Oak Duke: There’s something special about fooling trout on your own flies

The yellow school bus dropped off three little kids in front of their dirt road leading to the old unpainted farmhouse up the hill. The kids, with metal lunch boxes, clutching papers, dreaded the end, the terrifying sprint… the last 50 yards or so to the house, past the barn where the mean old rooster ruled.
He attacked everyone, but especially little screaming children, pecking, beating with wings, and jumping, trying to lance the kid’s legs with sharp spurs, squawking until the farmhouse door was slammed shut. I was helping a buddy build a cabin, and parked on the edge of the shared driveway, learning quickly that everyone feared the rooster.

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