Kades, you make me wish I ten years old again, with a fishing pole in my hands, a worm can on my belt, a container of extra hooks in my pocket, and a warm summer day, walking a stream, or wading down the middle of it. My Dad would frequently scold me - "Don't walk so heavy. You're gonna scare the fish away."
Close to where the stream emptied into Lake Superior, there was a four inch pipe that rose 2 feet from the ground, with ice cold spring water that gushed from the top. I'd be all hot and sweaty. I'd wash my face by capturing handfuls of water and scrubbing it on my skin. Then, I'd just bury my face in the water and drink until I had to come up for air. We'd drive back home with our creels filled to the legal limit of Eastern Speckled Trout, Rainbows, and the occasional brown trout. The ensuing meal was trout, cooked like in Kad's memory, and home made french fries. My Dad didn't want the fries, just that wonderful fish. And it made a difference where we caught them. If we caught our fish from the Pine, or the Black, or the Clear, or even the Bisquet (it's not spelled biscuit, but my spelling is probably off. It's a Native American spelling), it was planted fish, with white flesh that was good, but not spectacular. But if we fished the Ankadosh, or the Neomakon, or the Roxbury, the fish was wild, with that pinkish-orange flesh, and amazing flavor.
Man, do I ever miss those days. I wouldn't trade my current life for them, as my DW, kids and grandkids bring me more joy than any other thing in the world could. But if I could somehow, just spend an occasional day with my dad, on one of the great streams, and fill my creel alongside him, and share it with my own family, well, that would be a bit of Heaven. I hope they have trout streams in Heaven.
Seeeeeeeya; Chief Longwind of the North