210 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Oct. 8, 1885. 



POTOMAC RECREATIONS. 



IT is a source of gxatulatioQ when one has looked for- 

 ward for months to a short vacation — rowing, fishing 

 and rambling— to feel after the event that he has had a 

 pleasant and successful time. One can stand a good deal of 

 disappointment camping and tramping if he has now and 

 then a red-letter day; hut wlien his allotted time is all of a 

 cardinal hue he considers himself one of Fortune's elect, and 

 plays on his retrospective harp with solid satisfaction. But, 

 after all, how much success depends upon careful observa- 

 tion and common sense. How essential it is to have some- 

 thing more than ordinary knowledge of localities, habits and 

 food of game and fishes and methods of capture, and how 

 important it is to keep an even temper under all circum- 

 stances and be patient as Tzaak Walton himself. 



After considerable inquiry and writing for information, I 

 concluded a few weeks ago to spend ten days bass fishing at 

 Point 01 Rocks, a station on the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, 

 near Harper's Ferry, within a few rods of the Potomac, 

 where, it was learned, good fishing was to be had ; where 

 bass weighing from one to seven pounds graced the angler's 

 basket, and where boats and bait were right at hand. So 

 one Monday morning found me at the little burg, well 

 equipped as far as tackle went, and determined to catch 

 some of the aristocratic bass if the aforementioned patience 

 and some consciousness of skill would avail. There were 

 certain unfavorable conditions, such as very clear water, 

 very bright and warm days and beautiful moonlight nights, 

 when the fishes feed at night and do not bite as well in the 

 daytime. The Potomac River is broad, you know, from 

 Harper's Ferry down, shallow, but with deep boles here and 

 there, full of great boulders, ripples, rapids, eel dams, 

 sunken tree and beautiful islands, and it is pre-eminently a 

 home for the noble bass, where he now is in vast numbere, 

 and there to stay. 



It was soon arranged that with a man to row and guide I 

 should go up the canal two or three miles from the point, 

 where the boat would have to be drawn over into the river, 

 a hundred yards or so, and then leisurely return, trying all 

 the favorable water that appeared on the way. We had for 

 bait fifty minnows brought from Baltimore, called "dab- 

 blers," a long-lived, active little fish, but very dark, dis- 

 posed to hide quickly in the grass at the bottom, and, as it 

 proved, not an attractive bait for fall fishing. We toiled 

 carefully the whole distance, easting, tossing, trolling, and 

 didn't get a bite. Imagine my surprise when on my return 

 to the hotel, to find that Mr. Jesse Claggett, a jolly sports- 

 man from Frederick, and his attendant, had caught twenty- 

 eight bass, most of them of good she. the string aggregating 

 over thirty pounds. Here was food for reflection as well as 

 for hungry anglers. I know I can catch bass tinder reason- 

 ably fair circumstances, know it by experience, and a good 

 record. Consequently there was a cause thereabouts; what 

 was it? I had good tackle, in fact was quite proud of it, 

 though I hadn't a rod belter than an all lancewood; I had 

 gone over water w^here many bass, and some very large ones, 

 had been captured recently, and I had been persistent 

 Looking at Mr. C.'s string with admiration. I said: "What 

 kind of bait did you use?" 



Turning to me with a confidential air, he said: "Catfish. 

 Pabblcrs and canal minnows are N. G. I am going back to 

 Frederick with my catch and will return in the morning 

 early to fish the water you were in to-day. Will bring you 

 a couple dozen catfish if they are to be had." 



