The bike is still down. It is something that will press the limits of my patience. So I've bailed on the idea of getting any riding done in the immediate future and have taken to the back country—on foot.Somewhere off the Ridge Road, a mile or so deep in hemlock, is a little trail my father showed me. It follows a small run that drops into the west branch of the Susquehanna. It smells of age and cool earth. The stream is clear and cold. The native trout are dark and wear a red stripe.
They live alone—one per pool.
I hiked here often as a child and come back when I need to escape. This is where my father taught me how to fish the small pools. To sneak up low and not cast a shadow. To set the hook on the first hit because there are no second chances.
We used worms or crickets—the natives were hard to fool. But now, as an adult, I fish the nymph. Somewhere along the line, it became less abut catching a fish and more about fooling the trout.
