[Illustration: 9097]
E reached the lake in the evening-, and started out bright and early the
next morning to call upon some of the old inhabitants who wear fins and
have a reputation for being scaly. A new and fascinating Dowagiac
minnow caught the eye of a big bass before we had gone forty rods, and
connections were promptly established. As he was being kindly but firmly
persuaded to approach the boat he flung himself into the air, gave a
twist and a wiggle and a shake and thus succeeded in appropriating that
Dowagiac to his own uses. He has not been heard from since that brief
interview, but it is safe to say that he is putting on airs as he
dangles that rainbow-coloured minnow before the eyes of his admiring
relatives. We have sometimes doubted the truth of the old saw that it is
unlucky to lose the first fish hooked, but all doubt on that point has
been put to flight.
A day or two later five fine bass were caught one afternoon and hung
over the side of the boat on a hastily improvised stringer. Rowing home
the stringer parted through chafing on the side of the boat and the bass
went their respective ways. Not content with this unfriendly slap, Dame
Fortune--or inexcusable carelessness--permitted the string of the minnow
pail, also hanging over the side of the boat, to break, involving the
loss not only of the pail but of some four dozen A-1 minnows. When the
Junior had captured a three-pound bass we concluded to tie him--the
bass--up to a root that reached out over the water and to keep him until
later. Just when he seemed to be thoroughly halter-broken he succeeded
in untying the knot and we saw him no more. All this was bad enough,
but to make a complete job of our discomfiture the minnow-trap which
was supposed to be busily at work luring bait for our use, suddenly and
unaccountably disappeared. Then the outer pail of the new minnow-bucket
was missing and the scaler could not be found. It rained and then rained
some more. The bass absolutely refused to strike at a spoon-hook or pork
rind or the new Dowagiac. Why did we ever leave our happy home?
It is always darkest just before dawn. The outer pail of the new
minnow-bucket had been borrowed by a Methodist preacher who was camping
nearby, and was returned the same afternoon. The minnow-trap had been
rolled out into deep water by the under-tow, and within twenty-four
hours of its disappearance was back in its accustomed place and hard
at work. The scaler reappeared as suddenly and unaccountably as it
had disappeared. A new stringer was easily manufactured and, with a
plentiful supply of minnows, the bass needful to adorn the stringer
were easily persuaded to come to hook. The weather-man repented of his
unkindness and gave us days of glorious sunshine. The lake dimpled
and laughed, the pines whispered all kinds of friendly messages, the
red-squirrels scolded at us from the tree-tops where they were busy
cutting off pine cones, and the chipmunks made friendly advances as we
sat by the lakeside. The moon almost turned night into day and night
loons called to us, “Ha! Ha! What’s the matter with you? This is a
beautiful world. Minnesota is the finest part of the world and this is
the fairest spot in Minnesota. Cheer up!” And we did.
Now that we have gotten out of the dumps and life is worth living, let’s
go fishing. What shall it be? Or will you take anything that comes your
way? There are bass and crappies and sunfish and great northern pike,
not to mention rock-bass and perch. The natives aver that there are also
enormous wall-eyed pike and we believe it, although they were always
out when we called. Thanks be! there is not a pickerel in the lake.
The great northern pike looks much like his kinsman, the pickerel,
but differs in body-markings, gill-covers, general shape--being more
stocky--and especially in palatableness. He is a vigorous fighter. Mr.
Louis Rhead, in his book on “Fish and Fishing,” says that neither the
great northern pike nor the pickerel has ever been known to rise above
the surface of the water after being hooked. If that is correct, then
something new under the sun has happened recently, for the writer, with
eighty to a hundred feet of line out, had a nine-pounder throw himself
entirely out of the water in his efforts to escape. The largest ever
caught in this lake weighed thirty-six pounds, but numbers are taken
that go over ten pounds each. They are nearly as gamey and quite as
good eating as the muskallonge.
