The Briar Creek that I grew up near was the epitome of a perfect wild brook trout stream. A fact that was not contemplated during my youth yet became painfully obvious when I became an adult and started to travel the country. It was a true rarity. A jewel of the outdoors that not only was in its prime as I knew it, but was also vastly left alone by local fishermen. It was perfection within the trout world, and the best of trout streams to a 12 year old boy with a hand-me-down fly rod and a tin of wet flies. To that boy, it was water equal to any of those found in the pages of magazines, with brookies so brilliant and plentiful that no rival was possible. At least in my young mind it was so.