Post by Uplander on Jun 9, 2007 19:53:05 GMT -5
Today I spent a few hours on one of the local wild trout streams with my father and brother. My father has fished there since he was a young man, and my brother and I for 30+ years ourselves. It’s where we learned to fish as boys, where I go to escape the trials and tribulations of the world, and where I asked Lisa to marry me. You might say, to borrow from Norman Maclean, it is our “family stream.”
It’s a goodly (hour or so) hike into the mountains, and we packed along the griddle, emptied the freezer of some old woodcock shot in the Berkshires last bird season, and supplemented the meal with a passel of native Berkshire brookies sizzling in the grease after the woodcock were done. None of the brook trout had been out of the water for more than an hour before we ate them, and a couple of them only a matter of minutes. It doesn’t get any fresher than that.
The Tools of the Trade
Woodcock Wrapped in Bacon on the Griddle
Ready to Eat
Brook Trout
It’s a goodly (hour or so) hike into the mountains, and we packed along the griddle, emptied the freezer of some old woodcock shot in the Berkshires last bird season, and supplemented the meal with a passel of native Berkshire brookies sizzling in the grease after the woodcock were done. None of the brook trout had been out of the water for more than an hour before we ate them, and a couple of them only a matter of minutes. It doesn’t get any fresher than that.
The Tools of the Trade
Woodcock Wrapped in Bacon on the Griddle
Ready to Eat
Brook Trout
