Aug. 19, 1905 . 1 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
IB 8 
7-0 will do. The best hook of all to use is the O’Shaugh- 
iiessey. The lead, which must be heavy enough to sink 
the spoon nearly to the bottom when the boat is in mo- 
tion, should be attached to the line about two or three 
feet above the spoon. As already intimated, the blood 
worm is the best bait for large and general catching. If 
two hooks are employed, three or four worms are used, 
and they are looped from one hook to another, so as to 
form a wriggling bunch. The boatman will probably put 
them on the hooks much better than the angler, so he had 
better be allowed to- do the job. 
If the fishing is good, it will probably require about 100 
blood worms for one day’s fishing, and these worms can 
be secured from sporting goods dealers in New York, 
Philadelphia or Baltimore. The angler sits in a chair in 
the stern of the boat and pays out from seventy to sev- 
enty-five feet of line, while the boatman zig-zags slowly 
up the pool and through the “swifts.” Unless the bottom 
is struck every now and then the sinker is not heavy 
enough, for the striped bass lies among the great rocks 
at the bottom of the pool. When the top of the pool is 
reached the boat is turned and goes spinning down 
through the swifts at the rate or six or seven miles an_ 
hour. When a striped bass strikes he does so with an 
earnestness which indicates that he had fully made up 
his mind what to do, and the moment the hook is driven 
into his jaw the fish turns and makes for the Chesapeake 
Bay at the greatest speed he is capable of. If he be a 
good-sized specimen he will take out anywhere from 
fifty to seventy-five yards before he can be turned, and in 
this connection it is advisable that every angler wear a 
thumb stall lest the skin on his thumb part company, 
while he is trying to put pressure on the spool. The 
angler .should be cautioned when at length he can take 
hold of the handle of the reel to do so with the thumb 
and forefinger only, because after the fish has once been 
turned and he is being drawn toward the boat he may 
I suddenly take it into his head to object, in which case, if 
the fisherman has the handle in the ordinary manner, he 
may receive a bruised or even a broken finger from the 
sudden jerk at the second run of the fish. 
The fight of a good-sized striped bass will last from 
five to twenty-five minutes, according to his weight, the 
water temperature and the part of the pool in which the 
fish happens to be. The striped bass, when he gives up, 
does so suddenly and can then be drawn to the net like 
a wet rag. Apparently he has only three tricks in fight- 
ing, and these ai'e the most moss covered used by the 
black bass. He has a way of shaking his head, and some- 
limes when the line is close to the boat, of turning on 
end and trying to strike the line with his tail and so tear- 
ing the hook loose. Sometimes he comes to the surface 
and breaks water without leaping and so tries to free 
■himself of the hook on the slack line. When the fish is 
first hooked the boatman paddles his boat to the nearest 
bit of back water, where it can rest quietly while the fish 
is being played. When the fish are running properly, a 
day’s fishing will yield from twenty-five to fifty. Anglers 
from New York and Philadelphia will arrive at Octoraro 
at 5 o’clock in the evening and be taken by the boatman 
to the fishing grounds and to supper when night falls. 
It is not only necessary to secure accommodations a 
week ahead but it is also necessary to secure the boatman 
at the same time. Either Mrs. Caldwell or Mr. Irwin will 
secure boatmen at the request of anglers. As the duties 
of a boatman are rather severe, he charges $4 a day for 
his work. 
There is also good striped bass fishing at Conowingo, 
about six miles above Octoraro, and also at Bald Friars, 
which is w'ithin the Pennsylvania line. 
Passengers from New York or Philadelphia must 
necessarily take the Pennsylvania Railroad to Perryville 
on the P., W. & B. brancli, and there take the Port 
Deposit branch on the Pennsylvania Railroad. The Penn- 
sylvania train arrives at Peddyville about 4 o’clock in the 
afternoon and the Port Deposit train leaves about ten or 
fifteen minutes later. 
It is fortunate that an angler may catch striped bass at 
Octoraro to his heart’s content when they are running 
freely, without much danger of his being denominated a 
“hog” fisherman, for his boatman will gladly receive as a 
gift all the surplus fish and can readily dispose of them in 
the market of Baltimore. W. E. Meehan. 
An Indian Fish Story, 
Mr. Fred Swindlehurst, in the Journal of American 
?olk-Lore, tells a number of stories which he heard under 
singular circumstances among the Cree Indians on the 
shores of Janies Bay,' near the mouth of Pontiac’s Creek. 
