Black Bass / Where to catch them in quantity within an hour's ride from New York

by Charles Barker Bradford

My brother, who frequently accompanies me, is not a fisherman and prefers fishing for eels, and by a rule of contrariness the bass bother him quite as much as the fresh-water "snakes," as I call them, bother me.

Among my troubles I must not forget the mud turtles and snappers. They, too, are a nuisance when baiting with worms, and anyone who desires a few of the "shell-backs" can be abundantly accommodated.

For more than two miles of this lovely stream any man who knows how to handle a rod or throw a fly can land, or at least hook, some of the liveliest two to three pounders he could wish for, and although bass vary in their tastes at different periods of the day, I know nothing better than the common trolling spoon as a regular thing. There is one pool where I would almost be inclined to wager that I could get a strike with either spoon or fly every ten minutes during the first two hours of daylight, or from five to eight in the evening. That is saying a good deal, but it is a fact.

The best fish I caught last season was when I was going up stream in the canoe near the mouth of the lake and close to the right side. By a sudden movement I shot under some willow branches. I was just letting my line run out after a weed strike and was holding the paddle in my left hand, with the line between my teeth, using my right hand to give a good push to clear the boughs, when "zip, zip!" a beauty seized my bait as I floated out. I got nervous, upset my canoe and rolled into the water, but waded on shore and landed my fish. He weighed four pounds, seven ounces, live weight, and I have his head and tail and a clear conscience to prove it.

The last half day of the season I was fishing at Milton Lake, and I caught eighteen fine bass, and two eels, the latter as large round as a policeman's club and as dirty and slimy as usual. Eels always remind me of a skinny circus contortionist. When I am unfortunate enough to hook one, I generally make a clean cut of two yards of silk line, hook and all, and tie him up to the fence, or bow stay of my canoe. I would willingly let all of them go again only from a lingering remnant of a boyish superstition that they would go and tell all the bass how horribly indigestible my bait was.

I remember catching a big snapping turtle, weighing about twelve pounds, in the lake one day. When I pulled it up, my companion grabbed it, and I really think I would have jumped overboard but for the fear that others might be around to make things more pleasant for me for jumping "from the frying pan into the fire." I suppose a salt-water fisherman would have yelled and danced for joy; I am not built that way. When I fish for bass, I want bass, and when I fish for turtles—No! I would not want them even then. The next one that takes my bait can have pole, line, hook and all.

The bass in the lake are innumerable, but they are more difficult to catch than those in the stream, a fact which pleases the true fisherman, who fishes to match his skill and science against the instinct and cunning of the fish, rather than with the one sole intention of making his bag larger than that of any preceding angler.

Remember the lake bass want sport more than food, and the bait must be handled in a lively manner to bring success. Some fifteen years ago this water was stocked by some wealthy Jersey men, and, from what I can learn, not half a dozen expert anglers have visited its waters in the past ten years, and there is no record of anybody ever having fished the stream I here describe.

Last season I only met three strangers at the lake, but they never seemed to catch anything beyond eels, turtles, sun-fish, and a few two inch bass, the name of which they did not even know, and I got into their bad graces by telling them they ought to return the bass into the lake. They thought I was a crank, in fact one of them told me so. These men were salt-water sports, and one man who came there from Newark, N. J., was actually baiting with shrimps for fresh-water bass and had no less than eight hooks upon his line, all baited with shrimps. This man also told me that there were no decent fish in the lake, and strange to say, this appears to be the general opinion of the few visitors.

I met one good fly fisherman a year ago, who had several fine beauties on the bank. He had taken his stand behind my tree before I arrived, and he was an artist. We became good friends and promised to meet again, but have not done so as yet. He agreed with me that the lake was full of beautiful fish, and that they were a trifle hard to catch, which fact we both agreed was very good for the interests of the true lovers of the art of angling.