The Trout Have Landed.

The Trout Have Landed.

I keep catching trout. And bluegill. And some other stuff.

But the trout!

Yes, I know, they are mostly all stockers but still. After a nearly yearlong trout drought, it is awakening--not satiating--my long-latent trout fly fisherman brain stem.

First a little history. Remember the title of my journal? I need to cover the back-story. It was early Spring 2016, and my daughter, out of the blue, said, "I want to go fishing!"  I don't know where it came from, or she told me and I forgot. I will ask her but the point here is that she immediately caused an effect on me. My latent fisherman self had been put away for years--really for over a decade, because that self is a small stream trout fly fisherman. That is my roots, my core, my fishing identity but moreso my emotional center. When your teenage daughter says "I wanna go fishing" well, you go!

I fished with my father as a kid, and up until I was around 30. Sad to say, I think our last trip actually fishing may have been 1995 (that's the trout stamp on his license). But we took trips in early 2001 to stock the stream with his grandson. I feel like we never fished enough. But when we did, it was incredibly meaningful. This was not your low-effort local fishing. It was get all the stuff together load the car drive 2+ hours to the Poconos,  get to the Swiftwater Inn (sadly gone now) get out on the stream and fish the day. Later, the club bought a farmhouse and that was fantastic! No more renting at the inn. Fish the whole weekend. We'd have pan fried trout for lunch. Private water. Natural wild brook char. Classic unspoiled small stream fishing. Local Wissahickon fishing? For years, I turned my nose up at more than the smell. (That sentiment is changing but that is another story.)

I suppose every boy or girl who grows up fishing with dad, or mom, may have the same emotional touch with fishing. I really feel my father out there. It comes with the circumstances. Because he was also a birder, I think of him when a warbler sings. The sound of the riffle, the breeze, the smell of the creek--these all bring back more than memories--more a feeling of connectedness, of wonder, of bliss.

And so as I expand my Connecticut fishing experience, I am also reliving my childhood. And remembering my father and what he enjoyed, and what was meaningful to him. It really opens up more than these sort of trite superficial aspects. Rather it opens the memory and my thoughts to everything he believed in or cared about. How do our parents influence after they are gone? Profoundly.

Just a week ago or so, I had one of these profound mornings on the river. It was a half hour from home, and I was alone there, with my father's bamboo and his waders, and his Hardy LRH Lightweight reel and some 40 year old Scientific Anglers double tapered line, and antique Cortland leaders in my pocket, of the vest he gave me as a kid. I was literally trying to fill his shoes.

The riffle was beckoning. The pool near the road seemed too easy, too lazy, too over-fished. So I walked a bit farther. The sound of the riffle reminded me of the 'road' stretch on the Swiftwater. I had to fish it. I worked up the brook, with my father's favorite fly tied on--a royal coachman--and presented it dry, as well as wet, methodically working upstream. As I settled into a rhythm,  it was astounding how I both appreciated greatly the fortunate day, but also missed my father. I wanted him to be there. 14 years ago, we lost him. It does not seem so long.

When I hooked up in that riffle, it was like so many before--it feels at first like another snag but somehow you know it isn't and you instinctively lift the rod tip. Then as trout tend to do, the fish swims towards me trying to spit the fly. Unlike the big game fish you see on TV, my experience with trout is mostly opposite. You can't retrieve fast enough to keep up with the best of them. The line goes slack, and off it goes. And so it was on this day. At 4 feet out, I lost it. But no matter. I had found my quarry in that seam and I was content for the next 5 minutes as I walked out.

Going by the road pool, I watched a man land a brook trout. Sometimes there really are fish right next to the road.