A Trout Expedition

There always comes a time when a person just needs to relax, pause, and reflect on what life is all about.  The person may never discover the answer, but it is somewhat like taking a trip.  Often the destination is unimportant, it’s the getting there and back that counts.  In many people’s lives there are just too many days when Murphy’s Law comes into play.  If something can go wrong, it will.  After enough of these mind testing tribulations it is plainly time to just go fishing.  (This little stream will do.)

That is what I do a few times each summer, and who better to go with than my brother-in-law Ronald Murray (aka Ron) who has forgotten more about fishing than I’ll ever know.  I can’t recall that I’ve ever dialed his number that he wasn’t willing to go fishing on a moment’s notice.  Ordinarily we set a date within a day or two, and not-so-early some morning we leisurely load our meager gear in the back of my old pickup, and off to some cool shady banked mountain stream we go.  Oh yeah, we can’t forget my grandson, Alex.  He wouldn’t miss a fishing trip for anything.

Trout, be careful what you eat today, because Ron has already worked up some sort of a bait or lure that well may make you lunch instead.  As we three banter back and forth as to who will catch the first one, or who will catch the largest for the day, or even a possibility who might catch our limit first, we spend more actual time enjoying the sunshine than we do serious fishing.

Somewhere along the way our hunger overtakes our fishing urge, and it’s time to fry up a couple of round fish, freshly caught from a hotdog package.  Out comes our small propane burning stove, no bigger than a shoe box, a frying pan, a few previously prepared onions, and a little mustard.  As Ron is a professional cook and baker, he knows all of the correct things to do to prepare a sumptuous meal somewhere in the wilderness.  (That's him performing the culinary arts lesson.)Sautee those slices of onion in the same pan along with the slowly pan fried tube steaks, and washed down with a cold cola we have a meal fit for a king.  Well, Alan King at least.

After a suitable resting period, to give the fish a break, we once more pack away our munching stuff, and get back to the serious fishing we came for.  After a couple more hours of drowning worms and splashing lures, we call it a day with the secure knowledge we spent valuable time together, unwound some of our undeserved tenseness, and once in a while actual go home with a trout or two.  (That's a nice Brooky that stumbled on someone's line by accident.)  Who could ask for anything more?  If you’ve never tried it, you ought to give it a shot.