Sample Story From My Book

FAOL Community Sound Off
1

Act Like You Have Been There Before

He rolled up in a big silver suburban. Bob Skoronski retired (Green Bay Packer)
was driving. I fish pretty often with Bob Skoronski. This was the fifth time I had been
trout fishing with Coach Bob Knight (retired). Coach Knight flashed me a big smile
and we decided to gear up right there in the parking lot of the gas station where we usually met up. As the Coach geared up, I gave Coach something that I had been saving for him. It was a Curt Gowdy Parametric Fiberglass Rod. The rod was made by Berkley and was about 37 years old and in mint condition. It was a Curt Gowdy Signature Series. The Coach was honored by the gift. He got a little choked up. He said: “I have another friend that bought an original Ted Williams fly reel for me.” “Ted and I were good friends.” “I am going to put that reel on this rod and display it proudly in my den.”

During our last outing in 2007 I heard the Coach tell a story about his old friend
Curt Gowdy. Coach and Curt were good buddies and fished a lot together in the
old days. When the two would go on fishing outings Curt would always buy a newspaper. During the long trips to the streams Coach would drive and Curt would go to the sports section and read the entire sports section en route to the stream. It was an up close and personal Cavalcade Of Sports from Curt Gowdy to his good friend Coach Bob Knight. Coach said Curt’s voice was so unique and it was an honor to ride with Curt to the streams. Coach said: “It was almost as good as the fishing.”

Coach Knight had told me from other outings that he was a quantity guy not a quality guy. He liked lots of fish and was not a “big trout guy”. We decided to target some spring creeks in Southwestern Wisconsin. I had quite a few of my friends tie up lots of flies for the Coach to use. The flies varied from nymphs to big ugly bunny leeches. Rich Femling, the owner of Rose-Creek Net Releases and Fly Boxes, gave me a fly box full of Bass Flies when we fished last to give to the Coach. Coach’s eyes light up like a kid at Christmas as he perused the fly box.

The Coach already had his favorite fly tied on. It is a size eight girdle bug. I had a hard time getting him to change flies. He said it was tried and true and he had caught trout from Russia to Bozeman on the fly. I did get him to switch flies a couple times. Not long after the switch I would see him tying his “tried and true” back on.

On the first stretch of water I asked Coach Knight about getting back in to coaching.
Coach said he was done coaching. He did have some serious interest in the Georgia job when it opened but it never got past that. He said that his schedule is quite full nowadays with hunting and fishing. ESPN also takes a toll on his fishing already.

Coach and Bob Skoronski told stories of the old days when Skoronski use to drive all over the western United States to bird hunt with the Coach. Lots of times when I fish with Bob Skoronski he talks about his glory days with the Packers. This also came up during this outing. Coach caught a decent brown trout and I whipped out my camera and jokingly said, “Smile” to the Coach. Coach immediately frowned. I took the photo anyway. Knight looked at Skoronski and said: “Bob haven’t you taught Len what Lombardi instilled in to you players.” I looked puzzled and the Coach elaborated. Lombardi use to say “Act like you have been there before.” When his guys scored,
they didn’t do any outlandish dances or posing. “I don’t smile in trout glory shots.” “I act like I have been there before.” Both the Bobs smiled and we kept fishing.

It never fails when the Bobs are together the Ice Bowl always comes up. Coach likes to hear what Bart Starr said in the huddle to his linemen before the “famous” quarterback sneak. Each time we have gone out it comes up. It is 30 degrees below zero and the Packers are on the 1 yard line and Starr turns to each of his linemen in the huddle and asks if they can go their way with a run. Starr turned to the right side and both of the offensive linemen said that Jethro Pugh was tired and they could go there. Pugh was a man mountain for those days and dwarfed almost all offensive linemen that he played against. They had scouted Pugh and when he got tired he stood higher in his four point stance.

The call in the huddle was fullback dive between right guard and tackle. Starr lined up his troops and at the last second he decided to do a quarterback sneak due to the frigid conditions and Starr thought a hand off might be risky. Starr had a silent hand signal with his center that meant quarterback sneak. It depended on what butt cheek Starr goosed his center on which direction the sneak was going. The rest is history.

We wander throughout the Driftless Area for the entire day. The Coach loves the small streams and solitude fly fishing brings. Many times I would go ahead of the Coach and leave him alone on the stream. I figured he has a hectic life and is surrounded by many people and trout fishing is a cleansing process. It is time to listen to the birds and watch the wind in the trees. Alone time…is very important.

