I always associated spring with the start of little league baseball and trout fishing. I can remember fishing quite a few opening days only to have to leave the water by mid-morning to be at the local baseball field for our first practices or games.
As a kid from the suburbs of Philadelphia, our trout waters consisted of lakes, remediated quarries, and canals, definitely were not the typical trout waters. Although lacking the typical majestic trout landscape, these suburban bodies of water provided ample opportunities for anglers of all levels to put forth the effort to string a few stocked rainbow trout.
My father, a federal railroad worker and little league coach at the time, thankfully took the time to introduce me to fishing at a young age. Eventually our annual opening day trout trips would last nearly 10 years. As I think back to those times, I can still hear from the percolating coffee maker being heated on the Coleman stove while trout fishing, its aroma hanging in the cool, damp spring area like the smoke from an extinguished fire. It was the same portable stove that my dad and uncle would bring to the canal off Blackrock Road. It was our annual tradition, a rite of passage, during my early years.
Originally, this man-made canal was part of the Delaware Canal system which connected Bristol and Easton as a means of transporting materials. The canal provided a route to bring goods to the eastern seaboard from the coal region of Pennsylvania. Mule drawn barges capable of carrying up to 80 tons of anthracite coal, lumber, stone, and produce which were used along the canal route during the pre and post-Civil War era. Fast forward to the early 80s, Pennsylvania’s fish and game folks would stock parts of the canal with rainbows for anglers to target.
Blackrock Road was one of the few stocking areas of the canal having good access for anglers. But on the opening day of trout season, you had to get to this prime fishing spot early, especially since the parking lot was the size of a postage stamp. It’s a time when I gained some of my fondest fishing memories, hitting the local tackle store a day or two before to pick up bait (most likely mealworms or the increasing popular Powerbait dough) and various pieces of tackle. My father and uncle would make breakfast on my uncle’s trusty Coleman stove, typically the fisherman’s staple of egg, cheese and the meat on a sandwich. We were almost in the shadow of the Taylor Provisions processing plant just 5 miles away in Trenton, so the meat had to be Taylor pork roll.
With the sound and smell of the sizzling breakfast hanging in the air, my younger cousin Ryan and I would be typical boys, exploring and checking out fellow angler’s gear, bait and whatever else they planned on using, impatiently waiting for the clock to strike 8 a.m. for the official opening of the Pennsylvania trout season. At this particular spot, it wasn’t uncommon to have 30 to 40 anglers spaced out a few feet from each other along the side of the canal. Of course, we received more than a few feet buffer, as who in their right mind would want to fish next to a few young kids waiting for a day of tangles.
The memories are ingrained in me, all of the details, from prepping the night before, the on-site cooking, and the thrill of the first cast and of course the first trout or biggest trout. But most important in my memories is the patience, or should I say the sacrifice, of my father, though he probably doesn’t realize to this day how much I appreciate all that he has done, taught and helped to inspire my love of fishing. I’m not talking about the patience to un-hook a fish or untangling lines, but the energy to prep, partake, and execute a fishing trip amongst a 40-hour plus work week and other dad responsibilities. It’s these same experiences that I try to impart on my kids today.
Fishing creates an unbreakable bond between fathers and sons, friends and fellow anglers. Waking my boys in the wee hours of the morning and seeing their excitement for a day of fluking or togging brings me right back to those same experiences that impacted me. Now, some 37 years since my initial trout fishing experience I live a partial life on the water along the Jersey Shore as a professional fishing saltwater guide for 10 months of the year.
As with all good things finding an end, the canal is no longer stocked as the depths have shoaled up, becoming much too shallow for trout. Blackrock, during a moment of time, was integral to my passion and love of fishing, but it now fades in distant memories, only renewed by the first-time experiences my boys encounter on the water.
Hopefully, there’s a Blackrock Road in your memories….
