A Lost Opportunity 



one did, for the picture is stamped indelibly on my 

 memory. 



I had collected quite an assortment of tackle good 

 rod and reel, several lines and many gaudy lures. An 

 acquaintance had given me glowing reports of a lake 

 up in the pines of northern Minnesota : " Bass so 

 thick it wasn't fun acatchin' 'em! Good lake 'cause 

 most folks didn't know about it. Yes, they used 

 mostly as bait them wooden wobblers." That was the 

 lake for me, no doubt about it, and June 21, 1920, 

 found my pal and me heading north over the Jefferson 

 highway. 



We were just a little disappointed when we finally 

 stood on the shore of Spring Lake. Forest fires had 

 denuded the pines, and it was uncomfortably warm 

 without the shade we had expected to find. But there 

 was cool clear water, and that meant a chance for bass. 

 And hadn't our friend assured us it was all very 

 simple? Several hours later we were covering the 

 likely looking places, but the fish were not rising. We 

 did see, however, thousands of small bass feeding in 

 the shallows. 



Next morning we awakened at three-thirty. It was 

 still dark, and very cold and damp. Our teeth chat- 

 tered merrily as we jumped into our clothing. Foolish 

 mortals we, to be climbing out of our warm beds at 

 this unearthly hour just to fish. But we were 

 happy. The lake lay as still as glass. We had good 



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