474 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[July 3, 1890. 



CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 



CHICAGO, III., June 24.— The gentlemen I met in the 

 first boat on Lone Stone Lake, in "Wisconsin, proved 

 to be Mr. C. D. Gammon and Mr. Cribben. These did 

 the hospitalities of the camp, and presently Mr. W. W. 

 McFarland and Mr. Tom Smythe came up in the other 

 boat, and we had a pleasant tali before the serious busi- 

 ness of fishing was resumed. It did not take long to 

 learn that the old campaigners, Charlie Gammon and 

 "Mac," had fixed up a very "comfortable camp. 



The guides of the party were Bert Louk and young 

 Blodgett, both of Three Lakes Station, Wis. It is proper 

 to say in advance that a trip to the mascallonge country, 

 if it is to be pleasant or successful, necessitates the em- 

 ployment of a guide. The country is big and difficult, 

 and a tenderfoot alone in it would be an object of pity, 

 always supposing he wants to leave the railway and get 

 out to where he can reasonably expect good fishing. 

 Boats can be obtained by the guides at less trouble and 

 about the same expense as that implied by taking in one's 

 own boats as this party did. The guides do all the row- 

 ing, and a steady all-day gait is what takes the fish. The 

 big catches are all made with such help, and the angler 

 need not expect to go into that country and meet success 

 without a guide to aid him. I presume that Louk and 

 Blodgett are as well known as any of the guides of that 

 region. Certainly our experience with them showed 

 them pleasant, willing and intelligent. To any parties 

 who want mascallonge, I should suggest that they write 

 to either of the above, and leave most of the planning of 

 the trip to them. As their time is taken up often a good 

 way ahead, it would be well to write early and set a 

 date. Then the guides will look around and take the 

 party just where the best fishing is at that time. The 

 regular charge of the guide is $2.50 per day and board. 

 One guide per boat is about the rule. Bert Louk told me 

 he was always glad to answer questions for any party 

 contemplating a trip into the woods, and I don't think 

 any one would regret trying him. Such points as these 

 are often neglected by those who "write up" a fishing 

 country, and the would-be angler finds himself subjected 

 to any amount of delay after his arrival on the grounds. 



It seems that last year Charlie Gammon had these same 

 oarsmen out with him on Lake Vieux Desert, or at least 

 that is my recollection. At any rate, he had splendid 

 luck up there and so tried it again this year. But though 

 the entire party, four rods, fished faithfully for three 

 days, they Jiad'no luck of the sort they wished. They 

 caught quantities of big-mouth bass, trolling, and also 

 wall-eyed pike, but Mr. MacFarland was lucky enough 

 to take a few small mascallonge, only one of any size was 

 struck, and that weighed only about 151bs., also to Mr. 

 Mf Farland's rod. It was on the advice of the two guides 

 that the party had pulled out and come down to the lower 

 waters. As all this was contrary to the reports I had 

 seen printed in a New York angling paper the week be- 

 fore, I questioned the guides very sharply on the point. 

 They told me emphatically that the New York paper had 

 been hoaxed by a local correspondent, and that, owing, 

 they thought, to the lately-erected dam at the foot of 

 Vieux Desert, the fishing in that lake had been poor this 

 spring and no good fish had been taken. The half-breed 

 boys of an old resident of the lake had speared a lot of 

 mascallonge, and had perhaps sold them, but the big fish 

 had not begun to rise. The settler in question told our 

 party that his boys speared 9 mascallonge in one night, 

 going from his house up to the point and back. This 

 man's name, I think, was Johnson. Any of the party will 

 know it. It seems to me the railway company, inter- 

 ested as it is in keeping this magnificent fishing at its 

 best, would do well to request this old settler to let up on 

 his spearing and to see if it can't get rid of that dam. As 

 to the dams all through these waters there is a difference 

 of opinion, but most of the guides think the clams hurt 

 the fishing. Everybodv knows that there are plenty of 

 good fish left in Vieux Desert, which is the largest of the 

 series of lakes. 