This was generous and gentlemanly and done with the 

 spirit of a true sportsman. The next morning I set out with 

 a bucket of small catfish, which came as promised, took a 

 boat by myself, rowed out to a rock in the middle of the 

 river below an old eel dam, put out my stone anchor and 

 went to work. Put two hooks, Conroy's Cincinnati, on a 

 line attached to a medium-sized bass rod, not my favorite, 

 bit off the sharp horns of the strugaiing bait and tossed to a 

 desirable-looking dark place sixty feet away. Then I went 

 to rigging the lancewood, and had got the reel placed, when 

 there was a beautiful .signal from the first. The handle of 

 the reel went round and round gently at first, then with a 

 whizz, and in a minute I landed a bass that weighed a pound 

 and a half. He fought every inch to the landing net, and 

 when he with six others reached Washington that evening, 

 to which point I shipped them by express m the afternoon, 

 he was alive and kicking. By 2 o'clock, after resting an 

 hour for dinner at noon, I had nine very pretty bass, the 

 string weighing twelve pounds. This was. good fishing, and 

 I felt comfortable and contemplative. Putting away the 

 tackle and sinking my bucket of minnows (I had not used 

 more than half), I went on an exploring expedition, shooting 

 rapids, .gliding over swift ripples, landing on an island and 

 wanderihg along its flower-fringed shore, listening to Jim 

 Baker's grammatical jaybirds and some noisy kildeers, not- 

 ing favorably looking places by sunken trees, partly sub- 

 merged, boulders of huge dimensions, chasing big suckers 

 that were foraging on aquatic grasses in shallow water, and 

 otherwise rounding out a beautiful da;^ on the water. 



Next day I went up the river a mile, anchored at a hole 

 by an old treetop, tying the boat's stern to a protruding 

 branch to keep it steady, and cast down stream as far as I 

 could. There was no immediate response, and so I took out 

 a briarwood pipe that had seen service in the distant Rockies, 

 loaded it with "old Virginia," whose noble Mount Catoctin 

 pictured my horizon on the west, and adjusted myself for a 

 season of masterly inactivity. This is stiU-fishing, you 

 understand, the stillness ])roken frequently by splashing on 

 the periphery of .your circle, the shaking head of an 

 active and determ'ined fisl), the cut and swish of a taut 

 line, and the dip of a landing net, 1 did not smoke long 

 before one of the reels began to turn, and almost instantly 1 

 struck, having determined the day before never again to let 

 a bass run with the line before striking, and lo! there was 

 music in the circumambient air. It was hard work to check 

 the rush down stream, and when 1 did there was instantly a 

 perplexing and dangerous rush up stream, but which 1 

 stopped ere it was disastrous. From there was a steady, 

 stubborn fight clear to the boat, when I noticed that two 

 bass were on, churning the water, leaping like acrobats, and 

 rousing twoj or ten-fold enthusiasm back of the reel. To 

 land one good bass is a matter of glorious uncertainty lo the 

 last moment, but two, well, it's a little short of the sublime. 

 It stirs your latent powers, arouses your judicial nature, 

 stimulates executive talent, awakes every muscular function, 

 and calls for special tact until the campaign is over and the 

 ballots are counted. I had hard work to keep my school of 

 fish out of the treetop and away from the anchor rope, but fin- 

 ally succeeded, thrust the landing net for general results, and 

 got my beauties into the boat, both of them free of the hooks 

 when they struck the planks. Both were caught in the 

 mouth, and the unusual tussle had well nigh torn the hooks 

 out before it was everlastingly too late. This was the only 



time I caught two bass at once, but it gives a rosier hue than 

 nsual to the already well-painted picture that memory has 

 in good collection. 



Each day out was largely a repetition of those described, 

 varied by different Avater, dillerent scenery and other condi- 

 tions. At times a light breeze rippled the sur^^ce of the 

 river, making casting difficult or easier, according to posi- 

 tion, and serving to render the angler less conspicuous; 

 again the current made the boat get into the wrong places 

 with almost mulish persistence, the grass that grew on the 

 rocks and waved in the current caught the hooks, and several 

 limes caused the fish that were on to break loose, and other 

 accidents that test the true metal of the man, seemed bound 

 to occur. This is the shading and filling in of the picture 

 spoken of, the varying lints, the clouds and tangled places, 

 that give character "and rugged outline to the whole, and 

 make It more enduring. 



Fall bass fishing in the Potomac is excellent, whatever 

 may be said by some, and it is a great source of comfort and 

 recreation for the anglers of Baltimore, Washington, Fred- 

 erick and other places. Almost anywhere from away up in 

 the mountains down to Great Falls, at Harper's FeiTy, 

 Weverton, Point of Rocks, and stations within easy distance 

 of the river on the B, & 0. Railroad good sport may be had. 

