786 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June 22, 1912 
“Now, that Reminds Me”- 11. 
By O. W. SMITH 
Photograph by the Author, 
N OW, that reminds me’ of the only time I 
ever went night fishing for trout, for I 
fished the ‘Dane’s Meadow’ of Pine River, 
and every angler who has fished that water has a 
warm spot in his heart for the ‘Dane’s Meadow,’ 
as ideal a bit of fishing as one can find anywhere 
beneath the blue. I shall always remember that 
portion of Wisconsin’s famous trout stream as 
it appeared the last time I visited it, some five 
or six years ago. It was the fag end of the 
trout season, mid-August, and the summer was 
dying in a blaze of gold and purple. Yellow 
sun flowers and black-eyed Susans stood almost 
shoulder high, while graceful golden rods bowed 
and swayed in the breeze, and thousands upon 
thousands of asters, from pinky-white to pur¬ 
plish-black, vied with the more gorgeous flowers 
for notice and appreciation. I honestly think I 
never saw anything so ravishingly beautiful as 
was that meadow in the early morning before 
the air began to quiver with the torrid mid¬ 
summer heat. 
“Of course the water was low, the lowest I 
ever saw it, and I have fished the Pine since 
boyhood. Naturally the trout were exceedingly 
shy and easily frightened, therefore I caught 
few fish, and those which I succeeded in land¬ 
ing averaged small. It certainly was a discour¬ 
aging proposition from an angler’s viewpoint, 
though I thoroughly enjoyed wandering up and 
down the resplendent hanks of the gentle and 
retiring stream. I usually began my fishing be¬ 
low the ‘old mill’ and followed down to the 
first bridge where I left the stream, striking in 
again at the ‘Old Pine’ and fishing down to the 
‘Island,’ when I would give up in disgust. That 
many of those pools throushout the length 
of the Dane’s Meadow contained lusty trout I 
knew full well, but how to compel the wary 
fellows to rise to my flies was something I 
seemed unable to discover. I resorted to bait, 
worms and grasshoppers, but they proved un¬ 
attractive. I was at my wits’ end, for while the 
stream was beautiful, I was reasonably certain 
that I would be more appreciative of that beauty 
could I but catch a few real fish. 
“In my perplexity I made my Welsh host play 
the part of a father confessor, and he as a con¬ 
fessor should listen patiently to my tale of woe 
without comment. When I had finished he con¬ 
sidered the matter in silence for some time, for 
my Welsh friend moved only after due deliber¬ 
ation, then sententiously remarked, ‘Try night 
fishing.’ 
“Now, I had always considered night fishing 
almost, if not quite, unsportsmanlike, probably 
because I was born in a state which has seen fit 
to prohibit night fishing for trout, and because, 
too, the practice has always been frowned upon 
by certain good friends of mine. However, 
under the circumstances I felt that I would be 
justified if I silenced conscience and failed to 
remember the admonition of my friends. 
‘‘The moon had not yet risen when I left the 
comfortable farmhouse of my Welsh host and 
turned my footsteps in the direction of the ‘Old 
Pine,’ familiar and well-beloved landmark of the 
Dane’s Meadows. Very ghostly the little flat 
appeared in the dim light, and I found myself 
stealing through the fragrant and dewy grass 
with as much care as I would have exercised 
had I been stalking feeding deer. The course 
of the creek was marked by a cloud of vapor, 
which would rise and spread as the night length¬ 
ened until the whole valley would be overhung 
with its clinging cerements. The little bridge 
below the ‘Old Pine’ was my objective point, for 
I knew the little pool above it always sheltered 
some good fish, while the deep hole at the foot 
of the rapids below it is the most likely place 
for a record breaker in the whole meadow. An¬ 
other reason why I selected that portion of the 
meadow was because the farmers had cut the 
grass close up to the water’s edge, and I had 
no desire to crawl through dew-soaked marsh 
grass and waist high golden rod. 
“Standing by the bridge I listened. Below me 
the little rapids were boiling away, sounding un¬ 
duly loud in the unnatural silence, while from 
the trees upon the other side of the meadow an 
owl was calling mournfully. A muskrat, fright¬ 
ened by my approach, plunged into the little 
pool above the bridge and swam to the opposite 
side of the stream. Again silence, save for the 
rattle of the water over the stones. Then a 
trout leaped. To an old trout fisherman there 
is no mistaking the sound. 
“Hastily I unfastened my hook from the reel, 
a No. 18, to which was tied a gray midge fly, 
for I figured that if rising, the trout would be 
taking small flies or ‘skeeters.’ Standing where 
I was, some ten feet from the edge of the pool, 
I sent the single fly out into the thin fog which 
clung to the surface of the water, yet did not 
wholly conceal it. Just where my fly struck of 
course I could not know, but instantly there was 
a commotion in the water and I felt that it was 
time to strike. I did so, giving the fish the butt 
with vim. ‘Hooked, by George!’ I exclaimed, as 
the light rod bent into a straining parabola. I 
knew that it was a good fish and my heart sang 
a glad duet with the line. As the trout raged 
up and down, forth and back, I speculated on 
its weight, every surge adding a pound until I 
felt certain that I was playing the heaviest brook 
trout that ever happened. You see it was im¬ 
possible to catch a glimpse of the fish through 
the low lying mist, and my imagination seized 
the opportunity to insist that we were playing 
an absolute whale. But that fish had not lived 
long without learning a few tricks. Oh, he was 
learned all right, very learned. Suddenly realiz¬ 
ing the need for heroic measures he turned and 
rushed down to and under the bridge with the 
speed of an express train. The line caught on 
the rough edge of a plank, there was a sharp 
snap, and I stood holding my inert rod, a sadder 
and I trust, a wiser man. 
“Now, don’t tell me what I should have done; 
any fool knows enough to lock the barn after 
the horse is stolen. Fervently cursing fate, the 
trout, the fog, the bridge, myself and even my 
Welsh host who recommended night fishing. I 
liberated my line and discovered that the leader 
had parted at the first knot. Then I set about 
repairing the damage, a difficult task in the semi¬ 
darkness, but by holding the leader up against 
the star-bespangled sky, I succeeded after a 
fashion, and bent on another tiny bunch of 
feathers. How I cursed my thoughtlessness in 
leaving my electric flashlight at the house. With 
that repairs would have been easy, and it also 
would have been a great aid in playing the fish. 
Another barn locked when too late. 
“I made my way down stream. Though I 
whipped the rapids to the best of my ability, 
not a fish responded, and I was forced to the 
conclusion that at night trout forsake such places 
in favor of the larger and quieter pools. Be¬ 
low me was the deep pool below the bridge, 
the scene of many a former victory and defeat. 
Well I knew the pool. Eight rods of swift 
