Nothing says spring more succinctly at the Ilgenfritz house
than the advent of Trout Fishing.
The smell of
budding trees, small woodland flowers and leaf mold, the last tiny clumps of
snow clinging to the undersides of fallen logs or hiding in shadowy patches,
the fresh yellow-green of new growth, the sound of a rushing mountain stream
and the startled yelp of a boy falling into icy water all combine to remind me
of that most cherished event – the first day of trout fishing. Izaak Walton
wrote, “God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than
angling.”
Since my husband
and I have been married and children began to appear, the trout fishing ritual
has been refined and polished to an art. We now have ten boys eligible to
participate in this annual festivity. It
is also a rite of passage since attendance is limited to sons who are out of
diapers. Dad doesn’t do diapers.
Therefore, the precocious may get to participate at the age of two, but more
than likely it will be three.
Trout fishing
takes place at an uncle’s cabin in the Laurel Mountains
of Pennsylvania. The first step is to pack the food. Cereal, bologna, eggs, and all sorts of
goodies are all packed up by the three oldest boys. At their ages, food is important and they
make sure there’s plenty of it. Also
packed are long underwear, hats, gloves (it’s April) and a change of clothes
for all the small guys because someone usually falls in the stream.
Next is the task
of procuring bait. Sometimes canned corn
is enough but many of the boys hold to the view summed up by Henry Van Dyke who
said “The reason life sometimes seems dull is because we do not perceive the
importance and excitement of getting bait.”
Fortunately, we live on a farm and April is sufficiently muddy to locate
worms for an army.
Finally, a whole
host of fishing rods, tackle boxes, waders, nets and all the other necessary
paraphernalia we have accumulated over the years are loaded into our van.
The trip itself
is uneventful. It is a two- hour drive
unless the boys are fortunate enough to get Dad to stop at a sporting goods
store for waders or a license or canned corn.
Then a shopping adventure is an added bonus.
When they reach
the cabin, the boys have numerous complaints about the rodent tenants who have
spent the winter between the sheets of unaired beds and left behind their
calling cards. As they grow older, they
have discovered that it is a wise choice to bring your own sleeping bag.
There is an old
fisherman’s saying that, “Nothing grows faster than a fish from the time he
bites until the time he gets away.” This has been proven true at the cabin as
well. Sometime in the afternoon or evening, Great-uncle Dave and several other
men show up. Then there are tales of
years gone by and the inevitable stories of amazing fish escapes, and finally
the restless sleep of those possessing the certain knowledge of this year’s big
catch.
Trout fishing
begins early. Everyone has a hearty breakfast and grabs the specially packed
lunch that Grandma has sent along before heading out to select a hole before
daylight. With a little luck, someone
will catch their limit before lunch, sending everyone else into fervor of casting
and reeling in and unwinding small boy’s lines from trees. In recent years our second son, Benjamin has
become an expert on helping little ones get lines untangled, perhaps
reminiscent of the years he was small.
If no one falls in, lunch is eaten on the bank with the rough bark of
the logs digging into bottoms and the smell of slimy fish on hands.
The essence of
the day is summed up by Noah’s fish tale:
He was about six at the time and as avid an angler as anyone. He had a fine rainbow trout on his line,
which he was quite proud of. Actually his big brother Seth had caught it and
put it on Noah’s hook when he was elsewhere, but Noah was oblivious to
this. He reeled it in and his brothers
duly admired it.
The trout came
home to be viewed by the girls of the family as well and we would have cooked
and eaten it but Noah was sent to take his Saturday night bath and unbeknownst
to anyone else, he took the trout into the tub with him. The poor thing showed no appreciation for
bubble baths.
Finally Noah was
persuaded to plant the fish on the hill under some cucumber plants where it may
have fertilized them quite well, except he kept digging the plants up to check
on the fish
This then is the heart of the
trout fishing tradition- not the big catches, but time with family, making
memories and stories we can pass down to the next generation. I can picture it
now, a room full of little boys and Seth or Benjamin will say, “Have you heard
the story of Uncle Noah and the Rainbow Trout?”