At the end of the day Coach had landed 27 trout. There was a mixture of brooks and browns. All trout were caught on the tried and true girdle bug. A couple of glory shots were taken without a smile. I understood what he meant by the end of the outing. Coach shook my hand firmly as he left and flashed me a big smile. He said: “Thanks for the great day and it really looks like You Have Been There Before.”

2

A story Len. I have seen Coach Knight on various fishing shows and figured he was a nicer person on the stream than on the court. I was not much of a BB fan but understood his passion there. I was and still am somewhat of a Packers fan, because I was a Jim Taylor fan after reading a story about him in “The Saturday Evening Post”. Of course, I had to pull for Favre, us Mississippi boys stick together.

I wish every coach would teach their players to “act like you’ve been there.” I cannot stand the “look at what I did” attitude so common in football nowdays.

3

Dancing With Trout

It was opening day 2003. My friend John Armstrong drove up to Wisconsin to fish with me. John is a Pennsylvania angler displaced a couple times over due to job changes. [b]John called me 4 times on the way up and interrogated me about the weather conditions. The 4 degree weather up here was really not very inviting to a Georgia native.

John and I have been fishing buds for quite some time. He used to manage Madison Outfitters on Madison’s west side. His wife works for Oscar Mayer. One fine day in September 2002 John’s wife was moved to the Atlanta office. To make a long story short; John had to drive 11 hours to fish with me now. John has done that at least once a year since his move.

John rolled in the Friday night and we prepared for fishing. I was amazed at how many pairs of long underwear John had brought with him. He was going to wear 2 pairs along with fleece wader liners. I told him he would look like the little brother from The Christmas Story movie after he geared up, the one with the Red Rider BB Gun theme. I wondered if he would even be able to put his arms to his side.

We hit the stream at 8am. We parked his truck at the beginning of the area and we planned on fishing about two miles up to a very deep hole. I called the final hole the sewer hole. It had a large spillway and was the first obstruction on that waterway. It was a perfect wintering hole.

We were having fair luck and John could put his arms to his side. I still tormented him and kept saying. “You will shoot an eye out with that thing.” The temperature did not get warmer and the robin’s egg blue sky didn’t help at all. We were cleaning ice out of the eyes about every other cast.

John had never fished this stretch before and was growing weary due to the slippery banks and excessive clothing. I told him we would go back to the truck after we fished the last hole on the stretch. The last hole always held a big one.

The end is in sight. John saw the hole and thanks me for not letting him turn back. He has a little more spring in his step now and the prospect of a big trout is very real. John said he needed to change his leader and his entire set up. He wasn’t walking all this ways to hook a big one and have it school him. I watched as John put a new 11 foot leader on. He was using 3x before but switched to 4x here with an indicator. [/b]

[b]
John’s rig has a size six hornberg on the end. John made sure there was a new leader without tippet tied to it. There is moldable tungsten placed above the fly about 12 inches. Tungsten not a split shot. John said. The split would cause a nick in the line and a decent trout would break off. The last part of the rig was a bright orange stick on strike indicator at 8 feet up the line.

We made the battle plan. John was out in the water to about his knees. He was hesitant to go any farther due to the extreme cold conditions. He had the left lane of the hole. I was to block the trout if he got one on that would try to escape out the right side of the hole.

John is a pretty good caster and has his hornberg up in the sweet spot below the spill in short order. John explained to me that because of the cold the trout would be on the bottom holding tight and any fast action by the fly would be ignored. John called it the dredging method. John even paused a couple times for long periods during the retrieve.

I can remember it like yesterday. John is at the end of his retrieve and just taking the fly out of the water. He is telling me he calls the last part of the retrieve the most important. In cold weather conditions like these when he takes the fly out he does what he calls a “Shake and Bake”. The action mimics a bait fish swimming to the surface. It is a slow upward lift of the fly and pauses and stutter shakes are used as the fly exits the water. It was a very slow meticulous dance to entice the trout.

John is an excellent teacher. He is looking right at me when he is talking and explaining the Shake and Bake. He just had told me how important it is to watch the fly come out of the water because lots of times a big one will hit it at the very last moment as it breaks the surface. John readjusted his view on the fly as he did the final lift.

It was like it was choreographed to happen. John slowly did his Dance and the surface erupted as his fly hit the surface. The surface was alive with a big trout directly at John’s feet that had NOT been tired out by a battle. The trout was on about four feet of line and giving all it had to escape from his captor. It got off the surface for a moment and tried to dive and run out the side of the hole. John reached for his net and did a right side step all at once. He lunged at the trout with his net fully extended. The only problem was that to John’s right was about three feet deeper and when John side stepped his right foot found nothing but deep water and John fell over like a tree.

