590 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Echo Lake, the Home of the Large Mouth 
Many People do not Know that Within 100 Miles of the Metropolis of Manhattan There are many 
Sequestered Spots Where Fresh Water Fishing is Still Good-Here is one of Them 
By George LangwortHy Buguey. 
NE frequently hears that “sweet 
water’’ fishing around “little old 
Manhattan” is a thing of the 
past and in order to secure full 
creel, one must travel prohibited 
distances and spend much of 
our hard-earned “gilt.” To the 
busy man with the call of the 
wild and a strong tendency for “chucking a plug 
in his make up, statements like the above to say 
the least are a bit discouraging. I being one of 
the fools, the “Little Mrs.” says who would 
rather fish than eat, determined to prove that 
this “thing of the past” stuff was a fallacy and 
that I would find a real live bass pond within a 
hundred miles of New York, where motor boats 
did not continually churn the waters and one 
could land the “pound for pound fish” without 
camping in a boat a month at a time. 
Most fishermen, it is known, cherish their 
favorite “bass holes,” like they do their strong 
box; when you come right down to it, who can 
blame them? 
Knowing that not only Westchester County but 
northern New Jersey contained many lakes and 
reservoirs, I procured a sportsman’s map of both 
of these districts, and being blessed with the 
happy faculty of being able to scent a bass pond 
by looking at a map, I found that there were 
undoubtedly not one but several ponds within 
the required distance of the “big town” where 
not only the fishing but the catching—there’s a 
big difference, brother—must be good. Selecting 
a little pond, shown on the map as Mcopin or 
Echo Lake, I took myself to a friend, later 
affectionately referred to in this article as “G. E. 
K.” and the “Little Fellow.” He stated that he 
had a camp on this very lake, and that I had 
dropped on one of the best ponds in the State. 
Plans were at once laid for a trip to “The Home 
of the Large Mouth.” A few days later we left 
Jersey City for Charlottesburgh, New Jersey, 
some forty miles by the Susquehanna Branch of 
the Erie Railroad. 
In due time, we arrived and were met at the 
station by my host’s man, who had been up at 
the camp for a few days previous putting on a 
new roof. After looking in his “Kit,” we de¬ 
cided that the roof had not occupied all of his 
time and that he had also done some fishing, as 
he had seven of the nicest large mouth that I 
had ever seen for some time; the largest being 
about four and a half pounds, the smallest about 
two. If this catch could be taken as any indica¬ 
tion, my dreams of a live bass pond within a 
couple of hours of old Manhattan, were about to 
be realized. 
After loading our luggage on the “three seater” 
we started for camp, a steady climb of one and 
a half miles, the horse walking the entire dis¬ 
tance. The time consumed in making the trip 
was not noticed, however, as we were highly 
entertained by stories told by the driver of our 
conveyance, one Cahill by name, a typical farmer, 
with a crop of fishing and hunting yarns stored 
away in the back of his head, where undoubtedly 
many of them originated. 
On arriving at the dam, the outlet of the lake, 
we climbed down from our “Chariot,” unloaded 
duffle and carrying same to the landing, some 
two hundred yards away, where the boat which 
was to take us to camp, awaited us. The first 
view of Echo Lake, which will last long in my 
memory, I can best describe by borrowing the 
description given me by G. E. K. “A lake about 
two and a half miles long, varying in width from 
one-quarter to one-half a mile and surrounded 
by high hills so densely covered with timber, as 
to almost make one believe he is in the woods 
of Maine, which is augmented by the clear brac¬ 
ing air due to the altitude of eleven hundred 
feet. No ‘chug-chug’ of the motor boats 
here, nor other sounds annoying to the angler, 
nothing to disturb the stillness, but occasionally 
the whistle of a railroad engine in the far dis¬ 
tance, or the sweet, toned notes of the yellow¬ 
breasted warbler and other birds punctuated at 
intervals by the drum of the partridge during the 
day,” the notes of the whippoorwill and the croak 
of the bull-frog by night. 
