Tragic Fishing Moments 



the golden trout of the Sierra Nevada mountain 

 streams. Of course, I have lost many a big one, and 

 had my share of disappointed hopes and lost tackle 

 but no real tragedy. 



I must needs go 'way back along the trail to the 

 time when, as a small boy in the Blue Grass Region of 

 Kentucky, I fished for the chubs, the sun perch, the 

 suckers, the bluegills and yes, I admit it the 

 lowly mud cat. 



Did we have " tackle " boxes in those golden days 

 rods? lines? lures? leaders? and theories about 

 their use? No; we had a pole, a spool of cotton 

 thread, a nickel's worth of hooks, a pebble sinker, a 

 tin can, a cur dog, and Youth. 



With the money my father gave me for feeding a 

 bunch of calves all of one winter I purchased a bamboo 

 rod, a silk line, a reel, a red and green cork float and 

 three Cincinnati hooks with real gut on them. Then 

 came a day in the Spring when I hied me down to the 

 river (where I had never been before) to try out my 

 new tackle. I carried it in my hand very carefully all 

 of the eight miles for fear of its getting broken. As 

 if it were only yesterday I can recall that beautiful 

 river, and well do I remember the pool where I chose 

 to do my fishing. I can see the live shiny minnow bait 

 as it sank into the water covered with benedictions, 

 spit and hopes that a crappie would take it. 



Soon the cork began to move slowly and then 

 234 



