FOREST AND STREAM 
1035 
TAKING THE RECORD TARPON 
TO A LADY ANGLER FELL THE HONOR OF 
HOOKING AND LANDING THIS FLORIDA GIANT 
By E. L. Evans, Secretary Fort Meyer Tarpon Fishing Association. 
M E. ASHBY JONES, of Gloucester, Va., is 
already somewhat of a familiar name to 
readers of this journal. His exploits in 
the piscatorial line have not been accomplished 
in a corner, and the numerous trophies that adorn 
his private sanctum did not come there by chance. 
But Mrs. Ashby Jones heretofore has not been 
so well known. She has been her husband’s 
chum and companion in his various excursions, 
but shone as a lesser light—a reflection of his 
prowess, and a most loyal and efficient coadjutor 
in all his plans. 
But now all this is changed: While Mr. Jones 
still remains the indomitable fisherman of yore, 
and while Mrs. Jones is still his faith¬ 
ful comrade, yet by a peculiar flip of 
fickle fortune, it is now Mr. Jones’ turn 
to shine with a reflected light, and to 
receive congratulations for the exploits 
of his partner, for—on April 24, 1916— 
a date that will long be memorable in 
tarpon lore—Mrs. Jones landed a fish 
that cast all previous records in the 
shade and caused the big ones of pre¬ 
vious seasons to show like minnows, in 
comparison. 
April 24, 1916, the day after Easter, 
our fishers decide to conduct a “drive” 
against the entrenched tarpon on the 
upper Caloosahatchee. The morning 
was superb, a fitting setting for the 
tropical landscape, and as the little 
launches threw the spray from their 
prows one could almost imagine the 
drops pearls and diamonds, so much of 
a semblance was there. 
About 7.30 A. M., the party started 
from Ft. Myers, and little did either Mr. 
Jones or his wife dream that history 
was following close in their wake. For 
an hour or more up the big river they 
sped; the smaller fish played about in 
the clear water; an occasional splash 
heralded and accompanied the appear¬ 
ance of a fish as he rose clear from the 
water, described a semi-circle in the air, 
and disappeared again. The alligator 
was not altogether wanting to complete 
the tropical setting, and as the palm cov¬ 
ered banks sped by, the fisher folk were 
themselves almost carried away by the 
spell of the time and place. 
For many miles they proceeded, with 
nothing to break the spell. Apparently 
the tarpon were not yet come out from 
their winter siesta. The party had cov¬ 
ered some twenty-five miles, and reached 
the vicinity of Upcohall, before there 
was any change; then suddenly Mr. 
Jones sat up: “Did you see it?” he 
shouted. His question was superfluous 
—they had all seen “IT.” 
Then “it” came again, and another, 
and another—there seemed suddenly to 
have materialized a whole school of tar¬ 
pon. The tackle was hurriedly re-examined and 
everything carefully scrutinized to see that it was 
in proper form; then away again, this time for 
tarpon. The “spell” was broken. 
Trolling here and there, up and down, back and 
forth, went the two boats. The fish seemed 
wary; they were not afraid of being seen, that 
was evident. But when it came to “striking” they 
didn’t seem in the mood for it just then. Noon 
came; a short rest for lunch; but Mr. Jones isn’t 
much for lunch when the big fish are about, and 
soon all were at it again—but the fish didn’t seem 
to care for closer acquaintance. 
And then it happened: all at once, without any 
preliminaries or warning. The big fish was 
hooked, and it was on Mrs. Jones’ line. 
Mr. Jones came near, just out of curiosity, to 
see what was doing. “Don’t you want me to take 
him?” he asked. But she didn’t want—she was 
going to “land this fish all by herself—without 
any help”—or lose him-—and off they went again. 
It wasn’t long before Mrs. Jones began to rea¬ 
lize that she had not hooked just an ordinary tar¬ 
pon but had a tartar sure enough. Again Mr. 
Jones came near and offered his services, or the 
services of his guide but Mrs. Jones was still 
game and needed all her energy and breath to 
give to the matter in hand. 
