I WENT FISHING. Here’s what happened. I caught four trout.

I’ve been fishing with this group of guys for ten long years and have caught a total of three trout in ten years, years apart. What has changed?

No Gino. When he came, he didn’t fish, so when I hung with him, I didn’t fish. Then his cousin Joe Capone died who invited us into this group back in 2005, and Gino has stopped flying in from Philadelphia to spend the weekend camping in the snow and not fishing.

These guys have been meeting in the same location on the first day of fishing season for 65 years. The 65 pin was passed out this year during our ceremonial Southern Comfort Saturday Night Toast Circle around a bonfire where guys from eight campsites converge and we read off the names of fishermen from the group who have passed on to the great trout stream in the sky, and then we do a singalong to “Worry Be Gone,” toss back paper cups of Southern Comfort, crumple the cups, and toss them into the fire. Yeah!

Then everyone sticks around and introduces each other. New members are welcomed. Everyone chips in $5 for the largest fish.

As usual, there was a roaring generator and midnight horseshoes at one end of this free open land at the site of old Centerville along the East Carson River. We were numb to the noise after all these years.

Six years ago I invited my son-in-law Chad along. He now brings his dad, brother Brad, and Josh from the Rellik. They catch fish like crazy. They go off together and come back winners. Gino and I hang at camp, or he’ll come with me fishing, but we will bring folding chairs and fall asleep on the bank. This year I fished with my family, and, oh, what a difference.

In the evenings, everyone cooks, but some guys cook for everyone. Guys like to bring something unique to the party. One fellow makes a huge vat of antelope chili. Another guy brings his Big Green Egg smoker. Joe Capone brought mountains of cold cuts and cheese from Corti Brothers and big tins of his wife Janny’s cookies. Gino and I used to bring dozens of ears of corn on the cob. We’d soak them in a cooler of salt water, wrap them in foil, and toss them in the fire. Then corn got expensive because we grow too much of it.

This year I came alone. For my contribution, I brought my Bayou Classic deep fryer and 80 chicken wings. I filled up baskets and passed them around until they were gone, which was instantly.

I own no fishing tackle, no pole. I did as a youth, but no more. Chad provided me with everything I needed on Saturday dawn. He gave me my grandson Jack’s pole and reel and a bag of Berkeley mouse tails. “These babies,” he said, waving the mouse tails in my face, “are why you and Gino, and you and Bud Donaldson, never caught any fish. The trout love these things. You watch.”

When we went to bed Friday night there was a light flutter of snow. On Saturday morning the ground was heavy white and wet snow was plummeting down, turning to slush. It was miserably cold and dark. We ventured out.

Chad drove to their favorite spot, someplace they call The Berm. It’s just a stretch of calm water after some rapids. Traveling the lightest, as these guys had on waders and vests, I got to the riverbank first. I stuck on a mouse tail and gave a sample cast to get a feel for the rod and reel. Instantly a rainbow trout was banging on my line. The guys hadn’t showed up yet. The fish was small and I let it go. Chad arrived and caught a nice-sized trout. Brad caught a big one. Dad and Josh each caught one. Chad caught another. I caught a beauty, then another. Brad and Josh caught another, then Dad caught two monster fish in a row, then me again, then Chad. Brad caught three in three casts, and the third was a monster. Then Josh caught a gigantic monster.

Chad caught a total of 18 trout and won a Club 17 Pin. Josh won largest fish at 25 inches and took home the $130 pot and a Trout Trophy with name plates of previous winners.

Brad and Dad’s fish were both 24.5 inches in second place. Brad’s was fat. He cooked it up. Josh will keep his sacred trout trophy for one year. He is responsible for getting his own name plate. Next year the trophy will go up for grabs once again.

I brought my four fish home and cooked them with stuffed crab and saffron rice for my sweetie.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.