436 FOREST AND STREAM AUGUST, 1920 
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MEMOIRS OF A BASS FISHERMAN 
SOME METHODS OF TAKING THE DOUGHTY WARRIOR OF OUR LAKES AND STREAMS 
WHICH HAVE BEEN EVOLVED THROUGH MANY YEARS OF PRACTICAL EXPERIENCE 
By the author of “ TROUT LORE ” 
B LACK bass were the first fish for 
which I angled away back in boy- 
hood days, and while in later years 
I have specialized on trout, so to speak, 
still I have retained a warm place in my 
heart for the doughty warrior of boy- 
hood days, fishing - for him at every op- 
portunity, employing all the orthodox 
methods as well as some that may be re- 
garded as slightly heterodox. (In my 
fishing, as in my theology, I like to blaze 
my own trail.) Some day I plan to in- 
corporate my bass findings into a volume 
to be called “Bass Lore”; till then I must 
content myself with spilling a little 
knowledge now and then through the out- 
door press. 
As the reader will infer from my title, 
I have carried on a long flirtation with 
the bass, conducted in various waters 
and under diverse conditions, not simply 
with a desire to take fish, but also to add 
to my store of bass lore. In boyhood my 
fishing was done with a long cane pole 
and heavy twisted cotton line, to which 
was attached a somewhat large hook 
adorned ordinarily with one of two live 
baits, — minnow or frog. Let me say in 
passing that that outfit had several 
things to commend it: the hook was so 
large that small fish were seldom taken, 
and when hooked Bronze-back was given 
a chance to make his get-away. I was 
still a boy when a chance copy of a fish- 
ing tackle catalog fell into my hands and 
I added reel-bands and a twenty-five cent 
brass reel to my cane pole, much to the 
amusement of my bare-footed compan- 
ions ; but I played my fish from the reel, 
experiencing new delight and satisfac- 
tion, catching more fish too. (Paren- 
thetically: I seemed to have been born 
with what I am pleased to call “fish 
sense”; I have always known instinctive- 
ly where to cast and how.) 
I well remember the first jointed “pole” 
I owned, it had four four-foot joints, for 
I earnestly believed that a long pole was 
an absolute necessity. At last, after sev- 
eral years of casting and experimenta- 
tion came a day when that pole was cut 
down to a six-foot-six rod, and the boy, 
man grown, had arrived at the real scien- 
tific angling stage. For long years I 
clung to that six-foot rod, even after 
all my companions had turned to the 
shorter tool, but now I employ the five- 
foot-six caster for practically all bass 
fishing, save when live bait firhing where 
I can do so, then I turn to that dear old 
six-footer with delight. However, there 
is no real necessity for other tool than 
Hung up on the back cast 
the five-foot-six rod; with it I can, but 
shucks! What’s the use? Every angler 
acquainted with the modern short rod 
knows its possibilities, casting power and 
sweet action, while there is no use trying 
to convince those too prejudiced to even 
try a well made five-foot-six split-bamboo 
or steel rod. 
It is a far cry from that brass reel 
mentioned a moment ago as my first 
winch, to the modern quadruple which 
finds a secure resting place on the up- 
per side of my casting rod. Today there 
is a casting reel for every variety of 
angling. Now I have investigated those 
fancy winches, tried them out at length, 
but for me, forever give me the regula- 
tion reel with only the level winding de- 
vice added. I desire to thumb my own 
reel, even as I prefer to thump my own 
typewriter and aim my own rifle. As to 
the free-spool feature, well, I am old- 
fashioned I guess: save for show work, 
when fishing for fish, give me the ancient 
gear. I do not want the reader to imag- 
ine for one instant that I am decrying 
the newer reels for I am not, most de- 
cidedly not, they are fine, well worth 
every cent they cost, for the men who 
enjoy them, I don’t, that’s all. Perhaps 
I am a reactionary, whatever that is, 
but at any rate I am a wee bit old-fash- 
ioned in the matter of selecting winches. 
W HEN it comes to lures, I employ 
three plugs, of the surface, sur- 
face-underwater, and underwater 
types, particular names of which need not 
enter here because not of utmost value. 
What’s in a name, anyway? While I 
have my favorite in each type, so has 
the other fellow, and what is right for 
him is right for him, though not neces- 
sarily for me. If he does not go on the 
war path after my scalp I will leave his 
hair where nature intended it. So I 
upon occasion use live bait even as I did 
in boyhood days. Bless you, there are 
days and waters when and where no kind 
of bait in the heavens above, the earth 
beneath, or in the waters under the earth, 
equals a small meadow frog. By the 
same token, when the basses, large- 
mouths especially, seek the deeps of the 
lake as they do in hot weather, there is 
nothing so fair and attractive in their 
eyes as a live shiner-minnow swimming 
about in the depths. The angler who 
will not gratify their desires is a “wee 
bit superstitious”, to borrow Walton’s 
well-remembered phrase regarding 
another matter. And why not, pray? 
Why all this pother about bait or arti- 
ficial lures? To my mind it is utterly 
beside the question. And lastly, more 
and more I am coming to the use of arti- 
ficial flies, which requires another sort of 
rod of course; but I do not consider my- 
self one whit more a sportsman when 
employing the feathers than when using 
plugs or live bait. 
But I must say there is more pleasure 
in playing a small-mouth on a light fly- 
rod — I consider five ounces light — than 
when battling the same fish with short 
rod and multiplying reel. Recently I saw 
a bass rise close in shore, his verdigris 
side gleaming in the rays of the sun, a 
fish of such proportions that I held my 
breath and my heart skipped a couple 
of beats. (You know the feeling.) I 
had my casting rod in my hand, and as 
the canoe swept by the spot I sent the 
lure splashing right where experience 
said it would do the most good but with 
no result. The river was rapid but 
nevertheless I painfully made my way 
back upstream again and waited for fif- 
teen minutes for the water to quiet, keep- 
ing a jealous eye out for other fisher- 
men. Then with my fly-rod in hand, a 
willow fly at the end of the leader, I 
eased the canoe down as best I could; 
but the stream was rapid as I have al- 
ready remarked, and the light craft 
bounded along “like a streak of greased 