It happened in slow motion it seemed. There is John with that nice brown in his net and he stands up out of the water and one side of his body is wet and I can see the ice forming already on his clothing. John is shaking uncontrollably but still wants a photo taken of the trout and him. One photo and off we go on a full jog back to truck.

We are about 150 yards back towards the truck and we come up to a dairy farm. We are talking all the way. John doesn’t know if he can make it all the way back to the truck being wet. I suggested to find a dairy farmer and warm up in his house or maybe John should find a warmer place in the barn and I would run and get the truck. Luck was with us a little this day and we found a farmer right away and he gave us a ride to John’s truck. We sat in the guy’s truck for a while so John’s truck could warm up.

Out John hopped and went directly to the back of his truck to his bin that had his extra clothing and long johns in them. John stripped down to his birthday suit right there on the roadway and put on warm clothing. The farmer bid us a fond farewell and John and I looked at my digital camera while sitting in his truck and he warmed up. I can remember him saying. “I sure the heck hope you got a good photo of that trout with all the DANCING I had to do.” The photo turned out perfectly and we were fishing again 20 minutes later.[/b]

       [b]Later that night I can remember us sitting in a local watering hole and reliving the experience and sharing the photo with the bar patrons. John said at the end of the night: "This is what it is all about. "Fishing with good friends, catching big trout, sitting around talking smart with whoever will listen...AND[/b]

“Dancing With Trout”

4

Wonderful story and photo! So good we could have been right there with you all. Thanks Len, love it!
Hugs,
LF

5

Suggestion, send them in to readers cast admin is always asking for stuff…

I have never been able to cut the mustard but I bet yours will…:slight_smile:

6

PG 13 Spider Bite

I learned an important lesson a few opening days ago. I had my gear all ready. The reels were clean and new line on all them. I checked my net for holes and cleaned all the old line out of the eyes of the hooks. I did all of my before opening day rituals. I took my waders out of the garage. They had been hanging there all winter. I always wash my gear at the end of the season so my stuff is ready to jump right in to opening morning of the coming year. Wading boots made wet and sitting by the chair by the door. I hardly slept a wink. The day before opener I am like a kid waiting for Christmas morning to come.

I was awake before the alarm. I had placed all my gear at the kitchen table the night before . Put my wool socks on and 2 pair of long underwear. It gets pretty cold wading in 10 degree temps in March here in Wisconsin. I put my waders on and laced up my wading boots. It is 6am and I am in my truck putting on my safety belt… I feel a little pain in my groin. I ignore it. Off I go to my favorite stream.

About 10 minutes out of town and my groin is starting to throb and get really warm. I get out of the truck and drop two pairs of long underwear and waders. Under my 2 pair of long johns is a dead spider in my fly area of my inner layer. I put it in a fly box right away.

A little closer examination revealed a emerging problem. I decided fishing is going to have to wait. I went straight home. I am allergic to most insect bites and bee stings. I gave a little extra gas because my problem was growing. The pedal was to the metal and my truck was pointed at home. By the time I was home I was walking bow legged. I tore off my waders as I got in the house. I thought I might have missed another spider.

I kicked my wife out of bed. She is a Registered Nurse. I showed her my problem. She stared in disbelief. The whole right side of my entire unit along with its accessories were about three times the regular size. Wife said a trip to the Emergency Room was in order. She gave me a ice pack to help with the swelling. Just before we left my wife looked at me with a smile and asked if we could give it a “Test Drive” once before we went. I just rolled my eyes at her and off we went to the ER. She responded “ONLY kidding”

The ER doctor was awakened from a short nap. He was one of my fishin buds. He examined the problem. The first thing he asked was if I had been sleeping around. My wife answered before I could. She said absolutely NOT. I had saved the spider and showed it to him. He took the spider with him and I assumed he was going to try to identify the beast. He told me he had to go look up something he would be right back.

He returned with 6 other male staff members from the hospital to see the THING. I got a little angry at him. He had a polaroid camera with him. He wanted to take a photo of it. I asked him why he needed a photo? Was it for diagnosing it? He just laughed and said NO. I told him no photos.

