Saturday morning arrived with the last doldrums of winter, tiny snowflakes flying through the air where I think mosquitoes should have been. However, no matter how cold the snow flakes might have been, I still prefer them to the biting, stinging, itching insects of summer.

Overall, Saturday was a fine day for the opening of trout season. It was under 30 degrees when the day started, the sun was not shining and the wind was blowing. It happens every year on the first day of the season. It doesn't matter if it was 80 and calm the day before the season opens, it always seems to turn cold on opening day. Somewhere deep within, I kind of appreciate a day like that. It is the kind of day when you know only the more dedicated are going to go out and cast a line. Perhaps there is even a bit of relish at the thought of hundreds of ‘flatlanders' with their never-used equipment, wading through the briars and marveling at the snow flakes wafting in the air.

While I, on the other hand, much more hardened by the Siberian winters of these northern peaks, am not affected by the temperatures. Instead, I fished onward through the thick ice, my sled dogs waiting nearby. While this sounds like a good story, here in the real world, I was freezing. My dog is too small to pull a shoebox by himself and my body has had a rather mild winter in comparison to standing outside for hours half submersed in ice water trying to throw worms at fish. In addition, I have been softened by too many days behind the keyboard and not enough days outside, a problem I am paying for now. I was thinking about it and realized that I probably walked further on Saturday and Sunday (I fished both days), than I did over a good portion of the winter months put together. Therefore, not only was I cold, I was also tired and my feet hurt. Cry me a river, right? So long as you stock it with trout, it will be fine by me.

As of about 8 a.m. Saturday morning, my hands were like twin blocks of ice and my feet were barely functioning down there in the bottom of my felt- bottomed $20 waders that I picked up on sale at an area department store. Reaching into the water to unsnag a line or pick up a fish was torture, especially when I forgot to bring along a rag to dry my hands on. I had everything else, believe me. My gear probably weighed in at close to 15 pounds. Not to mention the fact that I had donned my goose-down parka over top of my fishing vest, only opening it to remove a half-frozen worm now and then. They took on the appearance of little pink sticks in the early morning cold, rather like a popsicle for fish, I suppose. I didn't really have to bait the hooks, rather the worms took to the freezing metal rather like a child's tongue to a flagpole in January. Too bad the fish didn't have the same problem — I wouldn't have needed the worms at all.

The first place I went was a creek near my house. Even though I was there at 6 a.m., it wasn't long before someone jumped in ahead of me. Sadly, fishing etiquette isn't taught as well as it should be these days. I think it is every bit as important as hunter safety. Just think, I even considered drowning one fellow Saturday. How much more dangerous can it get?

I soon decided to try another spot. As soon as I arrived at the second creek, I was beginning to see a pattern that would continue throughout the day. Everywhere I saw new waders, expensive fishing rods and reels, fancy fishing hats, fly poles and new trucks. My beat-up pickup and collapsible fishing pole seemed out of place at times. Even so, I met a few fellows that were really nice.

One guy saw me exiting the water and asked the required trout fisherman's question, "You catching them all?" After I explained that I had finished off my worms and my patience at about the same time, he offered to give me a handful of nightcrawlers. Not satisfied with his heretofore unprecedented benevolence, he also pulled out a container of crickets and shook me out about a dozen. While this may not sound like very much of a gift to some of you, realize that this is the fisherman's equivalent of a starving man giving up half of his last crust of bread. A fisherman without bait is like a church without a choir.

I finished up the day dining on a fat brook trout that I caught with a cricket just before dark. There really is nothing like it.

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