By Ken Robinson

Managing Editor

We were four brothers by 1956. 
In Spring, Dad would roust us in the dark and pile us into his old car and head to a lake or a stream. 
 At Lake Fenwick, on Opening Day, we pushed out into the gloam in a rented boat, always careful to keep out voices down.
Other anglers were launching to get to the best spots on the lake. 
 Dad was always calm and deliberate. We wore life jackets filled with a silky fiber called Kapok.
 Mike, 8, Ken, 6, and Tim, age 4, shivered in the cool morning air while Dad rowed. 
 Now and again,  wisps of cigarette smoke crossed us. The first birds of morning signaled their presence, punctuated by the slap and slurp of wooden oars.
 A green tackle box set between us contained the secret lures which guaranteed our success. We could look but not touch. A small jar with a white lid held Dad’s formula for attracting trout:  Pautzke’s Balls O’ Fire salmon eggs. 
    When opened,  burnt fragments of paper matches nestled on top of the unnaturally orange gooey clusters of eggs.
Dad would drop in a lit match to expel oxygen  to keep the eggs fresh. The aroma grew sharp and oily over time, mixed with a little burst of sulphur. But it apparently was what trout liked.
    Our little boat broke  the surface until Dad chose an imaginary perfect fishing spot.
Mike and I each dug a single egg from the jar and poked the tiny golden hook on our leader into the soft skin. We wiped the goo from the eggs on our pants and dropped the line overboard.
    We learned to feel when the weighted line touched the bottom of the lake, then reel it up a bit. 
    And we waited. 
    We were hunters. Hunters wait.
    All disturbances, minor or sometimes startling, were catalogued. Dad said “watch your rod tip” and we focused on the tips.
    Sometimes we could not wait and would reel in enough line to make sure we still had bait. Sometimes, the egg was gone. A wily trout had stolen it! Or, it just fell off. Pautzke’s eggs were notoriously delicate.
    The morning opened slowly, like a flowering lily pad warming to the sun. Sitting, waiting, drowsing, whispering, we were happy in our cocoon with Dad.
 A brown paper sack contained our rations for the outing. It was always peanut butter sandwiches. Dad drank from a Thermos of coffee and if we begged would let us have a swig. It was sweet and milky and warming.
    The voices of other anglers floated across the lake in respectful volumes. Everyone knew you had to be quiet, even though there is no  evidence trout have ears.
    We drifted, lifting our lines too often, squirming on the hard seats of the boat.  It did not matter if we caught a fish. We were encased in love.