I of course had my trusty spinning rod with one of Dad’s old Prince Albert cans full of worms that I had dug from my mothers beloved rose garden the evening before. Her climbing rose bushes were cared for with the same kindness and tenderness that she gave her children And never once did she complain or scold me about me digging in it to find my “special” wriggly bait.
Dad’s ritual had started, observing the conditions around him, unzipping the worn, brown leather fly case that held a good supply of dry and wet flies that he had tied over the previous winter. His strong, steady and nimble fingers tying the minute fly to the leader, making sure all was in order for the presentation. It was a wonder to behold and there was no doubt, in my mind, that one of those tiny creations of his would be just the ticket to convince a skeptical brook trout to leave its cover and attack. Continue reading
