Last weekend, I was having a hard time trying to remember exactly how I once drove to Monterey and Warm Springs. I had done it dozens and dozens of times and then it dawned on me – it had been 25 years since I last went over those mountains.
Those were the days when I and my “buds” camped on the banks of the Jackson River and sheltered in place in a rustic hunting lodge at Millboro. But as the familiar roads began to unfold before me, my memories stirred and then flowed like the sap from a maple tree in Monterey.
I crossed over the hallowed waters of the Cow Pasture, Bull Pasture and Jackson rivers. I remembered many of the trout I caught on the flies I had tied, and I remembered lots that got away. I remember sinking a wet fly hook deep into my palm, then breathing a sigh of relief when I remembered the hook was barbless. I recalled flushing grouse from a stand of Autumn Olive, and I remembered sending an arrow over the back of a decent buck on a logging road in Bath. I remember the beauty of a Redbud in full bloom standing beside my fallen spring gobbler. I remembered sprawling pastures with spring lambs and greener-than-green grass in the meadows.
I recall stopping in a convenience store in Hot Springs for a cup of coffee and a newspaper to take back to my campmates. How I enjoyed pulling into that old country store in Deerfield for a couple of hot dogs off their grill. I remember many nights huddling near a hissing fire at our campsite and the curl of thick smoke that followed us around no matter where we stood. I remember cooking whole trout on an open fire grill. I think back on a Coleman Stove heating a frying pan full of scrambled eggs.
I remember wading across the slick rocks of the Bullpasture River on a secluded stretch near Marshall’s Camp. I remember pouring a belt of George Dickel in a tin cup at the end of a successful day’s fishing in Hidden Valley. How well I remember the day I stopped at Mill Creek and coaxed three trout from a single pool.
But mostly, I remember five of my best friends who were with me all those 40-plus years but have since passed away. Only three of us now remain, and I joined them last week at our special place where trout streams flow and the gobble of wild turkeys break the morning’s silence. The place where memories were made.