Trappings stored safely away in the boat, the 
last stage of the trip to camp began. “Mine host” 
impatient to get a whack at the big fellows soon 
had rod and reel together and selecting from his 
large assortment of plugs an old timber, a white 
plug with yellow spots, a veteran of many trips, 
began casting into all the likely spots and never 
have I seen a lake have more of them. The east 
shore partly rocky, the west shore with its fallen 
trees and over-hanging branches—the latest thing 
in bass architecture—The north and south shores 
I later found to be studded here and there with 
old stump and patches of lily pads, with just 
enough “open water” to delight the heart of any 
“plug caster.” This pond indeed had all the hall 
marks of a sure-to-goodness bass hole. 
Either the fish were not in shore or were not 
feeding as the old white plug failed to raise 
them, but to offset this, as we rounded a point of 
land called “The Willows,” my attention was 
called to a big buck, weighing in the neighbor¬ 
hood of two hundred and fifty pounds, calmly 
looking us over. The boat was stopped and 
cameras unslung, but by this time “His Majesty 
giving a snort, turned and breaking through the 
underbrush, was no more. Shortly afterward we 
heard his call echoing across the lake. 
Truly a most picturesque introduction to the 
spot that was to be the home camp for the 
next few days. As we were now nearing the 
camp, lines were taken in, preparatory to landing. 
Quicker done than said, we drew up to the dock, 
the grub unloaded and soon stored away, the city 
clothes shed, the old flannel shirt and khaki 
trousers taking their place. Who would now 
trade places with the mighty of the world? 
Without waiting for the eats, we at once started 
out—what is food when the bass are rising?— 
across to the west shore we went with its over¬ 
hanging trees and branches, casting a big night 
walker here and there, but with indifferent success 
until darkness made it impracticable to continue 
this method of fishing, the old white plug was 
once more resorted to, this time with better 
result, for hardly had the first cast been made 
when bang, a whirl of water, a “big boy” had 
struck and the fun begun. Picking up three nice 
“large mouth” along this shore and though hating 
to pass by the likely looking lily pads at the north 
end of the lake, we put back to camp and grub. 
Truly too much praise had not been given this 
little pond. Grub over, dishes washed, the old 
corn-cob well fired, plans for the morrow were 
laid, then off to bed as an early start had been 
decided on. No rolling or tossing this night; 
heads had hardly touched the pillows, when we 
were off to the land of nod. Up before the sun 
next morning, the lily pads along the northern 
shore were tried and while we got several strikes 
they all seemed to be a little short, and we failed 
to land but two up to breakfast time, but fresh 
bass for breakfast will melt in most any hungry 
man’s mouth. After breakfast, still fishing for 
small mouth was tried, it being a little early in this 
lake for them, we lost out. Back to camp again and 
lunch, after which the dishes having been cleared 
away, the old cots looked most inviting, the 
afternoon hours were spent in sleep. Out again 
about five for the south shore, no mistake had 
been made this time, SWISH, BANG, JUMP, 
all at once the old bamboo’s were surely put to 
the test. Gad it was good to be living. Two 
hours of casting—result, six good size bass, one 
a small mouth; weight three pounds. 
So it went on for five days and the natives all 
tell you “They ain’t no fish in the old lake any¬ 
more,” but we got them as a few of the neigh¬ 
bors back home will testify. 
The “little fellow” sure knew the spots as a 
“New Yorker” knows his Broadway and the 
Avenue. Each stump, each rock had its partic¬ 
ular meaning to him, to illustrate—late in the 
week, about dusk, we were slowly paddling along 
the south shore, when he spied a stump, about 
fifty feet from the boat. “See that stump” watch 
how near I come to it, there must be an old one 
waiting there,” he said. The cast was made, a 
beauty too, directly on it, a slight pull, the plug 
dropped off into the water. At once we saw the 
well-known whirl of water, the bang, the dash 
for deep water, and the fight was on. From his 
actions we knew that this was no young one, but 
a real old wallopper—up into the air he went, 
but the hook held well, now for deep water, then 
back again in his rush for the boat, but the man 
on the reel end of the rod, however, had seen 
antics like this before and was ready for him, 
now out again, the whirl, the jump and the splash, 
then once again the run for the boat, but Mr. 
Bass was tiring and a few more dashes and he 
was atop the water along side the boat—five 
pounds and all fish. 
The end of the trip was upon us all too soon 
but the real live bass pond within a hundred 
(Continued on page 640.) 