The doctors had looked under the microscope and said the spider was not poisonous One of the doctors said in parting; “We sure don’t need a microscope to examine him.” After eight epinephrine shots and a precautionary antibiotic shot and calming down .The doctor told me I was hyper sensitive to bug bites and stings. He determined this from my medical records through the years. I had many a run in with bees and spiders. I was ready to go fishing again. I remember purposely wading in deep water that day so the cold water could easy my pain.

The incident was not over that morning. It was a painful reminder for me for 4 weeks. The bite caused the skin to swell so much it split in a couple places. I hate spiders. The moral to this story is: “Check your waders opening morning!!!”

7

Spectacles

Testicles

Wallet

Watch

Wadders

8

Len,

That spider bite had me checking my drawers while reading about it - OUCH!!! Lends a whole new meaning to the the phrase - “The bite’s on!”

Grn Mt Man

9

The Wind In The Trees

It was late September. I was 5 years old. I remember the day vividly. It was the day I became a trout angler. I had gone with dad many times before that year. All of the other times were TRAINING…This is what he called it…

Training entailed many things. One was carrying my dad’s extra rod and me constantly asking dad: “When will it be my turn to catch a trout?” Dad would always reply: “It will be your turn when you learn the ways of an outdoors man.” And one of those ways you haven’t learned yet is to be quiet and you needed to feel and enjoy your surroundings." “The trout can hear you talking.”

At age 5 my patience and attention span were in the negative numbers. I would lose focus sometimes and pick up sticks and throw them in the water or beat trees with them. My dad would just stare at me and roll his eyes. By the end of that long year of TRAINING…I was ready I thought.

It was late in September .The shadows were long on the water. My dad had me sit down stream side. Dad said: “I want to see if this year of training has sunk in.” “Tell me what you see and hear.” It seemed like a really stupid question to me. Dad said: “We are going to sit here until you tell me what I want to hear.”

I thought hard about all the things dad had been saying each time we went out this year. I thought what the heck…I will give it a try. I see the water. I see the trees. I see the trout on the stringer. I see the BIG trout on the stringer. Dad gave me that stare and rolled his eyes again. He said: “Have you not learned anything this year?”

“Fishing is like life, if it comes too easy you will not appreciate it.” “Many times we went fishing this year and caught nothing.” “Was that an OK outing son?”…"Before I could answer. He exclaimed: “Of course it was!” “Fishing is more than catching BIG fish.” “It is being out in nature.” “It is the feel of rain on your face.” "The smells…Seeing and feeling … “The Wind In The Trees.”,

I am not promising you a big trout here. I am not sure we will catch anything, but when we leave here, you will have experienced something special. “Trout fishing, fishing, not catching.”

I believe my dad started a little too early in life training me. It never did sink in. I was always amazed at the BIG trout and bummed about the less than fruitful outings. My training was cut short in November of 1967. My teacher was unable to continue his lessons. Dad died of a heart attack. I was 10.

My fishing trips were alone then. I pedaled my bike out into the country and I tried my best to be just like dad. I was always after that next big trout. Some of the time I would sit stream side like we use to do…I would look and listen and smell. It just didn’t sink in. I had a hard time grasping what my dad had meant.

Adulthood did not change me much. I didn’t need the bike now and my trips were farther away and more frequent. On June 3rd 1989 my life changed completely. I married my beautiful wife Barb. My trips to the trout stream became less frequent and they took a serious decline when my daughter Anna was born.

I hurried Anna to become an angler. I took her out at age 5 to trout fishing. She became a mini-me. She was as crazy about the next BIG fish as I was. At age 11 Anna told me that she wasn’t going trout fishing with me anymore. She had fished for 6 years now and it was time to try something else. I was devastated. I had to leave the room when she told me.

I went back in the house later and talked with her momma. I asked Barb what I had done wrong? She said I was a little too intense with Anna and way too critical. Barb told me to give her time and be patient. She would ask me to take her again.

It was the last day of trout season this year. Anna came up to me and asked me if I would take her trout fishing. I was so happy to hear her say it…I had to turn away from her…I got misty eyed.

As we left to go…I thought about what my wife had told me…“too intense…too critical…” I thought back about my training from my Dad. I needed to incorporate those lessons into our outing. I didn’t want my only child “Anna” to dislike trout fishing.

We got out of the car and went to stream side…I was about to tell Anna I was sorry and that I would be less intense and would make trout fishing less stressful. Before I open my mouth with my speech Anna spoke up:

“Dad, I really missed trout fishing with you.”" The smells…the feeling of rain on my face and… ….The Wind In The Trees."

