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I was about 12 years old, and Uncle Bud was in his early 30s, still single and working in the accounting department at Westinghouse, when we traveled up to Uncle Jack’s cottage (Bud’s uncle, my great-uncle), which stood near Pleasantville, Venango County, in his dark green 1959 Ford for the opening day of trout season, 1962.
It turned out to be a memorable weekend. We arrived Friday afternoon and hauled our gear into the trim one-story cottage that Uncle Jack used for weekend family getaways and entertaining business clients. We feasted on cold fried chicken and root beer and then took a walk in the unusually chilly April air down the dirt road that bordered the 100 acres where, years later, my two brothers and father and I would deer-hunt for 15 consecutive seasons before I acquired Camp F-Troop in Warren County. Uncle Bud and I passed the late evening hours by playing Gin Rummy, before we set our alarm for half-past real early, so we could hurry down to Pine Creek and claim our spot on the stream.
Being a self-centered 12-year-old, I did not appreciate what a sacrifice this trip must have been for Uncle Bud. He could have hosted a couple of his golf or bowling buddies and played poker and sipped on beers and enjoyed a good old boys weekend. But he chose to take me trout fishing that year and my older brother Skip the following year. He had taken both of us the previous year, but that experience turned out to be such a disaster of shoving matches, name-calling and competitive whining and fussing that we were now relegated to each attending every other season. I blamed Skip and harbored grudges for this predicament for years afterward.
We woke up early Saturday morning, wolfed down some greasy fried eggs and extra-greasy bacon and stepped outside, where we were shocked to discover a half-foot of new-fallen snow on the ground. We stood on the stoop for one full minute staring at the surprising ground cover before Bud announced, “Get your boots on, Donny. We’re going anyway.”
And we weren’t the only ones. Hatchery-stocked Pine Creek was already crowded at seven a.m. when we arrived, but we hustled down to the shoreline and claimed our favorite spot, a deep hole below a bend in the creek where a big fallen hemlock provided underwater cover for the fat, stocked browns and brookies we knew lay in the waters below.
We stood around and shivered and laughed and joked with other fishermen until the magic, silent starting bell rang at eight o’clock, and 30 lines tossed in simultaneously. We fished hard with minnows and worms, casting again and again for one full hour but felt not a single strike. Nor did we hear any of the surrounding anglers exclaim with joy at hooking a fish nor spot a single trout fighting and splashing to hand.
Two fishermen across the way shrugged and muttered about the weather and reeled in and headed for their car. And then another and then two more and 10 minutes later a full dozen gave up on trout-fishing in the snow. “What do you think, Donny?” Uncle Bud asked. “I’d like to stay a while, but if you’re too cold, we’ll go.”
“No way,” I said. I knew I wouldn’t experience another trout opener for two years, and I wasn’t going to give up that easily. So we tossed our lines in again and stayed for another hour, until all the other fishermen had left us alone on the bank of the stream.
At about 10:15 the sun poked through and temperatures notched up a degree or two, and — there! — Uncle Bud yelled out as he battled a foot-long stocked brookie to shore. I got a hit and miss followed by a hit and catch, and the trout bite was on. Over the next 45 minutes, we landed nine nice trout and put all of them on our old rope stringers, anticipating a trout and cole slaw and fried potato feast at my grandmother’s house some time soon.
And now Uncle Bud set the hook and his fishing rod bent double, and a monster trout started battling him up and down the current. I caught a glimpse of the thing as it passed in the clear waters and saw that it was thick and heavy and twice the length of my tackle box, and Uncle Bud shouted for me to get the net, and I waded in and made a couple of amateur failed passes, which about gave Bud a heart attack, and he yelled, “Get downstream of the fish! Get the head in first!” And I tried another pass and lifted up and wondrously, miraculously, there he was in the net, all 22 inches and two and a half pounds of him. He was a trophy brown trout such as neither of us had ever seen before, and we stared at him for a second, as if he were made of pure gold, and then shouted for joy and quickly brought the fish to land.
We laid our prize in the snow above the shoreline and took a Kodak photo and basked in the glory of the best fish anyone in the family had ever caught. Then we headed back to the cottage to place our catch on ice and pursue some warm clothes and hot food and a well-deserved nap.
Later we packed up and drove home, and all along the way I thought about the weekend trip and thought about it, but I was too young and naïve to articulate how special that fishing weekend with my uncle was. So special that I recollect the details now, almost 50 years later. Some things are worth remembering.
Don Feigert is the outdoors writer for THE HERALD and ALLIED NEWS. His latest book, The F-Troop Camp Chronicles, and his earlier books are available by contacting Don at 724-931-1699 or dfeigert@verizon.net. His website is www.donfeigert.com.
Sports
Outdoors: Opening day with Uncle Bud
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