is no finer fish to give good sport to the angler. He is like a salmon in shape, but somewhat deeper and thicker, though I have seen well-fed salmon quite as thickly and powerfully made as the mahseer. He runs from five pounds weight up to a hundred pounds, or, indeed, almost any weight, and when taken out of the water after a long and fierce fight for his life in the rapid rushing torrents he frequents, there is no more beautiful, clean, brightlooking fish than a thirty-pound hill mahseer. He shines like steel and gold. His back is dark blue or gray, changing on the belly to white and deep yellow. He will rise at certain seasons, if the water is clear and rapid, to a fly like a huge salmon-fly, but is oftener taken with a chilwa.

This is a white kind of minnow, which is very plentiful in all rivers, and must be captured with a throw-net, or a small trout-fly on a 10-foot rod. The natives are very good at using the circular throw-net, which is whirled in the air when cast, and covers then a circle of three or four yards. It is weighted with lead all round, and sinks rapidly to the bottom. When drawn in, the fish are found taken in the side pockets, which enfold them as the net closes up. This net cannot be conveniently used by people who wear clothes.

An ordinary salmon-rod is no use for big mahseer—at least, not in my experience. There were some excellent fishermen at Naini Tal, who used to fish all the best rivers very successfully, and spend much of their leave marching along the valleys of the Ram Ganga, Kosila, and Dhauli, and other rivers. These men always used a hill bamboo or ringal, 30 feet long, which springs from the handle like a Castle Connell rod. A strong grooved butt is lashed to the lower end, and a reel attached, 6 inches across, carrying 200 yards of strongest silk line. Fixed rings are bound on the rod, through which the line will run freely. Where there is plenty of room you can cast the spinning bait, like a fly, right across the rapid without danger of injuring it, the bamboo being so limber. You drop it gently in the back eddy and spin it across the stream. If there is a mahseer lying in the still water, and you have skill enough to play the chilwa naturally, he will follow it across the current and take it with a rush. The larger the minnow the better chance of a big fish going for it. When you feel him, just look out and keep your finger clear of the line. Away he darts down the stream, and out flies 200 yards of line before you can stop him. Often you must run along the bank over rocks and shingle, giving him the butt all the time, and

hoping he will stop before the bamboo is bent double or something breaks. If your cast is the best treble salmongut with two strong swivels, and the line be sound and the hooks extra strong, you may at last get a pull on him in the next deep pool, where he will go to the bottom and try and rub himself clear against the rocks. If he fails he will sulk for some time, and you can wind up for a second rush. You shout for a companion or a native assistant with a gaff, but it is long enough before the gaff is wanted. If you fail to bring him to the surface you must throw stones in to rouse him, and then away he shoots again for the rapids, springing clean out in the air like a dolphin, his golden sides glistening in the sun. Then slack the line a little as he falls with a splash into the clear green water, and keep it taut again till you bring him into a shallower place where he cannot sulk. You have to tire him out, and by bringing his nose to the surface you can exhaust him at last, the slender long top of the bamboo always springing as he flounders and plunges with fresh efforts to renew the fight and run for the deep pools below. If he ever gets a straight haul on the line he will smash it with one stroke of his strong tail, but he cannot do so if the point of the rod be kept steadily up. At last-after these performances have been repeated perhaps inany times-you can haul him up into the shoal-water, where is a nice flat sandy beach, and then the gaff may be tried. Be sure it is held in skilful hands, or all your long struggle will be in vain. When you see him out safe on dry land, then, and not before, you may say you have fought a good fight and won a noble prize.

Our camp was pitched on a shingly flat close to the dak bungalow of Bagesar, where the clear bright stream of the Sarju river flowed close by, winding through a beautiful valley of rather wider character than is usual

in the Himalayas. Consequently the waters were not so much hemmed in, and ran placidly, with occasional deep wide pools alternating with sharps and shallows where the stream could be crossed by wading. The river was spanned opposite the bungalow by a primitive bridge of native pattern, built out of the materials on the spot -straight pine-trees and round stones. The original plan of bridge-building in all mountainous countries seems to be identical. It is an outcome of the desire of two parties of men to meet across the river. Each builds a bracket-like structure with beams weighted under piles of stones, and with other tiers of lighter beams on top stretching further out over the water till they meet in the middle. Such was the old native sangha bridge at Bagesar, similar to many in Switzerland, and glorified in the eighth wonder of the world, the great cantilever bridge of Forth. Fishing for mahseer, which abound in the river, was carried on with varying success, two of the party going up stream each day and two down. The weather was delightful and not too hot, this being the cold season; the water rather on the clear side, but neither turbid from melting snow nor too scanty or transparent, as fishermen seem often fated to find it. The early meal being partaken of at tent doors, and rods and tackle overhauled, a start was made in the gray morning, when the air felt bright and crisp. The sun's rays were still slanting across the valley, and the river sparkling in the morning light or, in some reaches, still in deep shadow, where the air was cool, the downvalley night-breeze not having yet changed for the upward air current, which invariably springs up and increases with the sun.

To procure fresh chilwas a native is following the shallows with his throw-net on his arm, his dark naked figure

outlined against the sparkle of a broad pool. He steals forward, and, suddenly swinging the net round his head, shoots it out with a whirling motion which spreads its folds to their full extent, and it drops on the water, enclosing a whole shoal of little fishes. To choose a goodsized chilwa, 6 inches long with silvery shiny sides, and attach it to the flight of three double hooks, is the work of a few moments, when the angler, full of eager anticipation, is ready to seize the moment of early day when the fish may be feeding. He cannot get his line out quickly enough, his excitement is so great; but at last it swings clear across the swirling water at the head of a deep and dark green pool. The shining boulders, which appear with great backs, and create a rapid eddy round their polished sides, must surely be the lurking-places of huge mahseer. The bait spins nicely, just like a fish which has met with an accident and struggles over, showing its white, glistening belly. The hand on the rod trembles with anxiety to strike at the right moment when the fish makes his rush, pursuing the bait across the current and taking it well down at the last spin. Alas! the programme does not come off. The line is pulled back through the large fixed rings and again swung out with a longer slack right across the stream, and drawn up cunningly with jerking motion to resemble the natural play of a hunted chilwa, never resting long enough for the fish to see the transparent gut or the swivels on it, but not hauled frantically through the limpid flood. Surely a big fish stirred that time, and came a good way after the bait, as a curl on the surface caused by a great tail, like the 6-inch blade of an oar, testifies. He had a good look at it, but didn't quite like it; he will not come again. Steadily casting and playing the chilwa over every portion of the pool, now balancing one's self on a convenient