The ten-minute drive back to camp was an especially gratifying one. The scent of wood smoke seeped in the slightly-open window, a welcome fragrance that was absent a mere two weeks prior during a sultry Labor Day weekend.

A grouse gathered roadside grit, flushing as I approached on the backcountry two-lane. A small group of deer were in a nearby clearing, likely concealed in an adjacent thicket only a few minutes earlier.

A couple hours before, I’d donned a pair or lightweight waders, and grabbed an old Fenwick spinning rod I’d wrapped some 25 years ago, along with a vest that contained a pittance of tackle. The air was quickly losing heat as I made the post-suppertime jaunt to a nearby bridge that spans the Clarion River.

Oh, how many years had passed since I’d fished this exact spot? More than I cared to remember, for sure. Still, I couldn’t help by running the math through my head, an endeavor that produced a scary number in the 40 range; I decided it might be best to concentrate on the fishing.

The path that led through a stand of rhododendron was pretty much the same as I remembered. And there was the old natural gas line, a remnant from the days when such conduit was laid above ground. The little brook, one that holds native brookies, escaped from its cloak of hemlocks to add its cold flow to the river.

The pool where the brook trout stream emptied was a good place to get to work. I nose-hooked a soft plastic jerkbait, and then lobbed it out in the current. Twitching the bait as it drifted in the fast current, the rod felt whippy. It’s really a trout rod, a little too soft for the task I’d given it, but this trip wasn’t about sweating such details.

It took a few casts to get into the rhythm of things, to get accustomed to the feel of the current against boots, the slickness of the rocks under foot.

I worked my way downriver. There was the big boulder — sitting up along the steep bank — where my mother would patiently sit and watch my dad and I fish during quiet summer evenings. Another rock, this one embedded at river’s edge, marked one of my old favorite spots.

I recalled a night when I’d fished craws from the place, a collection of bait I’d gathered earlier that day from the brook below camp. I’d captured perhaps 10 crawfish. Every one produced a smallie that evening.

Though the event happened over four decades ago — and I doubt if any of the bass exceeded a foot long — it’s etched in my mind, an experience that likely helped inspire a lifelong passion for river angling.

A sharp snap, the kind a river smallmouth produces, pleasantly interrupted my daydreams. I missed the hit, but was relieved to know the fish were still there.

What better way to be reminded of the task at hand? I continued to work the area, where fast current is split by a mid-river rock. A few casts later, I had a solid strike, this time hooking up solidly.

Not that smallies need an edge, but this one had the current to her advantage, and was only pulling against the moderate strain of the light rod. It took a couple of minutes to work the fish to the bank, a fat 16-incher that exemplified the many qualities of river-dwelling brown bass.

In the steep valley, daylight was rapidly losing its battle. The swath of sunshine quickly climbed the opposing hillside, then disappeared, marking the start of the witching hour. Bites were coming quicker; the fish still nice-sized.

Having worked back to the mouth of the brookie stream, I made the customary “last cast,” hooking and landing another nice smallmouth. The action would probably stay good for another half hour, but I’d caught what I’d come for.

In the fading light I made my way back up the path that had led to so many memories.

Jeff Knapp is an outdoors columnist for the Butler Eagle