Suddenly a light came on in my mind. A bridge, with a deep hole under it, lots of white millers around, a stream which few people fish; it all added up to something. The whole scenario smelled "fishy" already. I would take a closer look the next day.

On Monday, on my way home from work, I stopped near the bridge. Cautiously I squatted and approached, making sure not to cast any telltale shadows on the water. It was dark and deep under the bridge. The outlines of a couple big submerged rocks were visible. I stayed perfectly still. After waiting for 5 to 10 minutes, two or three nice trout finally appeared, finning gently, still partially hidden by the rocks. In August any smart trout would be well under cover watching for predators but also air-borne or terrestrial-type food. So much for the bridge. I knew what was under it.

Now what are they feeding on? I went out into the meadow. I managed to catch one of the white millers to get an idea what size they were. Fish food was there in abundance. If only I could get size 14 White Miller dry fly and float it under that bridge without scaring the fish. I was determined to try.

Pam was all Daddy’s girl then. Wherever Daddy went, she wanted to go. She was a real explorer of nature. She was OK with bugs, frogs, and snakes. So when I approached her with the idea of a little fishing trip to the bridge in North Granby, she jumped at the idea. I told her about the trout there, but that we would have to be careful. In August the water is low and clear, so these trout are very spooky. She beamed. Adventure!!

I rigged for careful fishing. First, a stop at the local fly shop in Granby for a couple of size 14 White Miller dry flies. Then I broke out my 6 weight fly rod with a floating fly line and a light tapered leader. We were ready to go.

Saturday was a pretty day. I said to Pam, "Want to try fishing under that bridge in North Granby? I am all rigged up". "Sure", she beamed. So we drove the 7 or 8 miles to the bridge. As luck would have it, the sun was behind us, so we had to get very low down to the ground. As we approached the bridge, two strands of electric wire along the stream stood out. The wires had been put there by the farmer to keep in his cows. I thought "Watch out for that wire, Ed. Don’t you get into it and certainly not Pam, or this trip is down the drain for sure".

Our approach was unique. Fortunately, we were fishing in the shadow of t he bridge, so the sun’s position was not an issue. But we had to stay well above and behind he wires, to manipulate the rod and play a fish. Since we were about 8 feet above the stream, we had to get real low and slow so as not to be seen. So we squatted and crept down against the wingwall of the bridge, until we were close enough to get the fly to the stream. First we waited. Then, looking out over the pool, I saw several trout moving gently side to side near the rocks on bottom. I reached out cautiously and dangled the fly about a foot above the water, jerking it up and down, tantalizing the fish. After a number of jerks, I dropped the fly on the surface at the head of the pool. It floated downstream slowly. A few seconds passed. One trout rose. Suddenly there was a ripple and the White Miller was gone. I lifted the rod to take up the slack and set the hook.

The rod vibrated with a trout at the other end of the line. I handed the rod to Pam, saying, "Keep the rod tip up, and reel up to keep a tight line on him. If he wants to run, let him." For a 7-year old, it must have been a new sensation. She was awed. But she kept the tip up and the line tight. The fish dashed and bull-dogged around the pool, which told me it was a nice brookie. But this brookie tired fast, so now we were nearly ready to get to streamside to net him.

This would be tricky. The electric wires returned to a post set against the bridge. One wire was at chest level, the other at knee level. And there were some bushes. The top wire was too high to lift Pam over, rod and all. And we were both too big to crawl under the bottom wire. So it was go between the wires. I told Pam "I’ll go first, then take the rod and help you through". I got through OK, took the rod, keeping a tight line on the trout, then Pam started through. Her first leg went OK. But trying to get her body and the second leg through was too much. She hit the wire and felt a jolt. "Daddy!!" she yelped. Quickly, I pulled her through, but the damage was done. She was still kind of numb from the shock, but otherwise she was OK.

We netted the trout, a fat 12 inch brookie. This was really a nice trout for a small Connecticut stream.

The trout went into my creel. Back then, I was into "catch-and-filet", not "catch-and-release". Today I would have released that beautiful fish unharmed. But Pam’s mind was not on the trout. She still felt the sting of the wire. No wonder the cows kept a healthy distance from it.

Seeing us catch the trout, some small boys from the nearby farmhouse came running. One said, "We never caught any fish there before." Of course, we didn’t tell them that there were two or three more trout just like this one hidden under the rocks.