If it is at the close of a bright afternoon, the golden streaks of light, gleaming from the gaps and across the pine-capped tops of Mount Starling and its black, brother peaks of the Smokies, will set in indescribable splendor the mountains to the east; and darker will lie the shadows filling the cañon, within whose depths, 1,000 feet below you, glistens the waters of Cataluche. In spite of the steepness of the cañon’s side, lofty woods cover it, and are as thickly planted along the descending road that, after leaving the main highway at the frame dwelling just mentioned, no glimpses can be had of the lower landscape. If the angler has not brought a jointed rod with him, before he has traveled far down this winding way, he can secure from the roadside an excellent pole in the shape of a long, lithe birch. There is a tumultuous ford of the river to cross just after reaching the narrow valley, and then the road leads up stream. Our party of sixteen ladies and gentlemen, which, on a fishing excursion, visited the Cataluche river in the early part of June, 1879, put up at Mr. Palmer’s, the first farm house reached after passing the ford. At that time a high, pine picket fence enclosed the yard surrounding a roomy house, with large, open hall through its center, and a long, wide porch in the rear. In spite of our numbers, the farmer and his wife volunteered to accommodate us all, and did so in a satisfactory manner. The river is no more than 100 yards from the house, and soon after our arrival that day two of us, with our rods, started for its banks. It was just before dusk, and white millers and gnats were fluttering above and dropping on the rapid water. The stream seemed perfectly alive with trout, coming up in sight with a splatter to secure these dainty morsels. The hour was propitious, and we improved it. Without moving from a line of smooth, deep-flowing pools, we secured a mess of forty trout before it became too dark to cast our lines. Even if you have no fishing tackle with you, it is interesting at evening to sit beside a stream and watch the trout secure his prey. A miller drops on the water, the swift current carries it for a few feet; then there is a splash and the insect has vanished. If you had looked sharp, you would have seen a wary trout dart through the water, rise to the surface, slap the miller with his tail to kill it, and almost with the same movement suck it into his mouth. For the very reason that the live fly floats down stream this ought to instruct the angler to let his artificial fly drift in the same manner; and then, as the quick jerk informs him that a trout has struck, pull the line up the current. You must be as quick in your movements as the fish is in his, or you will lose him.