lunch, lunch to dinner, and dinner to 
sunset. In this manner, we fished for 
four successive days, using all the 
plugs we had, not to mention spinners, 
pork rinds, crawfish, minnows, hell- 
grammites and the lowly worm, and in 
these four days of hard fishing, we got 
one strike. 
RAISE be, something of the family 
reputation was saved by that one 
strike, for we landed him. But never- 
theless the results were very disap- 
pointing, and especially so because we 
had learned by this time that the lake 
was really teeming with bass. 
Our sources of information had 
proved reliable. They were 
everywhere—in deep water and 
in the shallows, around stumps 
and in the grass, on sand bars 
and on the rocks, but, in spite 
of their numbers, nothing 
seemed to attract them. Be- 
ing unfamiliar with these lakes, 
we could not decide where the 
fault lay—whether the water 
was still too high or still too 
cold, or whether our methods 
were unsuitable — but in discus- 
sing the situation that night with 
other bass fishermen and some 
guides, we learned that we were 
not alone in our misery. The old- 
est inhabitants, who could, and 
did, spin yarns by the hour about 
the Indian days, admitted that he 
still cast a mean plug, adding 
that the current bass season was 
‘tthe worst he had ever known in 
those parts. ; 
The trout fisherman who had 
been our steady companion 
throughout these trying days, 
was not a bit perturbed. Bass 
meant nothing in his young life, 
and besides, this kind of exist- 
ence was just what the doctors 
ordered, as the saying goes, with 
lots of sunshine and fresh air, 
coupled with mild exercise. Al- 
ready a healthy bronze was dis- 
placing the pallor of his face, and 
he would even break out with oc- 
casional snatches of operatic airs for 
no apparent reason whatsoever. He 
was getting better and he knew it. 
eae fifth day broke squally, and at 
such times a flat boat requires 
too much attention for real fishing. 
Perhaps it was just as well, but any- 
way, it was decided to forsake the 
bass for the day and try the brooks 
for trout. We had considerable luck 
—with worms. But stream fishing is 
strenuous work for one not in good 
physical condition—toting a complete 
outfit with creel and grub through fast 
water over slippery rocks with hip 
boots is no light job, and while there 
were lots of fish, it was altogether too 
strenuous. Besides, we must confess, 
these speckled trout are such supremely 
beautiful and dainty things that one 
positively hates to take them. 
The wind had gone down when we 
returned to camp and after dinner we 
were out again on the lake. The trout 
fisherman was casting plugs for the 
fun of the thing, while we idled on 
the oars, utterly at a loss to know how 
to proceed and not altogether appeased 
even by the beauty of the sunset. At 
our feet lay the battered old tackle 

Pa AS 
Bringing forth the smile—the author with a string 
of Northern small-mouths. 
box with its trays of lures, most of 
which, at other times and in other 
places, had proved their worth. We 
looked them over, one by one, each 
with a little history of its own, but 
here we had tried them all, without 
avail—that is, all except the hairy 
doodle bug. This had been passed up 
for the reason that in three years it 
had not, to our recollection, provided 
a strike. The fly rods used for trout 
during the afternoon were lying on 
the bottom of the boat, and, having 
nothing definite in mind other than 
the feeling that we might as well try 
everything, we picked out a long gut 
+17 
— ‘ 1) Ges i 
leader tied on a doodle bug and handed 
the rod to the trout fisherman. The 
doodle bug, which is a _ particularly 
foolish-looking affair with one small 
hook, is cast like a fly, and, of course, 
the trout fisherman was a past master 
in that sort of thing. His first cast 
was perfect and—would wonders never 
cease?—the bug had no more than 
lighted on the water than we saw a 
streak of black, a swirl and a mighty 
splash. Then the line tightened and 
the reel began to scream. It was a 
beautiful strike! The fish immediately 
sank and made for deep water, when 
the trout fisherman, gathering 
his wits, instinctively followed 
trout tactics and jerked hard on 
his rod. Probably the fault was 
ours in not advising him, for 
the rod (a brand new steel one 
of a well-known make) could not 
stand the strain and snapped in 
the middle of the joint just above 
the handle. Instantaneously, so 
it seemed, the line slackened and 
we realized that the fish had es- 
caped. Utterly speechless at this 
sudden exhibition of power and 
speed, the trout fisherman turned 
around to us, beads of perspira- 
tion rolling down his face, hold- 
ing the remnant of the rod at 
arm’s length—a ludicrous picture 
of surprise and disgust. 
In those few moments we had 
drifted off shore, and we, who 
have prided ourselves since child- 
hood on our ability to handle a 
boat, discovered that we had lost 
an oar in the excitement. How- 
ever, we still had the other fly 
rod, and having reeled in what 
was left of the broken rod, we 
transferred the doodle bug, re- 
covered the oar and returned in- 
shore. There the trout fisher- 
man managed to gulp: 
“Here, you take this damn 
thing. Let’s see you do it.” 
Fully prepared for any even- 
tualities, we made our cast and 
the expected happened. The in- 
stant the bug hit the water there 
was another magnificent strike. Mo- 
ments of sheer joy followed, moments 
that seemed hours packed with thrills, 
for this was no ordinary fight. 
EMEMBER that ours was a fly 
rod with trout tackle, quite un- 
suited for heavier game fish. The one 
thought, that is, of any continuity— 
was that the only way to get him was 
to play him to exhaustion. At last 
we had found the famous Northern 
Bass! After one jump, more of a re- 
sounding splash than a jump, he made 
for deep water, and, with considerable 
(Continued on page 504) 
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