For those of you who do not know “and I find it extremely hard to believe that any of you would not know,” April 1st of each year is the official start of trout fishing season in New York State. Having grown up in and around a family business that was based on fishing, this was a very important date which heralded in spring, and prosperity, and, for me, much, much more. To this day, I cannot help but drive by the countless number of thin, secret, shrouded trout streams up here in the Adirondack Mountains and feel the familiar cravings to grab creel, pole, and worms and set out for a day of exploration and “real fishing” as it was taught to me from a very young age.
This type of backwoods stream fishing, and trout fishing in general will always be near and dear to my heart – and today’s thoughts are a tribute to trout fishermen, to wilderness lovers, and to tale tellers everywhere. One last word of warning: the following is a “fish story,” and as such it is based on old memories and scattered pieces of truth and fiction that have accumulated around it over the years. It remains one of my best memories of friendship, and nature, and fishing and therefore I offer it up for your amusement and pleasure…
We four young men had been on the road for about six weeks by the time we began the steep ascent over the southern Rocky Mountains on our sojourn towards the canyon lands of Arizona. Fall was in the air, nipping at our heels as we made our way through the shorter days of October and tried our best to maintain the warmth by heading southward, ever southward on the journey.
There was an unspoken understanding between us all that this trip was “it” for each of us. Having all graduated from college the spring before, we found ourselves in the proverbial “no man’s land” between the safe irresponsible days of collegiate life and the impending necessity of finding a career – or at the very least a “real job” of some sort now that we could no longer head back to the comfortable, simple embrace of our college life for another semester. Faced with this dilemma, we did what any immature, impulsive, adventurous young men would do – we pooled our money together, bought a $900.00 van, and ran away on a cross country trip to “find ourselves”.
Without realizing it, we had assembled four people who traveled together very well. Our interests and personalities were strikingly similar: camping, mountain biking, hiking, fishing, and most importantly avoiding any and all responsibilities as much as was possible. To this end, we realized on the first day of our trip that we had failed to map a route of progress, or how long we would be traveling, or to discuss any points of interest or even a final destination. We quickly decided as a group that we would head “anywhere but here,” and that a basically southern direction was acceptable to all involved.
Over the weeks, we had continued this type of extreme flexibility in our planning, which seemed to work well in facing the countless other things we had failed to plan for, and the many unforeseen “hiccups” that can surface when trying to travel across this great country while spending as little money as is humanly possible. We soon discovered that the cooler we had packed full on that first day went empty rather quickly, and that the ice required to cool the food also melted in what seemed a very short time. Replacing these things often required money. But, seeing that we were smart college graduates, and extreme survivalists on the highways and biways of this fine country, we soon found clever ways around some of these issues.
For example: many grocery stores and convenience markets have the audacity to charge money for ice cubes. Most motels, however, give this commodity away for free in machines. The only trick is accessing the machines without actually staying at the motel. Not to advise on this practice, but just a casual observation – larger motels rarely know who is coming and going to their ice machines. Another tip for the frugal or downright broke traveler is that “box” stores across the country – those places that sell items in bulk quantities – often set out wonderful “sample” stands throughout the store on weekends. Even without a membership card to these places, anyone can stroll in and enjoy a brunch or early dinner absolutely for free. We never paid for sleeping accommodations during the trip, but soon discovered that truck stops and various campsites wanted money to shower! This seemed extremely un-American to us, especially given the fact that any college town we found left their gymnasiums and locker rooms wide open for free access to showers and, occasionally, work out facilities.
But stomachs full of samples only lasted so long. And during our ascent onto the southern Rocky Mountains we had not plundered the delectable booty from a sizeable box store in some time. Our diet for the last week had consisted of canned vegetables, boxed cereal, and Ramen Noodles – lots of Ramen Noodles. As dusk approached on the small, two lane road, we decided it was time to make camp for the night. We were in a National Forest at the time and had learned early on in our trip that camping in such areas is free as long as you follow the rules set forth by the National Park Service. And we were willing to abide by these rules because they had more to do with containing the filthy human footprint on our dwindling forests than they did with any bureaucratic or capitalistic foolishness.
