Some 40 years ago, I remember bemoaning the late-season snow that killed the first fishing trip of the year into the Colorado high country for me and my grandfather. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise–it was Memorial Day weekend, and, generally speaking, Memorial Day weekend was always pretty sketchy.
But for an 11-year-old tired of dunking dough balls in the local drainage pond for carp while winter retreated from the mountains, the chance to actually throw nightcrawlers at real trout in real trout streams was something I looked forward to for weeks. Maybe months.