Every April since 1993, I've been trekking to the Laurel Mountains of Western Pennsylvania, east of Pittsburgh, where I used to live, for a week-long fishing trip with old friends.
We go to a rustic cabin along Beaver Creek, which at its widest could handle two rowboats passing (if boats were allowed), and which narrows to 10 or 12 feet in many spots.
The trout are fat and plentiful, since the stream is stocked. And it's also inhabited by a few smaller native fish. Some days we catch 10 or 12; some days we get skunked. The water is clear and the fish are easily spooked.
But the fishing is almost secondary. Four of us are now three, a yearly reminder of fleeting time and mortality. We come from Detroit, Erie, and Memphis and bond over cigars, campfires, bullshit, and the occasional fat trout.
I just got back. Here are a few pictures.