Another October, another year winding down, another year of too few hooks in the water.
One of the best times I’ve had fishing in recent years was in October, trout fishing at Roaring River State Park near the Missouri-Arkansas line.
I have been trout fishing for about 10 years now, and – full disclosure – I’m not very good at it. I enjoy it immensely, and there are a few fish in the freezer, but I’m not very good at it. Years ago, I was even less good at it.
I was sitting outside the lodge at Roaring River, sipping coffee while sheltered from the rain and wondering what to do next. A gentleman sat down. To say he was old simply means he was older than me. It’s all relative. Anyway, he obviously had caught a few more trout than I had, and that counts for a lot.
We chatted. Here, he said after a couple of minutes, handing me a few artificial salmon eggs. Use this color, and put this size bobber here and this certain size weight here, and you’ll do OK.
And I nailed ’em. The rest of the morning, in the October rain, I pulled in one rainbow after another.
Those are the best moments, aren’t they? The moments when two fishermen – total strangers but with a common interest – compare notes and at least one of them learns a thing or two.
I’ve always hoped that someday I’d become that older guy, gently and wisely giving counsel and fishing tips to the young. We’ll just have to see how that turns out. Let’s put it this way. If there was a professional trout circuit, I wouldn’t be on it (not that trout people would be so gauche as to have a professional circuit).
But the clock is ticking. A store clerk pleasantly rang me up the other day and asked me if I should get the senior discount?
Are you kidding, I said?
Not even 55?
That would be a no, I said, turning down an easy discount. Let’s just be clear: I came along after Elvis, Sputnik and “I like Ike.” I lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis and the British invasion but am too young to remember either. I just went to my 30-year high school reunion. Do the math. I have plenty of gray hair, but makes me neither old nor wise. No, the real issue here is not retail discounts, but whether one becomes a wise old owl or just an old fool.
The jury is still out.
I’ve had the exquisite joy of watching a son grow and learn and, in some ways, be better than his dad at fishing. This year, the Scouts went to Roaring River, and they learned that trout ain’t bluegills in a farm pond. I taught a little. I think my son taught a little more.
Just the same, if you find yourself at the Roaring River lodge and see a gray-haired guy sitting in a dry spot, sheepishly slurping coffee and looking lost, by all means feel free to walk up and ask for advice.
The response might be entertaining, but who knows if you’ll catch any fish.
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Another October, another year winding down, another year of too few hooks in the water.
One of the best times I’ve had fishing in recent years was in October, trout fishing at Roaring River State Park near the Missouri-Arkansas line.
I have been trout fishing for about 10 years now, and – full disclosure – I’m not very good at it. I enjoy it immensely, and there are a few fish in the freezer, but I’m not very good at it. Years ago, I was even less good at it.
I was sitting outside the lodge at Roaring River, sipping coffee while sheltered from the rain and wondering what to do next. A gentleman sat down. To say he was old simply means he was older than me. It’s all relative. Anyway, he obviously had caught a few more trout than I had, and that counts for a lot.
We chatted. Here, he said after a couple of minutes, handing me a few artificial salmon eggs. Use this color, and put this size bobber here and this certain size weight here, and you’ll do OK.
And I nailed ’em. The rest of the morning, in the October rain, I pulled in one rainbow after another.
Those are the best moments, aren’t they? The moments when two fishermen – total strangers but with a common interest – compare notes and at least one of them learns a thing or two.
I’ve always hoped that someday I’d become that older guy, gently and wisely giving counsel and fishing tips to the young. We’ll just have to see how that turns out. Let’s put it this way. If there was a professional trout circuit, I wouldn’t be on it (not that trout people would be so gauche as to have a professional circuit).
But the clock is ticking. A store clerk pleasantly rang me up the other day and asked me if I should get the senior discount?
Are you kidding, I said?
Not even 55?
That would be a no, I said, turning down an easy discount. Let’s just be clear: I came along after Elvis, Sputnik and “I like Ike.” I lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis and the British invasion but am too young to remember either. I just went to my 30-year high school reunion. Do the math. I have plenty of gray hair, but makes me neither old nor wise. No, the real issue here is not retail discounts, but whether one becomes a wise old owl or just an old fool.
The jury is still out.
I’ve had the exquisite joy of watching a son grow and learn and, in some ways, be better than his dad at fishing. This year, the Scouts went to Roaring River, and they learned that trout ain’t bluegills in a farm pond. I taught a little. I think my son taught a little more.
Just the same, if you find yourself at the Roaring River lodge and see a gray-haired guy sitting in a dry spot, sheepishly slurping coffee and looking lost, by all means feel free to walk up and ask for advice.
The response might be entertaining, but who knows if you’ll catch any fish.
