My first fishing memories involve a small brook not far from the family camp, where my brother, sister and I were allowed to tromp, unaccompanied and free.

There were plenty of small trout there … and a few bigger ones.

While catching fish was the goal, I realize that most of my memories don’t involve fish at all.

Sure, I recall the fat brookie I didn’t land. I remember smacking him against a huge boulder as I frantically swung him toward dry land, and despondently watching as he flopped back into the stream.

But mostly, I remember the walks … and the new, untouched pools that emerged around each corner.

On Sunday, I took a similar walk, on a similar brook, and (as you might expect) found no brook trout willing to join in the fun.

But fun, it was.

Over the past several years, my brook fishing has waned a bit. I like to wade in rivers, now, and still enjoy trolling. Sometimes I pump up my float tube and bob around in a small pond, fly-casting to rising fish, and hoping for the best.

But rarely do I take time to step back and do things the way I used to do them.

Over the years, equipment and personal preference have combined to change the way I fish, I suppose.

Rare are the days when I’m not burdened by gadgets and vests and waders, or boats, motors and rod-holders.

On Sunday, I changed all that, intentionally packing light and taking a step back toward childhood.

I know. Some who know me well will say that for me, the step’s not that big.

But it was liberating, nonetheless.

I took no fly rod, nor fly boxes, no gadgets, gizmos or net.

I carried a simple rod, and a small pack held all I thought I’d need. A few extra hooks. A knife. A can of bug spray.

And that’s it.

Then, it was time to head upstream, on a brook I’d only visited once or twice in my life.

The experience was just as I’d remembered it, from those lazy summer days 30 or 35 years ago.

Each pool was promising, in its own way. Perhaps it was the smooth glide of water toward an undercut bank that caught my eye. Or perhaps the trout hid in the dark, bubbling froth underneath a miniature waterfall.

If not, there was more to be explored, just a few steps upstream.

And as it was 30 or 35 years ago, around each corner, a new, fresh fishing ground awaited.

For the better part of two hours, I worked my way upstream, hugging the bank at times, heading farther inland to avoid wet spots at other times.

Rocks weren’t obstacles; they were benches from which to sit and fish. Fallen trees weren’t roadblocks; they were detours to places as yet unseen.

Worms were sacrificed to the cause, one by one. The first fell from my grasp and slithered beneath last fall’s moist leaves. The second escaped (more or less) when I hooked a mid-stream log.

The hike was hot work, and the bugs were swarming, but thankfully not biting.

Finally, I arrived at the headwater of the brook, a pristine pond that slowly, inexorably, gave in to the forces of gravity, as a steady, crystal-clear flow gushed through the primitive dam.

I paused for a bit, sat and rested, and smiled as a brisk breeze blew the cloud of mosquitoes back toward the woods.

The alder leaves looked as large as a mouse’s ear, and old-timers will tell you when that happens, the brook trout fishing is going to be good.

On this day, it wasn’t.

Perhaps the fisherman had forgotten those lessons learned years ago, and simply wasn’t up to the task.

Or perhaps the water’s still a bit cool for the trout to really perk up.

Either way, the trip wasn’t productive, from a trout-catching perspective.

As I hiked back to my truck, I didn’t worry much about that.

There was a spring in my step, after all, that hadn’t been there in weeks. I was seeing things I hadn’t noticed in years.

Stepping back 30 or 35 years, can do that to a guy, I guess.

You can’t get there from there

In Saturday’s editions, I passed along information about the youth fishing day planned by Maine’s Youth Fish & Game Association.

Unfortunately, my directions left a bit to be desired.

Specifically, I told you to turn left onto Stud Mill Road off County Road in Milford, and to look for the club on your left.

Wrong answer.

If you’re interested in taking part in the event, which will be held from 8 a.m. until 3 p.m. on Sunday, you’ve got to turn right onto Stud Mill Road.

Then drive about three miles, and you’ll find the club on the left.

I’d like to say I was just testing your navigation skills, but that would be a false assertion. It was just a plain old mistake, and I apologize.

jholyoke@bangordailynews.net

990-8214