Not too many years ago, on a sunny Father’s Day, I stowed an ultra-light fishing rod and my hip boots inside the hatch of the family vehicle. I put two small spinners in a plastic container and headed for a stretch of the Little Tonawanda not far from our home. It was a low-key plan, intended to pass the time wading the Little T, and perhaps entice the bait fish population.
The action began right away, as strikes came one after another, with creek chubs and horned dace wasting no time inhaling the tiny Rooster Tail as soon as I began a retrieve. Though the fish were small, the surroundings and the solitude were enjoyable. The sole competition came in the form of a kingfisher and a slow moving snapping turtle, the latter easy to spot in the shallow water.
I came across a shaded area where a tree provided a respite from the mid-day sun. Here a few rusted strands of barbed wire spanned the narrow stream, remnants of yesteryear, lending more authenticity to the rural setting. Being careful not to puncture my hip boots on the barbs, I ducked between strands and continued on. A short distance downstream was a riffle which emptied into a small pocket of quiet water.
I cast the Rooster Tail directly into the riffle, allowing the current to take it into the small pool. I hadn’t turned the reel handle two or three times when something belted the tiny spinner. Whatever it was, it certainly hit much harder than the baitfish I had been catching. The fish was on for a moment before the line went slack. I assumed it was a smallmouth, and made repeated casts with no results.
I left the little pool, wading a few yards downstream when I felt another hard strike. The fish provided a good tussle, and moments later I was pleasantly surprised when I beached a brown trout. The fish was vivid in color - dark brown along the back, a smattering of black spots across a golden brown flank. The fish was no doubt a holdover from the previous year’s stocking far upstream in Linden. After inspecting and releasing the fish I began working my way back upstream, stopping at the little pool with the riffle. There I was rewarded with another brown, identical to the first and maybe the same fish I had hooked earlier. It too was released.
Before working my way upstream toward the car, I couldn’t help but savor the moment. Even the aroma from a nearby pasture added to the enjoyment of a Father’s Day in rural America.