10

Thanks for sharing these stories Len ,

11

The End Of An Era

Written by: Len Harris
Photo by: Len Harris

Geno called me. He told me that he was giving his wood cook stove to his son Steve. The wood
cook stove was not a good auxiliary heat source anymore. He told me that Steve was bringing him a high efficiency wood stove to take its place. I had told Geno on an earlier visit that I wanted to get a photo of the “Monarch” Wood Cook Stove before he banished it to the garage at Steve’s house.

Geno McManamy is his name… I always like talking with him .He reminds me of my father. Geno has forgotten more hunting and fishing memories than most people will experience in a lifetime. Geno is one of the last remaining members of the “Reber’s Gas Station Gang”. All of the members would meet at the only gas station in town on Sunday mornings. They would drop their wives off at church and then they would ALL meet up at the gas station and swap hunting and fishing lies. The noon whistle meant church was over and time to pick up the wives.

“Monarch” was one of the wood cook stoves of the Malleable Iron Range Company, Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. The company was in business from 1896 until 1985. This model was made around the turn of the century.

I drove to Gays Mills today to take a couple photos and get some history behind the stove. Geno and his wife Marilyn were at home. Marilyn told me that she learned how to cook on that wood cook stove from her mother Anna. Both of them were not sure if all the things Marlyn cooked on that old Monarch would taste the same on an electric stove. The smell of wood some how gave the food a more appealing taste.

Geno said: “It wasn’t so much the taste but the memories that go along with the old Monarch.” The wood stove signified days gone by. “Simpler days.” We sat down at his kitchen table and talked about the old days. That cook stove prepared the first family meal for Geno and Marilyn when they were newlyweds. It warmed many baby bottles for their children.

Geno equated the old relic to hunting and fishing. “I cleaned many a trout and northern on that butcher block table next to the stove. Marylin would have the bacon grease at the perfect temperature by the time I was done cleaning my brookies. She popped them right in the grease. I can smell the aroma right now as we speak. I can taste the crisp tails of those mouth watering brookies.”

“Many a deer was butchered on that butcher block table. The back straps were the first things to be fried on the cook stove. It usually happened the same night the deer was harvested. Lots of onions and green peppers were in the pan. My son and two daughters watching their mother cook. The whole family was living an experience that is seldom re-enacted nowadays. ALL of my children are good cooks.”

Marilyn also told Geno she had baked a couple apples pies in the electric stove and that they tasted almost as good. She wasn’t sure if her rhubarb pie would taste the same out of a electric stove. She would get back to him soon on that. The rhubarb was thawing in the sink.

Geno asked Marlyn if she could cook all the things he was used to on a new fangled electric range. Marilyn reassured Geno she could. Geno said: “Even squirrel and morels?” “Yes dear,” she responded. They both were not certain that the house would be the same with out the “Monarch”.It wasn’t just the the way the food smelled or tasted being cooked on that old stove…It was the memories that went with it.

The “Monarch” had been retired as the family cooking stove for over a decade ago. A new fangled electric stove had replaced it quite some time ago. It was used as a wood heat stove nowadays. It was fired up on special occasions (Family Gathering) for sentimental reasons.

The stove is being taken out the last weekend of September. The memories will stay in that house. It truly is a shame that progress has made some of the good old days obsolete. Computers and game stations have supplanted the meetings around the table in the kitchen. The wood cook stove in the background making the food just right. Just the way you remember it. Then there were the talks about the day’s happenings at the table. The stove was very much a symbol of the past. Geno said: “It ain’t no microwave.” Geno & Marlyn hold on tightly to their memories of the old days.

It was a simpler time when families spent more time talking and cooking, experiencing life together in front of that old “Monarch.”

Update:

Since I wrote this story Geno McManamy has become a resident of heaven. Geno we all miss you and hope there is a wood stove in heaven to prepare the food perfectly like Marlyn does.

12

The Little Things

My buddy Bob is 74 years old. Bob and I have fished together for about 15 years. On almost every outing he talks about his neighbor. Bob talks about the “Old Timer” that lives right next to him. I usually crack a smile when Bob calls someone an old timer. How old must someone be… to be called an old timer by a 74 year old guy? I asked Bob this exact question. Bob told me that he has lived by the same family for 40 years. His neighbor and he have swapped fishing stories for the entire time.

