498 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[Sept. 24, 1910. 
A Trip <0 Lake Pardee. 
I was lounging by the fire, arranging my tackle 
for the day’s warfare, while old Frank, the guide, 
was broiling a split partridge over a bed of coals. 
This, with fried pike and bacon, potatoes, pan¬ 
cakes and coffee, was a breakfast fit for the gods, 
and my appetite was whetted by the savory odors 
until I felt equal to the task. The shrill chatter 
of a bluejay in a tamarack overhead, and the 
lonesome wail of a loon near the farther shore 
of No-Mans Lake, were the only other signs that 
day was about to be ushered into this magnificent 
wilderness, which, as a paradise for sportsmen, 
can hardly be surpassed. Old Frank, as he 
busied himself with his cooking outfit, cast gro¬ 
tesque shadows, which came and went, against 
the background of dense growth near the fire, 
for it was still dark. 
At last when everything was ready old Frank’s 
announcement that “chuck’s ready ’ brought me 
from my task of looking over tackle as well as 
I could in the firelight, to a seat at our rustic 
table. As the sun finally began to tint the east¬ 
ern horizon with streaks of amber and gold, we 
finished our repast, and after hastily washing up 
the dishes, gathered up our duffle and pushed 
off from our island for a day’s sport on Lake 
Pardee. Fishing had been unsurpassed on No- 
Mans Lake, where we were encamped, but we 
had failed to get any large mascalonge. We 
had landed several fine ones, but. as Pardee was 
a favorite musky water of mine, we were mak¬ 
ing an early start for it. 
It was necessary for us to use our boat to 
cross a narrow neck of No-Mans Lake, then 
tramp a mile or two over a tortuous trail past 
Lake George, over fallen logs, walking slim 
poles o.ver bogs, where a false step would plunge 
us hip deep. 
“Is that the rig you intend to use to-day?” 
inquired Frank, critically eyeing my outfit. 
“It surely is,” I replied; “why?” 
“Well, them toys are all right for bass and 
the kind of muskies you got over in No-Mans, 
but if one of these old residents in Pardee hit 
them things he will smash ’em so quick you 
won’t know what happened. I had a man from 
Chicago here last fall and he hooked on to a 
big feller that tore his tackle into smithereens 
quicker than you could say scat, and he was 
using a pole four times as strong as that little 
thing and a line like a chalk line. Why, old 
Bear Claw, an Indian from the agency up to 
Flambeau, speared a musky in here last winter 
that weighed fifty-six pounds and they are the 
fightinest devils in Wisconsin waters.” 
“That probably is true,” I replied, “but if there 
is a fish in Pardee that can break this rig’, he is 
welcome. I will give him a receipt in full and 
wish him well.” 
My tackle consisted of first a 5 T /2-foot steel 
rod about 9 ounces in weight, an 80-yard quad¬ 
ruple reel. No. 3 line and a lure of my own. I 
take a No. 8 spoon, remove the treble hooks, 
as I think it unsportsmanlike to use three hooks 
for any kind of fishing, and because they catch 
all the moss and weeds in the lake. Instead of 
<hc treble hooks I attach a weedless 5/0 hook, 
and with a 12-inch pliable wire between my 
spoon and line I am ready for business. T use 
this outfit for casting, as I can never get the 
supreme satisfaction out of trolling that I re¬ 
alize from casting with light tackle. Of course 
I realize the fact that many of my brother ang¬ 
lers use other methods and tackle for the fresh 
water tigers, but it would not do for all of us 
to be of the same notion. This is my way, and 
after using this kind of an outfit for several 
seasons I have no desire to change. 
“Old Pardee looks pretty rough this morn¬ 
ing,” said Frank, as we went down the sharp 
incline to the old boat, moored to a balsam 
root. The wind, which was very strong, was 
causing the old scow to hammer and tug at the 
chain, and every large wave broke, over her 
side. Finally we were afloat, and Frank’s mus¬ 
cular arms were piloting us through the laby¬ 
rinth of aquatic growth which it was necessary 
to go through before we searched open water. 
I sat in the stern, and as I cast right-handed, 
Frank pulled to the right so that I could work 
the logs and weed patches along that shore. It 
was not necessary to make long casts, as we 
kept fairly close to the likely looking places, 
fully expecting to hook a musky, as the weather 
was just right. 
Old Frank bent to his oars and the boat 
glided through the waves as silently as a spectre. 
I often wonder how these woodsmen get the 
movement of the oars without noise or commo¬ 
tion in the water. I began casting around weed 
patches and submerged logs until my arm began 
to get tired, and I was thinking of reeling in 
and resting when, after an unusually long cast 
to reach a half decayed log whose top was lying 
in the water, I was nearly jerked out of my 
seat by the savage rush of a monster whose 
dorsal fin cut the water like a knife as he rushed 
from under the old log at my spoon. A less 
pliant rod would have snapped like a reed with 
the force of the strike, and as he felt the hook 
he leaped twice his length above the water and 
shook his mighty head until the spoon rattled 
in a vain attempt to shake loose this thing that 
was stinging him and hampering his attempts 
to regain the seclusion of the old log. 
