Won and Lost 



the new line which carried a flaw in it and lost us a 

 prize beauty. Countless tragedies (near and real) 

 may be recalled, but the tragic aspect of most of 

 them has been mellowed by the passage of time until 

 the wounds inflicted have healed and the incident 

 takes on the aspect of the commonplace. 



Yet there is one tragical moment which persists in 

 its vividness and which is regularly recounted with 

 never-ceasing enthusiasm. Probably its consistent 

 freshness is because it occurred at that age when 

 ambition's flame is clean and new and when rebuffs 

 and failures carry their greatest sting the fifteenth 

 year of my life. 



It was my first real fishing trip for muskies. We 

 had gone into those waters adjoining the Lac du 

 Flambeau Reservation on the southwest, and on the 

 day in question were fishing Squaw Lake near its 

 outlet. 



I had no tackle of my own, but was using a steel 

 rod and a reel furnished by a gentleman in the party 

 whose hope it was to make an enthusiastic angler of 

 me. As an additional incentive to such an end he 

 had promised me the present of the rod and reel I 

 was using if I should land a musky of twelve pounds 

 or over. It is needless to say that I worked early 

 and late, even spending my time ashore in walking 

 along the edge casting into the pads and weed beds. 



The day was an ideal one for muskellunge. A 

 111 



