The first time Dale and I went trout fishing was at Roaring River State Park east of Cassville, Missouri. The afternoon before we had stopped by Tim's Fly Shop to get some pointers. We were spin casters. Tim, a real fisherman, said to start with a dark rooster tail for the first 10 minutes, switch to red for ten minutes, and then switch to salmon eggs. Use 2 pound test. Get there early. We were ready.
Arriving at ten to 6 in the morning, we went to buy our tags and get a hot cup of coffee to go. It was October and it had frosted over night. We could see our breath. We went to the river bank below the lodge and took our place between a father with a young boy and an old timer wearing overalls. As 6:30 drew near the river bank was lined shoulder to shoulder with fishermen. Everyone stood at the river bank patiently waiting for 6:30 AM.
We could see fish! I knew the fishing was going to be good. The anxiety of waiting for 6:30 was getting to me. My watch said 6:29. I asked Dale what time he had. He had 6:30. No one made a move. Everyone was silent. My watch reached 6:30. Still no one made a move.
Dale made a cast. I followed. A strike! Dale had a strike. A first trout. It broke water and was gone. I had a strike and missed. A second strike and missed. He was back. A third strike and I had him hocked. I reeled him in on two pound test. And then within 2 yards of my feet--the line broke. He was gone.
And still no one made a move. Everyone was patiently waiting! What was going on with these people? Just then the old man to our right took a pipe from his mouth, exhaled smoke slowly, and said, "You boys aren't from around here, are you?" Just then a long loud siren blew. Everyone else made their first cast.
