Easter is all about tradition with the glazed hams, baby Jesus, dusty Church clothes, and native trout. I tend to take part in only a small amount of the tradition. This past Easter was a plan to head out in search of native trout. To backpack into the mountains of Northern Pennsylvania and explore the wonders of nature.
After BC finished up with work on Good Friday we piled into Sean’s van and headed up to Allen’s camp in the Allegheny National Forest. We arrived with smiles and immediately started talking trout. Pulling out old maps searching for blue lines that might hold fish. After we settled on a plan the instruments and drinks were cracked wide open. What transpired in the next few hours was a blur of sound and drink.
Waking up with that all familiar hangover ment a few things for me. I needed food, water, fresh air, and wild trout. Within an hour I had three and was searching for the fourth. We settled on a stream that BC was snow shoed on over the winter. Fishing a small stream with four people is not the best tactic but we were all so relaxed that it was a very enjoyable time.
The catching was not too great but sometimes that’s not what it’s about. No, it was about good company in a pristine setting. About following a stream and discovering whats around the next bend. About searching for some kind of truth.
As we said goodbye to Allen the next leg of the trip started. The plan was to backpack into the forest, camp, and search for native trout. All of that happened with minor effort.
So that was Easter Sunday. Waking up with frost on the tent, eating oatmeal, catching some native trout, then getting home to carry on the tradition of ham. There should be some highly philosophic statement to end this post but I like to think that tradition carries nothing metaphysical element. In the end these native fish were leftover from the last ice age and we were just a few guys who enjoyed catching them.
beer
