In those days it was the fastest, unhealthiest, loudest way out of suburbia. McDonald’s double cheeseburgers and the biggest Gatorade money could buy. Gas station cigars and The Allman Brothers or The Scorpions or The Police at 9 miles over the speed limit on winding state highways. The same jokes about the same road signs, the same familiar rivers, the same things we’ve said or thought for years.

School, part time jobs, and subdivisions in the rearview. The woods, the water, and the time chasing fish were always just past the headlights.

Camping gave way to sleeping in a tent, which turned into sleeping in reclined seats. Speedier, cheaper, and more streamlined made getting on the water quicker. What mattered, mattered. Fish were at the core, but a galaxy of other priorities swirled around the river and the bulk of the days. These satellites gave the fish meaning; and vice versa. So disposable cameras captured dispensable trout. Each overexposed fish like a bridge piling, the real memories running across and over them.

Conversations skipped from fishing to faith to the latest female infatuation. Always and ever, there was constant singing; usually entailing angling-themed parodies. The two or three man river leapfrog happened effortlessly and without words. It was helpful that holes had owners. That protocol was only broken on solo trips. Even then it felt like stealing. Any trout caught were inconsequential. It was the principle of the thing.

But, in those days, there were so many trout.

---

Those were days and times we’ll never see again in total. The parts are almost all there, but the years have made their complete combination prohibitive.

However, those were days that functioned as a wise tutor. Problems solved were aptly rewarded. Showing your work yielded higher marks, but also paved the way for more learning. Mistakes led to sharp knuckle-rapping. Those days  employed us to keep each other accountable.

Lessons learned from each other, from the water, from those days are still here in total. Each early morning, regardless of if angling is the destination or not, follows a pattern set on misty spring creeks. Long drives to places other than rivers bear the marks of first cars stuffed to the gills with gear. Casts and trout, each less frequent, are made and caught with decades of experiences. Every one falls into a groove worn deep from those days.

Those days are gone. But these days, life and the occasional trout, are here thanks to them.