No Doubt, Scout, It's About Trout

The Old Man gets to feeling a little nostalgic around this time of year. While I haven't stayed current on fresh water fishing regulations, I remember that the "opening day" of trout season usually happened in our area in April. I believe my dad lived all year for two events; the day his garden was plowed, and opening day of trout season.

Dad would spend hours going over his plans, poring over lunar tables, checking his equipment, and listening to agricultural reports that told of stream stocking schedules. We would ride up into the mountains around Bedford and just stare at North Creek and Jennings Creek from all angles to see if we could find any clues. I vividly remember walking through the woods and feeling in my best Dan'l Boone mood, complete with my genuine coon skin cap. Ah yes.....boy against nature.....the stuff of adventure dreams.

We were a fishing family. Mom loved it as well, so "opening day" was a family event. The evening before, lunches were packed, the cooler was filled and the equipment was checked and double checked. A word about that cooler; it was a metal monstrosity with thick walls. Red with white lettering emblazoned on the side, Conan the Barbarian would have been challenged to lift it comfortably when it was filled with ice and sodas.

Pre-dawn the house on Park Street took on life. Scurrying became the order of the day with Dad issuing instructions at break-neck speed. The old Dodge finally loaded, off we chugged.

It was about 15 miles or so up to the target. The road was narrow and parts were not paved, but rather were gravel surfaced. Trout season didn't open until the stroke of noon, so in theory, there was no need to rush. In theory. In actuality, Dad felt compelled to get there early to "get the best spot". To save time, Dad chose to drive with his waders (or as he called them, "hip boots") on but rolled down. Not realizing that his "feel" for the pedals were greatly altered by the boots, we barrelled into a 90 degree curve on a graveled portion of the road. The old Dodge wasn't much, but she had enough zip in her to shoot into a fishtailing slide. Dad was scuffling to control the car, Mom was raising holy hell, and I was in the back seat going, "Wheeeeeee".

Somehow, the old Dodge righted herself and things calmed. Undeterred, Dad forged ahead until we reached our creek. Serenity had taken a sabbatical. Every trout fan in 3 counties were lined up on the banks. Dan'l Boone now had an army. About 11:30, every one had flies on their rods and were holding them up waiting for the gunshot that signaled High Noon. Boom. Lines dropped, casts were made, curses were heard from fishermen catching each other, and slowly a look of peace and contentment spread across Dad's face. It was as if he was truly in his element, and you know what? He was.

I don't remember that we caught many if any "keeper" trout. We caught plenty of a strange little fish called a "Horny Head", but we threw them back too. Even in my 10 year old mind, I think I wanted Dad to catch a citation trout. It never happened, but I treasure the memories of his trying.

I still have Dad's old tackle box, his last fishing license, and that red cooler is still in the family. And to my dying day, I'll remember the sound of that gravel flying and "Wheeeeeeee".