Sept. 13, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
329 
Two Weeks with the Bass and Pickerel 
At Intermediate Lake, Antrim County, Michigan 
By KINGFISHER 
O UR excursion for trout up Cedar River 
had been laid out for the next day, and 
accordingly we were astir long before the 
young eagles across the lake said a word about 
approaching daylight. The Scribe felt indis¬ 
posed, or had a premonition of what was to 
come, and said “he believed he would stay in 
camp and look after an accumulation of bile’ - — 
laziness, Jim called it—“that was a pesterin’ of 
him.” 
Jim and I had, however, made up our minds 
to have trout for supper, and taking the small 
boat and our tackle went to the foot of the lake 
and down Intermediate River a mile or more 
till we struck an old log road, used only in 
winter, leading through the swamp, another mile 
or more to the main road on the “hard land.” 
This we followed till we came to the “witness” 
tree at the intersection of the township lines, 
where Cutler’s instructions said, “Go due south 
eighty rods, and you will find Cedar River.” 
A farmer who happened along put us on the 
right track, and told us it was just a mile to the 
river, and when we reached the stream, we were 
satisfied he had a higher regard for the truth, or 
a better knowledge of distances than our friend 
Cutler. 
Striking into the township road, which was 
a mere trail, a half mile brought us to the brow 
of a high hill, and down this the devious path 
led us through a heavy wood to the edge of 
the swamp, through which flowed the river we 
were in search of. Across the swamp, perhaps 
a quarter of a mile wide, a corduroy road had 
been constructed, and two rude bridges of logs 
and poles scarcely two feet above the water, 
spanned the stream, which was here in two 
branches and separated by a strip of swamp a 
few yards wide. The stream itself, what we 
could see of it, was beautifully clear and cold, 
and after our tramp through the hot woods a 
copious draught of its icy water refreshed us 
wonderfully. Between the two bridges we 
“camped” and prepared for the sport. 
We had been told it would be useless to try 
to use fine tackle, as the “bresh” was so thick 
we would be sure to break our rods -getting 
through it along the stream, and fly-casting was 
utterly out of the question except in a very few 
spots where there were no fish. 
We had, therefore, taken with us a couple 
of light cane poles, nine or ten feet long, a line 
tied to each, of near the same length, hooks and 
a good chunk of lead to hold the bait “level” in 
the rapid water, and a dozen or more mussels 
(clams, the natives call them) for bait. Mussels 
are easily procured in the shallow water along 
the shores around the islands, and in shallow 
places in the rivers. Float your boat over them, 
and with a switch four or five feet long, sharp¬ 
ened to a flat point, you may get a dozen in as 
many minutes without getting wet. They lie 
partly buried in the sand with the shell usually 
open from an eighth to a quarter of an inch, 
(Continued from page 294.) 
and into this opening poke your sharpened stick 
and they at once close on it with a grip so firm 
that you may pull them from the sand and gravel 
when half buried, and lift them into the boat. 
The buff-colored, tough strip next the thin 
edges of the shell (the “foot" of the mussel) 
makes famous trout bait, and bass and pickerel 
take it with good relish when nothing better 
offers. 
Jim was so eager to take his first trout that 
he baited his hook and wormed his way through 
the bushes three or four rods below and began 
to fish, while I finished cutting up the bait. He 
said he had heard so much about the delights 
of trout fishing that he wanted to get at it right 
away and astonish the first “smarty” of a trout 
that went for his clam, by the easy and grace¬ 
ful manner in which he would be yanked from 
his native element. He had read up on “speckled 
beauties,” and the thrills of ecstasy that chase 
each other through one’s frame while playing 
one of the aforesaid s. b.’s, and he wanted to 
go back home and say to his friends that he 
had been thrilled; that “ketchin’ trout was no 
great shakes after all.” F'ive minutes after he 
disappeared in the bushes, and I heard a heavy 
splash in the water below, but thinking he had 
stepped on a rotten log which had broken and 
fallen into the stream, I paid no further atten¬ 
tion to it. 
