Dad didn't have to wake us at 4:30. We hardly slept that night in April, 1950. It was Opening Day of lowland lakes trout fishing.

We struggled into flannel shirts, tennis shoes and jackets and waited near the oil furnace while Dad packed the car with fishing gear and his idea of the classic fisherman's lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and an orange in paper sack. We were going to Lake Fenwick.

Lake Fenwick had a mystical feeling to us. There was no I-5 freeway then, no Southcenter, no industrial sprawl in the valley. The lake was a lovely 18-acre gem two miles southwest of Kent, nestled in tall trees and hidden from the road.
We lived near the airport in McMicken Heights, just east of the airport. The drive to Fenwick was probably less than 15 minutes but it took on the character of a great adventure when Dad and his three sons set out to stalk the wily rainbow trout.

It was still dark when we parked in the dirt lot on the north end of the lake. A shack near the water's edge was buzzing with activity as fishermen rented rowboats while others with their own boats pushed off to their favorite spots on the lake.

We carried all the fishing tackle and walked to our boat at water's edge, putting the rods, net, lunches and Folger's piddle-can in the bow like a loose pile of pick-up-sticks. We got in first and Dad pushed us out onto the placid surface. The sun was just beginning to peek over the treetops but the lake was a shiny black. Dad rowed slowly toward the opposite shore. When he rested the oars on the gunwale, water picked up by the oars tips dripped rhythmically into the lake.

Men in other boats spoke in whispers--a practice honored by most fishermen--as they prepared their lines.

Dad dug his tackle box out from under the snag of rods and lines and placed it in front of him on the floor of the boat. Mike and I shared the stern seat; Tim, the youngest at 5 years old, was in the narrower bow seat. He fidgeted and said he was cold. We called him a baby. He pouted. But didn't care because we were with Dad, in boat, on a lake, hoping to pull some trout from the depths of darkness beneath us.

Dad rigged the rods for each of us. In the tackle box, he picked out a jar of Pautzke's Balls 'O Fire Salmon Eggs. The eggs smelled ripe and fishy. He let each of us take a single egg and impale it on the small golden hooks on the end of our lines. Then he did a trick. He lit a match and plopped it into the top of the jar and quickly replaced the cap. He said that would keep the eggs fresh. It was pretty impressive trick.

Soon our lines were draped over the side, down deep. Dad told us to put out ten pulls and wait. If we didn't get a bite, we could try putting out more line. We used our fishermen's whisper when we wanted to talk. Tim wanted to use the piddle can. He stood on the seat and made water, then handed the can to Dad, who dumped the contents over the side.

Tim's rod tip bounced on the gunwale. He wasn't sure what to do. Dad whispered rather loudly." You've got a bite! Pick up your rod and play the fish."

None of us has ever felt the magic throbbing that pulses up the line when a fish takes the bait. And we didn't really understand what 'play the fish' meant.

"Reel him in," Dad encouraged.

Tim turned the tiny crank on the reel in robot movements and moments later a seven-inch trout showed his sides to us. Then he was off. He slipped the hook and dropped into the dark lake. Still, we were all excited by this proof that the lake contained fish and that they might actually be caught.

After that, we caught a few trout, hatchery plants put in the lake a week earlier by the game department. We put them in a wicker creel lined with damp ferns to keep them cool and moist. We had not touched a trout before this day. Their protective mucous on their bodies came off on our hands. Its odor lingered on our trousers where we wiped it.

When the sun was up, we drank hot cocoa and ate half of our lunch and tossed the peelings from the orange into the lake. Dad rowed carefully, following the edges of the lake where he told us trout liked to hide.

Our creel had many trout by mid-morning. We were sleepy and ready to go. But that was okay. We had gone with our dad in a boat on a lake. And we had become fishermen.

Addendum: the man who taught me how to pester trout has a lot of fish stories of his own. Here is a short one:

by Jerry Robinson
I have been fishing ever since I was six  and opening  day  of fishing for me has  been more  important than  Christmas. Oh, I have  missed a few openers. If something happened  like a broken leg, measles, heart  surgery, or the week I got shot in the chest or  we had a foot  of snow.
My first  fish was a six-inch chub. My big brother Russell and I were fishing in the  Columbia  slough in  North Portland next to a sawmill log  boom. Lots of kids  fished off the logs but I was fishing  out the window of an abandoned houseboat. It  was askew on the muddy bank next to  an outfall pipe from a nearby slaughterhouse. It had  a 3-foot   square hole in the steep slanting floor. I was using  a worm that  looked  good  to eat and when a chub agreed and grabbed it I just  rushed  backward into  the water-filled hole in  the  floor.  I sank instantly up to  my chin and started yelling for help from my  2-year older brother  Russell  who was fishing  off the logs. He instantly dove into  the muddy river and got to me in time . 
Saving me entitled him to knock me  around for about 8  years and knock any other  guy around who tried it.
He was tall, wiry, and protective. and  we were inseparable.
We went  fishing  and swimming  and walked  the street car  trestle, went to the show and hunted hazel nuts.
He also loved  to sing  and I thought  he had a wonderful voice.
So as  we walked, my head under  his  arm like a nestling, I always  envisioned  some movie  producer hearing  him and instantly asking   Russell his  name and  would he come  to  California. .
Russell died a long  time ago without  ever meeting anybody who asked him to sing.  Too bad. He had the words and music  of some great  stuff.
He   had a whole bunch of  sheet  music and tapes which I still have  but no singing  star  or movie  mogul  has ever asked me to send him anything.
I could never  sing very well but I have  caught a  lot  of catfish and bluegills.