 At all these points boats and bait can be readily obtained, as 

 well as attendants, who know the river well, and who will 

 render good service for a fair consideration. 



Jekome Burnett. 



THE LAST CAST. 



MY wife says that just as soon as I get home from Moose- 

 head I begin next day to pack for the next year's trip, 

 which, I am proud to acknowledge, is mainly true. "The 

 beloved Maine woods," as my ]>rofessional and piscatorial 

 brother. Dr. P., hath it, never seemed so lovely as this 

 September. The Outlet was unusually deserted, when we 

 arrived, since guests had come and gone, and left clear water 

 for us. So for two days we whipped at the sluice and down 

 at the long pool, and piled up the score. 



The Moosehead trout do not average such large size as at 

 Rangeley and their shape is different. They are relatively 

 shorter and broader, but weU marked in distinctive spots 

 and usually hardy fighters. In the streams about the lake 

 abundance of half and pound fish are taken, while at the 

 Outlet they scale at two and a half to three pounds, and even 

 an occasional four or five pounder is brought to net. What 

 they lack in weight they make up in gaminess, are wary, 

 and the angler has to earn his fish. Fly-fishing is commonly 

 styled sport, but sometimes labor can be more truthfully 

 substituted. Let those who have played a three-pound fellow 

 in quick water, and personally netted him, testify. 



But too soon came the inevitable crowd. Why is it that 

 men who are teetotalers at home are sots in the woods? Alas, 

 three or four men, not fisher-men, were at every pool, who 

 whipped and whipped and whipped. Every fly, from grave 

 to gay, hackle, ibis, or Montreal, et id hoc. om/ie yenus. vexed 

 the waters. In one respect certainly, barring the time, they 

 resembled the disciples, for they toiled all day and caught 

 nothing. Disappointed and disgusted, my friend, a veteran 

 fly.flsher in Maine waters for forty years, and myself waited 

 only for the rising of Monday's sun to pack our duflie and 

 get away from the annoyance. 



'The morn announced itself by the rattle of rain upon the 

 window. As it was our last opportunity of the year for 

 trout, it was decided to try the stream just once more. So 

 doughnuts are munched while we don rubber coats and 

 boots, and with rod and net each slips into his canoe. "Ed, 

 why didn't you bring your rubber?" "Wal, we shan't be 

 gone long, and I guess this aint goin' to amount to much." 

 A new leader, with a Seth Green for tail fly and an Abbey 

 for dropper, is well bent on when we get out from the bank 

 into quick water. A steady pour of rain isn't a really pleas- 

 ant w'elcome at 5 in the morning when the bed is never so 

 inviting and the air never so chill. Steadily the rods rise and 

 the flies drop, now under the edge of that stone and then in 

 the tail race just below another. But no rise. Pool after 

 pool is systematically worked, but to no avail. "Let's try 

 the head of the long pool. " Ed poises the canoe for its plunge 

 down white water. The iron of the setting pole rings out 

 clear, and in a breath the foam-crested rapids are above us 

 and we are in the edge of the main current by the old 

 stump. 



Now a cast at my left, and I strike a two pounder. He 

 pulls and tugs away* but in fifteen minutes or so the net 

 lands him in the boat and the Seth Green scores another to 

 its credit. Pretty soon I strike another, when, after playing 

 him a little, my 'attention goes to the canoe of ray friend,^ 

 which has just come up beside us. "How many?" "Two," 

 I shout, "one in the canoe and this one." But while talking 

 I drop the tip of the rod, which maneuver permits the fish 

 to get a straight puU upon the reel. This stupidity ends, as 

 it ought, in my flies coming back to me and "this one" tear- 

 ing out. It is a capital demonstration of the mechanism of 

 a fly -rod. Its perfect elasticity keeps an even tension on the 

 line, ruthlessly tiring out the' trout as he hugs the gravel, 

 fruitlessly gnashing his teeth against the vapid fly. More 

 than this, it keeps the hook constantly pulling on the tissues 

 through which it has been drawn, and, provided steel and 

 flesh fail not, is a safeguard against unhooking by a sudden 

 rush toward the rod. 



