The statewide trout season opens next Saturday at 8 a.m. This annual rite of spring is something a great many anglers eagerly look forward to, and this year maybe a bit more than usual. Last year, the first few weeks of trout season were nearly a total bust because of the water conditions. Heavy rains had pushed most streams throughout the region to flood stage, making fishing next to impossible or even downright dangerous on some of the larger waterways.

I’m sure no one wants a repeat of last year’s flooding to wipe out the traditional beginning of trout season. Although I rarely venture out for the opening bell on the first day of trout season anymore, I have many fond memories of past opening days. Few of those memories are as vivid as the day I caught my first trout. That was at least sixty years ago when I was about 12 years old.

My father didn’t fish, so I’m not sure what put the urge in me that spring to become a trout fisherman. But whatever my motivation was, the fishing bug bit me hard back then. The first obstacle in the planning of this first opening day adventure was getting to the stream. The closest trout stream to where we lived was just a bit too far away to ride my bicycle, so I began negotiating with my mother for a ride to the creek. Mom grew up in the country herself and was usually approving of most of my outdoor pursuits. It didn’t take too much coaxing for her to agree to take me fishing on the first day with one condition: I had to take my brother with me. I eagerly agreed to those terms. My brother was two years younger than me. I’m not sure how interested he was in fishing, but he was always a willing accomplice for escapades such this with his big brother.

Back then, trout season started at 5 a.m. As the first day approached, I informed my mother that we needed to be at the stream around 4:30 a.m. for the opening hour. Mother was not on board with that part of my plan. She firmly told me she would not be dropping off a 10- and a 12-year-old boy in the woods in the dark to go fishing, and we would be starting our trout season around 7 or 8 a.m., well after the sun had made an appearance. I suppose many folks now would find it unthinkable to drop off two preteen boys along a stream at any time to fish for the day by themselves, but back then it wasn’t a big concern.

The final plan for opening day was for Mom to come back at noon and bring us some lunch. She could also take us home if we were done fishing. I made it known that I would only be going home at noon if I had caught my limit in the morning. I had never caught a trout in my life at that point but boldly held the possibility of catching a limit on my own the first time out.

This was a small stream, and while there were other fishermen around that morning, it wasn’t overly crowded. My brother and I fished every pool and likely looking spot together relentlessly until our noontime rendezvous with Mom. And neither of us had a single bite as I recall, nor do I recall seeing anyone else catch a fish. I was sure my little brother would go home early, but he did not. Our new deadline for pickup was 4 o’clock.

The afternoon proved as uneventful as the morning. About 3:30 my brother and I got separated. As I worked my way upstream to find him, I came to a good-looking undercut bank. I carefully pitched my worm to the spot and let the current carry the bait into the cut. I felt two unmistakable tugs signaling a bite and snapped my rod tip upward to set the hook. Nothing. And my worm was gone. I quickly rebaited and cast again, praying the fish would still be willing. It was, but another swing and a miss left me with nothing but an empty hook. I knew the odds of a third chance were slim but proved to be the charm. This time I set the hook mightily, and a fat brook trout sailed out of the water and over my shoulder onto the streambank behind me. I pounced on my prize and wrestled the wriggling fish into my creel.

Now I needed to find my brother before Mom arrived. To my relief a few minutes later, I saw him sloshing downstream towing a trout behind him at the end of his line. He had caught the fish just minutes before but didn’t know how to unhook it. I took care of that problem and helped him stash the brookie in his creel. We were still sitting at the streamside just a few yards from the road when Mom pulled up.

That 10-inch brook trout on that opening day so many years ago lit a fire within that still burns bright. It has opened the way to so much personal gratification and satisfaction along with special, lasting friendships that transcend all others. It started a lifelong appreciation for the natural world and our responsibility to take good care of it. And most important, that there is so much more to fishing than just fish.