With the sound of crackling bacon, my brother and I awoke. Pulling back the tent flap, we headed out to see what our dad cooking this morning. The ground was still frozen from the previous night and the warm campfire kept our spirits up, along with the breakfast (although it didn’t last long between two teenagers).
The conversations were never much in the mornings. Silence filled the air as the Rocky Mountain critters made their way to investigate what we were up to. Grabbing our fishing gear, the family headed for the river.
This is why we were here, to inhale the scent of pine tress, catch fish, and admire the crisp blue skies. Platt River was our little family tradition every autumn that I always looked forward to. Today, I thought to myself, is the day I’ll catch the first rainbow trout. Now, I’m not sure if it was because of my overeager youth, but something remarkable happened that day.
I still can remember the fresh air, the colors and often catch myself listening for familiar sounds even here in the city. Perhaps this is why I’m attracted to the comfortable simplicities of home.
I cast my line into the rushing river, when it snagged. Pulling in the trout, I jerked the line a little too hard, causing my trophy to go air-born about fifteen feet. I ran after him once I heard something hit the tree branches behind me.
The trout was caught in the branches gasping for air. Flopping around, he struggled to wriggle loose, but there was nothing I could do to claim it—he was out of my reach. There was only one thing I could do….cut the lead. Fish, pole and pride fell in the river below.
However, due to a rocky start, my day wasn’t an entire loss.