\ group of these Indians were seated about a blazing 
:amp-fire, silent and moody, enjoying their evening 
smoke. It was a cold and dark night in autumn. Sud- 
ienly one of the men began to relate a story. At first his 
imice was low and agreeable, but when he came to ad- 
ventures of war his tones rose and his gestures grew 
violent. The audience listened to his tales with no sign 
jf incredulity, and occasionally grunted approval. It 
.eems that these stories are told only in the autumn, and 
hat it is supposed to bring bad luck if they are told at 
my other season. Apparently the proverbial fish story is 
:ommon to the whole genus humanum. We quote Mr. 
5windlehurst’s record of “A Big Perch” story with his 
nmnient : 
“Some Indian hunters were camped along the shores 
if Lake Mistassini. As fish and game were plentiful they 
ivere happy and contented. One evening they missed one 
if their number, and though they searched everywhere 
ould not find him. They had many days given him up 
ror dead, when he surprised them by calmly walking into 
amp. On their asking him where he had been he told 
he following story: 
“ ‘That night you lost me I was at the bottom of the 
ike, where I saw all kinds of fish, some pretty, somc' 
gly, and some savage. There was one perch so large 
aat he could not turn around m the lake, but had to 
wim up and down without turning.’ ” 
The above story has been handed down from father to 
on, and even to-day Indians refer to the “big perch’’ 
List as seriously as if it really existed. Lake Mistassini 
i 120 miles long and twenty miles wide, so the legend 
ar eclipses the white man’s story of the sea serpent.— 
lew York Evening Post, 
The Log of a Sea Angler. 
BY CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER. 
Among the California Channel Islands — Camp at San Cle- 
mente — Fine Fishing — Ancient Inhabitants — Whitefish 
on the Rod — The Sheepshead, 
Among the islands strung along the coast of Southern 
California, a chalice of emeralds in settings of azure, 
the sea angler finds a new field for strenuous and 
manly sport with the rod. They are isles of summer, 
bathed in the seas of eternal spring, and in their peculiar 
climate lies the secret of their many attractions. 
The islands, beginning with the Coronados, the 
“Desert Isles” of Vizcaino, and including San Clemente, 
Santa Catalina, San Nicolas, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, 
San Mignel and Anacupa, lie parallel to the coast in 
a general way, and are from eighteen to eighty miles 
from it. They are the peaks of an off shore coast 
range, submerged and separated from the shore by 
deep and abysmal canons, and from the land appear 
like great sea monsters crouching on the surface of the 
sea of Balboa. They are all swept by the Black Current 
of Japan, or Kuro Sivo, the Asiatic gulf stream, which 
flows up the coast of Asia from the tropics, crosses 
to America, and sweeping down the American coast 
bears perennial summer upon its crest. 
The result, so far. as the islands are concerned, is to 
produce a winter of verdure, the moderate rains of 
fifteen or twenty miles giving them green slopes, 
flowers, and a climate something like that of Madeira 
without its heat. 
In the summer come cool and constant winds from 
the west, giving the angler cool and delightful weather 
in a land where the palm and other tropical and semi- 
tropical trees characterize the landscape. We have, 
then, cool summers, and mild, soft winters, without even 
frost, which, combined with smooth water on the lee 
of the island mountains, produces one of the most de- 
lightful fishing grounds I have ever found. 
It was in 1885 that I first landed at Santa Catalina, 
and when I _ saw men landing fishes weighing from 
twenty to thirty pounds from the beach, fishes which 
broke big cod lines as though in sport or play; and 
were played by strong and lusty men ten or fifteen 
miniLtes on hand lines before they were landed, I came 
to the conclusion that I had discovered a sea angler’s 
paradise, and forthwith sent for my rod which, I be- 
lieve, was the first to bend in these quiet and sequestered 
waters. 
The coast of California is remarkable for its lack of 
bays, coves or harbors. From San Francisco to San 
Diego the real harbors number but two — Monterez and 
San Pedro — and the latter is partly artificial. The 
coast line in the main is swept by the sea, which piles 
in upon long sandy beaches, with rocky points here 
and there, and few if any coves similar to those on the 
Atlantic seaboard, and as a result, the large game fishes 
do not frequent the mainland shores in great numbers 
but are found out in the channel or at the islands, which 
are_ the natural feeding and spawning grounds for a 
series of fishes remarkable for their size, numbers and 
game qualities. 
