88 
FOREST AND STREAM 
In the Land of Fish and Lobster 
A Deep Sea Fishing Story of the Coast of Maine 
By Halsted DeNike. 
OIN' fishin’?” “Betcher life! soon 
as it warms up a little.” That’s 
what we hear about the time 
the tail end of the winter kicks 
in. Yep! the spirit of our old 
friend Izaak is getting busy. 
We hear the honk of the goose 
in its northland flight and the 
little birds are beginning to crack open and blink 
at the sun. Everything says live! and our pulse 
quickens to the call of the little “Red Gods.” 
We have been waiting for this time when we 
can again visit that “favorite place,” the charm 
and completion of which we feel nature has left 
nothing undone to add pleasure to the true lover 
of God’s great “out-o’- 
doors.” Once more we 
overhaul our tackle and 
joint up our rods to get the 
feel, although we have done 
the same thing a dozen 
times before, and when you 
see a man fussing - over his 
fishing tackle you can feel 
sure he has been stung by 
the bug alright. He is a 
hopeless case, though easy 
to diagnose, for it’s a form 
of insanity known as “fish- 
anity’ and seventeen ele¬ 
phants could not hold him 
back from his “greatest 
Place ever.” “Cure”? I know 
of none, but most of us 
afflicted with this trouble 
know when and where to 
get relief. For the benefit 
of the brotherhood, the 
author will tell of one of 
those favorite places offer¬ 
ing such inducements, that when the fever rages 
h lt for the ta]1 and uncut Qf Ma . n ^ 
land th a w ght ’ S rCSt “ the old town of Port¬ 
land, the Forest City, first known as Macha- 
gonne; we take the morning boat for the 2 - 
ZyVLT ° Ut • hr ° Ugh th£ ** islands ^ Casco 
en rocks tn Va H V ^ tredess —-beat- 
The sh 0 ’ 1 ndS many S<3Uare ^ area, 
romanf ° n every hand are indented with 
W” e LT 8 ’ “ d “ dMed by P ine a " d birch. 
Were there ever woods so green, or hills and 
mountains so clear cut in outline? Was ever 
L a ! r f°,, pUTe ’ or ar W that held a sweeter 
conhal °f bonded odors of pine and hemlock? 
Eighteen miles out from Portland nestles an 
emeraJd , s e cal]ed Bailey’s,'in the midst of other 
same island 65 -''^ °k ***** magnitu ' de i and this 
me island is to be our haven of rest. We round 
he point and as we sail up Mackerel Cove see 
“ rf £ 
sleeves ro „ed „p, di sp U* 
we are prone to look upon as a synonym of 
health. Grabbing our suit cases, we step onto 
the wharf where we see many familiar faces; and 
after the noise is over, we take ourselves up the 
hill where our host is waiting for us with the 
glad hand. Our room is waiting for us and we 
are informed that presently the mid-day supply 
of rations will be ready. Grub! That sounds 
good—but the realization is the whole thing. A 
change to easy clothes before dinner is a good 
idea, or as the French say “chacun a son gout,” 
so acting on the impulse we get out our working 
togs, for no one wants to go down to Bailey’s 
for style, for that odius word, and everything 
that goes with it, seldom have a “look-in” down 
Bringing in the Fish Pound. 
in that land of rest. One can dress up if they 
prefer, but during the day, for tramping or tak¬ 
ing things easy, the old clothes with the addi¬ 
tion of a good warm sweater—for the wind blows 
most of the time—and rubber-soled shoes is the 
proper outfit. 
I could write at length of the island, of those 
haunts so familiar to us, but this is a fishy story 
and I must refrain, hard as it is. 
As the evening draws near; the sun sets in a 
cloudless sky, throwing out in bold relief the 
Presidential Range of the White Mountains, 
bathed in the red glow. Night so silently weaves 
her dusky veil upon the great loom of the tree- 
clad islands and the deepening shadows settle 
over the bay- Faintly falls the evening breeze 
and as we gaze about us we see the flash of 
Seguin Light and the other light-houses as far 
south as Cape Elizabeth. Bedtime comes at last, 
even when you are at Bailey’s. We light our 
pipes and have our evening smoke and talk. A 
few crickets set up their chatter; lamps and 
lights disappear, and gradually the island is in 
slumber. 
Responding to the “call of the wild,” we arise 
early and find the weather has changed. It is 
rainy, but we care little about that so take our 
fishing tackle and walk down to Mackerel Cove, 
where we fish for kunners, a salt water perch 
that resemble our small mouth bass in color but 
do not as a rule run as large. They make a 
splendid pan fish and considering the vast num¬ 
bers it is strange they are not used more. Per¬ 
haps it is owing to the fact that it is almost as 
easy to catch cod, pollock and other fish running 
up to twenty pounds or more. The fish¬ 
erman may cast his line in Casco Bay 
with the assurance of 
a good catch, whether he 
tries his luck from the 
wharf, some rocky shore or 
from a boat on the deep- 
sea fishing grounds. With 
a light rod, an “F” line and 
io or 12 hook, one can have 
a barrel of fun catching 
kunners, and this outfit I 
had taken along in the ex¬ 
pectation of a few days 
“chucking the bug” for 
micropterus bolomien, fur¬ 
ther north. Kunners can 
steal bait as fast as you put 
it on. Cover well the point 
of the hook with the 
toughest part of a peri¬ 
winkle, strike fairly hard 
and quickly, and the -fish 
are yours for the taking. 
We now cross the outside 
of the island where the big 
ones swim, and the tide is 
just right as it is not yet 
Well, honest, its like picking fish off the 
bushes, for every blessed time you cast you 
catch one. The water is actually alive with 
large kunners and occasionally you hook onto 
something still larger. They seem to bite on 
anything, the mere suggestion of bait. The per- 
riwinkles getting a little scarce, I put on a 
piece of sea-weed and cast out—when 
“b-z-z-z-z-z-z!” sang the reel and I hauled in 
the largest of the catch. We had a fine string, 
so started for the house, our appetites keeping 
apace with our enthusiasm, when some one re¬ 
marks, “say I wonder what we’re going to have 
for dinner?” That’s what we are all thinking 
about but we don’t have to wait long for as we 
top the brow of the hill we see Mr. Proprietor 
carrying a box, just returning from the fish 
market down on the wharf—and what is in that 
box? Why that box is full of fresh lobsters 
only taken from the waters about the island one 
hour before, or maybe it contains fresh clams 
just dug from the sands along the shore—some- 
high. 
