An American Angler in Australia
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Satisfaction Guaranteed! Book is in Used-Good condition. Pages and cover are clean and intact. Used items may not include supplementary materials such as CDs or access codes. Zane Gray was fishing and fishing everywhere, but he was often delighted with the Pacific Ocean, especially around Australia and New Zealand. Most of the fish caught by American fishermen in Australia are sharks large white, tiger, even a few slopes!
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The Happy Isles of Oceania. Paul Theroux. Jack London. Jules Verne. Robert Reid. Lizzy Burbank.
Some Myths and Legends of the Australian Aborigines. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Dot And The Kangaroo. Ethel Pedley.
Deep Water and Shoal. William Albert Robinson. Arthur H. Janet Evans. Coral and Coral Reefs.
Thomas Henry Huxley. Various Authors. Big Game Fishing - Shark Fishing. Shark Diving Holidays. Daniel Hardie. Sea Otters: Clowns of the Sea. Caitlind L. Fire and Water. Barbara Lyons.
The Seven Rivers. Douglas Stewart. Sea Fishing from Land and Pier. John Bickerdyke. World Wildlife Adventures. Tales of the Angler's Eldorado. Zane Grey. Gerald Lascelles. African Game Trails.
Theodore Roosevelt. An American Angler in Australia. Tarpon Fishing in Florida. Through the South Seas with Jack London. Martin Johnson. More Jataka Tales. Ellen C. Outback Australia: True Stories - Vol. Matt Flynn. Louis Becke. Death on Demand. Paul Thomas. Julio Verne. Watkin Tench. Whalesong The Whalesong Trilogy 1. Robert Siegel. Peter Scott: Collected Writings, Peter Scott. Frommer's Australia Lee Mylne. What Fish is That? Explore Australia Publishing.
Coral Reefs. Jason Chin. Tales of Swordfish and Tuna. Chris McNab. Holly Smith. Selena Dale. At first, all I had to excite such interest were newspaper articles about man-eating sharks, and vague fish stories that drifted up from down under. But in recent years I have corresponded with scientists, market fishermen, anglers, even missionaries, from all of whom I gathered data that added to my convictions, and finally sent me down to the under side of the world to see for myself, and prove, if possible, that my instinct and imagination were true guides.
We arrived in Australia in time to welcome the New Year, I had seen many of the celebrated harbors of the world and was not prepared to surrender the supremacy of New York Harbor or that of San Francisco, not to mention Havana, Rio de Janeiro, and others, to this magnificent Australian refuge for ships with its shores of color and beauty. And I cannot do any better than quote this American slang. During my short stay there I saw practically everything and was greatly impressed by many things. But this is to be an account of my fishing adventures in Australia, and it would take another volume to describe the country itself.
From what information I could gather, the neighborhood of Montague Island had yielded most of the swordfish that had been seen and caught by Australians. So after enjoying the hospitality of Sydney for several days, we gathered up bag and baggage and motored down the coast some two hundred and seventy-five miles to the little town of Bermagui, where we established our camp.
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It seems, as the years go by, that every camp I pitch in places far from home grows more beautiful and romantic. The setting of the one at Bermagui bore this out in the extreme. From the village a gradual ascent up a green wooded slope led to a jutting promontory that opened out above the sea. The bluff was bold and precipitous. A ragged rock-bound shoreline was never quiet. At all times I seemed aware of the insatiate crawling sea. The waves broke with a thundering crash and roar, and the swells roared to seething ruin upon the rocks.
Looking north across a wide blue bay, we could see a long white beach. And behind it dense green forest, bush, leading to a bold mountain range, and the dim calling purple of interior Australia. This shoreline swung far to the north, ending in a cape that extended out, pointing to Montague Island, bare and bleak, with its lighthouse standing erect, like a gray sentinel. At this side of the promontory the great trees failed, leaving only a few standing away from the storm winds of the Antarctic, with bleached gnarled branches. Beyond lay a few logs and these led to a long green slope down to the sea.
Camp of a dozen or so of tents we located in a grove of widely-separated eucalyptus trees—gum trees they are called in Australia. They reminded me of the pohutukawa trees of New Zealand. There were sunny glades and plenty of shade, and foliage for the wind to sigh or mourn or roar through, according to the mood of the wind. The fragrance of these trees I had long known, because I have eucalyptus on my place in California, some lovely, lofty, silver-barked trees, and others low and dense, bearing the scarlet flowers.
But here the fragrance was penetrating and thick, like that of a fir forest in Oregon, only stronger.