The truth about the mascallonge country for this sea- 

 son appeared to be this, at the time of my visit to the 

 country: The season was late and the water very high, 

 and the fish were thought to be late in their spawning. 

 The big fish had just began to rise a little, and there was 

 every probability that July would be abetter month than 

 June this year. The lower lakes of the Eagle Waters 

 chain were at that time the best. The guides advised 

 anglers not to go to Tomahawk waters, but to keep on 

 the Eagle Waters, east of the road. As to the branch of 

 the road running up to the northwest from Monico Junc- 

 tion, the Gammon party did not visit that country, and 

 we heard nothing about it, our guides not being familiar 

 with it. As to the abundance of the mascallonge, and 

 the question whether the waters are "fished out," it 

 would look very ill for me, after a limited experience of 

 four or five days, to pass any opinion upon that, and it is 

 usually unwise to take the experience of any one party, 

 either way. The fact is that mascallonge fishing is a good 

 deal like salmon fishing. Now you strike it big, and 

 now you don't. There is no fish more capricious or ir- 

 regular. You can't bet on a mascallonge a little bit. He 

 is a truly game fish, and like most other aristocrats of 

 his sort, in that you must await his pleasure. If you 

 don't happen to find him at home when you send up your 

 card, don't show bad taste and bad judgment by saying 

 he is no longer in the country, for on the very following 

 day he may receive you with open mouth. The best 

 thing to do is for me to tell what actually befell the mem- 

 bers of our party, and the reader may have this comfort, 

 that what he reads is true and untinged with any of the 

 interesting and interested romance which may possibly 

 invest certain local reports, such as those above alluded 

 to, which are injurious to the best interests of a fishing 

 country. 



If my memory serves me right, it was six mascallonge 

 that Mr. McFarland had taken before he came to Lone 

 Stone, and that evening he added another to his score, as 

 was testified by the revolver shot we heard from the 

 upper end of the lake. This was a small but very gamy 

 customer, which went out of water again and again, and 

 once, so Mac thought, cleared 20ft. of surface before he 

 struck the water again. The fish in this lake were very 

 gamy, and more were lost than taken. Mr. Smythe, in 

 the same boat with Mr. McFarland, had three strikes in 

 the same day on Lone Stone, and lost them all. He was 

 fast to a fine large fish, a 30-pounder, all the party thought, 

 and held him for over five minutes; but this being his first 

 experience at mascallonge fishing, he made the mistake 

 of thinking these fish should be treated like perch. The 



result need not be mentioned, but it cast a gloom over 

 the camp, for this was the first and almost the only heavy 

 fish of the trip. 



There is a little bay at the head of this lake, and here 

 on the following morning Mr. McFarland had a beautiful 

 rise, the fish, a fine 10-pounder, going clear out of water 

 as he struck, but not finding the hooks. Mac seemed to 

 have all the luck. Charlie Gammon said he did not have 

 a single mascallonge strike during the trip. This set us 

 to studying, and we wondered if part of this could not be 

 due to the fact that he was using a No. 6 Skinner instead 

 of a No. 8, which latter is the usual bait on the lakes. 

 Certainly the bulk of the strikes came to this No. 6 spoon. 

 I Temember that Mr. Skinner once wrote me that he did 

 not think the largest fish were always caught on the 

 largest spoon. 



This was a silver and red spoon. The guides prefer this 

 pattern, and we had better luck with it than with copper 

 and silver, gold and silver, etc., etc. 



