THE FIRST DAY OF TROUT SEASON

The opening day of trout season in Pennsylvania is almost as big as deer season. Like many deer hunters, a substantial number of fisherman only fish one day a year. The opening day is an excuse to get together with a bunch of friends, drink some beer, cook some food over an open fire, and perhaps pitch a tent and haul the sleeping bag out of mothballs. Later in life I avoided streams on this day like the plague but I admit when I was a boy I got caught up in the excitement. Unless you were an ice fisherman, this mid-April event meant the first chance of the year to pick up a rod and reel – so what if you might have to stand elbow-to-elbow with a bunch of drunken stumblebums. The Pennsylvania Fish Commission stocked trout from their hatcheries pretty much the same way that the Game Commission stocked pheasants. Any stocked stream would be jammed with subsistence fishermen the first day. There was no place to escape.

Since my dad was not a fisherman he didn’t care much for the crowds that surrounded our camp on the opening day but he was always glad for an excuse to spend a weekend there. As with deer season the trip to camp on Friday evening saw roads crowded with fishermen. Also like deer season, preparations began long in advance. On a late-winter shopping trip to Butler with my mother I would stop by Kirkpatrick’s Sporting Goods. Unlike Meyers’ Hardware this place had a ton of tackle. I looked around the store in awe of the new rods and reels, waders, creels, nets, lures, and line. “Who in the world could afford these amenities just to catch fish?” I wondered. Old man Kirkpatrick was glad to advise a novice trout fisherman of all the necessary tools of the trade. I couldn’t afford the Mepps spinner set (“The Trouter”) that he recommended. I had some old spinners and daredevils that I had found snagged under rocks while swimming in the creek the summer before. I did need a small jar of salmon eggs though. I had never caught a fish on a salmon egg but it seemed everyone used them early in the season. Mr. Kirkpatrick said he had best success with orange. Both yellow and red looked like they would attract fish as well but I went with his advice. Next he said I would need gold hooks so the trout would not notice the black hook embedded in the orange egg. I had never heard of gold hooks before and it sounded like they would be too expensive for my budget. I hemmed and hawed while he extolled their virtues. I decided on the smallest package they had (5) as well as a sleeve of Eagle Claw snelled hooks for use with night-crawlers. I suppose my bill came to all of a couple dollars.

Johnny and I shared a small, blue, metal tackle box. When you opened it two compartmentalized plastic shelves popped up. These were mostly filled with lures that we had found or inherited from relatives. In the top bin there were my favorites like the flatfish, hula popper, rapala, and jitterbug. There were also some little-used lures like the diamond jim, lazy ike, and crazy crawler. The next bin down held a variety of spinners, small crank-baits, and a couple plastic worms. We didn’t have a clue how to present plastic worms in those days and I doubt we ever caught anything on them. We kept sundry items like bobbers, hooks, sinkers, swivel-snaps, a stringer, and the like in the open space in the bottom of the box. I looked with envy on the pros who kept all their fishing supplies in a vest. They had stuff clipped onto the vest like small clippers and forceps. Their many pockets contained small plastic boxes, well organized with flies, spinners, split-shot, etc. At the time I thought you could spot a real professional by the flies and lures they had hooked into their hats. Now I realize that these guys are actually poseurs. It takes way too long to un-snag a hook out of your hat. Boxes that fit in vest pockets are the way to carry your gear.

That year we arrived at camp to find all the surrounding camps full of fishermen. We were really dismayed to find that a group of 6 to 8 people had pitched a tent right on the banks of the creek below the camp. It was illegal to do so in the National Forest but we knew that nobody was about to tell the occupants that. It figured to be a crowded creek the next morning. The creek was swollen by rain and snow-melt. It wouldn’t be easy to fish. Johnny and I were up before Mom and Dad and grabbed a bowl of cereal before heading for the creek. As we surveyed the situation from the top of the hill we knew that all of our favorite haunts were already surrounded. We would have to look for a more remote stretch of the creek if we were going to have any chance of fishing without crossing lines with the “interlopers”. We decided our best chance would be to go upstream, cross the swinging bridge and work our way further upstream on the opposite bank. We figured that the steepness of the stream-bank on that side would be unattractive to the casual fishermen. We were right. The upstream pool was too deep to wade completely across and we were able to perch ourselves precariously on the steep bank to have a section of water to ourselves. A couple of fellows on the opposite side called over to ask how we got there but we feigned deafness and didn’t answer.

I baited my line with an orange salmon egg, a gold hook, and two split shots. Johnny started with a gold Mepps spinner. I told him that I had great confidence in my choice (based on old man Kirkpatrick’s advice) and that I would share my eggs with him. He ignored me and kept casting the spinner to the same rock. He would cast upstream and beyond the rock and then drag the spinner through the current in the rock’s lee downstream. I was impatient if I didn’t get a strike on the first several casts but Johnny seemed determined that he had the right technique and kept it up. After a dozen or so casts he got a strike but didn’t set the hook quickly enough. I thought he may have gotten snagged on the rock. He kept it up and after a few more casts he hooked the first trout of the day. Between the cold water and the hatchery-reared fish it wasn’t much of a fight. He quickly brought it to his hand and we admired the brown trout of about 9 inches. Six inches was legal but neither of us really enjoyed eating fish so he tossed it back. The catch had created lots of interest on the other side of the creek and it seemed they were horrified that anyone would throw back a legal fish. We noticed one of this group had caught a 12-incher and was actually wearing it on his belt. “What a loser,” we thought.

After his success Johnny continued his technique. Also after his success I tied on a gold spinner. I looked for a rock that made a similar dent in the current. I found one but it was another 10 to 15 feet out and a little downstream. The shoreline in this area rose even more steeply from the water. I was able to hook my foot into a tree root for some semblance of stability and I began to cast toward the rock for all I was worth. I knew I would have similar success if I could just duplicate my brother’s technique. My first cast fell woefully short of the target. The next was a little closer but I knew that something was going to have to change if I was going to make the perfect cast. I grabbed an overhanging tree limb with my left hand for support and cast the spinner with all my might. All my might was just enough momentum to pivot me on the limb right out into the creek. It seemed at the moment I had a choice whether to hold onto the limb or my rod. I chose the rod and plopped into about six feet of water. The current carried me quickly to the mouth of Pell Run where a sand bar made it easy to exit the creek with as much dignity as I could muster, which is to say not very much.

The water temperature was about 35 and the air temperature about 45. I recall feeling more embarrassed than cold. I had put on quite a show for the louts on the opposite bank. A quick glance over my shoulder proved that even the loser with the trout on his belt was laughing. Johnny covered the steep terrain between us quickly and was on the bank as I struggled out of the creek. He took off his coat and put it on me, he grabbed my rod and we were off for camp as fast as we could go. Crossing the bridge with wet shoes, soaked clothing and shivering hands was a challenge. When we burst in the door of the camp my mother took one look and went immediately into panic mode. Everyone helped me get my wet clothes off and Mom wrapped me in a blanket. Dad put a couple small dry logs on the fire and I stood right in front of the fireplace to warm up and dry out. Man, it felt good! After a while I was ready to go back out. My mother wasn’t. “You’re not going back out there and fall into that creek again,” she said. “Take a lesson from your older brother,” she motioned toward Johnny who was sitting on the couch, reading a book and eating cookies. My first day of trout season had ended early. I asked Johnny if he had picked up my jar of salmon eggs before he pulled me out.