TROLLING FOR MUSKELLUNGE 



I remember fishing one of Wisconsin's northern 

 lakes some seasons ago, a lake from which the writer 

 and others have taken some good muskellunge. On 

 the day in question the surface of the water was per- 

 fectly still. Not a ripple nor shade of ripple roughened 

 it to the slightest degree. I cast, I still-fished, I trolled, 

 but all to no purpose. The best hours of the day 

 passed — that is, from 4 a. m. to 7 — and I fished 

 fishless. Retiring to an island in the center of the 

 lake near the south end, I prepared to while the 

 time away with a book. Early rising and the sun 

 made me sleepy, and soon, the book proving unat- 

 tractive, I rolled over in the shade and dropped asleep. 

 I slept some two hours or so before "a going in the 

 trees" awakened me. A high wind had sprung up 

 from the south and was kicking that lake into a very 

 fury of rage. Fortunately for me the island was com- 

 paratively near the south end of the lake; otherwise 

 I would have been marooned for the day or until the 

 going down of the wind. Quickly launching my boat, 

 I set out for the south shore, paddling into the teeth 

 of the gale. 



More from force of habit than otherwise, I set my 

 rod in the holder and let out some 100 feet of line, a 

 matter which required considerable skill, as I was 

 under the necessity of keeping my light craft bow to 

 the wind. Once with sufficient line out, I bent all my 

 energies to facing the waves. Time and again a white- 

 cap broke on the bow, spraying me disagreeably. 

 With all my attention centered on the paddling, I 

 gave little thought to the trailing spoon. Suddenly 

 there came a jerk so strong and mighty that my little 

 craft hesitated in its course perceptibly. Though click 



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