I was just shy of 9 years old. I remember standing in the middle of the Mill River on opening day in 1977, clad in "waders", a flannel shirt, hat, and thick socks. It was cold and clear and I waited for the sun to make its way above the budding trees on this third Saturday in April. Other anglers lined the banks and filled the river ahead of us. My grandfather stood beside me carefully eyeing his wristwatch waiting for 6:00 a.m. sharp...the exact moment trout season officially opens. I held my spinning rod at the ready, eagerly looking up at him waiting for the "nod", knowing it was close to the time. At about 5:58, I heard the faint "kablook" upriver of a garden worm and hook prematurely entering the water and the nearly inaudible curse words uttered by my grandfather. I made out something about the fishing warden should "pinch" the 120 second violator of the time. Finally, it was time. I tossed my tethered bait just as the guy up river...