Mar 14, 2015 5 min read

As we age, memories become more important and perhaps more pleasant. On the other hand, they occasionally become more regretful. No, I have not been told I am close to the root side of the grass, but I am reflecting on some of those pleasant fishing occurrences of days long past.

The days we spent in McKean County each summer were among the best. Warm days in places where you might encounter a bear or, at the other end of the spectrum, a harmless porcupine are well spent.

Until I made those trips, I didn’t know a porcupine can only see a few feet. Encountering one in the big woods, we would get up close and it would turn its back and the quills would stand up. Take a few steps back and it would go on about its business.

Not believing what we saw, we repeated the act. Quills up, quills down, the porcupine’s world must be awfully small.

We seemed to be attracted to small streams in that area. Some of them were so small you could easily step from one bank to the other. Area camp owners were familiar names from Washington County. There were Chadwicks, Riffles and, of course, Humphries.

We quickly learned the native brook trout were suckers for live bait. A small worm would be immediately attacked if the approach didn’t scare them. The tiny brooks were crystal clear and while it was easy to see the stream bed it was also easy for the trout to see an approaching human. Even a shadow on the surface sent them to cover and they refused any offerings.

When fishing those trickles, you didn’t cast. Instead, you flipped the bait into the water and held the line in front of the reel. Two taps and you just lifted the trout out and carefully removed the hook.

We released most of them, for they seldom reached 7 inches in length.

Fishing like this on a small stream that emptied into Potato Creek, I dropped a worm into a big hole that was edged by a large flat rock on my side of the creel. The upstream riffles turned and the water swept under the rock creating a hole about 5 feet deep. It was a giant hole in so small a creek.

I just dropped the worm into the riffles and it washed down stream and under the rock. I got the familiar tap, tap and gently set the hook.

The difference this time was my pole doubled over and I was fast to a big fish.

Standing on that rock, I knew I was in a predicament. I had loose line hanging to my knees and could see a big bronze body swimming back and forth in that clear water. I had to play the fish by hand without the benefit of my reel’s drag.

I remembered that lightly set hook. Evidently, I didn’t set hard enough for that hook came out and that large brown trout went back home under that rock.

Of course, I tried again the next day to no avail. It was as if that 20-inch plus trout was but a figment of my imagination. I was sad when we had to leave.

I caught many trout over the years, but it is that big brownie I remember the best. If I could wish the reader anything, it would be such thoughts.

Another time, an old man approached us as we fished the Allegheny River between Roulete and Port Allegheny in obvious disgust. We chatted a bit, and he told me he was trout fishing but the muskies kept stealing his flies.

He was going home. I looked at my wife, Eileen, and the kids, and said, “Muskie?” With that, I went to the car and retrieved the few large spinners I had and switched from trout fishing to trying to hook the big ones.

That day, I hooked and landed six muskie in two hours. None were huge – they measured from 22 to 35 inches – but we had a ball. Yes, those were the real golden days.

• Over the last couple of weeks there have been a few coyote hunting tournaments. The biggest is Mosquito Creek, which is based on weight and has a top prize in the $10,000 range.

Smaller, but headquartered here at home, was the annual Ellsworth Coyote Tournament. This one had 144 entries with 28 coyote being bagged.

I believe the top prize was in the $2,000 range and a prize was given to every successful entry.

• The Christian Church of North America is welcoming guest speaker Charles Alsheimer Friday, March 20, at its church on Shirls Avenue. Alsheimer goes back a long way writing about Whitetail Deer hunting.

He also was a field editor for Deer & Deer Hunting magazine back when I held the same position. Personally, I will look forward to talking to him about old times when we both wrote for the same magazine. There will be no charge for attending, but an offering will be taken.

George H. Block writes a Sunday Outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter.