Tragic Fishing Moment s 



For a moment nothing happened. The minnow 

 worked downstream with the current some twenty 

 feet out from the base of the old sycamore, and I 

 was about to draw him in for another cast. It was 

 never made. The line tightened and moved upstream 

 quickly and steadily. There was going to be plenty 

 of action. The boy at the end of the rod clung 

 tensely to his perch and bided his time, hoping for 

 the conventional pause and second run with its ob- 

 vious import. But the bass had other intentions. 

 He continued his steady course upstream until the 

 line grew thinner and thinner on the spool, and there 

 was nothing for me to do but strike. 



Holding the reel handle and tightening the line un- 

 til I could feel the pull of the fish, I yanked the hook 

 and held on. And then the biggest, blackest, most 

 formidable looking small-mouth I have ever seen 

 (then or since) came to the top of the water. He 

 didn't jump he just looked around, rolled over, 

 and started for the other side of the river. Had he 

 come into the shore and gone under the roots of the 

 big tree the tragedy would have happened sooner 

 than it did. What to do was a problem. To land 

 such a bass from that perch was impossible. To fol- 

 low him, and try to land him on the other side of the 

 river was a possible course; to tire him out, kill him 

 on the rod, and lead him around the roots of the tree 

 and back to the bank was another. It was the one I 



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