Tragic Fishing Moments 



for my knife. I'd cut that three dollar line into a 

 thousand pieces. A survey of my tackle box con- 

 vinced me this would be folly. I had left my only 

 other line at camp. 



I attacked that snarl again, and worked up a useless 

 sweat. It was of no avail. Why wasn't my reel, the 

 level- winding anti-backlash kind ? And couldn't I have 

 held my head and been more careful? I can never tell 

 you how completely helpless I felt. As the realization 

 came upon me that my fishing was over, I had a queer 

 feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had wanted so 

 much to connect with one of those larger ones. I tried 

 to sit quietly as I watched those beauties an oppor- 

 tunity of a lifetime at hand, yet I could not take advan- 

 tage of it. I knew this picture couldn't last. All good 

 things end and this one did too. As by a signal 

 they broke ranks, the whole army of 'em, and more 

 than one monster bass swam directly under my boat, 

 almost at arm's length, and was lost in deeper water. 



Reluctantly I left that bar and made my way to 

 camp. We had fish enough for our table, that was 

 sure. I couldn't help but think of the large one I 

 might have had, had not that measly backlash occurred 

 at just that tragic moment. 



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