Before sunrise on a late April Saturday morning; my dad shook me awake.  The anticipation of Opening Day of Michigan’s trout season was almost as hallowed as the opening of deer season.  My dad was a trout junkie and had been since he was a kid.  He passed the excitement to my brothers and me, but being the oldest, I went fishing with dad first.  I wanted to stay in that warm bed but realized I was going to spend the day with my dad and was instantly motivated.  The anticipation of the ritual ran deep and rich with a multitude of stimuli, starting with the annual stop at The Donut Shop.

The sound of a robin chortling in the pre-dawn light; the smell of light rain on pavement and the chill of a mid-spring morning always recycle youthful days in the presence of my father.  He may have been more excited about the coming day than I.  Dressing warmly was essential.  If we had to go home because I got cold the quality of the day would have been dampened and upset my dad.  Longjohns, insulated coat and a stocking cap (usually the long pointy type similar to the one Schwartz wore in “A Christmas Story”), and I was ready.  A quick pit-stop in the garage for my rod and my coffee can of nightcrawlers I caught in the church yard the night before completed the arsenal.  Off to The Donut Shop three blocks away.

There is nothing quite so decadent as the smell of a bakery.  When you would swing the door open to The Donut Shop, the aroma of freshly fried (and frying) doughnuts smacked you in the olfactory like a giant cream pie.  There was only counter space and a couple of tables, maybe capacity for 15 people and usually filled with old timers.  Strong coffee sitting on the Bunn doesn’t have time to burn as the carafe gets emptied every 10 minutes.  Enveloping the entire scene was the unmistakable and overwhelming smell and lingering fog of a dozen cigarettes. We would walk right up to the glass case and select the breakfast doughnut du jour, order coffee for dad and hot chocolate for me.  He’d sit me down on one of the counter stools, usually next to some relative I’d never met, and explain our endeavor for the morning.  Leaving was bittersweet, but the smell of the shop permeated my clothing and three hours later I could still smell the doughnuts, coffee and cigarette smoke. I never thought anything but how wonderful it was.

Walking the creek bank to find that spot to ease through and provide access to the water was always a lesson in stealth, agility and footing.  The earthy tones of wet grass, bushes and ground fortified the soul and reminded me, constantly, that this was the only place on earth.  Starting the business end of the hook into the head of the worm and feeding it through its body until only a small portion of the tail end hung free, the moment of truth arrived.  Quietly and softly, I flipped the nightcrawler into the current and allowed the open bail on the reel to feed off line until that worm was under a bush or rock.  Brown Trout were stocked there every year, so the anticipation bled into reality as the vibration from the rod tipped to the handle when one gobbled the worm and tried to take off with it; bump bump bum bump.  I set the hook and realized the fight was on!

Normally a 9- to11-inch trout could be found torqueing itself on the end of the line, hook buried in its cheek.  There were occasions where the quarry stole the bait, and the process started all over again. This scenario played itself out over and over again until we either tired or reached our limit for the day.

Sleepy, smelling of The Donut Shop and conquered trout, we headed for home to clean our trophies and prepare them as the delicacy they were. As I drift back out of my recurring trout dream, warmed by the reminiscence of days afield, I become sullen in the knowledge that the day spent with dad is gone and will be nevermore.  But, I am fondly reminded of those days: the coffee, the bakery, the fishing fill my head with their decadence, and I miss the fragrance of cigarettes on my coat.