Frank at once rowed toward open water where 
we could fight it out on more equal terms and 
again the fish broke water, his armored sides 
shimmering in the early sunlight like hammered 
brass as he shook the water from his huge form 
in a shower which the strong wind brought back 
into our faces. Then he darted straight away, 
my reel shrieking as the line ran out. 
“Now you will see what will become of your 
baby tackle,” yelled Frank “A clothes line 
would not stop that fellow.” 
I made no answer, but sat still, determined to 
get this fish, for I was fully aware of the 
amount of friendly abuse I would come in for 
if it succeeded in breaking away. On and on 
he went, the line on my spool growing smaller 
and smaller under my blistering thumb, until 
only a few more yards of line remained on my 
reel. I increased the pressure on the line, de¬ 
termined to check him or lose my tackle rather 
than let him take all my line. I gave the line 
every ounce I thought it would stand and still 
the musky forged ahead, and the full strength 
of my line seemed only to urge him on. A little 
more pressure on the spool, a little nearer double 
bent the rod. and for an instant the fish seemed 
to falter. As I felt him waver I made frantic 
efforts to regain a few feet of line and at last, 
when only a few inches remained on the spool, 
I started him back in a wide circle. Inch by 
inch I retrieved him, but every turn of the reel 
put an added strain on rod and line, and from 
Frank’s looks as I glanced at him I knew he 
was expecting that something would snap. 
“You’ve finally turned him,” said Frank, "but 
you haven’t got him half whipped yet.” 
When I had at last regained twenty-five or 
thirty yards of line, the big fish evidently realized 
for the first time that some unseen force was 
leading him toward the boat. In another rush 
he took nearly all my line, but as I had fought 
him successfully so far, I felt more confident. 
Once the fish was within sight of the boat and 
we had had a good look at him, Frank advised 
careful handling, although most of the fight had 
been taken out of him, but as if to show that 
he was being libeled, he again darted away as 
if his exertions had not weakened him any, and 
I might as well have tried to check a rhinoceros 
with a skein of silk. 
Fortunately this run was shorter than the 
other, and again I got him close to the boat, but 
the wind had been increasing all the time, and 
in spite of all Frank could do to prevent it, the 
boat began to ship water badly. The next time 
the fish came in he came near outwitting me by 
a sudden dart under the boat, but more by good 
luck than good management I succeeded in pass¬ 
ing the tip around the stern and worked him 
around in reach of Frank’s club. As for my¬ 
self I dropped my rod, exhausted. I have ex¬ 
perienced a few strenuous moments in my life, 
but nothing to compare with that half hour. 
“You sure have got the daddy of 'em all,” mur¬ 
mured Frank, as he wiped the perspiration and 
cold water from his face with a bandana. All 
I could do was to sit and feast my eyes on my 
splendid prize. No more would he patrol back 
and forth between his lair under the old log and 
the bunch of pickwall weeds, waiting for some 
unsuspecting perch or bass. 
“Well, let’s go over to the spring and rest and 
eat a bite and then try for another one.” 
“Not to-day, Frank; I have the best musky 
in Lake Pardee and I am satisfied.” 
“I never thought you’d land that varmint on 
that plaything. No more clumsy tackle for me. 
I’ll have one of them whips as soon as I can 
send to Chicago,” declared Frank. 
After lunch I removed my large spoon as we 
rowed out to the bass and substituted a No. 4 
spoon with a 3/0 weedless hook and a small 
frog. At the fourth cast I got a strike. Up into 
the sunshine he went, time after time. After get¬ 
ting him into the landing net I gently extracted 
the hook and let him go free. 
“What are you doing? That was a four- 
pounder and we needed him for breakfast,” 
grumbled Frank. 
“We have plenty of fish for breakfast,” I re¬ 
plied. “We have the Sultan of Pardee there in 
the bottom of the boat and he is enough for any 
one man in one day.” 
During the afternoon and evening I hooked 
sixteen bass from two to five pounds and I re¬ 
turned every one to the water. As the sun drop¬ 
ped below the tamaracks, we pushed our boat 
to the landing. Frank got the big musky into 
his pack and we were off for camp on No-Mans 
Lake. As we passed Lake George we looked 
down on its beautiful waters, gleaming like mol¬ 
ten silver in the setting sun, and there, standing 
in the waiter’s edge, was a doe and twin fawns 
peacefully cropping the tops off the rushes. One 
of the little fellows was a reddish dun, like his 
