ONE OF MY many guilty pleasures is to look through copies of old newspapers as a way of looking backwards.
For example, in a 1965 newspaper story about the opening day of trout season, the headline read, “Thousands of eager anglers flocked to the lakes to battle the elusive trout.”
The lakes were reported to be “busy.” The story went on to report that the fish cop counted 301 people fishing at Lake Sutherland alone.
Flash forward to this coming weekend’s opening day of trout season.
The crowds of lucky anglers will be reduced to a fraction of the old days.
What happened? How could a public resource that fueled a mom-and-pop economy of fishing resorts, tackle stores and restaurants be managed into economic extinction in such a short period of time?
But I digress.
This is a story about the old days when fishing was all that really mattered. When fishing was not a matter of life and death. It seemed much more important than that.
At the time, the opening day of trout season was one of the best days of the year, like Christmas and the last day of school all rolled into one.
Opening day was fast approaching, and I was going to be ready.
Usually, my dad took me fishing on opening day, but he had died the winter before and wasn’t taking me fishing anymore.
Luckily, a buddy’s friend’s friend was going to take us fishing, so it looked like things were going to work out after all. Still, there was a lot of preparation.
Times were tight. I was a little short of cash, but there was big money to be made.
You could pick up empty pop bottles tossed in the ditch along the road and take them back to the store for a big reward. That’s if you found enough of them.
You might have to ride your bike for many miles, scanning the ditches for the lost, tossed treasure, but when it came to opening day, it would all be worth it in the end.
Then, as now, you had to have the right gear.
It wasn’t much to look at.
You would not need a tackle box to hold it all, but it was mighty important.
All you needed was some fishing line, hooks and lead sinkers to clamp on your line. We did this by chomping down on the lead sinkers with our teeth.
Never mind lead was a toxic heavy metal tied to brain damage, which would explain a lot later.
We had to get the bait down to the fish. We’re talking opening day here.
As opening day approached, I took my pop bottles in for the big reward, but I was a few cents short of what I needed.
So, I hit the road again until I got the gear, leaving one last final detail to take care of.
I had to get the bait.
We’re talking worms. It just so happened the very best worms were found in my mom’s flower beds. I told her I was going to weed her garden, but it was all about the worms.
I’ll never forget that opening morning.
I hiked down to the highway at daylight to catch my ride and waited. And waited and waited. The ride never showed up.
I ate my lunch and walked home, figuring I might do my homework at home instead of on the school bus.
I dumped the worms back in mom’s flower bed and decided that, when I grew up, I was going to be a fishing guide.
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Pat Neal is a Hoh River fishing and rafting guide and “wilderness gossip columnist” whose column appears here every Wednesday.
He can be reached at 360-683-9867 or by email via patnealproductions@gmail.com.
