Falls

I am lifetime fishing aficionado. Deep in my “sacred” historical troves is a yellowed Milton Standard newspaper clipping to prove it. There I was as young Johnny proudly displaying a fat “trophy” 18 inch Brown Trout. Subsequent pictures of stringers of Trout and Kokanee for my new bride in Colorado are continuing proof.


Recent years have been different. I guess technically speaking I could still call myself a fisherman. That’s based on my perhaps flawed transposition of the fact that I can be labeled a “shopper” for just going through the motions of shopping without actually buying anything.






My confidence diminished to a low point several years ago when my daughter visited Pennsylvania and we were to try father-daughter fishing together again. She inherited her mother’s craving for fresh trout and I was determined we’d satisfy it. As a precaution, I deferred to a heavily stocked “pay to fish” Trout lake to insure our success. Much to my chagrin we only caught two small sunfish. That was the low point of my fishing career.






Several years ago things started to change when two successful fishermen individually took pity on me and my bruised ego. (I think it was more that they felt sorry for my bride who still yearned for fresh trout.) One took me to Bass Pro Shops to prove that there was such a thing as size fourteen hip boots. I felt like a Biblical disciple hanging out with those “real fishermen” and yes, there were trout to help insure another forty-one years of blissful marriage.






Last season started great with a trip with one friend to a local spot about twenty miles away. My new hip boots permitted me to stand on the swift flowing crest of a concrete dam and fish in the billowing spillway. What a treat to be placed in “the perfect fishing spot.”.I even had fresh trout to proudly present to my wife after years of famine. My friends independently tag teamed to help insure my continued success. The outings weren’t without incident especially with those massive hip boots (and withering stamina). I felt like an astronaut moving around. (And wished for outer space weightlessness to go with them.) Once I had to swallow my pride and call my one friend on his cell phone when I got stuck up to my thighs in a quagmire of quicksand like mud. It takes a real friend to lie in the mud to help you release the overpowering suction of good old Pennsylvania “muck.”






Last week the other friend called and offered another opening day invitation back to “the perfect spot” on the crest of the dam. Another friend volunteered a bountiful supply of fathead minnows. I was “stoked.”. I could barely sleep the night before opening day and woke up well before my four thirty A.M. alarm. (Almost like Christmas Eve as a kid!) I remember an unnerving dream of being swept over the crest of the dam and down the frigid spillway waters. I got dressed quickly in the predawn darkness. The dream still lingered but barely tempered my excitement. However, as a precaution based on that “silly dream,” I decided to take out my hearing aids and leave them at home. (They literally are more valuable than gold.) I also determined that I’d leave my wallet in the car after I paid for a hearty “fisherman’s breakfast.” I considered leaving my cell phone behind but after my quicksand experience and knowing my wife might call, reconsidered and tucked it into my pocket.






All went magnificently from my perch on the dam once the magic eight o’clock season opening time arrived. A fat brook trout jumped onto my hook with my fist cast into the churning waters. Two others quickly joined their friend in my creel. Once things slowed a bit, I trudged through the swift flowing water that was cresting the dam to the bank for a break. My legal limit permitted two more trout for our grill so after a short time I worked my way back toward the dam. As I cautiously stepped down onto the crest of the dam; you guessed it, my knee buckled and I plummeted down into the frigid turbulent waters. Thankfully my friend helped me gain my senses and escape the clutches of those waterlogged hip boots once the current released me into shallower waters.






My ego and a few cuts and bruises are healing. The three trout provided a tasty lunch for my wife and I am trying (with limited success) the dried rice theory for resurrecting my cell phone. And yes, I am now starting to take seriously something I read about “old men dreaming dreams.” I just never thought it applied to me!