1136 
they were breaking at all points; fishermen 
usually say they are at play when they leap from 
the water; the conclusion to be drawn is plain 
enough they are feeding, but whether they strike 
their food on their upward rush or as they 
drop back I could never determine. Although 
close enough many times for a clear view I 
have never seen their prey in their jaws. It 
has been known for many years to all our coast 
fishermen that the tuna will strike at a trolling 
bluefish squid and hundreds have been hooked, 
but in nearly every case a broken line has been 
the result, as the bluefish troller does not use 
a line of sufficient length to admit of much play 
to the fish. Forty pounds or thereabouts has 
been the heavy weight taken on such tackle. 
The essentials for the pursuit of this sport 
are a well made surf casting rod, preferably of 
split bamboo, a 4-0 reel of the highest quality, 
which will be capable of holding 1,200 feet of 
the best procurable line and fitted with a tension 
drag, a stout leather rod-rest into which the rod 
butt is braced, as it gives a good leverage and 
prevents the swinging of the rod butt against 
the body. As a lure a trolling squid of bright 
black tin is used, as well as different makes of 
the large pattern revolving spoon. Whichever 
is chosen, a section of piano wire should be used, 
as it cannot be cut by the jaws of the fish. A 
motor boat driven at moderate speed, behind 
which the line should be allowed to trail at a 
distance of from fifty to one hundred feet is 
of course a necessity. 
The strike, if the hook sets, is always followed 
by sounding deep by the fish—200 possibly 500 
feet at the first rush and at a speed almost in¬ 
comprehensible—then up and away to the right 
or left, now out of the water, again sounding 
deep, all at lightning speed. 
To attempt to hold would be sheerest folly. 
Full play must be allowed, no matter how long 
a time is consumed, as the fish, if a large one, 
will possibly take out a thousand feet of line 
before succumbing and it is the weight of line 
surging through the water which exhausts him. 
And the fisherman needs be of as good mettle 
as his tackle is in quality. An hour, possibly 
two hours, may be consumed in this frantic 
battle between patience and intelligence on one 
side and speed and weight on the other. 
The largest tuna ever killed on rod and reel, 
weighing two hundred and eighty-six pounds, 
off Elberon, New Jersey, by Mr. Jacob Wertheim, 
has set a record for enthusiasts. This was ac¬ 
complished the past summer, viz., 1915. That 
this sport is destined to become immensely popu¬ 
lar in the near future is easy of belief and cer¬ 
tainly assured. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
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|I A FIGHT WITH A GRIZZLY )| 
SINGLE HANDED THIS BRAVE 
MAN SLEW THE FIERCEST GAME 
BEAST OF NORTH AMERICA 
By Howard Morgan. 
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T HREE years ago I was resident consulting 
engineer for the Juneau Mining Company, 
and was stationed at Virgin City, Alaska. 
My vacation I decided to spend as usual with 
my old friend, Burt Keppler, on a month’s hunt¬ 
ing trip into the Semenow Hills out of White 
Horse. 
Each summer for five years Keppler and I had 
Out of the Darkness, Accompanied by an 
Avalanche of Sand and Gravel, Slid a 
Big Grizzly. 
spent a month in various part of the Semenow 
Range and had never failed to “bring home the 
bacon.” 
Keppler was awaiting my arrival, with every¬ 
thing in readiness for the trip, and evening of 
the first day found us well into the foothills of 
Mt. Laurier, the “granddaddy” of the Semenow 
Range. 
We struck camp in the shelter of a big boulder 
at the base of a great bank of shifting white 
sand—well protected from the keen, biting wind, 
which held promise of snow on the morrow. 
Before proceeding further, just a word about 
Keppler. He was, and is, without exception, the 
most powerful man physically I have ever met. 
At the time, he was a man perhaps 45 years 
of age, with the wind and heart of a man of 25. 
Barely 5 feet 6 inches in height, he tipped the 
scales at upwards of 225 pounds—solid bone 
and muscle. For a living he panned a little 
gold, enough to keep him in provisions through 
the winter months, and at intervals acted as 
guide to hunting parties. 
We finished supper, lit our pipes, and com¬ 
fortably stretched before the fire. Keppler was 
outlining his plans for the trip. Suddenly we 
were startled by a most prodigious snorting and 
grunting from above, and out of the darkness, 
accompanied by an avalanche of sand and gravel, 
slid a big grizzly. 
With a shout of warning Keppler sprang 
backward, tripped and fell directly in the path of 
the bear. The grizzly, probably more frightened 
than we were, and grasping at anything that 
offered by way of stopping his mad flight, caught 
Keppler about the body, rolled over a couple 
of times, and brought up with a crash against a 
big ash tree at the foot of the hill. 
Fearing for Keppler’s life I reached for my 
rifle, but a swirling aftermath of the slide swept 
me off my feet and part way down the em¬ 
bankment. As I crawled to my knees, half 
stunned, by the flickering light of the fire I 
made out Keppler locked in deadly embrace with 
the bear. Backward and forward they slipped 
and slid in the shifting sand, Keppler’s long arms 
wrapped about the bear’s middle, his face buried 
in the brute’s hairy breast. As I watched, 
fascinated, afraid to move, the hunter slipped 
and fell, the bear on top. Over and over they 
rolled, the man clinging close to the great body, 
the beast clawing the air and snapping his jaws 
viciously. 
Keppler, powerful as he was, could not stand 
the terrible strain for long, however. His legs, 
which he could not protect while rolling in the 
sand, were torn and bleeding. 
Realization that I must act, that I must do 
something and that quickly penetrated my 
muddled brain. I scrambled up the bank and 
dug frantically in the sand for the rifles. At 
last I grasped one, shook the sand from it, and 
steadying myself against the great boulder 
awaited my chance to put an end to the unequal 
struggle. Suddenly Keppler let go, sprang back¬ 
ward and ducked like a flash, not a second too 
soon to avoid a vicious downward blow of those 
great open claws. I raised the rifle. Here was 
my chance. 
“No, no, don’t shoot, Mr. Morgan, I got him,” 
called Keppler breathlessly, as he dodged quickly 
behind the boulder. 
The bear rushed headlong toward us, stumbled 
and brought up against the rock with a thud. 
His great body crumpled up on the sand, heaved 
spasmodically, then lay still. 
I turned to Keppler—the man was drenched 
with blood. With a cry of horror I rushed to 
support him, but he motioned me aside, and 
dragging the huge bulk of the bear over on its 
side, pulled out his eight-inch hunting knife, 
which, during the battle, he had managed to 
draw and had thrust it to the hilt into the 
grizzly’s heart. 
Aside from a violent shaking up and some 
badly lacerated shins, Keppler was none the 
worse for his experience. 
"Old E P h” in a More Amiable Mood. 
