Tragic Fishing Moments 



half buried in the green moss a perfect giant of a 

 trout, with his beautiful coloring greatly augmented 

 by the background of green moss a jewel against a 

 background of green plush ! 



I worked across the log, holding my line taut and 

 loosening my net with one hand as I went. Directly 

 over him I leaned far out, determined to make one 

 quick thrust with the net and land him. Just as I 

 struck he rushed toward the log; I made a wild effort 

 to change the direction of my net thrust. A muddy 

 boot slipped on the log and I did a perfect swan 

 dive into about four feet of the coldest of cold waters. 

 In about two jumps I came out, blowing like a whale. 

 A slack line trailed behind me and the gosh- 

 awfullest trout in all of Colorado was roaming his 

 native heath. And then I knew that I had passed 

 through my most " tragic moment." 



Then and there I bared myself to the breezes that 

 prevail at such altitudes and "hung my rags on a 

 pole." 



Then came another tragic moment. I sat there 

 calmly and nakedly in the high grass and watched old 

 T. take seven of the finest of fine trout from that 

 slough that couldn't be fished. I could not, having 

 earlier delivered my lecture, go back to barbed hooks. 

 For days thereafter both of my companions frequently 

 asked if they must learn how to submarine 'em, and 

 if there was any an in that branch of the game. 

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