A Worms a Worm 55 



out near the very point I saw a flicker which was drumming 

 loudly on a dying tree. 



I crossed the bay to the east end of the log boom where 

 many surplus logs were held until required by the mills. Tied 

 to the peak of the boom lay a trim motorboat about twenty 

 feet long, decked in the bow to make it seaworthy on the 

 Sound or in the much rougher water of the Strait of Juan 

 de Fuca. A fish pole projected from the stern. The occupant, 

 a strong-featured and powerful young fellow, occupied him- 

 self in changing some tackle. I had no intention of stopping 

 but he waved and I accepted his invitation to come over. A 

 brown spaniel dog in the cockpit wagged its tail in friendly 

 fashion. 



"Catching anything?" the man asked. 



Tm just sight-seeing, and have no tackle with me." I 

 looked at the lure he was attaching— a five-inch strip of some 

 sort of composition material, shaped so that it would skitter 

 in the water, and highly colored. It glittered in the light. 

 "What do you call that? I thought I was up on most baits 

 but that's a new one to me." 



"I can understand that," he said. "Because I made it my- 

 self. You probably know most of these." He opened his tackle 

 box and showed me a tray of assorted gadgets, many of 

 which I never knew existed. Short ones and long ones, of 

 every color and shape, and of queer designs. 



"These are all bass lures," he said. "Some of them are good 

 but I never found one that was the killer that this one of 

 mine is. You're a fisherman and know what I mean. The bait 

 you use is a whole lot a matter of sentiment, and when you 

 make one to your own liking you think it's better than any- 

 thing else. Probably nobody else would use it at all." 



He was the first westerner I had met who preferred bass to 

 salmon fishing. I asked him why. 



"Too much gear in salmon fishing. You have enough on 

 your line to drown a fish. Bass fishing is a battle of man and 