I do not think much of trolling, for it looks too lazy 

 and too easy to suit me, but there is more to trolling for 

 mascallonge than at first might be thought. There is a 

 right and a wrong way. For instance, the guides will 

 not let you troll with a very long line, but will tell you 

 that method will take no fish. The theory is that the 

 fish five on the bars or close in shore. The boat is rowed 

 just clear of the weeds in either case. Usually there are 

 three spoons out. The "inside line" is thought to be 

 worth more than both the others. It is the shortest, 

 being only about 30ft. I should think. The next line out 

 is directly in the rear of the boat, and is about 10 or 15ft. 

 longer. This is "usually a handline. I think it might 

 well be dispensed with. I cannot see any conceivable 

 sort of sportsmanship in fishing with a handline, though 

 I suppose two-thirds of the mascallonge taken are yanked 

 on handlines. The third or outside line is on the deep- 

 water side of the boat, and is about 10ft. or so longer than 

 the stern line. It is thought that the mascallonge, being- 

 disturbed from his bed, darts out beneath the boat. We 

 often saw them do so. After the boat has passed it is 

 thought that fish curiosity leads him to swing in behind 

 to see what the boat was. About that time he sees one or 

 the other of the graduated spoon hooks, and for one 

 reason or another may make a run for it. Just why he 

 does this nobody knows. Bert, one of the guides, said, 

 "Why, he thinks it's something to eat, of course. That's 

 the only thing any fish bites for." Blodgett thought the 

 mascallonge struck more from rage than anything else. 

 "It makes him hot to see the spoon come playin' along 

 over where he was layin'," said he. 



Tliis revives the old question of why fish take the fly. 

 I have only one comment here, and it is that if ever any 

 fish bites through sheer fury and anger, in must be the 

 mascallonge. Its whole appearance as it strikes, tense, 

 quivering, going clear out of water in its rush, is one of 

 the sheerest and most savage rage. Every line of its mus- 

 cular body shows anger and impetuous haste to strike its 

 hated object. Let no one think for a moment that the 

 mascallonge is in the least like a pickerel. As well com- 

 pare a trout with a bullhead. The guides contemptu- 

 ously call the pickerel "snakes," and use no ceremony 

 with them, for none is needed. The mascallonge, whether 

 in water or not, is altogether a different fish from the pick- 

 erel. It is a beautiful fish, when first taken its skin is 

 fairly of a lustrous dark green, mottled with darker 

 spots, and all its outlines are strong and graceful. The 

 eye is singularly different from those of most fishes, and 

 resembles that of a fighting cock. It seems fairly to 

 glare, and I do not believe it a mere flight of the imagina- 

 tion to say that a mascallonge when led up alongside of 

 a boat will stare his captor squarely in the face and look 

 wicked and fearless out of his eyes. We took some mas- 

 callonge on which the irregular up and down stripes 

 across the body were so white and prominent as to give 

 the fish a zebra look. As to the strength and fury of 

 these fish in striking, I never saw anything like it, and 

 the angler who has never hooked a mascallonge has a 

 sensation ahead of him which he should hasten to expe- 

 rience. The fish is a strong, gamy fighter, and its quali- 

 ties are not apt to be exaggerated by any writer. 



The time of the gentlemen who made up the party was 

 now becoming very short. The second afternoon after 

 my arrival the teams came from Three Lakes to take the 

 party out, and camp was reluctantly broken , Mr. Gammon, 

 Mr. Cribben and Mr. Smythe runnning down to Chicago 

 on the ten o'clock train that night. This left me in a 

 still mascallongeless condition, and with a little impor- 

 tunity I persuaded Mr. McFarland to listen to the plead- 

 ings of Bert, the guide, who was himself not satisfied 

 with the results of the trip, and to stay over for a couple 

 of days with me. In my walk through the woods I had 

 fallen upon a quaint character, an old timber prospector 

 and woodsman by the name of Russell, who, with his 

 wife, had lately settled on a homestead by the roadside, 

 near Virgin Lake, near the "thoroughfare" leading up to 

 Lake Julia. (In that country every stream navigable for 

 boats and connecting two lakes, is called a "thorough- 

 fare.") Julia was as good a water as any, and had not 

 had a line wet in it this year. Mr, McFarland and I pre- 

 vailed upon him to keep us for a couple of days. A boat 

 and a few provisions were unloaded from the wagon as it 

 passed on its way to town, and here the party really 

 broke up, not without mutual regrets at parting. Busi- 

 ness interests called the Chicago contingent home, though 

 they longed to stay. "Mac" disliked to forsake his party, 

 but could not resist the chanoe for another " 'lunge." 