The crappies are more friendly. Early in our stay we located a “bed”
which never failed to respond to a call. If there is any fish in these
northern lakes that makes a more delicious dish than fried crappies, we
want to be introduced to it. It is not all unusual to take them weighing
a pound each, but this seems trifling when the Methodist preacher
aforementioned tells us that he caught seventy-five in Lake Itasca
in less than an hour which averaged two pounds each. Bass are here
in abundance but were not responsive this summer. Those caught were
ridiculously fat.
To cap the climax of attractions there is a trout stream only three
miles away. Visit it? Rather. A friendly neighbour furnished horse and
buggy and acted as guide. We had a few alleged angleworms, and even
with these emaciated, scrawny apologies for bait we took enough trout
to furnish a meal for each family represented by the anglers. The stream
flows through a marsh and is fed by numerous springs. Where we first
struck the brook one needed a magnifying glass to find it. How a
six-inch trout manages to turn around in it passes understanding. It
grows as it goes, however, and widens into quite a respectable stream
during its journey of a mile.
For some years now the writer has been inflicting fish stories upon the
unsuspecting public, and the impulse is strong within him to add more to
those already told. He has a new supply growing out of the experiences
of the summer, and it is hard to keep them bottled up. He would gladly
particularize concerning the ten-inch trout that was waiting for him
under the roots of a big tamarack just where the foam had formed a shady
hiding-place, or mention specially some of the fights with the pike.
But the cynical skepticism of assumed friends, the frivolous, not to
say contemptuous comments made concerning the writer’s previous
contributions to piscatorial knowledge, have deeply wounded his
sensitive spirit, and he cannot summon courage to challenge renewed
unkindness.
Just why fish stories should be discredited so readily by those who do
not fish it is difficult to understand. Why should a man who does not
know the difference between a spoon-hook and an ostrich feather and
who cannot tell a sunfish from a rainbow trout sit in judgment upon
the solemn assertions of experienced anglers? This attitude of chronic
unbelief concerning the testimony of honest men is unbecoming. We have
heard many fish stories during the summer, all of them true. We have
even heard varying accounts of the same incident and have believed them
all. That comes from possessing a trustful spirit. A gentleman told us
of seeing a string of five fine bass and some fifteen or twenty sunfish
and perch caught by a cottager who came over from an adjoining lake.
The next day another gentleman gave an account of the same catch and
the number of bass had increased to twenty-five. On the third day, as
vouched for by another gentleman, there were one hundred bass in
that string and they averaged between four and six pounds. Now some
suspicious individuals would scoff at the apparent discrepancies, but it
is easy to reconcile the different statements. The first gentleman may
have seen the catch early in the day and the other accounts may have
been based upon later accumulations.
Among the most untiring fishermen met this summer were a father and son
who chased the great northern pike with a zeal worthy of such a cause.
One day the father informed me that they had caught a pike weighing
fifteen pounds the day before. Soon after the son gave his version of
the capture and said the fish weighed eighteen pounds. But why cavil?
Are we to make no allowance for youthful imagination? Is a little matter
of three pounds to be allowed to spoil a good fish story?
