I truly love bologna. My mother often treated me to bologna and homemade fries for lunch; the tantalizing aroma more than any youngster could possibly resist as it drifted into the back garden.

Even now, some 30 years later, I can picture myself laying down my pellet gun and following that scent to the kitchen table.

My favourite lunch to take on a troutin’ trip was always bologna, mustard and cheese on Mom’s homemade bread. The finest dining can’t beat a bologna sandwich and an icy cold can of pop while sitting on a comfortable rock, overlooking a pond or barren.

I’m trying my best to stay healthy, keep the blood pressure and cholesterol down, all that good stuff. I mean, bologna isn’t exactly health food, but then one should not abstain from all that adds joy and pleasure to everyday life, which is why these days I’m merely cutting back on the good ol’ Maple Leaf; still eating the occasional sandwich.

So for all of my love and praise for the mighty “Newfie steak,” who would ever have imagined one would cost me my fish of a lifetime?

Well, it did, early last spring, just as the ice melted off the estuaries.

Paul Kearley and I were on the hunt for big sea trout. It was a foggy, wet Saturday morning and we were river hopping all over the place looking for the right mix of tide and wind conditions. By noon - after covering every sea trout hole from Spaniard’s Bay to Seal Cove on the Avalon Peninsula - we had seen a few fish, but no hook-ups to get excited about.

We returned to where we had seen the most fish, although for “health” reasons, I can’t tell exactly where; Paul would probably put a price on my head. (No more than half an hour’s drive from Spaniard’s Bay, and there might be secrets to learn from my photos. Shhh.)

Paul jumped out of the car and put his rod together; it’s tough to get ahead of him. I was hungry and content to let him have the first crack because that bologna sandwich was playing on my mind; nice and soggy by now, mustard seeping into porous bread, just the way I like. And besides, at this location, Paul and I usually have our designated areas. By the time he got bored with his spot, I’d have my sandwich gone and still have my own water, undisturbed and all to myself... or so I thought.

I munched and sipped a Coke while he meticulously and thoroughly covered his water. He leaves nothing to chance and pays attention to every detail, which is why he’s probably the best sea trout fisherman on “The Rock.”

I noticed a really nice fish break the surface over on my turf.

“Did you see that?” I blurted with a full mouth.

“Where?” Paul asked as his keen eyes scanned the surface.

“Over by my spot.”

I should have kept my mouth shut, but the cat was already out of the bag. No big deal; we are fishing buddies, after all. Besides, tossing away a bologna sandwich is almost like a sin in my mind.

“Have a crack at him,” I said, somewhat reluctantly.

I finished my sandwich as Paul walked over to my spot and made a couple of casts... Nothing. There was still hope for me. Paul would eventually move back to his usual perch and I’d get a crack at that big trout. I didn’t fill him in on the details regarding just how big that fish looked. If I did, he’d never leave. I’m not a complete fool, you know.

My last bite of bologna and mustard went down with a swig of pop and Paul’s indicator drifted undisturbed in the falling tide. In a flash it disappeared and he lifted his 10-ft. Sage XP skyward, putting a “tight-to-the-cork” bend in a very robust stick of graphite. He was clearly into something very heavy; in all probability, that lunker I’d seen. Damn that bologna sandwich!

Paul has caught plenty of sea trout over the years and some pretty big specimens at that, but this one had him excited. He pulled as hard as he dared but the fish budged not an inch.

Paul and I prefer 4-lb. tippet for sea trout; they’re not called “wary ol’ browns” for nothing and 6-lb. mono somehow puts them off, so horsing would not be an option here.

After a five-minute struggle, the fish decided on ending the impasse. Line peeled off the reel as a very determined sea trout headed for open water. Paul fumbled with his drag as metres and metres of backing disappeared. Not often do sea-run browns take you into the backing; this had to be a whopper. Both of us were bubbling with anticipation; a photo opportunity with a monster sea trout - great stuff on both ends of the camera.