The islands, which range from twenty iniles in length 
to seven in width, lie parallel to the mainland shore, 
the north end of Santa Catalina being but eighteen 
miles from land. San Clemente is about forty miles 
off shore, and the Santa Barbara Islands about twenty. 
They form a shelter from the prevailing west wind, 
and the canons, which wind down their mountains like 
rivers of verdure, end in little bays and coves, where 
the angler might well imagine himself on some inland 
stream far from the ocean. 
Nearly all the islands are private property and per- 
mission must be obtained to land, Santa Catalina being 
the only one having accommodations for visitors, a 
town and regular steamers every day. 
There are few places on the globe where a skipper 
can guarantee that during a cruise to last from the 
first of June to the first of October, there will not be 
a gale, storm or squall of any kind; not even thunder 
or lightning or a shower of rain, yet this guarantee was 
offered us as we left San Pedro one June morning for 
Avalon, thirty miles down the Santa Catalina channel. 
Our vessel was a fine 70-ton sail and power schooner 
yacht, trim, fast and seaworthy; and we ran down to 
Avalon Bay, a miniature bay of Naples, in three hours 
and anchored off the dock, facing Grand Canon that 
almost cuts the island in two here. The bay was a 
picture with its fleet of launches and yachts, while the 
little town seemed to reach away up the slopes of the 
picturesque mountains, the summits of which were lost 
in the blue haze. 
The name Avalon has a romantic association, with 
King Arthur, and_ the American Avalon is quite as 
romantic and beautiful, being a perfect half-moon beach, 
environed by mountains and rocky cliffs. The water 
is as smooth as glass, and as clear as crystal, while 
its turquoise blue renders it an object of great beauty 
when contrasted with the green slopes of winter and 
early spring. We took our equipment aboard at Avalon 
— camping outfit and three boatmen and their boats, 
which were strung out astern and towed. That night 
we turned in having given instructions to sail at four, 
and when we came on deck the next morning Santa 
Catalina was far astern like a great whale on the sur- 
face, and San Clemente loomed up ahead on the sum- 
mer sea. We made the island by 7 o’clock and ran 
down the east coast, anchoring in Gallagher’s Cove, 
the island having no harbor of any kind. The coast 
was rocky, lofty cliffs rising all around the south end, 
and a bed of kelp forming a protecting belt about it. 
The tents in the boats were taken ashore by the men 
and raised on a little plateau hardby the landing, and 
as no rain was expected, it was an easy matter. In 
fact, it was a queer camp — no rains, no storms, no 
mosquitoes, no black flies, nor “punkies,” nothing but 
fleas, which were there, though I did not see them. It 
was really too good to last, and the old campaigners 
of the party could not but believe that there was some- 
thing to be sprung on them at the last moment. The 
tents were open, the long table without shelter (Cali- 
fornia fashion), and at night a fine log fire took off the 
chill and reminded the campers of the Adirondack 
smudge they all knew and loved. 
While the men were making camp I strolled along the 
rocky cliffs, no easy matter just there, as they were pre- 
cipitous, and covered with cactus intO' which one would 
roll if a slip were made; yet there were innumerable goat 
trails which terraced the steepest places and led- along 
shore. A turn around a rocky point and one might have 
been ten thousand miles from civilization. High cliffs of 
brillant colors — the deep blue of the ocean — the sharp 
olive hue of the kelp beds, the flash or glint of the golden 
perch below, the cry of the sea eagle, all combised to lend 
a peculiar romance or atmosphere to the scene and place. 
The cliffs rapidly dropped as I made my way north, 
and in a short time came to a sandy waste of dunes which 
the_ wind had tossed into remarkable shapes and over 
which innumerable sand rivers were running, carving the 
sand into strange yet beautiful slopes. 
Strewn over this sand desert were evidences of human 
occupation — shells (haliotis), burnt wood, bits of quartz, 
flint chips, black earth telling of Ketchin eviddens, and 
here and there a human bone projecting from the sand. 
Here the island had once been separated and the inter- 
vening channel filled with sand, forming a dazzling white 
isthmus. 
Crossing it F found the west side forty or fifty feet 
above the shore, covered with sand — a singular phenom- 
enon, as there were no sandy beaches at this point, the 
shore being rock that breasted the sea with a bold front. 
The sand was covered with a crust-like snow over which 
were sprinkled thousands of white bleached snail shells 
that crunched as I walked along. The dunes gradually 
rose, and it soon became evident that what had been 
canons had been filled with sand that had flowed like a 
river upward from the sea, so that the -canons appeared 
to be glaciers flowing down from the island hills and 
mountains. 