The writer ventures to record these experiences because they are not his
own. Possibly he may be allowed to set down one other incident, inasmuch
as it does not concern him personally: On the shore of the lake--the
precise location was not given--once lived a farmer who owned a dog
famed for exceptional intelligence. It occurred to the farmer that, as
the dog loved the water and seemed interested in the fishing excursions
which they took together, it might be possible to utilize the canine
ability to practical ends. Fastening a trolling line to the dog’s tail,
he took him out upon the lake, threw him overboard and rowed rapidly
to shore. Of course, the dog swam after the boat and had not gone far
before he hooked on to a good-sized bass which he dragged after him to
the land. The owner praised the dog and continued his training until
the beast had become a proficient troller, entering into the sport with
eagerness and zest. If the master failed to set him to work for a day or
so the dog would bring the trolling line in his mouth and plead--as well
as a dumb animal can--to be allowed to go fishing. If he caught a bass
he would give two barks to announce the capture, and if a pike three
barks, except in the case of an exceptionally large one, in which case
he barked from the time the fish struck until he had landed it. If he
had the misfortune to hook a rock-bass or a perch he would sneak down
the shore to some unfrequented spot and there gnaw the intruder off the
hook and then go back to work again. Would that we could record a long
life for this most wonderful animal, but, alas! he came to an untimely
end. When but four years of age, in the fulness of his powers, he begged
to go fishing one lowering day. Soon after he had begun trolling up
and down the shore the master heard his bark of victory and, as it was
continued, knew that he had hooked a large fish. The barks soon took
on a note of anxiety, gradually merging into fear. Rushing down to the
shore the horrified farmer was just in time to see the dog being rapidly
drawn backward despite his most heroic efforts. A moment later and a
great pair of jaws opened and enveloped both dog and bark. When, now
and then, on cloudy days, a sound comes across the water that somewhat
resembles a bark, the residents say to each other, “There is the big
pike that swallowed Perkins’ dog.” (The writer hastens to say that he
did not see the dog nor the pike nor even the bark.)
By this time some reader may be interested to know where the lake is
located about which we are writing. A journey of two hundred miles
almost due north from Minneapolis brings the traveller to Park Rapids, a
live and growing town on the Great Northern Railroad. One may not travel
far in any direction from this town without coming across a lake.
Three miles to the east is Long Lake, some nine miles in length with an
average width of about three-fourths of a mile. It is a beautiful
sheet of water, spring-fed, blue, with sandy beaches and broken, wooded
shores. Here among the pines is the cottage where we spent a delightful
outing.
Unless all signs fail, this section is soon to become the favourite
playground of the Mississippi Valley. It has almost innumerable
attractive lakes, the fragrant pines are everywhere, the air is pure and
invigorating, the fishing is varied and first-class. Twenty-four miles
from Park Rapids is Lake Itasca, whose fame has gone abroad, for it
is here that the mighty Mississippi has its source. It lies within the
state park, which includes thirty-six thousand acres of land, and here
are found magnificent specimens of the great Norway pine, once so common
over all this country. The superintendent of the park is given the
privilege of conducting a summer resort on the shores of Lake Itasca,
and the central lodge and adjoining cottages, all built of pine
logs, are very attractive. An automobile trip on an ideal day gave an
opportunity for visiting this interesting place. We wondered, as we
approached the lodge, at seeing the boarders playing tennis and pitching
quoits when ten rods away was the lake and fishing. But more intimate
acquaintance with the lake dispelled the wonder. The shoreline is
timbered and beautiful, but the water looks dead, and not a sand beach
is to be seen.
It is now all in the past except the memory. That will abide. The last
afternoon of our stay we rowed across the lake and picked a gunny-sack
full of hazel nuts, took a swim in the lake, and then built a fire on
the shore over which we roasted the delicious sweetcorn, took our supper
in the open, and rowed home as the shadows deepened and the crescent
moon hung low in the western sky. We shall often recall the sunny days
and peace-filled nights, the glory of the sunsets and the enticement
of the beautiful lake. Possibly we shall feel, at times, the tingle
generated by the big bass or the ten-inch trout. Certainly we shall live
over again the picnics in the pine woods and the days spent in the boat
voyaging in search of the wary bass.
[Illustration: 0107]
[Illustration: 0108]
```_“Courage,” he said, and pointed
`````toward the land,
```"This mounting wave will bear
`````us shoreward soon.”
```And in the afternoon they came
`````unto a land
```In which it seemed to be always
`````afternoon.=
```Full-faced above the valley stood
`````the moon;
```And like a downward smoke; the
`````slender stream
```Along the cliff to fall and pause and
`````fall did seem._
`````--Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
`````_The Lotus Eaters_.=
[Illustration: 0109]