Tragic Fishing Moments 



warm, moist south wind was lining the lake with 

 strings of foam. Overhead a blanket of never-end- 

 ing clouds scudded swiftly before the wind and the 

 boat danced and wallowed as we pulled quartering 

 into the waves toward the deep bay that marks the 

 beginning of Squaw Creek. 



My outfit, as I have said, was a steel rod, a quad- 

 ruple multiplying reel, No. 4 Kingfisher line, and a 

 4^4 Skinner spoon with the gang removed and a sin- 

 gle Maloney weedless hook in its place. Frogs were 

 being used as bait. 



The first few casts brought nothing, but in perhaps 

 ten minutes' time we had hooked and landed three 

 fair-sized large-mouth bass. But bass were not that 

 which I sought that day, and the impatience of youth 

 was beginning to play havoc with my casting. Sloppy 

 work was right. Backlash followed backlash and I 

 finally threatened to quit altogether. 



The guide was onto his job, however, and he 

 promptly turned shoreward, volunteering the infor- 

 mation that we'll " Stretch our legs a bit afore we 

 fishes agin." 



Back in the boat, a long cast along the shore and 

 about twenty-five feet out brought my musky. As 

 his tail disappeared following his strike the guide 

 cautioned me: 



"Keerful, now. That there's yore rod and reel 

 fish. He'll go fifteen pound, shore." 



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