During my 15 years of fishing with Bob I had heard many stories of his old timer neighbor. The stories seemed magical. Bob had a neighbor story to share each time we fished. For a couple years I thought that Bob’s neighbor was a character in a book that Bob read and shared a chapter with me each time we fished. Bob reassured me that his neighbor was real and that some day I would have the privilege to fish with him. The stories were all trout or salmon related. They varied from the Brule for steelhead to the upper peninsula for tiny brook trout.

About 6 years ago the “old timer” stories weren’t part of our fishing outing. I waited the entire trip for Bob to tell me one of the magical stories. Bob told me that his neighbor was really busy nowadays and didn’t have time to share his tales from the past. The neighbor’s wife had developed Alzheimer’s Disease and he was taking care of her at home. She was “not” going to a nursing home.

Two weeks ago Bob and I fished. At the beginning of our outing Bob told me that I was finally going get to meet his elderly neighbor. I was looking forward to meeting this Patriarch of the fishing world. I would get to put a face with the many tales I had heard about in the last 15 years. Bob said that his neighbor finally had time to go fishing with us. His bride of 66 years had passed away 2 weeks prior. He had taken care of her by himself for the last 6 years at home.

Bob rolled up in his big silver suburban. The passenger door came open and Don slowly exited the vehicle. Bob introduces me to “Donnie” …This is what Bob called him. I decided I would call him Don to show respect…He stands about 5 feet 6 inches. Father Time has caused him to actually stand about 5 foot 3. He has osteoporosis and he has a humped over posture. There are small tufts of white hair on each temple. . He told me that he lost most of his hair in his early 40s. He chuckled and said he had lost most of his hair before I was born. He has the classic frame round gold wire rim spectacles They sat on the end of his nose and he looks over them more than through them. His face is road map of many years of smiling. His forehead is engraved with deep furrows from the long journey of life. At the beginning of our fishing adventure Don asked me “not” to take any photos of him, so my description of him will have to suffice. We all got back in the vehicle and we were on our way to the “Best” brook trout stream I knew.

We got out and geared up. I told Don we were going after brookies. He asked if there were any obvious hatches lately and told him no. He smiled and said: “Good, I can hardly see those little flies anymore …let alone tie one on.” Don took out his 5 weight and strung it up. I watched him struggle when gearing up. His vision was quite poor and he looked over his glasses the entire time. Don finally allowed me to set-up his rod. I put a size twelve bead headed Biot Bug on for him and blaze orange strike indicator about 4 feet up. Don asked me what that the orange thing was. I told him a strike indicator. He had me take it off and put a dry on instead as an indicator. It only took five minutes to walk across the open pasture and get Don on the water. Don’s casting abilities were still there and he had a couple hits quite quickly. He missed the hits. Don told me he didn’t even see the hits. I started alerting him to bites by saying “Bite…bite…” After about two more misses, Don asked for the blaze orange strike indicator to be put back on.

Don said: " I haven’t fished for at least seven years." "It is amazing how much you can really miss “The Little Things” in life. Bob and I had decided that a short outing was the best idea for an old timer. … On the way home Don told me that he had an excellent time and when we went again that he preferred if I would call him “Donnie”. I told him absolutely. Donnie said all of his friends called him Donnie and that he really wasn’t that old…

13

The Stream Of Time

I was startled awake by the alarm clock. I couldn’t figure out why the blasted thing was squawking in my ear at 3:00 a.m., so I sat up and reached across the bed to turn the infernal thing off. As I lay down to go back to sleep my bride of thirty-nine years elbowed me and said: “Get out of bed, you old fool.” I responded: “I am retired now, I thought we threw that alarm clock away!” to which she replied: “Len is expecting you at four.” It then dawned upon me “I am going trout fishing today!” I sprang from my bed.

Sprang is a relative word. As sprang as any 62 year-old, recently retired school teacher can sprang, today was the day. I was going to re-introduce myself to my childhood passion – trout fishing. I quietly left the bedroom and started a pot of coffee. As the coffee brewed, all the memories of my childhood fishing rushed over me. The day I was bitten by the trout fishing bug was crystal clear in my mind . It seemed just like yesterday. I have played that memory over and over again in my head many times. It usually happens when the first cold snap hits in late September.

Dad rolled me out of bed at the crack of dawn. Uncle Sig is already in the car, waiting. The gear is packed and all that’s left is to get me dressed and into the car. Dad hurries me and tells me that we need to be on the water before it gets too sunny. Dad turns the old Buick westward. We are on our way.

Dad and Uncle Sig are giddy with anticipation, and as they reminisce about old outings they took together when they were young Dad tells me about the first time he went fishing with his father. I had heard that story many times and smiled as he told it again. The fish he’d caught had grown since the last time I’d heard it!

