78 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Jan. i8 , 1913 
Large- and Small-Mouthed Bass. 
BY CHARLES CRISTADORO. 
Those who have followed the gamy bass in 
many waters seem to agree that around Osakis 
and Alexandria, Minnesota, are grouped more 
superb bass lakes than in the same area else¬ 
where in the world. 
Over twenty years ago I fished these lakes, 
favoring Lake Ida, and like the shattered jar, 
the memory clings around it sttill. Suffice it to 
say that having been a shut-in for nearly eight 
years, now oscillating between a sick bed and 
an invalid chair, I am fishing always in the past, 
the days that are gone. My favorite 12-bore 
gun, the muzzleloader, stub and twist double 
barrel of my youth (a superb masterpiece of 
the gunsmith's art before the advent of the 
breechloader, a gun that had been made to order 
“regardless” in England for Commodore Chaun- 
cey, of the LJ. S. Navy) ; a dozen or more fly- 
rods, tried and not found wanting; reels and 
duffle of all kinds, an accumulation of thirty 
years; instead of “venduing” these off to fall 
into the hands unappreciated, I turned the whole 
kaboodle over to a young trout and camera en¬ 
thusiast with the understanding that he was to 
hold them “in trust,” and when the hand of 
fate in years to come kept him aloof from forest 
and stream, he was to likewise pass them along 
in trust. 
It was a good move, for when that enthu¬ 
siast visits Shovel Creek near Klamath River, and 
whips the pools harboring four and five-pound 
rainbows, a friend is with him with a camera, 
and a faithful record is made, even to the pho¬ 
tographing of the workings on the spring balance 
when the fish were weighed. I insist on this 
because I too have been a fisherman, and every¬ 
body has heard of how the trout fishing father’s 
scales were called on for an interesting family 
event and made a seven-pound normal baby into 
a twelve-pounder, much to the surprise of doctor 
and nurse and pride of the mother. The father 
was undemonstrative, for he knew the scales, 
and he made the mental calculations, deducted 
five, and he alone, at the interesting ceremony, 
knew the real weight of that kid phenomenon. 
So when my friend goes fishing, I go fish¬ 
ing, too, for his camera is such a fine lensed one 
that the pictures are superbly true to life. 
But back to Lake Ida and the bass. It was 
my first visit, and Bedman, the guide (now let 
VIS hope carrying on the same occupation across 
the silent river) started off in the boat, loaded 
with lunch basket, frying-pan and coffee pot, 
turning eventually into a small bay where the 
water was still. 
It did not look good to me for small-mouthed 
bass (T did not want the large-mouthed cousin, 
especially in still warm water), but Bedman was 
doing the guiding and I let him so do. 
It was a minnow or small frog bait propo¬ 
sition, flies never seemingly producing anything 
further than a tired wrist on Lake Ida waters. 
A half-submerged log rested on the bank, 
thirty or forty feet away. “Lay your minnow 
alongside that log,” and I did. A swirl, the bait 
disappeared, a strike, and from the immobility 
at the business end of the leader I felt I had 
missed the fish and caught foul of the log. 
“Giving the butt” did not help any when “of 
a sudden” the line cut its way twenty feet or 
more toward deep water and stopped. More 
butt tactics produced no result. The fish was 
hugging the bottom, and thinking it over. I 
took out m3' jack-knife and tapped the metal reel- 
seat, when something happened, and up came the 
fish to see who was telephoning to him. He 
made no fight and came in after a few moments. 
Bedman tried the net on him, discarded it, had 
me reel him up close, slipped his fingers under 
his gills and holding him over the boat actually 
placed his big fist into his opened jaws. The 
scales noted pounds, and the scales were 
right, for they were the ones used by Charlie 
Fitz Maurice, who had used them on the lochs 
of Scotland. They were right then, and are 
right even yet. Three further casts were made 
resulting in much the same procedure and a 6)4i 
a 5 and a 4)4-pound large-mouth were the re¬ 
sults. 
Turning to the elated Bedman. I asked him 
if there was nothing else in the lake but large- 
mouths. “Why, yes, over there in the open lake 
at Sandy Point.” “'riiere’s where I want to go,” 
I replied. Bedman, when he knew me better, 
said at the time he thought me crazy for leav¬ 
ing such fishing. 