 As for myself, defrauded as I had been of my intended 

 stay with these pleasant camp companions, 1 simply 

 could not think of going back so soon, after having seen 

 so little of the country and not having yet taken a mas- 

 callonge. The result was very pleasant, and neither Mr. 

 McFarland nor myself had occasion to regret it, though 

 we said good-by ruefully as the wagon rolled off amid the 

 raillery of our friends, who openly commented upon us 

 as "cranks," "chumps," etc. 



From Russell's place on Virgin to the station at Three 

 Lakes is only five miles. Accordingly Bert, the guide 

 who was to stay with us, went on in to see his sweetheart, 

 promising to be on hand early next morning. Therefore 

 it was Mr. Russell who that evening after supper took us 

 out for a short experimental row around Virgin Lake, to 

 test the truth of the common report that there "were no 

 mascallonge in Virgin." 



We had not pulled more than three-quarters of a mile 

 from the house, and were running under a deep green 

 bank of forest, which made the beautifully clear water 

 also look deeply green, when there came a sudden rush 



and a great splash, whereat every man in the boat called 

 out simultaneously with the joyful shout "'lunge!" Again 

 it was Mac's No. 6, and again Mac's little fall-down, 

 broken-backed, patched-up bit of a lancewood bass rod 

 had to stand a battle with a fish too big for it. In this 

 bass rod I recognized the duplicate of a rod that I bought 

 six years ago of Eaton, in this city, before the firm went 

 out of business. I have the rod yet, and it is a good one, 

 though too pliant for bait-casting. 



At once on striking the fish, which we saw to be only 

 about a six or eight pounder, Mac called out to Russell to 

 pull out for deep water, and this was at once done, the 

 fish being towed bodily behind the boat on the rod. This 

 was kept up for ten or twelve minutes, I should think, 

 and at last the fish began to break water and to give up, 

 so that finally Mac led him alongside and he lay glaring 

 at us near at hand. He was booked through the upper 

 jaw, far back, and such had been his struggles that the 

 nook had cut a slit through the bone nearly two inches 

 long, and was hanging loose. That is the way a mascal- 

 longe gets loose. They are a heavy fish, and will not 

 stand snubbing. On a stiff rod this fish would have got- 

 ten away. Too stiff a rod is not desirable. The little 

 bass rod held on tenaciously, and at length Mac passed 

 his hand along the fish's back (a mascallonge will usually 

 allow you to stroke and handle him in this way if you do 

 not make any sudden motion), and by finding a hold on 

 the eye sockets, lifted him, amid a general whoop of ex- 

 ultation, into the boat. This was a regular wild zebra of 

 a fish, and a beauty if ever there was one. It weighed 

 6*lbs. 



We now struck a lot of "pike" and pickerel, and had 

 got about 251bs. of them in the boat when I got a 

 heavy, surging strike, just as we got opposite the head of 

 the rocky island. At once we turned about and pulled 

 for deep water. "You've got your 'lunge now, sure," 

 said Mac; and so it did seem. 



Now, I would rather not write about what happened, 

 but the fact is, we towed that fish clear across the lake, 

 up to the landing, and then began to row in circles, and 

 still we never got him to the top. We shouted to Mrs. 

 Russell to bring us down a gaff-hook or a revolver, but 

 she did not hear us. We thought of beaching the fish, 

 and planned a whole lot of things. At length we got 

 hitn in, and I wish I may die if it wasn't a pickerel! A 

 big fish, to be sure, and abnormally game for his kind, but 

 only a pickerel! I went mournfully to bed soon after 

 that, and hadn't very much to say to anybody. 



