The first year I lived by the lake I decided I’d go fishing on opening day. I knew it would be crowded, but I thought it would be fun. On my morning jogs that spring I had witnessed the number of trout cruising in the shallows. On warmer days I could see dimples on the water. This signified that at least some of these stocked trout had the wherewithal to rise to bugs.

While virtually every river around town was open to year-round angling, the pond fell under opening day regulations. A Saturday in April. Not one day sooner. And, as I came to discover, not one day later – that is if you didn’t want to fish over  trout that had been through 48 hours of pure piscatorial pandemonium.

Opening day was nuts.

Far be it from me to criticize anyone who wants to fish shoulder-to-shoulder over 12″ pellet-fed fish. Seriously. If that makes someone happy: fine. If that is nostalgic, a source of food, a way to introduce a kid to fishing, or just a way to spend a spring morning: fine. I’m not dogmatic. The who, what, when, where, and why are none of my concern. It was the how that turned my head.

Kids running unsupervised, just close enough to make a few extra baited rods legal. Foul-mouthed arguments because of casts that strayed a few degrees towards someone else’s “spot.” Big boats on a lake almost small enough to cast across in points. And the litter… so much litter.

Of course, I didn’t know any of this until I went. I was the only one with a fly rod (and only one rod, and no cooler, and no camp chair…), but that didn’t phase anyone. Honestly, I could have been wearing a gorilla suit and I don’t think it could have drawn anyone’s gaze from their bobbers. There were hardly any places to stand, let alone cast a fly. Even if I would have found ten feet of lakefront, my backcast would have invariably hooked a free range child.

So I watched. Don’t get me wrong: most people were just fishing and enjoying a pleasant day outdoors. But the few bad apples really stuck out. Loud stereos and cigarette butts. Feuds over inches of grass. Domestic confrontations – right there and out in the open. Still, most people just stared intently at their bobbers.

Eventually I found a spot where I could roll a cast out to a weedbed. I let the cress bug drop down in the water column. At any given moment the gold bead, wire ribbing, or pearlescent casing  would shimmer and keep the fly visible. A cruising fish changed it’s trajectory and cadence and took without hesitation. I reeled in quickly, immediately aware that the last thing I wanted was a confrontation about tangled line. Slowly, heads turned on either side of me and eyes  peered over sunglasses.

I caught the trout. I threw it back.

People were looking at me like I had run a twenty-dollar bill through a paper shredder. Like I had declined being let off with a warning and asked for a ticket. Like I had thrown a trout back from whence it came. It was quiet.

“Do you not eat fish?”

I do… I’m just here for fun though.

“Did you already limit out?”

No… just here for fun.

“Are you a warden?”

Seriously. I got asked if I was a game warden because I released a trout.

Again, I totally get that those trout are there for the explicit purpose of being pulled out over a few weeks’ time. I don’t begrudge anyone who takes advantage of that opportunity. In fact, I appreciate that the money from all those one-weekend license sales funds all sorts of other programs. Perhaps – and maybe I’m overreaching on this one – some money could be turned around into providing education on popular opening day sites. At the bare minimum, a few signs reminding people that littering is bad.

I ice fish, cast spinning rods, sit next to a baited hook, and will even watch a downrigger. I’m pretty easy to please if I’m outside and tangling with fish. There is almost always something redeeming about it. Almost always. That weekend, in a place like that? I can say for certain that it is just not for me. I know it isn’t like this everywhere, and I know it isn’t like this all the time. But that was a bad enough taste to keep me away from the spectacle. To keep me up the mountain or even just inside, closing it down for a busy weekend.