Saturday offered some near-perfect fishing weather, with temperatures in the 30s and wind whipping across the creek.

I say near-perfect only because it was opening day and the low temperatures and terrible forecast obviously kept at least a few of the yahoos home in bed or in the low-land counties, where it was warmer. This yahoo was out most of the day.

Everything was great, with the possible exception of the fact that I nearly got caught like several of the recently-freed captive trout that were unceremoniously dumped into our local streams within the past month or so. I often have concern for the trout, which are released from their state-supported detention centers without so much as an instruction on how to avoid flying corn, salmon eggs, impaled worms or whatever that electric orange stuff is in a glass jar that I saw one fellow putting on a hook. Instead, they lay in groups, huddled against the cold and wondering when their meal of fish pellets is going to be dumped into the water.

As I was saying, I nearly got caught myself — it was a close one. I was fishing under an overpass on one of our local streams when a fellow called, "I bet this will be a big trout." His friend answered, "I hear something splashing around."

I was about 10 feet away, just getting ready to fish up to the best part of the hole when he noisily stomped through the bushes to the edge of the stream dragging one little dead trout on a chain, likely scaring away most of the frogs, deer, salamanders, crawdads, fish, worms and people within a 100-foot radius. His new waders, floppy fish hat, clean vest, 14-foot-long fly pole and dead trout on a chain weren't really clues by themselves, but he gave himself away when he started trying to cast into the underpass where I happened to be standing.

It reminded me of a baseball movie in which the the catcher tells the pitcher to throw the ball right at him. The pitcher breaks a nearby window. It also reminds me of target shooting with one of my friends, with whom the safest place to stand is behind the target.

I called out to the fellow and said, "I'm in here," in hopes he might not get a lucky cast after pulling his line out of an overhanging bush. He looked in, said hello, and then proceeded to cast in my direction again. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't hook me," I said, starting to feel a tinge of annoyance. I walked in his direction, eager to get out of harm's way and realizing the chance of catching anything there was pretty well finished. I would have gone the other way, but that would have meant backtracking for a good thirty feet hunched over and then crossing the road, climbing down a bank through a briar patch and then walking a ways to get back in the creek somewhere above my new-found fishing buddies.

"I bet there are a lot of trout in this hole," he said to me or his friend, who was standing in the creek behind him, obviously oblivious to dangers inherent the hook his partner was slinging around so carelessly. He was apparently the fat laughing sidekick type, content on watching his friend catch underbrush instead of fishing himself. He held his pole over his shoulder like a rifle.

I responded in the tone known to all fishermen who have had their fishing hole spoiled by an idiot who doesn't deserve the right to hold a fishing rod. "There will be a lot fewer when I get done walking out through the hole," I responded. I didn't even look over as I continued along the stream, walking around the dynamic fishing duo and hoping there weren't many more like them around the next bend. If there had been many more, I would have left for a more peaceful spot.

While I saw numerous people, most seemed to be concentrated in the biggest and most popular streams, where there were hundreds of fishermen. While driving over U.S. 21 in town, I counted 20 men standing in Little River near the bridge, side by side in some cases, fishing for the same trout in the same holes.

Fishing that way is like several fellows seeking the attention of the same girl. I avoided the ones surrounded by suitors. If they were into that kind of attention, I knew they would be too needy for me. Special people don't need much attention to be special, just like special fishing spots. I have learned to appreciate both.

Of course, I don't have any more right to fish here than Joe Winston-Salem or Willy Greensboro, but I am thankful that I can usually find somewhere to get away from the crowds.

Catching fish isn't the only goal —tranquility is important. I love to walk along a peaceful stream and listen to the water flow over the rocks in a stream without anyone around. Even if I don't catch a single fish, I always find the serenity I didn't know how much I needed.

As I patiently wait for the weeks to come, in which most of our imports head to other pursuits, I am thankful for the return of one of my favorite pastimes. I also am glad to be back in our mountain creeks, which feel as good to me as an old pair of shoes.

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