An Alexandria Bay “Musky” 
How a Thirty-two Pound Mascalonge Was Conquered on Bass Tackle 
the statement that “God never did 
make a more calm, quiet, innocent 
recreation than angling.” That is also 
my creed, or rather was my creed, up 
until Thursday afternoon, June 19th of 
this year, at about four o’clock, at 
Champagne Point on the St. Lawrence 
River near Weston Isle, Canada. At 
that time and place I decidedly changed 
my mind. 
We had been fishing, the Governor 
and I, as has been our annual custom 
for some twenty-three summers past on 
this River. We had had a rather diffi- 
cult day, leaving our Hotel, the Thou- 
sand Island House, early in the morning 
in my motor boat Philgor, for a bleak 
north wind had made anchoring diffi- 
cult, and had sidewashed us with a cold 
spray wherever we travelled. 
However, fairly good luck, wind and 
weather notwithstanding, had been with 
us, and an occasional black bass, perch 
or pickerel, found its way into the boat. 
In the afternoon the wind had shifted 
and was blowing down past Visgers 
over that great expanse of River down 
toward Landsdowne, Canada, when we 
found ourselves near Champagne Point, 
Weston Isle. The Governor, an ardent 
fisherman despite his sixty odd years, 
had held out bravely in the blow, but at 
about four o’clock he suggested our es- 
caping the buffetting sea by pulling into 
a little shallow bay just below the small 
concrete dock at the Point. 
Much to my disgust for the shallow 
water evidenced by the lily pads be- 
tokened to my mind naught but perch, 
I cast out on the deeper side away from 
_shore — the Governor 
casting in between the 
lily pads brought in a 
couple of perch in short 
order while my bait, a 
small sucker, lay on the 
bottom of the river at 
a depth not over six or 
seven feet about ten or 
fifteen yards from the 
boat. 
I began to reel in 
slowly when my line 
apparently caught in 
the bottom, but with 
some slight pressure it 
came along just like the 
movement and_ sensa- 
tion of catching a sub- 
merged log or branch 
of atree, Suddenly the 
[ ‘es WALTON is credited with 
Bye GORDON 5S. .P. KLEEBERG 
line (a bass line of thirty pound test I 
believe) ran out—the black bristol steel 
rod bent over—faster went the line— 
the reel sizzled as the handle spun 
round. “Look out for your fingers, it’s 
a mascalonge.” A chill ran down my 
back and gooseflesh started all over me. 
For twenty-three summers I had heard 
of these river monsters. Once some 
years ago in Chippewa Bay I had 
hooked one only to feel him dash off the 
line the moment I had tightened a bit 
on him. Once too I had seen one bask- 
ing in the sun in shallow water back of 
Grenadier. Here was a light bass rod 
and line. One thing was in my favor. 
The water was very shallow, and I 
hoped and prayed the fish would not 
dash under the boat, for where we 
anchored there was not over five feet of 
water—and I had lots of line. 
Meanwhile the pressure on the line 
had slackened a bit—with trembling 
hands I began to reel in ten, twenty, 
thirty yards of line came in when an- 
other dash down the river carried out - 
twice what I had reeled in. 
N my leisure moments I had vowed I 
would exert no real pressure on a 
big wild fish if I ever caught one un- 
prepared (that is, without copper 
leaders or wire lines, etc.) —it was hard 
to remember that now. I thought the 
line would snap any moment. I merely 
kept the spring of the rod against the 
fish, the rest it could take what it 
pleased, and I trembled and watched— 
another easing of pressure, another 
dash—sometimes sixty to eighty yards 
of line it seemed to me were out—after 

The tiger of fresh water 
fifteen or twenty minutes the distance 
decreased once, oh joy, the fish—up to 
this time the “musky” was only a sur- 
mise—was not over fifteen yards from 
the boat and up near the surface where 
its massive length—to my excited mind 
it covered an immense space in the 
river—could be seen. 
T did not throw itself out of water 
but in several of these dashes it came 
to the surface as if for air, then down 
out of sight it would go. 
Twenty minutes—I was trembling 
like a leaf, the fish was near enough to 
try a bold strike—almost before I knew 
it the Governor had hit it square on the 
back of its big head with the metal end 
of our big boat hook (the water of 
course—materially weakened the blow). 
Fortunately, I saw his action, not in 
time to prevent it, for I would never had 
sanctioned so drastic a step fearful lest 
the fish would disengage itself from the 
line, but in time to give lots of slack 
for the dash which I knew would and 
did follow. 
There was nothing “calm and quiet’ 
about this recreation, it settled itself 
into a battle of wits—trembling hands 
and legs at this end—(that I should 
have been able to keep this monster for 
twenty minutes on my line seemed in- 
credible to me)—and a big fish fighting 
for its life—up the River toward Gana- 
noque it dashed—then slowly returned 
~ as I reeled in, then down toward Lands- 
downe, off toward Rockport, from three 
or four yards—the fish was off again 
fifty or sixty yards. Then slowly 
weakening, back toward the boat it 
came —then another 
dash—then a _ return; 
but the hook held—the 
line held—the rod held 
—and the fish was on 
the end. 
After at least forty 
minutes a tired body, 
well over four feet 
long, came floating 
slowly toward the boat. 
I nearly fell out toward 
the fish. Could I be- 
lieve my eyes. My ad- 
versary had _ sur- 
rendered weary and 
worn, but a difficult and 
treacherous bit of work 
remained, how to get 
him into the boat; a 
(Continued on p. 620) 
Page 590 