The road gets long and I nod off. All of a sudden Dad and Uncle Sig are almost shouting: “here’s the bridge”, Uncle Sig exclaims. He bolts from the Buick, gets down on all fours and crawls up to the bridge’s edge. He peers over the bridge, then crawls back and comes running to the car. Uncle Sig is really fired up. He says: “Young man, there are a couple nice browns under that bridge with your name written on them!”

My Dad places me downstream from the bridge. Uncle Sig is in the sneak position again. He crawls to the edge of the bridge to aid me in placing my cast properly. Dad directs my cast with the aid of Uncle Sig. It seems just like yesterday. The beautiful brown trout takes my offering on the first cast. My dad and uncle are cheering me. The battle seems infinite. I land a smallish brown. My dad and uncle make me feel like that trout was the biggest and most beautiful trout they had ever seen. A farmer in a truck drove by at the same time and gave me a thumb up as he drove across the bridge.

Man, did I ever get sidetracked.

I’ve got to get moving and meet up with Len. The time is just screaming by, just like all those years of teaching had. I had never gotten a chance to go back to that bridge. Teaching and family had washed away any chance of getting back there.

I met up with Len and we got into his truck for the trip to the bridge. I did not remember the exact area of the bridge as I was six years old the last time there and I had slept almost all the way there; I just knew a general area of the bridge. As Len drove along I tried to describe what the bridge looked like.

I told Len the story about my first outing with Dad and Uncle Sig. I described the bridge to a “t.” The way my uncle had hung off the bridge on his belly to direct my first cast. We searched and searched the area. We could not find the bridge. We stopped and looked at the map to see if there was a place we were missing. I was so sad. I could not find that bridge… it had disappeared. I could not talk with my dad or uncle. They both had been taken by the stream of time to where all good anglers go. We finally gave up on the bridge and turned around and decided to hit some close water.

Len slowed the truck…and said: “Peter - is that it out in the field?” I said: “No, it can’t be. It isn’t the way I remember it. It was on the main road and it didn’t look like that.” Len told me that the county had straightened the road about 35 years ago and made a new bridge. That bridge out in the field had to be it.

Len could see my disappointment in my face. I got out of the truck and strung up my rod. I asked Len if I could fish the stretch alone. I wanted to try to re-capture some of the magic of my ancient memories. Every thing looked different. I thought to myself that this couldn’t be the bridge. I carefully approached the bridge hole…I placed my first cast directly in the feed lane. A brown trout came up and took my presentation. I knelt down to net the brown…the memories rushed back…the bridge ruins jolted my memory.



Don’t let The Stream of Time wash you away before you have found YOUR bridge.

14

The Curmudgeon

Curmudgeon
definition:
cur?mud?geon
Function: noun
Etymology: origin unknown
1 : a crusty, ill-tempered, and usually old male trout

  • cur?mud?geon?li?ness /-lE-n&s/ noun
  • cur?mud?geon?ly /-lE/ adjective

A typical life expectancy of a small stream trout varies. If a trout finds a good stream or “home” and it has the necessary cover and forage, a trout could live to an age of around 12 years.

Five years ago I found such a “home”. I walked around the bend in a stream and it was before me. It is a WOW hole. A WOW hole is one that totally screams out “Large Trout Home”.

The top of the hole has a current line for oxygen and feed source. The hole itself is an old farm field bridge that has caved in ages ago. The boulder at the base of the bridge causes a severe step drop in depth. A step drop is where the depth of a hole goes from 2 feet to 8 feet deep in about 2 feet distance.

The rest of the hole has some cover on the left and a couple ambush points for The Curmudgeon to attack his prey. The hole is about eight feet deep in the center. This allows the trout stay in this hole year round.

I scouted the hole from downstream in a crouched position for a short time. It was March and the vegetation was limited. I watched the water. I saw no obvious feeding action. This hole was so far off the main roadway it screamed Large Trout. It was way too far of a walk for the casual angler.

I thought for a long time how to attack this hole. The water was cold in March, so any possible large fish would be in the slow moving deep water. I needed to make a cast way up into the current to hide the splash of my cast.

I was worried that a smaller fish might spook the hole first and I would not have a chance at The Curmudgeon. I figured if i was going do it…It would be on the first 5 casts.

I casted for a hour at the hole with not even a whisper of a fish in the hole. From my experience, I learned that old male trout are very territorial. When they are really old they chase ALL other trout out of the hole. They are crusty and ill tempered.

