4i8 



RECREATION 



and wonder. About twenty rods above the 

 lake, called Round Pond, we stop the boat, 

 let a minnow down into that "sure" pool 

 and eddy, and watch the bass and pickerel 

 hustle for it. 



At the very edge of Round Pond is a wide 

 bar of white sand under three feet of water. 

 Two feet beyond it drops sheer, and the 

 water is sixty feet deep. There I saw a 

 mascalonge longer than I care to vouch for 

 here. So near, yet so far, as he faded away 

 into those clear depths! 



Round Pond is a half-mile long and 

 about sixty rods across, fine fishing water, 

 deep close to shore entirely around it. Its 

 outlet is the third "stretch" of the Platte 

 River, with excellent fishing down all its 

 mile-long run into Lake Michigan. 



Big Platte has been unkind to me. The 

 giant mascalonge that live in all those 

 waters are called " brutes" by Uncle Bill. 

 One never knows what moment he may 

 get a strike that will not only make him 

 " sit up," but tumble over with a broken rod 

 or line, with the hook gone. Two experi- 

 ences of that kind set me to trolling with a 

 triple hook so big that it seemed like an in- 

 sult to a fish to even imagine him guilty of 

 being daft enough to strike at it. I used my 

 long salmon line tested to a thirty-two-pound 

 pull in my presence by Abbie and Imbrie, 

 and which had landed a twenty-three-pound 

 salmon in Newfoundland the previous sum- 

 mer. Work? Three days of fruitless row- 

 ing, trailing that outrageously big hook! 

 Then Uncle Bill took pity on me and rowed 

 himself. And luck settled on us, and two 

 enormous fish had been lost and others were 

 following and striking (I could tell by the 

 jerks). I pulled in the hook to cut away 

 some of the frayed line, and in my excite- 

 ment I threw the hook into the lake, and tried 

 to tie my knife on the end of the line. That 

 Irishman's face was a study! He tells about 

 it yet. "Sure we had divil another hook in 

 the boat, and had to kum hoam!" 



My second visit to Platte was with tackle 

 fit to lure and hold Mr. Mascalonge. In 

 twenty hours of grind at the oars (we call 

 that awful work "fun"), I hooked and lost 

 a fish that jumped clear from the water 

 twice, shaking himself until everything 

 seemed to jingle. He got away. And not 

 twenty minutes afterward I hooked the 



grandfather of them all — off Birch Point. 

 Then I knew how Jack's Indian chum felt 

 as he laid down on his back in the dugout 

 to keep a mascalonge from upsetting his 

 slight craft. 



My fish must have been a mascalonge — 

 I did not see him. But he towed the boat 

 five or six minutes that seemed two hours. 

 The line cut my left hand at the first knuckle 

 — I shall carry the scar to my grave. It was 

 a question whether I had him or he had me, 

 for he nearly pulled me out of the boat. A 

 surge and rush into the depths, and the line 

 parted ! 



I rowed right back to the hotel, packed 

 up, and left for New York. There are some 

 things that are unbearable. Not even the 

 loss of that fifty-pound salmon on Pinch 

 Gut Brook in western Newfoundland was 

 such a grief. The instant change from the 

 delight of the struggle and impending suc- 

 cess to the dismay and despair of loss is too 

 much. The line certainly does come in easy! 



To the angler who wants rest, finest Irish 

 hospitality, reasonable charges, perfect 

 boats and tackle, an excellent table and 

 service, and a good catch among earth's 

 fairest scenes, I cordially recommend Big 

 Platte, and I vouch for the excellence of the 

 fishing for trout, small and large-mouth 

 black bass, rock bass so numerous as to be a 

 nuisance, swarms of yellow perch, grass 

 pike, pickerel, and — yes— mascalonge — if 

 you can hook and land them. They are 

 there, "whoppers!" All this fishing is not 

 in one spot, but can be reached within an 

 hour from that tavern not two rods from the 

 water, boats and happiness. It waits and 

 beckons to that shore until one is bewildered 

 with the wealth of fishing possibilities. 



Of course this is not the very last touch 

 and poetry of angling, wading over white 

 and gold gravel and casting dainty flies for 

 trout. That exists on the Slagle River, 

 reached from Yuma Siding, which you pass 

 on the way from Toledo to Platte. In a 

 forest five miles from the railroad lies the 

 loveliest trout-stream I have seen in forty 

 years of angling. But to me it has been 

 ruined because a trout hatchery has been 

 placed on its upper waters, and the stream 

 is kept stocked with trout. That means 

 man's dominion. I am not entirely happy 

 except when with the entirely wild. 