This vast sand glacier had been occupied by the ancients 
perhaps thousands of years ago. Everywhere the evi- 
dences of human occupation appeared — shells, stones, im- 
plements and occasionally huge stone mortars, but all 
broken and scattered about in reckless confusion. Strol- 
ling along, now one hundred feet above the sea, I sud- 
denly came upon a vast pit in the pure white sand. It 
must have been one hundred or more feet deep, its sides 
perfectly smooth and at an angle of about fifty degrees. 
At the bottom was a single tree — suggestive of the ver- 
dure that had once filled the canon, now blasted — and 
buried deep beneath the sand glacier. Some strange 
caprice of the wind had scooped out this pit, which I 
could only compare to the trap of an ant lion. The 
gleaming sides — perfectly smooth — presented an alluring 
jump, and in a sudden reversion to youth I drew back 
and in a running jump sprang from the edge going thirty 
feet through the air, striking the soft side of the sand 
cone and sliding quickly to the bottom in a miniature 
avalanche. After an arduous climb I reached the surface 
again, assuring myself that I had no spectators. 
So perfect was this pit, so mathematically correct, that 
it was hard to believe that it was not the work of man, 
yet the sculptor was the wind of San Clemente. 
This sand plateau was literally dotted with evidences 
of ancient human occupation and presented a fascinating 
field for inve.stigation, being in reality a graveyard and 
battleground of the unknown people who once lived here. 
Leaving it with reluctance I made a cut across the 
island hills through manzanita and cactus and crossing 
the divide saw the camp below me and soon reached it, 
finding the party at dinner in the open air. 
We discussed’ the original inhabitant, proposed his 
health and a better acquaintance, and sat about the drift- 
wood fire late that night listening to the stories of Mexi- 
can Joe and other boatmen. Joe was the oldest inhabitant 
of Santa Catalina, his ancestors were Spanish on the one 
hand of the Conquestadore stock and Aztec on the other, 
all O'f which gave a strong face and an interesting per- 
sonality. 
The sun routed us out in the morning, it seemed 
nearer at San Clemente, and rose out of a deep red cloud 
so suddenly that day seemed to come at once, but it was 
never hot. Over to the east the huge California desert 
was heating air like a caldron; this rose forming a 
vacuum_ and the air all along the coast flowed in there 
to fill it, creating a constant inshore wind that never 
failed during the day all summer. 
Here human nature and its vagaries asserted itself. 
Paring onions and potatoes under ordinary circum- 
stances is not an agreeable or exciting pastime, yet these 
anglers begged from Joe and the other cooks this privi- 
lege, and that the breakfast tasted better who shall deny. 
And as the perfume of that bacon filled the air and the 
sizzle of potato chips broke the stillness, there was joy 
indeed. We had routed out the professionals for one 
morning just to show what we could do, and set a pace 
we fancied that was hard to keep up. Wild goat chops 
smothered in onions, fried smelt, cakes, eggs and coffee 
was the menu, after which we pulled out to the yacht 
and remembered that we were anglers, not campers. The 
kelp bed was at least fifty feet wide here, its big broad 
leaves lying partly on the surface like huge snakes, and 
just outside of this the yacht swung, and away astern 
Mexican Joe had discovered a school of fishes, some of 
which must have weighed 10 or 15 pounds, if guessing 
counted for anything at San Clemente. ' 
We had what is known as yellow-tail tackle, rods 
about the weight and size used for striped bass in the 
East. My rod was longer and lighter than the average. 
I had one butt and three sizes of tips in lengths and 
weights, and for the game in hand I rigged a rod eight 
feet in length, the tip being pliable and slender, yet suffi- 
ciently powerful to lift a is-pound fish should it have a 
fit of sulks. 
I used a 4-0 O’Shaughnessy hook, with a short wire 
leader or snell, a No. 16 cuttyhunk line and a Vom Hofe 
reel that would hold at least 200 feet when wet. We had 
brought a supply of smelt and sardine bait frorn Avalon- 
as it was almost impossible to catch bait at Sari 
Clemente, and this small fry was the lure for almost all 
kinds of game in these waters; but when Mexican Joe 
saw the fishes astern he shouted for crawfish and pro- 
nounced the game “whitefishes.” • 
By tossing over the crawfish shells he soon had these 
attractive fishes within twenty or thirty feet of the stern 
where we could see them plainly and mark their many 
