Rites of Spring

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?”