The mosquitoes fairly swarmed. Unprotected, the 

 sportsmen in that country would have no sport. But 

 we were not seriously put out by these pests. We used 

 good head nets and long gloves, and applied liberally a 

 compound of pennyroyal and vaseline. A bttle smudge 

 kettle, set in the main room of the house, did much to 

 thin the fiends out, and on turning in for the night we 

 availed ourselves of one of Charlie Gammon's camp in- 

 ventions, which will guarantee a good night's rest to 

 anybody in an atmosphere of liquid mosquito. This was 

 simply a wide sheet, made by sewing together strips of 

 mosquito bar. We spread it over the whole bed, and the 

 high head board kept it off our faces. In camp, Charlie 

 rigged up a frame, about 2|ft. high, which extended 

 entirely over the sleeping room of the tent. Over this he 

 threw his mosquito sheet. On going to bed each man 

 crawled under the net, which was then made fast at the 

 bottom by heavy sticks rolled upon it. The frame was 

 made of long and light tamarack poles, only two or three 

 cross pieces on top being necessary. The space beneath 

 the bar was plenty wide and long enough, so that no 

 nightmare mascallonge dream would suffice to make one 

 roll against the bar and pull it down. In the morning 

 the bar above us was usually so black with dead mos- 

 quitoes we couldn't see the break of day. I presume 

 more'n 400,000 mosquitoes wept themselves to death 

 every night because they couldn't get at us. The mos- 

 quito game is one that can be beaten. If a fellow hasn't 

 sense enough to go fixed for mosquitoes he would better 

 stay at home with his mother. 



I have spoken of towing the mascallonge behind the 

 boat as soon as it is hooked. I found that this is the 

 custom of the boatmen in that country. These boatmen 

 are anxious for their reputations and like to come in with 

 a good lot of fish. They have learned that the safest way 

 to handle these big fish is to drag them along until they 

 are exhausted, giving very little line. The guides rarely 

 lose a fish, if given their way about it, but they approve 

 only of very strong tackle, and do not seems to fully un- 

 derstand how the rod can save the line and how the reel 

 can save the rod. I fished with a big reel full of silk 

 line and one of Jim Clark's lancewood mascallonge rods. 

 I found that the fish couldn't smash me when I was care- 

 ful, and although I complied with the guide's request, 

 and submitted to tow and "drown" all my hsh on this 

 trip, the next time I go up I shall do nothing of the kind, 

 but shall pull for deep water, stop the boat and kill the 

 fish fair and square on the rod, and have the fun if I lose 

 the fish. I don't like this towing business, using the oars 

 instead of the rod and reel. There isn't enough skill in 

 it. It isn't fair and it isn't fishing. 



On our first morning at Mrs. Russell's we ate an early 

 breakfast, amid profuse apologies from the lady of the 

 house, because she "hadn't yet got all her things over 

 from the other house," and were out betimes. Bert, a 

 very tired and sleepy Bert, who had sparked all night 

 and walked five miles to row all day, thus offering us one 

 more example of the foolishness of the young human 

 heart, was on hand and we started up the "thorough- 

 fare" to Julia, finally traversing its two miles of crooks 

 and mosquitoes. 



We had hardly gotten into the main lake and were 

 pulling hard to get clear of the weeds, when a tremend- 

 ous fish sprang for Mac's spoon, while he was just pay- 

 ing out his line. The impetus of the boat was too great, 

 and the fish missed the spoon or barely struck it, falling 

 back with a splash as great as if a calf had dropped in 

 the lake. This was the largest mascallonge I saw on the 

 trip. We thought it weighed between 20 and 301bs. We 

 could not get him to rise again. 



We now started on around the lake, and in a pretty 

 little bay of deep water we got a screaming hot strike on 

 my spoon and at once started for clear water, and after 

 a good " wrassle" we brought up and shot through the 

 head a fine mascallonge of about our average, 5 or 61bs. 

 In working this, my first mascallonge of this trip, I fol- 

 lowed the instructions of the guide implicitly, for I knew 

 he wanted the fish as badly as I did. He directed me to 

 keep the rod with the tip close to the water. These 



