Tragic Fishing Moments 



all into the depths of the pool. Down, down, I went 

 through that icy water, feet first, till my feet hit a slip- 

 pery rock with a jolting jar, and then the current took 

 me. Things were moving pretty fast, and about the 

 next thing I was conscious of was a pain in every inch 

 of my six-foot body, as I brought up against a half- 

 submerged log in three feet of water at the foot of 

 the pool. 



In my right hand was the butt of my beloved rod, the 

 reel and line still intact, but the remainder of the rod 

 hung on the line in three pieces broken probably as that 

 playful little stream rolled me over the rocks in its rush 

 to take me away from that particular scenery. 



A sharp tug on the line brought me back to reality. 

 What a lovely mess! Standing in three feet of icy 

 water, my rod hanging from the line in three pieces, a 

 mother bruin in the immediate vicinity, and perhaps 

 becoming more immediate, and miracle of miracles, a 

 fish still on the line! This was no time for thoughts 

 of art in playing and landing fish. 



Churning the blue water to foam, I rushed over the 

 slippery rocks for the shore and there pulled in, hand 

 over hand, an eighteen-inch cutthroat trout. Quickly 

 stuffing him into the creel with the one lonely little fel- 

 low that remained still in the bottom, I scrambled for 

 the trail, throwing my long legs into high gear, and 

 went leaping down that trail for anywhere but there. 



On arriving at the shores of the lake I peered 

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