“Gee,” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Jones, as his 
boat again came into a visual angle with the 
fish. “Just look at that”—but there wasn’t any¬ 
one to look, except Mrs. Jones and the two guides, 
and they had already looked until their eyes were 
ready to pop out of their heads, for the mon¬ 
strous fish struggling in the water was the big¬ 
gest he ever saw, as Mr. Jones averred, and he 
claimed to know somewhat of tarpon, too,- 
And now he went wild, while Mrs. Jones need¬ 
ed all her nerve to fight the fish. Her husband 
almost lost his head, standing in the boat, and 
itching to have a hand in the game, yet compelled 
to be only an idle, though hardly a silent spectator. 
But Mrs. Jones, she didn’t give any time or 
strength to useless expostulation; she didn’t have 
any to spare. It took all her attention to look 
after the big fish. First one way and then the 
other he went; now jumping high in the air, and 
again sinking deep in the water; now running as 
though struck with a sudden desire to return 
home, and then thinking better of it, slowing up 
for a parley. It can be imagined that a wary eye 
and a ready hand were absolutely essential; other¬ 
wise in a jiffy the line would become hopelessly 
tangled, and all hope of a capture at an end. But 
Mrs. Jones proved equal to all the requirements. 
Every “drive” was humored for a time. A gentle 
but increasing pressure from the line 
would gradually check and turn the fish 
back, then the hurried reeling in of the 
■line, just enough to take up the slack. The 
guide, Mr. Capling, although not as expe¬ 
rienced as many of his older associates, 
certainly covered himself with glory by 
the clever manner in which he manipu¬ 
lated his boat, ably seconding every 
move of the mistress of the expedition. 
He turned this way, and that, stopping, 
starting, slowing up, going at full speed, 
and always with an eye to the channel 
and for any floating or half submerged 
obstruction. Thus his part in the gen¬ 
eral result is by no means small. 
But we are getting away from the 
fish—and so was Mr. Jones. A sudden 
drive had taken the fish and his party 
some way to one side, but Mr. Jones 
was following. The big fellow had just 
given a dramatic exhibition of his 
strength by executing a jump of twenty 
feet into the air—up!—up!—it seemed 
as though he would never come down— 
but he did—and as Mr. Jones’ boat again 
glided into the fishing zone, its occu¬ 
pant, standing up and straining nerve 
as though his own efforts would aid, 
suddenly gave a yell. “Look there,” he 
cried. “There’s another 1 ” and sure 
enough, there was another, and such 
another as mortal man has never yet 
landed, for according to Mr. Jones’ ver¬ 
sion, the free fish which evidently was 
the mate of the hooked fish was swim¬ 
ming near, apparently trying to encour¬ 
age his partner, and help if possible, 
but as much larger than the captive fish, 
as he was larger than the ordinary ones. 
Mr. Jones collapsed. “I’ll sure get him,” 
he said, and suddenly lost the sharpest 
edge of his interest in the chase in the 
thought of what might happen later. 
But all this took only a fraction of 
the time in happening that it does in 
the narration, and almost as soon as 
sighted, the biggest fish was again gone, 
and the struggle between the deter¬ 
mined fisherwoman and the equally de¬ 
termined fish again became the all- 
absorbing thought. 
The chase had been proceeding up the river, 
and had now reached a part where the banks ap¬ 
proach each other until the bed of the river is 
barely 100 feet across. The banks are thickly 
grown with palmetto and live oak, and hang far 
over the water. In his struggles the big fish, de¬ 
spite all efforts, was now making directly for one 
of these wooded banks. Nearer and nearer he 
drew to the scraggly fringe, and frantically and 
ever more frantically did the brave manipulator 
of the line attempt to check or turn him, but to 
no purpose. A sudden prodigious jump—right 
up through the projecting branches and down 
Mrs. Ashby Jones’ Big Fish, and the Guide Who 
Helped Land It. 