A few minutes later the bushes parted and 
a discouraged, shiftless looking object stepped 
out on the corduroy, dripping with water, and 
listlessly^ dragging a fish pole after it. It was 
the frame of Jim, collapsed and shrunken. His 
pallid face, from which all color had fled, looked 
ghastly, and with chattering teeth and a sickly 
grin that tried hard to reach from one side of 
his full grown countenance to the other, he 
jerked out. “First trout—to get; thrills and chills 
—plenty of ’em,” and a few other similar re¬ 
marks that the occasion seemed to him to re¬ 
quire. 
While he unloaded his pockets of soaked 
matches, smoking tobacco, plug ditto, box of fish 
hooks, pipe, knife, cigars, etc., and spread them 
on a split log in the road to dry, I leaned up 
against the shattered stump of an old cedar and 
—"rested.” A few minutes in the broiling sun 
took the chill out of him and stopped the chatter 
of his teeth sufficiently to let him tell how it 
all came about. He had found a nice looking- 
pool forty or fifty yards below the road, which, 
judging from what he had read about trout 
streams, ought to be a good place for fish. 
The stream was about fifteen feet wide and 
four or five feet deep, and directly across it at 
the deepest point lay the moss-covered trunk of 
an old cedar, the greater part of it under water. 
Dropping his bait quietly in above the log, he 
saw a flash dart from under it, and a smart tug 
at his line told him that he had a “bite.” Thrill 
number one (with the ecstasy). A fierce jerk- 
wound line, hook and sinker around a branch 
eight feet overhead that hung over the middle 
of the stream, without the trout. All efforts to 
loosen it (from the bank) were fruitless, and 
the only way he saw to reach it was from the 
log across the pool. Stepping cautiously out of 
it, he placed one foot on a limb four or five 
inches in diameter that projected from the trunk 
straight up the stream, and pulling the branch 
down with the line in one hand, reached for the 
hook with the other. He was a few inches 
short, and taking another short step out on the 
limb, he stretched for it again, and just as he 
touched the branch the bark on the limb slipped, 
and he went backward his full length into the 
icy water. Thrill number two (ecstasy left out). 
He did not stop to examine the formation of 
the bottom, but coming to the surface with a 
snort, reached for his hat, which had floated off, 
clambered up on the log and back to the bank, 
still hanging on to his pole. He said the first 
sensation he felt when he struck the water was 
that it was boiling hot, and the next that all 
the blood in him had rushed to his heart and 
frozen there in a lump. 
A vicious yank broke the line near the sinker 
and he came skulking through the brush back 
to the road with his carrying capacity taxed to 
the utmost limit, with wrath and suppressed pro¬ 
fanity, which broke loose in full volume as he 
warmed up in the sun. This little side show 
spoiled the fishing in that pool, and it was the 
best looking piece of water we found during the 
day. Stripping off his pants and woolen over¬ 
shirt, we wrung them out and spread them to 
dry on the hot, clean logs and poles forming 
the road. Jim meantime seeking the shade of a 
friendly bush to ponder on the uncertain tenure 
of rotten bark on a moss-covered cedar limb, 
and group together the different “thrills” he had 
experienced in his first half hour's trout fishing. 
I took my way up stream to try my luck, 
leaving him to his solitary watch on his fast¬ 
drying raiment and his reflections. 
After floundering through an almost im¬ 
penetrable tangle of brush and fallen trees for 
three-quarters of an hour, occasionally finding 
a place where I could get to the water, I re¬ 
turned to the road with a trout of half a pound 
to find Jim getting into his nearly dry clothes, 
and ready to again try the temperature of Cedar 
River, if it got in his way. 
We went down the stream, passing the 
“Editor’s Sanctum” on the way, Jim stopping a 
moment to shake his clenched hand at his hook 
dangling from the branch over the water. Every 
step of our way was impeded by bushes and 
branches sweeping the ground, through which 
we pushed and struggled, dragging our rods 
after us. Trees and brush, bushes and trees, up¬ 
right trees, leaning trees, fallen trees, crossed 
and tangled, barred our way, and old logs here 
and there, covered with moss, green and rotting, 
helped to fill up the measure of our discomfort. 
Overhead the. thick branches kept out the sun’s 
