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SSeS AEA pS 

iI 
Angling in Little 
Lake Butler 
By I. B. ‘‘SKINNER-SPOON”’ 

ROBABLY the rea- 
son that my fishing 
trip to Little Lake 
Butler sticks in my 
mind so prominent- 
ly is the fact that 
it was my first real 
fishing trip in Flor- 
ida. To be sure, I 
had been out to 
Lake Barton and 
Lake Conway and, like most tourists in 
Orlando I had wet a line in Lake Lu- 
cerne but, in the words of Rip Van 
Winkle, “Those didn’t count.” So when 
Mr. W. M. Foster, the well-known 
angler, invited me to accompany him 
on a trip to Lake Butler, which is 
eighteen miles southwest of Orlando, I 
accepted without hesitation. 
With our camping outfit, which in- 
cluded a boat, tent, cooking utensils, 
etc., securely anchored on Mr. Foster’s 
lumber wagon we left Orlando about 
10 a. m. in a drizzling rain. However, 
within an hour the rain disappeared 
and the sun came out and we had a 
glorious afternoon drive through the 
high pine forests. 
The first few miles out of Orlando 
the roads were through flatwoods and 
swamps and our passage was neces- 
sarily slow but after we got out on the 
high rolling pine lands southwest of 
the city the going became easier. I 
remember how thoroughly I enjoyed 
that trip through the pines. There is 



something about a pine tree that is very — 
appealing. It is all right for the poets 
to rave about the “sheltering palms,” 
the “heart of the oak”-and the orange 
trees with their “globes of gold” upon 
them but none of them seem to have the 
real soul stuff that the pine has. When 
one is tired out mentally and physically 
there is nothing so quieting to the spirit 
and soothing to the nerves as camping 
a while among the pines with their 
balmy odors and soughing sounds. 
LONG in the afternoon we came 
across a lot of rich pine knots lying 
near the roadside and got out and laid 
in a supply for our camp fire. Soon we 
began to see the waters of Lake Butler 
brought joy to our fishermen souls. In 
Atiracit Wild Ducks flashing in the sunshine and that 
~ a 
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as waters are open. Our 28 years 
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= TERRELL’S AQUATIC FARM 
 H-279 Bik. Oshkosh, Wis. 
wih LLU aL 




ven ATEN TY 
In writing to 
a little while we reached a piny old 
camp. Here we pitched our tent, 
launched our boat and made ready to 
enjoy life to the full for twenty-four 
hours. By the time we had made our 
Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
It will identify you. 
camp preparations, the sun was setting 
and the time for fishing for that day 
was limited. However, we pushed off 
and paddled slowly down the south 
shore. I was doing the paddling and 
Mr. Foster used a fly rod with a Skin- 
ner bait. 
Just ahead of us was an old pine 
tree which had fallen into the lake. Mr. 
Foster remarked casually that he would 
catch a fish between there and the pine 
tree. Not all fishermen’s predictions 
come true, but this one did, for he had 
hardly gotten the words out of his 
mouth when there was a splash and his 
rod began to take on the familiar bow 
which tells its own story to the fisher- 
man. The greatest excitement pre- 
vailed. In the words of the small boy, 
“I was expecting every minute to be 
the next.” However, Mr. Foster is an 
artist at fishing and he had no trouble 
in landing his quarry. While it was 
not the “biggest catch,” it was a nice 
lake trout. To say that he got a fish 
every time he threw his line out would 
not be correct but they were certainly 
biting well that afternoon and the sport 
was splendid. 
I have fished in the Indian River at 
Coronado, where the sheephead would 
grab the hook before it touched the 
bottom; I have fished for salmon in 
the mountain streams of Alaska; I have 
fished for mountain trout in the Ski- 
koomish river in the State of Washing- 
ton (and that is mighty good fishing, 
too); I have fished for porgies in the 
Atlantic Ocean off Anglesea, but never 
did I enjoy a half hour’s sport as I 
did that. 
WE returned to camp about dark 
with a nice string of trout. I 
don’t remember the exact number as it 
has been nine years since we took that 
trip and much water has run under 
the bridge, but I do remember we had 
trout for supper and they were de- 
licious. 
After supper, we sat around the camp 
fire for an hour and Mr. Foster re-. 
counted some of his famous fishing 
trips in Maine, his native State. Nine 
o’clock found us snugly rolled up in our 
blankets and sound asleep. Five min- 
utes afterwards—at least it seemed 
only five minutes—Mr. Foster was 
shaking me violently, “Get up, get up,” 
he said, “it is almost daylight and we 
have a lot of work to do before we can 
begin to fish.” Ordinarily I wake up 
Page 44 
