490 
Forest and Strea^t 
THE COLONEL AND THE MUSKIE 
l 
HOW A MASTER FISHERMAN PLAYED AND BROUGHT TO GAFF 
HIS MOST HIGHLY COVETED TROPHY ON LIGHT BASS TACKLE 
T he Colonel, as he is known to a 
host of friends, is an elderly man, 
quiet of speech and in no way 
portraying the “sport”; yet this 
same soft-spo!:en, kindly man, is known 
as the best fisherman on the St. Law- 
rence River, not only because his catches 
outstrip those of the numerous other men 
of the St. Lawrence fishing clan, but 
because of his subtle skill in handling his 
rod and reel. 
It was during the Colonel’s thirty- 
fifth consecutive year on the St. Law- 
rence that it was my good fortune to ac- 
company him on the day he landed his 
most highly-coveted trophy, a huge mus- 
kellonge. It was caught on light bass 
tackle, and it appeared to me to be a 
wonderful exhibition of skilful rod ma- 
nipulation. 
The Colonel had for the twenty-fifth 
year engaged old Bill Sherman, an In- 
dian half-breed, as guide. Bill was at 
that time seventy-five years old, but hav- 
ing been born and raised on the river, 
and having lived a rugged outdoor life, 
he was at seventy-five what many men 
aspire to be at forty. He was of medium 
height, and his arms and hands were 
like pine knots. The best guide on the 
river was old Bill. 
•Being absolutely devoid of teeth, it 
was his wont to chew tobacco, and Bill’s 
tobacco chewing proclivities are worthy 
of mention. When the fish were not bit- 
ing, Bill chewed slowly — bovine fashion 
— spat unconcernedly and with poor aim. 
When the Colonel got a strike. Bill’s 
jaws began to work faster, his eyes glis- 
tened, and every nerve in his bronze 
hewrinkled face tightened. When the 
Colonel hooked one Bill spat like a rifle 
shot, projecting a huge amount of to- 
bacco juice, with unerring aim, at some 
unfortunate water bug, fly or insect. 
N a warm August morning we left 
the Thousand Island House dock 
at seven-thirty, embarked in Bill’s old 
motor boat, the Raymond, which was 
neither speedy nor beautiful, but won- 
derfully seaworthy and “fishy”-looking. 
After the usual conversation, coincident 
with starting, the Colonel said: “Well, 
Bill, what’s the verdict this morning?” 
“Wall,” drawled Bill, “too hot for 
Chippewa, too clear for Oak Island; 
kinda thought we’d best try the Canadian 
side, more islands and shade.” 
“Good, Bill, good,” replied the Colonel, 
as he seldom challenged Bill’s judgment 
when it came to picking fishing locations. 
I lay back in a comfortable wicker 
chair and breathed deeply of the clear, 
snappy air, scarcely able to wait till we 
should “get at ’em.” 
The Colonel, a twinkle in his eye and 
a suppressed grin elevating the corners 
of his mouth, rigged up his tackle. He 
was using a five-foot-six steel bass rod, 
By EDWARD N DECKER 
a jeweled quadruple-action reel, with 
fifty yards of Jap silk, sixteen-pound test 
bass line and a number 1 O’Shannessy 
bass hook. He handled his rod as one 
would a coveted treasure, seeming to 
say, “Old fellow, we’ve had some great 
old fights together ; here’s hoping for 
more — even better.” 
I rigged up, using somewhat similar 
tackle, though not kept in such remark- 
able condition as that of the Colonel’s. 
All this time we were passing through 
narrow defiles in the rocks, barely graz- 
ing sunken shoals, bucking the swifter 
waters of the channels and rounding- 
numerous points, which unfolded to our 
view ever-changing scenes, wonderfully 
inviting and pleasing to the eye. I for- 
Near the end of his fight 
got about fishing entirely, so completely 
was I absorbed in the beauty of this 
kaleidoscopic scene — a steady procession 
of beautiful trees, rocks, houses, camps 
and water. 
I was aroused to realities by a drawl- 
ing “Waal, hyar we be !” And sure 
enough, we were landing at an old half- 
sunken dock — Public Lands Number 3 in 
Canada. Bill made the Raymond fast 
to the dock, changed the water in the 
bait-pail, pulled his rowboat alongside, 
and the Colonel and I boarded it. It was 
now scarcely eight-thirty. 
We fished with mediocre luck for the 
first hour, getting three bass and two 
pickerel, or “slinkers,” as Bill calls them. 
These guides have an intense disgust for 
pickerel, desiring rather to catch nothing 
than one of them. 
Fishing around a stony shoal jutting 
out from the head of a small island — 
Reciprocity by name — we were rewarded 
with but a few non-productive nibbles. 
Bill was chewing slowly and spitting at 
random. About fifty yards down the 
shore from this shoal the water passes 
between two islands — Reciprocity and 
Wiser’ s — in a narrow- stream some thirty 
feet wide, continuing thus for seventy or 
seventy-five feet, where it widens out 
again to perhaps a quarter of a mile. At 
the head of this narrow channel is a 
shoal some eight or ten feet deep, over 
which the clear water flows very swiftly. 
Once over it slackens its pace, as the 
channel is from tw-enty to thirty feet 
deep, with long w-eeds fringing each side. 
At the foot of this gut is another sunken 
stone pile, over which the water rushes 
to get out to the broad stretches below. 
We baited up anew with small blue- 
siders before fishing the upper shoal, as 
it is a very likely place for bass. Bill 
took a generous palm full of smelly, 
flakey tobacco from his greasy weather- 
beaten pouch, kneaded it into a ball, 
rammed it into his mouth, and with a 
gnarled finger poked it into its resting- 
place — far back between his jaws — took 
a pull at his scrawmy, sandy-colored mus- 
tache, and with a satisfied grunt settled 
back at the oars. 
O LD Bill -w'orked us carefully down 
over the upper shoal, with the result 
that I hooked into a bass, which being 
small I had no trouble bringing to net. 
Scarcely had Bill rebaited my hook when 
the Colonel stiffened up and — crack ! — 
he also set the hook into a small one. 
He had about twenty feet of line out 
and had easily worked back some ten 
or twelve feet of it when suddenly the 
handle of the reel was jerked from his 
hand; the line fairly smoked from his 
reel. At one rush this mysterious 
stranger had taken out some fifty feet ; 
of line, slackened up and let go. I 
Bill and the Colonel guessed it to be a 
huge pickerel, as they are known for 
their ferocity in attacking smaller fish. 
Somewhat puzzled, the Colonel reeled in 
his small bass, which showed teeth 
marks of some large fish which had 
grabbed him just above the tail. i 
By this time we were well down over 
the lower shoal below the pool. “Well, 
Bill,” said the Colonel, “they say big 
ones run in pairs. Let’s try it again.” 
Bill worked the boat carefully up to 
the head of the rift again, baited me up 
with a small sucker and the Colonel with 
an inch-and-a-half perch minnow. Our 
intention was to try for more bass com- 
ing over the upper shoal. We worked 
down slowly for about thirty feet when | 
the Colonel’s line tightened out. He . 
raised the tip of his rod, but was evi- i 
dently caught fast on bottom. ! 
