And I felt proud that I, a ten year old boy, had out-fished my uncle, if just this once. I wagged my finger toward my fishing mentor. “He took my minnow right behind that dead-fall where we started this morning. I handed the rainbow trout to my uncle and smiled with enthusiasm. I’d rapped each of them on the skull after beaching them on the bank, right between the eyes, just as I’d been taught - putting a clean end to a trout’s life. So I looked deep into my thick canvas creel for the first trout I’d caught that morning. “Hand me the biggest one,” my uncle said, with his arm outstretched and his palm up. He pulled out the Case pocket knife again, as he’d done every other time that I’d watched this fascinating process as a young boy. Water nearly crested the tops of his hip waders while he adjusted and settled next to the flat sandstone rock that lay between us. I stood next to him on the bank, and I watched my uncle kneel in the cold riffle.
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