The reel slowed and Paul was pumping the rod and retrieving line for all he was worth. Sea trout tend not to jump like their Atlantic salmon cousins, especially darker springtime fish. We hadn’t seen him up to this point, and what a shock a short time later when he rolled only 20 feet in front of us.

What Paul was screaming right then and there was not for publication.

I stood silent in total shock.

That fish must have been three feet long - a massive, broad-shouldered jack, the biggest sea trout I’ve ever laid eyes on!

Then off he went again, into the backing - unstoppable. The battle between determined man and unrelenting fish went on for about 30 minutes until it finally looked like Paul was getting the upper hand. I had my left hand gloved and prepared for a tailing; camera ready nearby.

He lifted the rod hard in an attempt to raise the fish’s massive head, and as he did a # 8 beadhead whizzed past me.

Paul let out a sigh of bitter disappointment. The hook had pulled free in the final moments of battle.

“Oh well, he’ll likely be here next year,” was all I could say.

We had no intention of killing him anyway, but oh what we both would have given for a photo. I’d estimate that trout at nothing shy of 20 pounds; a trophy in anybody’s fish log.

What may people in Newfoundland don’t realize is that here on the Avalon Peninsula, the most densely populated region of our province, we have one of the best sea-run brown trout fisheries in the world. We are rivaled only by Argentina and Iceland and it’s a shame that so many don’t appreciate this fantastic angling opportunity. People travel all over the globe in hopes of catching a sea trout over 20 pounds and we have them swimming in our back yards. I’m convinced that if we practised conservation measures like hook and release and fly-only, we’d have plenty more monster trout to pit our skills against.

Okay, enough ranting; a little advice for those aspiring to tackle some hefty sea trout on the fly. The “where” is simple. There are numerous sea trout rivers all around Conception and Trinity Bays, along the Southern Shore and on into St. Mary’s and Placentia Bays. I fish just about everywhere, but I’d consider my home waters to be Shearstown, North River, South River, Colliers and Avondale. Any of these are great places to start casting flies for one of the world’s finest sportfish.

One of the most effective, yet simple methods for catching sea trout is dead-drifting a nymph under an indicator. An indicator is a small painted styrofoam ball, like a very light bobber, though it obviously must be large enough to float the weighted nymph that you are drifting under it.

Basically, you treat the indicator like a salmon bomber and let it drift along in the current as drag free as possible. The nymph itself can be weighted either by wrapping lead around the hook shaft before adding materials or a bead at the head of the offering. Either way, it appears to the fish as some sort of food drifting freely in the tide or current. When the bobber goes under, strike solidly - you never know what’s lurking beneath.

Stripping streamers is another of my favourite ways to snag a trout. The seal fur is probably the most common streamer in these parts. It’s ridiculously simple; nothing more than some seal fur dubbed on a long shank streamer hook. Yellow and orange are established killers but other colours work sometimes. It always pays to experiment.

The trick is to strip fast. In fact, I don’t think it’s possible to strip too fast, at least not with one hand. Strip speed is more critical in fly fishing that most anglers realize. Some salt water fly fishers will tuck the rod under their armpit and strip with both hands.

In the ocean, bait fish are very fast and anything slower just doesn’t look natural. Remember, streamers are imitating bait fish. If you were a bait fish, what would you be doing if a 10-pound brown was bearing down on you? I think you get the idea.

Sea trout typically follow a streamer for a ways before striking. Strikes can occur with the leader almost to the rod tip, so finish every cast. Also, keep the rod tip down and pointed at the fly. This keeps a tight connection between fish and fly when the strike occurs. All that’s needed is a pluck or “strip strike” with your line hand to firmly set the hook. Lifting the rod tip isn’t nearly as effective and generally pulls the fly right out of the water if you miss. With the strip strike, you get another chance, and often the fish will keep right on the fly. I learned this technique fishing for tarpon and rooster fish in the sunny south, but it works here just the same.

Well, as of Feb. 1, the sea trout season is open and I’ll be searching for that big one again, right up until it closes in early October. And I’ll be a little more mindful as to where and when I eat my sandwich.