May 24th

Every year about this time we would start to think about the May 24 holiday. This was the opening of trout season in Cape Breton. For we boys fishing was almost a religion. Our small group planned the first day and dreamed of the first fish. Tommy, Orville, Harry and others would be ready for the opening day. The night before was almost like Christmas as we prepared our bikes, packed our lunch and tried to sleep.

At five in the morning we would creep out of bed , dash downstairs and pack our sack with all the essentials. The weather was of no concern. For my lunch it was always bread , cut thick with jam and peanut butter packed down and stuffed in a bread wrapper from the co-op. Some cookies if available, an apple and matches for the fire. The worm can overflowing with juicy eye catching crawlers was the most important bait. Black fishing line and a can of hooks of various sizes and a sharp knife for any use called upon.

With a warm jacket and sometimes even gloves, we hurled our bikes into action to meet at Sexton's store step. Someone was always late and began making weak, useless excuses when within earshot. Heads counted, we rode at record speed to reach the big pond bridge where we looked over to check for fish. With none being seen we tore through Florence and headed for the swinging bridge at Little Bras D'Or where we saw the whirlpools on the right side of the bridge, meaning the tide was going out.

The next part of the trip was uphill for a couple of miles. In those days the road from here was not paved and the going was rough. Near the top we dismounted and walked talking of the fish waiting to be caught. McKenzie Brook was our destination and we arrived at our secret spot and hid our bikes and made for the alder woods to cut a fishing rod. Always the same thing, get a gad about 6 feet long, straight if possible. Quickly remove the bark and take in the strong scent of the new growth and cut a notch at the end. The black line was quickly made into a noose to be placed over the notch. The slip knot was pulled and we were ready for the hook and small sinker.

All this completed we started to make the game work. A pop for the first trout and another for the biggest. A nut bar for the most.The bets made - and a mad dash for the favourite hole which promised many fish. With skill the large worms were threaded down the hook and at last, we were fishing.

What a pleasure, what a feeling when the tug on the line meant a pure gift. Shouts were heard and calls about the big one an so on. For hours we drew in our little speckled trout and each of us had at least two dozen. We stopped for lunch and the crushed lunch wrappers we opened and grasped by worm infested hands but that did not matter. We were fishermen and this was part of the fun. The sun shone hot on our faces and our first spring burn was well underway. We gathered moss and packed our precious cargo to return home to show our bounty.

On our bikes again we drove at break neck speed and when we got to the top of the hill overlooking the lake we again made bets. Who could go the farthest without peddling and who could go down the hill with hands behind the back. With shouts and squeals we descended to the road below and continued forgetting the bets but wishing to get home to show Mom and Dad the fish.

As we approached our home we said our goodbyes and raced to our respective homes. Mom I'm home and look at the fish I caught. Mom's smile made it worth the day. When we sat for supper Mom said in a proud manner, "these are the fish Henry caught today", I was so happy. I was so tired and I was ready to go again tomorrow.