42 



RECREATION. 



the lake. Chick and I were in the large 

 boat with the guide, and Porter and Kitty 

 manned the smaller one. It was ideal 

 mnskalonge weather, the wind being just 

 right. We trolled around the lake twice, 

 about 5 miles, and caught only a few pike. 

 This did not look any better than Everett's, 

 and Chick and I made remarks about people 

 who thought they knew where the muskys 

 slept. Just at that moment Chick's bait 

 was struck. 



"Another blamed pickerel," he* said; but 

 no. That time he was lucky, and a shining 

 muskalonge flashed into the air frantically 

 shaking itself to get rid of the hook. 



"Keep the line taut," Ed. and I shouted 

 together. 



Chick was the youngest and least experi- 

 enced member of the party and we thought 

 he needed directing. He played his fish 

 well, however, and after 40 minutes of 

 hard fighting he landed his musky. It 

 weighed 19 pounds by the pocket scales, 

 and when Ed. cut the steaks from it for 

 supper Chick's heart almost broke because 

 musky would not keep a week, so he could 

 exhibit it at the hotel. 



Chick's was the only muskalonge landed 

 during our trip and Chick now claims to 

 be the best angler. He had a bad case of 

 swelled head which we were not able to 

 cure until he fell out of the boat on the 

 way back while showing off his skill as a 

 canoeist. 



We certainly were up against it on our 

 way back. Large trees had fallen over the 

 creek, averaging one a mile, and every 

 time we struck one it meant get out and 

 drag. It took us nearly 2 days to reach 

 Everett's, but the trip as a whole was one 

 we shall never forget. 



Percy L. Trussel, Berwyn, 111. 



A LAC VIEUX DESERT MUSKALONGE. 



C. S. THOMPSON. 



In a worn tackle box of mine is a small 

 notebook and on its fly leaf is this memo- 

 randum : "About the last of May, or 

 within the first 2 weeks of June, write 

 Chris, at State Line, Wisconsin, and find 

 out if the muskalonge are biting well. 

 Whatever the answer is, go." For the 8th 

 consecutive time I decided to follow its 

 advice. 



State Line ends with the name. It is in 

 Northeastern Wisconsin. The nearest fish- 

 ing resort is Lac Vieux Desert, the head of 

 the Wisconsin river, a large and beautiful 

 body of water, with a shore line of 20 miles. 



The 7 mile drive from the station to my 

 guide's cabin was an exquisite pleasure to 

 me, after being cooped up in the city dur- 

 ing the long winter. The trees were in the 

 full bloom of spring. The trailing arbutus 

 had disappeared, but in its stead were an- 

 emones, glossy wintergreen, and many va- 



rieties of ferns ; and the birds sang among 

 the pines and hemlocks. 



We drove slowly by a large swamp, and 

 out dashed, in full view, a beautiful deer. 

 It stopped, gazed intently our way, then 

 disappeared. I vowed then that I would 

 come again later in the year and capture 

 that beautiful creature. I kept my vow, 

 too! 



We arrived at the cabin long before sun- 

 set, and my guide suggested a short row 

 and perhaps a musky that very evening. 

 This was exactly to my liking, so my rod 

 was quickly put together and we embarked 

 in a birch canoe. The lake was rough, but 

 not enough to interfere with fishing. Pad- 

 dling down the lake over many likely holes, 

 we fished the spot where there was no doubt 

 about getting one; also the hole where it 

 was. a sure thing; but without other result' 

 than a bunch of lake weeds. The monot- 

 ony was only broken by the capture of a 

 10-pound pickerel that put up a fight of 

 great interest while it lasted. 



The sun was high the next morning when 

 we started out for our second trial. We 

 had paddled some distance over a bed of 

 weeds, when a vicious tug, a slight splash, 

 followed by a widening swirl on the water, 

 suggested a 50 pounder. The line sang and 

 screamed as musky bolted for the thick 

 patches of weeds. 



"Be careful," cried my guide as the fish 

 leaped from the water. "Don't let him 

 have any slack! Hold him till I get this 

 here boat out of these blamed weeds. Be 

 careful or you'll lose him sure !" 



The fish was not to be cajoled into leav- 

 ing his point of vantage. Down he sped 

 among the entangling weeds, dragging my 

 line and my hopes toward certain destruc- 

 tion. Then up he came, completely envel- 

 oped in a mantle of weeds. There seemed 

 to be a boat load of them hanging to his- 

 head. There was a frantic shake as he 

 rose from the water. The weeds slid up, 

 my line snapped, the musky turned over, 

 and, with one swirl, was lost to view. 



Then happened a strange thing; one per- 

 haps seldom seen. Musky still had the 

 spoon hook embedded in his mouth, and he 

 made 4 vain attempts to dislodge it. First 

 he rose about 50 yards back of the boat and 

 shook his head violently, ringing the spoon 

 like a bell. Then he fell back, only to repeat 

 the attempt 30 yards farther away. ' Twice 

 more he failed. The last time he was fully 

 100 yards distant, and my guide remarked, 



"Wal, I'll be gol darned. He'll keep that 

 up till he's clean played out." 



I replaced the lost spoon with a new one 

 and continued fishing. I waited long and 

 patiently for a strike. Was that lost mus- 

 kalonge calling an assembly of his fellows, 

 with his jingling bell, and exhorting them 

 ^to beware? We fished the morning hours 



