The King Bass of the Delaware 



Paddling the canoe to the far side of the river, I 

 anchored in the rapids, looked over my outfit and 

 selected a new hand-forged, long shank bass hook 

 mounted on a double gut. Securing this hook to my 

 heavy fly line, I carefully ran it through the lips of my 

 king of stone catfish and allowed him to drift gently 

 into the pocket. Nothing happened as usual. Just 

 as I had grown tired of the tame sport of still-fishing 

 and had already drawn up anchor, the big single ac- 

 tion began to click as something started to move off 

 with the bait. Hastily I reached for the rod, and 

 after six feet or so of line had run out and whatever 

 it was had turned the bait ready for swallowing, I 

 struck hard. Bang, splash, and from the aerial acro- 

 batics I knew I was hooked to " my " bass at last. 

 Hold him? Not if I had used the sash cord anchor 

 line. Away he went downstream, the bamboo creak- 

 ing under the strain as I vainly tried to save some 

 of the line. Happily the combination of current and 

 fish carried the light canoe along and I didn't quite 

 reach the end of the line. 



Suddenly he dove for the bottom and sulked, while 

 the canoe drifted almost over him and I congratulated 

 myself on the easy method of taking in line. Then 

 off he went upstream, and the canoe started upstream 

 as I desperately clung to the rod and watched the 

 line disappear. He sure was a FISH! 



It is hardly necessary among the fraternity to de- 

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