We had a mutual contempt for human pollution, littering, and downright laziness when it came to removing those things that people brought into these sacred places. Broken beer bottles and used diapers tend to take away from the natural beauty of the land. We had spent a good portion of the trip camping in these wild areas, and we did our best to clean up and leave the areas in a better condition than we often found them.
On this day we saw the familiar pictorial of a tent on a small green sign pointing up into what appeared to be a thin dirt road, and decided we would follow it to the designated sites for the night. Soon after entering the road, it became clear that we were the first visitors in a long while to attempt the drive the path in anything other than a log skidder or a seriously modified four wheel drive vehicle. The mud holes and tree roots and huge boulders sticking up from the ground gave a wild unpredictability to this path which was giving our small Ford Econoline van a workout, and I couldn’t help but think about the damage being inflicted to the undercarriage of the vehicle as it scraped and banged and bottomed out repeatedly along the way. I also thought about the various soup cans we had wired around the exhaust pipe when it began to leak in several places a few days back. Perhaps they would provide an extra layer of protection. So far our cozy van had been a strong, trustworthy ally along our journey, although it had a habit of sticking in 2nd gear and occasionally the roof leaked in heavy rain storms. We all held our breath up the bumpy, endless trail.
It is worth noting here that this excursion took place before the invention of G.P.S. navigation systems or the now common practice of owning a cell phone. We communicated with family once or twice a week when we found pay phones, and since we never really knew where we going next it was hard to provide an itinerary to anyone. Someone “most likely a parent,” had thrown into the van a dated, gigantic leather bound Rand McNally map which we found a few days after leaving home, and which proved quite useful in some situations, but we had not been on any road listed in the map for the past several hours. Not that it would have helped to see our location as a small line on a paper map, but it might be useful for the search and rescue crews to find and extract our wolf and vulture eaten corpses if they could at least name a road and some map coordinates. It also helped that our decision had now become one of those times when you just had to keep going because the awful path was becoming thinner and thinner with absolutely no chances to turn the vehicle around. In truth, we really did not worry about finding ourselves in any mortal danger. We had our mountain bikes, water, and Ramen Noodles. Getting stuck or breaking down up here would just be a hassle. A real hassle. And we would much rather not deal with any more hassles than were absolutely necessary.
I am unsure of how far into the wilderness we went. It seemed far. Too far. But after rounding an incredibly sharp corner which kissed the ledge of a steep and washed out craggy precipice, the trail inexplicably opened up into a lush, large, meadow with a small pond located directly in the center. Our collective breath was let out as we saw three areas around the pond that had been designated as camp sites, none of which showed any sign of human invasion in a long, long while. We were home.
Night was setting in by that time, so we each got to work doing what had become our standard jobs for establishing our presence. Two of us worked on unloading supplies and setting up the tents while another man went in search of dry, dead, suitable wood and got the fire burning for the night. The last of our crew, the cook, rummaged through the now meager supplies and did his best to whip up something that might include at least one recognized food group for our dinner. Little was said during this ritual we had of getting our outpost established – after all these weeks on the road together there wasn’t much left to say, really.
Later that night, around the fire, the question came up about the possibility of fish in the pond. The odds seemed unlikely. This far up in the mountains and in what appeared to be a rather stagnant looking pond, we doubted that many fish would chose to settle here, or to survive in such an environment. Still, we decided, looking into our bowls of Ramen Noodles and knowing that more were on the way in the morning, it certainly couldn’t hurt to try.
