I never stop fishing for trout. Closing day. Opening day. The season's milestones hold little meaning in a state where there is a generous open season and many options during the brief off season. Even in the depths of winter, when the fishing yields little catching, the lure of the water draws me if for no other reason that to revisit the places where rising trout slashed at bugs and came to hand with abundance when the water was warmer and the air was thick.

Spring is late this year. There have been frosts well into April and it's almost Easter and the forsythia are not yet in full bloom. The peepers have started but their songs but are not yet at max volume. Good fishing is coming, just not fast enough.

I took the boys out on opening day when they were younger. There is a pond the next town over, too warm in the summer for trout, that the state stocks heavily in the spring. We never caught a trout on those opening day forays. My sons weren't eager enough to roll out of bed at the obscene hour required to get a good seat and, frankly, neither was I. We stopped fishing that pond the year a small boy fishing next to us hooked his brother on the inside if the mouth with a Rapala. This was not the experience I was looking to share with my children.

Small streams, wild and sparsely populated, are where the calendar leads me when the third Saturday in April rolls around. The fishing isn't good enough to lure the boys. My youngest would rather wait till smallmouth turn on in the summer or an outgoing tide provides an opportunity to swing flies to schoolie stripers. He's not yet progressed beyond the interest in "many fish". I don't blame him.

The route to my favorite brook passes over a small river that is frequented by the stocking truck and I'll drive by to witness the madness. This year the bend pool behind the coin-op laundry was packed and no doubt many trout were taken home to frying pans. I also expect I'll find many coffee cups and empty bait containers there upon my next visit. That is, unless a spring storm doesn't wash all the mess downstream before I get there.

The pull-off at the brook was occupied by two other cars when I arrived. My heart sank a little. It was late in the day and I had hoped that the "once a year" crowd had cleared out. Neither vehicle was decaled with angling logos nor was there evidence of gear visible through the windows. They were most likely dog walkers, I assured myself.

I passed by the tricky water moving upstream to some places where I was pretty certain I would put my first trout of the "season" in the net. I rolled a rabbit's foot emerger into the current at the head of a pool and drifted it deftly under the willow hanging on the far bank. Nothing. Rinse and repeat. Still nothing.

I moved upstream to a run where I had caught trout many times. Nothing. Under the old bridge abutments. Nothing. The run near the ledge. Nothing. The small pool in front of the log jam. Nothing. The consistency of angling results drove me to question all the things that are questionable in such a situation. And I kept coming back to the one thought: It's spring, the fish are hungry, this should be working. Clearly I must be missing some clue that will turn this foul luck around.

At the next spot a gravel bar was fouled with sand. A crisp boot print marred the stream smoothed surface. I strike out at this pool too. Walking up to the next stretch I find that same fresh boot print, a size twelve, skirting the logjams and thorny bushes. Pausing, I looked upstream and saw the boot's owner casting in the last pool before the pocket water.

I often tell myself that I'm out on the water for more than the catching. There's clearly something to that. But if it were the point of the exercise, I wouldn't encumber myself with angling gear. And the point is driven home no keener than on opening day when the trout, stocked or otherwise, should be willing but aren't. As I walked back to the car, I told myself all the lies we concoct -- about the fine cigar, the pleasant weather and the new rod I got to cast -- but the harsh reality is that Size 12s had a fine opening day and I did not. Next year.