MY FIRST YELLOW TUNA. 
For many years I have cast a fly over trout 
streams in the Colorado and Wyoming Rockies 
and nobody could convince me that any angling 
could equal the delights this season holds within 
it. My method has always been: Worms, for 
spring; flies for summer and minnows for fall. 
Whether that is sportsmanlike or not, is an un¬ 
settled question. It gets a few fish and much 
pleasure. 
Many times my friends have told me of the 
sport to be obtained deep sea fishing on the 
Pacific coast. So when the fall of 1914 found 
me at Long Beach, California, for a six months’ 
enforced stay, my first investigation was of the 
chance for some fishing. My newly acquired 
piscatorially inclined friends immediately made 
me acquainted with the fact that Tuna were 
being caught in large numbers about twenty to 
thirty miles off Long Beach. Ascertaining the 
tackle necessary to procure it was selected with 
much care. Rod—a six foot split bamboo. Tip 
—five feet, two inches, and weighing six ounces. 
Butt—twelve inches and weighing three ounces. 
Reel—Montague City, five inch Tarpon. Line— 
ninethread Cuttyhunk, Piano wire in five foot 
lengths, swivels, sinkers and hooks, finished the 
outfit, and the next morning at 7:30 o’clock I 
was on the pier ready to join my new friends in 
an attempt to annex one of the prize buttons 
given out by the Long Beach Tuna Club. 
Embarking on the forty-five foot gasolene 
boat, Eagle, I was introduced to Captain Ander¬ 
son, and his first question was: “Have you 
ever caught big fish on that light an outfit?” 
With a laugh at my “No,” he said: “Well you 
sure will smash things.” 
Clearing the pier at eight o’clock, the time for 
the next hour was spent by me in listening to 
the tales of the big ones caught on other traps. 
Then a cry from the Captain, “Lines out” and 
I watched carefully the experienced fishermen 
baiting their hooks with six or seven inch sar¬ 
dines and fastening the bait on the hooks with 
a nose wire—the baiting of my hook being 
accomplished with help. I set my reel with 
about a.four pound drag; let the line out for 
two hundred feet; set the click and awaited de¬ 
velopments. 
Very shortly, “Strike!” yelled Dad Fessel and 
then “Strike!” from Thad Stevens and the 
launch was stopped and engine reversed. I be¬ 
came conscious of a sound, a shrill “Whee!”—• 
the line running out from the two reels. 
The captain instructed us all “lines in” and we 
all reeled up and watched the fight the fish were 
making—ten minutes and it was over. Two eight 
or ten pound skipjacks gaffed aboard—beautiful 
fish, and great little fighters but the meat is dark 
in color and not considered very good. 
Lines out again and we were scarcely on our 
way when I called “Strike!” and strike I guess 
it was—my reel screeching and the line taut, en¬ 
tering the water two hundred and fifty feet from 
the stern of the boat. By the time the boat was 
stopped a thousand feet of line was run off my 
reel and it was slackening. I commenced to reel 
in as fast as possible amidst the cries of the 
other fishermen of “Tuna! Tuna”—“Doctor’s 
got a big one on”—and I realized that I sure 
did have a big one on. I would retreive a few 
hundred feet of line and out it would go again 
as the fish made another run against all the 
strain I dared put on the light outfit. My knees 
FOREST AND STREAM 
were trembling; my arms were tired; and I felt 
that were it not for the fact that I must have 
that fish, I would give $10 if someone would 
cut that line. Gradually, I had been gaining 
line in the struggle and soon I could see surging 
up from the deep sea a Tuna reflecting the sun¬ 
light in many bright colors as it rolled from 
side to side. Upon sight of the boat down the 
fish went with a last desperate rush for two 
hundred and fifty feet and then I gradually 
pumped the Tuna up to the gaff—fifty pounds 
of beautiful fish—all fighter. Nearly two hours 
of hard fight and I was nearly as “all in” as 
Mr. Tuna was. 
I have caught and lost many Tuna since that 
but never again will I have that same feeling of 
exhausted contentment. 
Do I still enjoy trout fishing the same as of 
old? Surely! Just the same, but now I consider 
that other piscatorial delights, equal trout fish¬ 
ing. 
D. O. NORTON. 
LEADERS COLORED TO SUIT WEATHER. 
Liberty, N. Y., Feb. 5, 1915. 
Editox Forest and Stream : 
Through the attention of Dr. Breck, a manu¬ 
facturer sent me a sample of a peculiarly color¬ 
ed leader, with some remarks on his system of 
159 
coloring gut. I could not judge of the colors 
from one, so sent for three or four more. This 
gentleman manufactures nothing but these 
special leaders and claims to use only the very 
best gut that can be bought. He is very strong 
in faith in his theories, which are roughly some¬ 
thing like the following: It is most important 
that the leader should harmonize and agree with 
the surroundings. If the sky is intensely blue 
and sun bright and warm, then the sky blue 
leader is indicated. If there is much green grass 
and moss along the stream, a pale green one. 
The favorite color, however, which meets the 
needs of the angler is orange, none dark but 
shading from medium to light orange. This is 
on many days almost invisible to the fish. There 
is a whole lot to the business but the above 
covers the ground sufficiently for practical pur¬ 
poses. I mussed with the leaders but I was so 
accustomed to something very different that I 
could not bring myself to use them for the finest 
dry fly work. It is almost impossible not to 
cherish small prejudices when one has been fish¬ 
ing with the fly all of his life (nearly). I wish 
the colored leader man well. He has good testi¬ 
monials and says that his business is rapid’y in¬ 
creasing. I do not mention name and address 
as he should have advertised in this periodical. 
THEODORE GORDON. 
In Season Soon. 
