by Terry Brinkman
Fishing in winter in my teen years, I often was found on the banks of the creek we called Spring Run. The trek from my house to Spring Run was about half a mile, the length of the creek we fished was a mile or so. I did a lot of fishing when I was twelve and thirteen, I would go fishing by myself or with who was around not doing anything.
One person I went fishing with a lot was my Foster Brother Lynn he was a Ute Indian, we even did the blood brother ceremony. The ceremony required both of us cut each other and mix our blood (Kids) or (boy Kids). Sadly he is no longer with us, maybe fishing in the happy hunting ground.
I dreamt about a fishing trip last night. It was a cold winter morning we had been fishing nearly an hour with no luck. Lynn and I were frozen and almost ready to go home. We worked our way to the Murray Laundry, (it was about forty four south and Stare street) usually a great fishing spot. After being there around ten minutes, we heard this loud unfamiliar noise, we both looked at each other. Then wheeled our fish-lines in grabbed our bags and tried to climb up the muddy creek bank as fast as we could, like mice from a cat. We were laughing so hard we could not do anything, what seemed like hours was only a couple minutes. Back up on State Street we met both still laughing so hard we could hardly stand: then came the shivering. We checked to see we had all our gear and headed home. Oh the noise from the laundry was the releasing steam, as soon as the steam hit the cold air it turned to water, we were both soaked, if we were not laughing so hard we would have been crying. Well another great day of fishing..
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