The ritual was always the same. He would kick me out of bed at 4am. Mom would have poached eggs over toast for us ready on the table. We would discuss where we were going and any things of interest in the area. We would examine our rods and reels for wear. The first spinner of the day was tied on at the table to assure the knot was true in the light. Tying on a lure in the dark on stream many times was a recipe for disaster. The last thing he did before leaving the house was put on his hip boots. I always eyed up those hip boots. I wanted a pair just like them but they didn't come in boy sizes.


We got in the van in the darkness and headed to our stream. Dad timed our arrival on stream to be as dawn broke. The trout seemed to be less weary in low light conditions. Many times the fog was still hugging the streams on our arrival.

For some mysterious reason the trout seemed to love the foggy mornings. Dad and I would have almost magical luck fishing in the fog. The fish were more plentiful and bigger when it was foggy. We even sat down a couple times on stream and talked about the fog and its magical properties.

The fog lifted and the trout shut down almost instantly. We usually had our limit by then anyway and were heading back to the van. Dad peeled off his hip boots and put on slip-on shoes at the vehicle. I was kind of a whiner and talked about my feet being cold and wet. Even if I stayed out of the water my feet always got wet from the dew in the grass. I wanted to grow up quickly so my feet would grow and I could get waders just like Dad's. We had tried bread bags inside my shoes but my feet always ended up wet and cold.


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