After the hour I decided to walk out into the hole and carefully map the bottom for structure. The best way I knew was to actually wade the entire hole. I started at the edges and worked my way to the fast water funnel. The fast water funnel end was clearly over my waders so I poked my pole into the depths. Something flew out of the depths and did a circle in the hole and then stopped on the other far side of the hole. It was obviously a big fish due to the wake it created in the hole. . I had thrown the kitchen sink at this fish and had not even gotten a bump.

I visited this hole annually for five years. About ten times each year. I varied my casts. I varied time of day and night. I even sat on the hole in the middle of the night. I caught NO trout.
Last fall I was talking to a friend about The Curmudgeon. He asked what I had tried so far. I told him all of the tricks I tried. He asked me if I had ever tried to anger the trout. Make it so angry it would hit out of anger. I had my friend tell me what he meant by that.

He said that an Old Trout that big would be territorial and if i casted in and ripped the presentation through the hole at 100 miles an hour. I might anger it enough into hitting. I had tried everything else…So what the heck. I looked in my box and saw the biggest and heaviest thing in my box and let her rip.

Second cast and I was bringing it as fast as I possibly could and it slammed it. It went deep and hunkered down on the bottom. After a change of direction battling it, I got it to the top of the water. I was not disappointed. It was well worth five years of hunting this fish.

I dubbed him
The Curmudgeon
and sent him on his way

15

The Gift

http://www.flyanglersonline.com/articles/readerscast/2009/readerscast20091207_LenHarris.php

16

Spinner,
Little did I know I could have waited and SAVED about $12. But, having said that, I did enjoy your book.

Mark

17

14 more stories in the book.

glad you enjoyed the book.

Len

18

NOT in my book…

Angler’s Delight

Written by Len Harris

I was introduced to the outdoors at a young age. My sisters were jealous at first because Dad dragged me everywhere he went. I mean everywhere in the outdoors. Through prickly ash…Chest deep in mud in trout streams…Mushroom hunting.

Eventually all five of my sisters decided they weren’t jealous upon my returns from my adventures. The prickly ash and berry bushes cut a familiar pattern on my arms often. They decided it was “OK” if they didn’t go along. I didn’t mind the little scratches. They went away quickly.

Each venture out my Dad would have his saying. Such as, “The lilacs are blooming and leaves are as big as squirrel’s ears.” This meant it was morel mushroom time.

Instead of April showers bring May flowers…He would say, “the rain smells like night crawlers.”
Translation: It must be time to go catch some big trout.

The witticisms were never ending….“Red Sky At Night…Anglers Delight.”
Translation: Red sky at night meant the sky would clear in morning
with no rain. It would be a good day to go trout fishing.

"Red Sky In The Morning…
Translation: Red Sky in the morning meant that we should not use
our new rods because they attracted lightning. [b]We should use our
old fiberglass ones that did not attract lightning.

[/b]“The sumac leaves are blaze red”. Translation: It is almost time to go deer hunting.
“The wind is coming across the miss (Mississippi) like a freight train”…That meant that[b] ice fishing was coming soon.

[/b]“The corn is almost pheasant”…This meant the corn was brown colored and that pheasant season is coming soon.

“The lawn doesn’t need mowing”…that meant it was late September and squirrel season was almost there.

My family would talk in the car and my sisters and mom would make fun of Dad and his weather and Hunting/Fishing sayings…

“The leaves can wake up any time now.”.…This meant Dad was sick of winter.

They used to make some up. That really goaded my father. My sisters were notorious for their banter in the car.

By the end of a long journey, my father usually was quite angry at the sisters due to their disrespect for him. Dad was always happy to take long trips with me, because I respected his sayings and would say them even before he would.

My father’s sayings were quite unique and have stayed with me. My family (wife & daughter) don’t make fun of my sayings. They even use them themselves.

Recently my daughter was frantic in the back seat…She said, "Dad, STOP the car! I hammered the brakes. I thought that I was about to hit a deer. Anna was the I SPY (another one of my dad’s saying) Anna was on duty as (I SPY) On look out duty for deer crossing the road.

Anna said: " I need to take a picture of Angler’s Delight"

My wife and I immediately knew exactly what she meant. I had just given her my old digital camera and she had a photo in mind and wanted me to stop right then there.

I stopped and Barb and I got out of the car. Anna was already out focusing the camera. She took one picture and smiled. “I got it, Dad.” Grandpa would be proud.

Red Sky At Night

Angler’s Delight