My fingers, cold from the brisk March morning, fumbled to get my bait on the hook that morning. It was the first time I got to go with my older brother and his friends for the first day of Pennsylvania trout season. My nine year old body shivered from the early spring cold as I hurriedly tried to bait my hook, anxious for the 8 o’clock start of the season to start and the tangled lines of chaos to begin. Me against the fish, eager to prove to my older accompaniments that I was as good as a fisherman as they were.

While I’d been fishing since I was able to handle a fishing pole this was the first time I got to camp out the night before along the trout stream that meandered its way among the hills of southwestern Pennsylvania. We laid claim to our campsite the afternoon before trying to beat the rush of fellow fisherman doing the same. If you didn’t lay claim to your fishing spot the night before, you would be lucky to find a spot the next day.

During the night I wandered from campsite to campsite along the stream listening to stories of fishing trips past and hunting trips to come, stopping to gorge myself on roasted marshmallows , waking in the morning cold, tired and smelling of campfire smoke, but excited for what the day had in store.

Steam was rising from the stream as 8 o’clock came. I flipped my line out, letting the helgermite,wiggling on the end of my hook, bounce, off the opposite bank as the current swept it done stream. The rainbow trout hit hard as I simultaneously set the hook, reeling him amongst the lines of other poles dotting the banks that morning. That would the first of five trout that day. I still fish, I still camp, but that day lives in the front row of my memories amongst the other outdoor firsts.