I may be the world’s champ trout angler.

Trout anglers are different from regular fishermen who spit on their hooks for good luck. They don’t dig worms, bait minnows or eat Beanie Weenies while fishing. No way!

They sip scotch whiskey, tie flies and attend school on how to cast a fly rod. They don’t call themselves fishermen; they are anglers.

Being an angler is expensive. Several years ago a friend flew to New Mexico, hired a guide and spent the day fly-fishing. He caught one trout about the size of a dill pickle. The guide charged him $300, not to mention the cost of airline tickets, car rental, license, fly rod, flies and fancy clothes. That was an expensive trout.

One has to be either rich or dumb to enjoy trout fishing. Once I rode a horse a half-day to a Colorado high country lake. After pitching camp, I baited my hook with a corn kernel spat on it for good luck and dropped it on a trout’s head. He looked up at me and laughed. Trout are arrogant and uppity.

Later, a friend told me trout don’t bite if they can see you. Some friend! Why didn’t he tell me that before I flew to Denver, rented a car, drove 200 miles and rode a half a day by horseback on my bony butt then froze at night?

That trout wouldn’t bite. I tried to spear him and even dropped rocks on his head. I was learning the art of trout fishing.

My only successful trout catch occurred when my son, Matt, was 8. He accompanied me and three other guys to western Colorado on a hunting trip. We drove straight through. Some slept in the back of the Jeep pick-up while others drove. The trip was uneventful until Matt, who grew bored, tied together the bootlaces of two of the sleeping guys. When we made a pit stop they jumped up and fell out of the back of the truck.

“That kid is pestering us to death,” one said to me. Naturally, I thought it was creative.

We packed to the high country by horseback and pitched camp near a gurgling stream that meandered through a wide and lush meadow. The nights were cold and the days clear and warm. On Sunday morning Matt and I rode up the meadow, tied our horses and sat by the stream. We thanked God for our good fortune while the sun warmed our faces.

A big trout swam up, looked straight at me, laughing and taunting: Ha-ha. Can’t catch me, can’t catch me. I had a bellyful of high-falutin’, smart-alecky trout. I bolted for my Winchester, chambered a cartridge and fired. Bammm! Other trout appeared and panicked, swimming in every direction. Bam! Bam! Bam! Trout bellied up to the surface, stunned by the blast and floated away.

“Matt, run down the stream and catch ‘em!”

Matt tore out running; grabbed a dozen or more and slung them onto the bank. We strung them and rode back to camp. The guys having heard the firing and thinking that I had killed an elk, ran out to meet us.

“Did you get one?”

“Yeah Buddy, a whole string full.” I said holding up the trout.