But we struck them rich on the sandy bot¬ 
tom and the reel sang the sweetest of all music 
to the angler’s ears. And at each, strike as the 
small-mouth darted up in the air at the first 
contact with the hook, it was for me to stand 
on my feet and fight it out. 
And then the afternoon after an indifferent 
off day, an hour before sunset, after a shower, 
when we were feeling our way along, the water 
around the boat was cut by the dorsal fins of 
a school of big fish, and as quickly to sound 
again. “Here they are!” said Bedman; “slews 
of them,” and with that he dropped the anchor 
as gently as a summer’s rain. 
I had two two-jointed fly-rods as supple as 
a whip. I told Bedman to bait them both. He 
for a moment demurred, but obeyed. Over went 
my first line, weighted on the leader by a split 
BB shot. Down it went slowly, as I laid the 
rod momentarily upon the gunwale to reach for 
the second rod, which, baited, I threw over, and 
before the second line had plumbed out, the tip 
of the first rod began to ominously bend down. 
Laying the second rod down, I arose upon my 
feet, and when I thought the bass had gorged 
the minnow (the minnows were small and the 
fish were large), I struck. Zip! came the small- 
mouth like a submarine bomb high in the air 
and spattering the water well around him. He 
certainly was full of ginger and meant to give 
me a run for my money. Here and there, and 
then the second rod began to bend as I maneu¬ 
vered the first fish well to the left on a taut 
line and well-bended rod. Carefully I reached 
for the second rod and struck, and then with 
a rod in each hand and a pair of lively bass I 
had my hands full, literally, for a moment. 
Running my second fish to the right I called 
to Bedman to take the second rod from my hand 
and to keep the fish on the tip, out of the way, 
and not to tire it, just keep the hook “sot.” 
And then free from dangerous snarling, I played 
my first fish, and he was a good one, and only 
came to the net which Bedman had ready for 
him after the last ounce of fight was out of him. 
The net under him, I pulled a couple of yards 
free from the reel and laid the rod in place so 
that when the baited hook was thrown over by 
Bedman, all would be in order. I reached back 
then for the second rod and found I had a very 
lively bass on my hands. Here, there and every¬ 
where and care taken to “butt” him every time 
he journeyed toward the other line. Another 
ominous bending of the first rod, a setting of 
the hook and again I had a pugnacious fish on 
each rod and my arms extended as far as I could 
like a railroad semaphore. Again did Bedman 
take the rod as before. Suffice it to say that 
this lasted for one hour, and as the sun went 
down over the hills, action ceased. There was 
nothing more doing. 
As I was tired carrying fish to town to pre¬ 
sent them to the neighbors, who in some cases 
demurred because the fish were not all prepared 
for the pan, I in my latter fishing days put them 
all back and I always returned to town empty- 
handed, a thing my friends wondered at. 
The morning’s catch, enough for our noon 
day fry, under the trees on Rocky Point (the 
aroma of the hard wood camp-fire smoke, boil¬ 
ing coffee and frying bacon and fish lingers yet 
in my nostrils) was always saved, all the rest 
got their freedom and none the worse for wear. 
And that night in the darkness as we made 
the six or seven miles toward camp, we passed 
Sandy Point. Suddenly a loud quacking from 
a flock of shelldrakes and a whirring of wings 
and a dripping of water, followed by a swish 
of some upward darting body! For a second 
or more silence followed, and then came a splash 
as if a Newfoundland dog had leaped into the 
lake. “Only one of our overgrown pickerel strik¬ 
ing at those ducks. We surely have some big 
ones in this lake. An Englishman with a chalk 
line, a large mascalonge spoon and an interspac¬ 
ing of heavy sinkers to take his line down sixty 
or eighty feet used to troll and now and then 
land one of those old whales.” 
My experience with those two rods was 
unique. Bedman said he never saw such fishing, 
and I surely never again had such fishing from 
that day to this, and of course never will have 
any more fishing, good, bad, or indifferent, ex¬ 
cept in my mind, .and when my young enthu¬ 
siast using my old reliables of thirty years, lands 
the big rainbows up on Shovel Creek and has 
the camera tell me the story so real that I feel 
I have been there doing it myself all over again. 