Now comes the rain again, and for a time there is no rise. 

 We drop a little lower down, and Ed, behind me, groans, 

 "Guess I shell hev to change my shirt when I git home, 

 sure." But the wet lessens. I look at my watch and find 

 it ten minutes of 6. Just previously 1 have made a long cast, 

 seventy feet or more, and then reeled off thirty feet besides, 

 bv which the flies are carried down in the swift current 

 nearly to the broken edge of the pool. At the moment I 

 drop the watch into my pocket, instinctively I strike and 

 hook my third fish. In the first rush toward me he shows 

 himself to be a "big one." No foohng this time. I reel as 

 fast as possible half the line, and there he sticks. The huriy 

 is over, and I sit back and take account of stock. The birch 

 is against the tip of a submerged rock, kept broadside to the 

 current by the setting pole of the guide, and ten feet of water 

 is under us. The implements of warfare are a home-made 

 lancewood rod 104 feet long and 8 ounces in weight, a new 

 oiled-silk line, a salmon leader and new large flies. 1 guess 

 I can fetch him, and steadily give the butt. The fish inoves 

 a little toward me, and then whh goes a hundi-ed fed. of 

 line. I retrieve some of it and try the b\ut again. It is no 

 ^o; he at least is in no hurry to get in out of the wet._ An- 

 other dash, and this time for the surface, but 1 balk him by 

 rolling the tip under and giving a few yards of line. Mean- 

 time the rain echoes the line of the song, "But I go on for- 

 ever." My arm begins to cry out under the constant strain^ 

 and I shift the rod into the other hand. My friend in tlie 



adjoining canoe stops casting to watch the fray, and my 

 heart beats are climbing upward toward fever hmits. What 

 pleasure is there in comparison to the matching of skill 

 against strength? I can recall many exciting times in 

 professional life— my first baby and my first amputation 

 — but what are these to the solid rapture of the present? 

 But soberer thoughts intrude. Isn't this an instance of 

 the fish playing the man? I can't get him near enough 

 to net him, and I don't dare to reel in any more. 

 Finally I turn_ to Ed, who, patient fellow, holds steadily 

 on to liis setting pole, his eyes sparkling with a fellow 

 feeling, from his nose there trickles a gentle rill of rain, 

 and his broad shoulders bend to the pour. ' 'If you will put 

 the canoe where it will hold itself, and then take the rod, I 

 will net him." I turn my head back to my line and — "he's 

 gone," we both cry out. Not through lack of skill in hand- 

 ling—a steady strain on the rod made the tip show a liking 

 for the hand which grasped the butt— nor through breakage 

 of hook or leader. All I can say is he tore ont, and the 

 largest fish of the season is gone. 



Perhaps the United States' language wasn't aired for a 

 time. "The watch marked 6:57, sixty -seven minutes from 

 strike to loss, and thus ended the longest and hardest struggle 

 I ever had with a trout. 



And this was really my last fish, for though I whipped 

 the same pool thoroughly, nothing rewarded me, so finally, 

 for the last time in '85, the canoe takes me back through, 

 rapids and pool and shadow up to the house. The gripsack 

 is packed, rods are unjointed and covered, the steamer casts 

 ofl; for Greenville and the train at West Cove, while once 

 and again do recollections of that brave figiit press home. 

 Oh, if I could only have weighed, or even seen him! Why 

 did my hook fail me? When the snow whirls by my 

 window next winter, and, tired of business, I sit in my big 

 chair before the glowing fire, I shall take out that rod and 

 live it all over again. " The lancewood earned an honorable 

 place for itself beside its aristocratic neighbor, the split 

 bamboo, when down the river in the long pool and in the 

 rain of that Monday morning it made "its last cast." 



S. P. W. 



Portland, Mc. - 



PINE TREE CREEK. 



