Trout Season

It was a crisp, clear spring morning with an air temperature of thirty four degrees. The air smelled as though a fresh snow was imminent but none was forecast. It was partly cloudy yet I still needed my sunglasses to protect my eyes while driving the large green Grand Fury down County Route 7. It was a glorious day in April and the kind of day that should be spend outside rather then in a factory, store or office building. A splendid day to be a conservation officer.

As I approached the Brown Road intersection I notice a small Dodge Dart, desperately in need of body work, parked near the bridge which traversed Sterling Creek. I parked the car and was careful not to slam the door. No sense in letting people know the game warden has arrived.

I noticed a red velvet hat that was attached to an elderly gentlemen as wide as he was tall, which was about five feet five. As I silently approached, he was concentrating on getting his line unhooked from a submerged log. His greasy black hair mottled with gray curled up from under his hat. His well worn, tan canvas jacket was tattered at both sleeves and a white strand of filling flapped in the breeze when he moved his right arm.

SNAP! The six pound monofilament snapped giving way to the pressure he exerted on the line and the worm and hook remained on the log. The log was visible in the crystal clear brook. A number eight hook with half a night crawler attached remained motionless in the current while the three feet of line slowly waved as if to bid farewell to the recently departed owner. The end of the line which was left on his pole snapped just inches in front of my faced, stopping me dead in my tracks.

Somewhat startled and fearing possible injury form some other unforeseen act I decided to announce my presence.

"Hello, how's the fishing, I inquired. This silent approach and subsequent loud announcement produced what I thought was a second and greater misshape.

The seventy two year old widower had no idea that anyone was nearby. His response was at first to arch his back and extent his arms wide in a spread eagle position. His left hand then clutched his heart while at the same moment his well worn fishing hat fell into Sterling Creek to join the hook, line and worm.

The hat floated on the surface like a dry fly that was well treated with dope. After traveling ten feet downstream, it got caught in a current that submerged it in a white foam that engulfed it like a hungry brown trout. It boiled to the surface after it passed the turbulence created by the large boulder. Waterlogged and picking up speed, it silently disappeared downstream.

The fishermen still clutching at his heart with his left hand and holding the fishing rod in his right, slowly turned to face the highly embarrassed game warden. His face was initially filled with surprise and bewilderment and as I tried to say something clever to ease the moment, his facial expression turned to agitation.

All I could utter was a feeble "Good morning, how's the fishing?"

"Fine, until now," he responded.

"I just want to check your license and catch," I gingerly stated.

The angler purposely moved his feet up the bank without speaking a word and was soon facing me from six feet away. He quietly placed his pole on the ground on top of a clump of fiddle head fern emerging from its winter lair. The faint scent of skunk cabbage was in the air as he fumbled through his wallet, eventually finding his crumpled up sportsman license.

"My hat," he muttered as he handed me the license.

I unfolded the paper and seeing all was in order, I handed it back to him. I then asked half-heatedly if he had caught any trout.

"Yeah, there in the trunk," he said.

The tone of his voice had changed dramatically. He had gotten over the shock of being surprised and even of losing his favorite fishing hat. He was thrilled with the idea that he was going to show the game warden the fruits of his angling prowess. This was something most sportsmen dreamed of because its part of their official induction into the history books maintained by the conservation department.

As the old man opened the trunk lid a cloud of road dust billowed up and engulfed both of us. I came close to choking but he was unaffected by anything at the moment except for showing off his trophies.

"I'm not sure, but I think they're all brookies. I caught 'em at the swimin' hole on the Johnson farm. They fought like crazy, I thought at first I mighta' had on one of those salmons."

While he spoke I tried to figure out what to say to him. The fish weren't salmon, they weren't even brook trout. The trophies that the retired factory worker was showing off to the game warden were creek chubs!

Ubiquitous and prolific members of the minnow family of the freshwater fishes. The fish were brightly colored and their nuptial tubercles were readily visible since it was breeding season. The usually silver to white, plain looking fish became a rainbow of color during the spring as a result of the stimulation of sexual hormones brought on by the rise in water temperature. This is an ancient trigger for propagating the species that is used by many species of freshwater fish.

"Wow," I blurted. "A little butter, onions and potatoes and you've got yourself a fine dinner," I stated with admiration.

"Yep, I'm gonna catch a couple more and have a good supper. By the way what's the rules on these things anyway?"

I could hardly contain myself. I wanted to tell the man exactly what the conservation law stated about these "trash fish" but common sense, courtesy and some apology steered my response in a more merciful and diplomatic answer.

"As far as the law is concerned you can take ten of them a day and they can be any size. You just have to take them in season and you have to have a license," I lied.

"Thanks," he said as he climbed into the old rust bucket of a car and then nosily crept down the dusty country road.

Part of being a good conservation officer is you're success in interacting effectively with the general public. The truth, at times, has nothing to do with it.

All rights reserved, Gerald Desko 2012