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 of the character of the pools was unchanged:  never were there such places for trout; but the trout were out of their places.  Perhaps they didn’t care for the fly:  some trout seem to be so unsophisticated as to prefer the worm.  I replaced the fly with a baited hook:  the worm squirmed; the waters rushed and roared; a cloud sailed across the blue:  no trout rose to the lonesome opportunity.  There is a certain companionship in the presence of trout, especially when you can feel them flopping in your fish basket; but it became evident that there were no trout in this wilderness, and a sense of isolation for the first time came over me.  There was no living thing near.  The river had by this time entered a deeper gorge; walls of rocks rose perpendicularly on either side, —­picturesque rocks, painted many colors by the oxide of iron.  It was not possible to climb out of the gorge; it was impossible to find a way by the side of the river; and getting down the bed, over the falls, and through the flumes, was not easy, and consumed time.