Ediior Forest and Stream: 



There are many men in the city of Boston to-day who can 

 remember the dciightfnl times thej^have had fishing for trout 

 in Pine Tree Brook, Milton, in the old days when trout were 

 plejity and sizable. I have an old nncle who tells of a two- 

 pounder caught there by himself. Although the primeval 

 pines which formerly guarded this brook are gone, yet a crop 

 of birches have grown up to take their place, and with the 

 exception that the water is a trifle lower than of yore, the 

 same conditions exist as in the days when the trout were 

 plenty. Nevertheless it is a melanchololy fact that the trout 

 are decreasing every year. Hitherto I have blamed the boys 

 in the vicinity, Avho are perpetually "skinning" the brook. 

 But recently I have learned that the shotgun fiend is also at 

 work. 



A few weeks ago, while hunting woodcock iu the neighbor- 

 hood of the brooii, I heard three reports of a gun with short 

 intervals between. Being curious to know who they were 

 and what they were shooting at, I started in the direction 

 of the sound, and soon encountered two boys, one of whom 

 was carrying a gun. They informed me that they had been 

 shooting at the trout in the brook. They said that they had 

 not killed any. Thinking that this was an exceptional case 

 and that they knew no better, I contented myself with giv- 

 ing them a piece of my mind with a little practical advice 

 thrown in. 



Last Saturday, happening to be near the pool where the 

 trout spawn, 1 crept to the edge, and looking iu I saw a 

 beautiful sight, ' There were at least twenty trout swimming 

 gracefully about, perhaps a dozen good-sized ones and one 

 big feflow, nearly if not quite a foot long. After watching 

 them for some time I caught a cricket and tossed it in. 

 Scarcely had it touched the water before a fine trout broke 

 water and seized it. It wasn't long before 1 missed the little 

 troutlings, the future hope of the brook. This pool had 

 alw.ays been a great resort for them, but now not one was to 

 be seen. Suddenly a green object at my feet with a brass 

 end explained the mystery; it was an empty shell. Some 

 one had been murdering trout with a shotgun. I suppose 

 that the shock kills the little ones outright Avhile it only 

 stuns the larger ones, and they float down stream, a dainty 

 meal for some mud turtle. 



Is there no way this slaughter can be stopped? With a 

 little care and protection Pine Tree Brook could be brought 

 back to its old glory. It is fed by springs of ice cold water, 

 some of which ' have never run dry. The bottom is part 

 sandy and part muddy and there are plenty of nooks in the 

 sides such as trout love. I wish our Fish Commissioners 

 would see what can be done. Fep. 



South Boston, Mass. 



The Kingfisheks.— Duluth, Minn., Sept. 2^.— Editor 

 Forest and Stream: The "Kingfishers' " camp has always 

 been interesting to me, because "I've bin thar." I love 

 camping, and have enjoyed some pleasant vacations on the 

 rivers and lakes so aptly described by Hickory, and have had 

 the pleasure of greeting Hickory and Uncle Dan'l. The 

 grip of the old bass fighter almost started the blood from my 

 fingernails. On the occasion named— the Black Lake trip 

 — f met them. The trip was an entire failure; they did not 

 get fish enough to supply camp with, so pulled out at once. 

 While the "calamities" of our large campit^ party wercbe^ 

 ino- loaded into two wagons, I spent the few moments con- 

 versing Avith the "Kingfishers" as the "calamities" of their 

 party were being loaded into a wagon, but not a rifle or gun 

 did we see. It is a singular thing that this charge .should be 

 spruno- on them, when'f or years they have been so highly- 

 spoken of by anglers who have been fortunate enough to 

 meet them. For four seasons I have camped and fished with- 

 in almost hailing distance of them, and until this time have 

 never heard them spoken of in other than pleasant terms, 

 and hoped they would come again. 1 hope the Carp Lake 

 letters will be resumed; I hav^e been waiting for them. And 

 if the "Kingfishers" cannot fish in dear old Michigan without 

 beimi stal)bcd in the rear, let them come up into Minnesota; 

 a family of anglers can promise them fine sport, and a fight 

 with as game a bass or tussle with a musky that will put 

 Uncle Dan- on his mettle, and that boy of mine is big enough 

 to "wrassle" with him, and will row or paddle him from 

 morn till evening without a grumble. We will find Hickory 

 some brook trout bigger than fingerlings, and plenty of them 

 too, while Misses Kit and Bob can try their skill against 

 a twenty-pound lake.— W. David ToMtm. 