And so we did. At the break of dawn the next morning – one of the best times to fish – we crept quietly to various spots around the pond and searched our tackle boxes for just the right ammunition. We did not have worms at this time, which are my favorite personal pick for all fishing. I had dug around under a few rocks that morning looking for any kind of bug or grub that might be native to the area and that a fish would appreciate for breakfast, but I had come up empty handed. So now I tied a small, silver spinner on my line, hoping it would catch the morning sunlight and attract a lunker of a fish. Within a few minutes of my initial cast into the water, the first strike came. Two things became apparent to me quickly in that moment: I knew the fish were trout, and I knew the hook on my lure was going to be too big to set effectively in a trout’s mouth. At about the same time I noticed my two friends directly across the water jerk suddenly on their lines, attempting to set their hooks after getting similar nibbles. We all reeled in our poles and met at the campsite, tackle boxes in hand. As I mentioned before, we were experienced fishermen, and we immediately began a collective inventory of supplies to determine who had the smallest possible hooks. It turned out that we each had some that looked like they would suffice for trout. We pooled the hooks together and laid them out on the dilapidated picnic table at the site. The question now became what type of spinner or lure would be best to use for bait. We all knew that catching the first few trout on artificial baits might be easy, but trout like this – native trout – catch on quickly and our success might be short lived if we did not offer something really enticing.
It was the cook that made the nearly impossible events of the next 48 hours a reality. He jumped up suddenly, ran to the food supplies in the van, and returned with a can of corn. At first there was dissension in the ranks. The fire maker reasoned that gambling away one of our last two cans of corn for the possibility of fish seemed fool hearty. He reminded us of how good the corn tasted when mixed in with the Ramen Noodles, not to mention that it was really the only vegetable we had left. These were valid points. But I was already sold on the corn idea. As soon as the cook revealed it to us, I remembered several old, grizzled trout fishermen smiling sheepishly and revealing their secret to my grandparents as they stood outside of our bait store with a stringer full of big, beautiful rainbow trout. Corn catches trout. It was our answer. I was all for it.
The swing vote finally gave permission to use the corn, and we all baited our hooks with a single kernel of the brilliant yellow corn from the can. We snuck silently back to our spots just as the sun’s rays began to cut through the mist on the surface of the pond. Four sets of arms went slowly backwards and then gracefully sent their casts in unison into the cool, placid waters.
We emptied that can of corn and also used the last can for bait before we made our way back down the anonymous bumpy trail two days later. Our first stop was at a motel, where we iced down the large cooler which was now three quarters full of the freshest, most delicious trout I have ever eaten. Those fish lasted us for days, and we ate nearly every part of them that we could. I don’t think we took a count, and even if we had I am apt to think that it would be higher than that officially allowed by Colorado law – not to mention that a license for catching these fish was most likely required, so I will not perjure myself by hazarding a guess at the number until I find out for sure the statute of limitations for such crimes. But I will say this – those hours spent catching those incredible, innumerable fish with my friends and travel partners somewhere deep in the wilderness at the southern end of the Rocky Mountains on the crisp, sunny days of that fall during our trip to “anywhere but here” will always remain one of my best memories of true freedom and wildness and “real” fishing…
great pic…
Great story Brian. I enjoy reading your stories, but this one really brought a smile and some great memories of some very similar times with some very similar (even some of the same) cats.
It’s so good I didn’t know the perils of the trip. Tom just came back from a trout fishing trip in the Great Lakes. I haven’t shared the secret bait with him yet. This reminded me of the trip with Aunt Mary and Phyllis. So glad we made those memories when we could. Carpe Diem!
I always knew my husband was a great fisherman! I love seeing the picture of you all- so much has changed, but so much has stayed the same!!
Thanks Hector. I’ve got some beauties of you out in the wild as well somewhere!
Alan – we’ll have to round those cats up some day for some new adventure!
Mom – Never perils – only hassles! We were just fine and remember that my spirit of adventure had to come from somewhere…
Erin – he is great because I taught him 🙂 He’s not a bad cook, either, so don’t let him fool you!