Tragic Fishing Moments 



my hand tried to slide him up the bank. About half 

 way up the line parted and then, well, my mind 

 neglected to record the happenings of the next few 

 seconds, but I have a sort of hazy recollection of a 

 confused jumble of fish, fisherman, and Airedale dog. 



When my brain again began to function properly I 

 found myself in water up to my shoulders, and pinned 

 between my breast and the side of the bank, just under 

 water, was the great-granddaddy of all the rainbows. 

 There I held him until I got both hands in his immense 

 gills, thus ending the most thrilling battle of my fishing 

 career. Seven pounds and four ounces of sinew, bone 

 and muscle, but at the very least, twenty-five pounds 

 of courage, nerve, determination and fighting spirit 

 on a little old rod and worn-out line. Yes; tragic 

 moments invariably come to the man or woman who 

 whips the white water with light tackle. 



My good little helper, Foxie, has passed on but that 

 Royal Coachman for five years has occupied the first 

 hook on a page of my fly book for flies of honorable 

 mention. 



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