Years ago when I was just a young kid, I was fortunate to fish for trout in my mom’s back yard. I lived with my grandparents at the time. My mom lived about two-and-a-half miles away. I could ride my bike to her house anytime I wanted. The week before opening day of trout season, I rode my bike every afternoon to check on the trout. The state did stock some nice ones. Being a young kid, all the trout looked like trophy fish.

I would stop at my mom’s and get a few pieces of bread to feed the trout. I would roll up the bread into little balls and toss them into the water and watch the trout attack. The whole time I would imagine that was the trout I was going to catch.

I walk up and down the stream to watch the trout attack the bread balls. There were really good honey holes, the bridge and the big rock. The bridge was the farmer’s bridge. Downstream was a big rock sticking out of the stream. You could toss a bread ball and watch the trout chase it. I was determine to fish one of these places come Saturday morning.

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