BASS FISHING IN THE NORTH POTOMAC. 



ALEXANDER HUNTER. 



It is said that the late Professor Coues, of 

 the Smithsonian Institution, often expressed 

 his surprise that the black bass, with its 

 marvelous fecundity, should be found in 

 comparatively small numbers in the streams 

 of West Virginia and upper Maryland. 

 This game fish can take care of itself and 

 only bites freely at certain seasons; and its 

 secluded haunts, amid the gorges and 

 rocks of the narrow streams, make seines, 

 nets and traps an impossibility. 



I had an experience a few summers ago 

 which enlightened me, and proved into 

 whose pot the fish go; also demonstrated 

 how much more than a match the unsophis- 

 ticated native is for the shy, wary and sus- 

 picious bass. 



I made preparations for a 2 weeks' fish- 

 ing trip for bass only. I did not care how 

 far I went or what hardships I had to un- 

 dergo, so I might fill my basket. I knew 

 of one ardent sportsman living in Staunton, 

 Virginia, who was as fond of his rod as he 

 was of his gun, and I felt assured that if 

 Captain William Fowle would take a trip 

 with me, I could know the delight of eat- 

 ing my own fish, caught by my own line ; 

 for every angler will agree that even a 

 perch or a sunfish is superior in sweetness 

 and flavor, when it is acquired by his own 

 skill and patience, to the finest of the 

 species secured by a silver hook. 



Captain Fowle wrote me to come to 

 Staunton and we would take a Jersey wag- 

 on and strike for the South branch of the 

 Potomac river. Loading our wagon with 

 provisions and traps, we started across the 

 mountains, and I enjoyed the 3 days as 

 only a man can who has been cooped up in 

 the city during the dog days. It was Sep- 

 tember, and it was a never ending delight 

 to travel in those mountains, with their 

 changing scenery and the gorgeous foliage 

 of every imaginable hue. The pale gold 

 of the sugar maple, the vivid green of the 

 mountain larch, the intense crimson of the 

 dogwood, the rusty brown of the chestnut, 

 the sea-green of the pine, the dull red of 

 the beech, and the purplish shadows of the 

 elm all combined to make a picture of in- 

 describable beauty. 



Fair as nature appears by sunlight, its 

 beauty is intensified beyond expression un- 

 der the radiance of the moon, and later, as 

 we drove along the brink of a deep gorge, 

 we could see below, 1,000 feet at least, the 

 stream at the bottom, sparkling like silver 

 in the pure moonlight. The memory of 

 that ride brings enjoyment now; and at 

 the time I leaned back, with my pipe in my 

 mouth, and drank in the wondrous glory of 



the night. Every sense of weariness and 

 discord was banished and I seemed 

 wrapped in a lotos eater's dream. 



We stopped at a lone farm house, about 

 12 miles below the little village of Frank- 

 lin, West Virginia. Early in the morning 

 we started for the White Horse rock, a fa- 

 mous bass haunt on the South branch. Af- 

 ter reaching the stream, which was about 

 100 yards wide at that point, we scrambled 

 along the bank, over the boulders of rock 

 and granite, which were piled up as if the 

 whole region had once been the scene of a 

 battle royal between the Titans. It was 

 hard work getting over those rough crags. 

 At last we reached the summit and, lying 

 flat on our faces, peered over the cliff, 

 which was as smooth as a wall and about 

 30 feet high. At its base the water was 

 deep, as clear as crystal, and as alive with 

 fish as if it were a stocked aquarium. 



"Well," said I, "this is not the way I 

 ever fished for bass. A rod is of no use 

 here." 



"No," said the farmer, "I brung you here 

 so you ken ketch enough to eat. Then I'll 

 carry you furder down, where you kin use 

 your poles." 



The captain had a plentiful supply of 

 flies, grasshoppers, minnows and helgram- 

 ites, and choosing the latter we ran out 

 our lines and dropped them over. The baits 

 had not touched the water before they were 

 seized. In half an hour there were a dozen 

 bass lying beside us. 



"That's enough," said the farmer. "Now 

 we will go down." 



We fished all the morning and again in 

 the evening. It was a glorious day and 

 one never to be forgotten. We found the 

 helgramites the thing and had no occasion 

 to use any other bait. 



That night there was a slight shower, not 

 enough to muddy the water, but for some 

 reason the fish would not bite. Tn vain we 

 tempted them with every variety of fly. 

 We could see them swim lazily to the bait, 

 smell capriciously at it, and then contempu- 

 ously turn, give their tails a flirt and dis- 

 appear. It was provoking and we sat there 

 watching those sprightly, lusty fellows, 

 idling away their time, instead of furnish- 

 ing us diversion. We climbed up to the 

 top of White Horse rock and let our lines 

 drop below, not for sport, for it was about 

 as much fun catching fish from that eleva- 

 tion as it would be to drop a line down the 

 shaft of an elevator in a warehouse and get 

 the porter below to slip a herring or a salt- 

 ed mackerel on the hook. No, we were 

 so mad that we wanted to get even with 



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