Reflections on a Trout Stream...

[Outdoor Talk Network by Jim Slinsky]
Broadcasted Nationwide on the OTN Radio Network

Notice: All content on this website is copyrighted. Do not copy, reproduce or distribute without permission.
© Copyright 1999-2008 Outdoor Talk Network

Reflections on a Trout Stream...

By Jim Slinsky
May 05, 2003

It’s 7:30 AM and I wheel into my favorite parking place beside my favorite trout stream. My son is with me and we are about to embark on another season of trout fishing together. It was a 75-yard walk back to the bridge, but we are not going to start there. We will cut through the woods and get down below the crowd and fish our way to the next bridge.

I am not too agile climbing from the truck with a red-hot coffee in one hand and the remnants of an egg sandwich in the other. I am a little overdressed on top, but I have learned it is better to be warm than sorry. My son is a little underdressed and it reminds me of the days when I was a tough guy. I smile watching him put on his chest waders thinking he might be asking me for the keys by 9. We chat back and forth about the water temperature and what they might be taking. He is rushing and throwing his equipment on. I’m a little slower paced and traveling a whole lot lighter.

He is putting his vest on and I can’t help but notice every pocket in his vest is bulging with something. He brought everything imaginable with him. He has nightcrawlers, red worms, meal worms, minnows, salmon eggs in three colors and even some Power Bait. His expensive vest is stained in two places with salmon egg oil. I watch him move some lure boxes from one pocket to another to make room for the new lures he purchased the night before. He gets a short lecture about leaving the lure packaging and his coffee cup in the back of the truck. He says, “I know, Dad.” I tell myself I have done a good job of raising him. He will not leave any garbage. I’m taking one small tackle box with 10 spinners and spoons and a half-dozen ball bearing swivels.

He is moving quickly now, leading the way down the path to our favorite hole. I follow behind, rod tip to the rear as he takes long strides acting as if he late for a movie. I see and smell the first signs of fishing season trying to emerge between the trees. The aroma of the woods brings back memories of bird hunting with the dogs as much as it does the trout fishing. He drops down the hill and out of sight for a moment until I catch up and see him standing on his favorite rock. I brought him to this spot when he was barely walking. He is facing upstream with his rod under his arm and his swivel is already in his mouth. He is wetting his knot before he pulls it tight, just as I had taught him and as my father had taught me.

“How are you going to fish, Dad?” he asks with the seriousness of a heart surgeon about to start an operation. “Son, I am going to scratch the bottom of the slow, deep pools with a gold spoon.” “I am going to try worms,” he says back in a whisper.

It’s a few minutes before 8 AM and we chat about the sun coming out and the possibility of a hatch. I am putting on my gloves and through the corner of my eye I see him staring at the water as if he was a secret service agent looking for an assassin in a crowd. I tell myself I hope he out-fishes me. He just beams when he puts one over on the old man. I am past the competitive stage, but he is still locked in.

I mosey on down to the next slow pool and start my 90-degree casting strategy. I cast clear across the stream and let the spoon swing and settle in the deep hole. I take a chance and let it fall to the bottom. I jig it. I crawl it. I catch some fish. They are not chasing. The are grabbing the spoon sideways and I am hooking them in the cheek. I try spinners in the fast water and pick up a rainbow. Browns are at the end of the holes, just before the water rips.

I fish until 11 AM and I never saw him come past me. Usually, we leapfrog each other on our way down the stream. I released all of my fish although I told him I was going to keep a few for a fish fry. I caught a bunch, but I don’t count anymore. The fingertips are getting a little numb and I decide to walk back upstream to see him. I am always concerned that he might have drowned. He has a tendency to wade to within 1” of the top of his chest waders, another thing I don’t do any more.

As I approach him he is kneeling on the shoreline cleaning his fish. “So, how many did you get son?” I query. “Dad, I limited out,” he says with exuberance. I stand behind him and see the joy on his face reflecting on the stream before me. I look up to my reflection.

I see the face of my father smiling at me in the reflections on a trout stream.

Jim Slinsky is the host and producer of the “Outdoor Talk Network”, a nationally syndicated, outdoor-talk radio program. For a station near you or to contact Jim, visit his website at www.outdoortalknetwork.com.

Return To:Newspapers Columns

OUTDOOR TALK NETWORK
11 Dogwood Drive
Jim Thorpe, PA 18229
Tel. 570-325-5560
Email: Jim Slinsky