All morning long, little silver hatchery trout flipped and skittered and flashed their way into the buckets and creels of the dozen or so other people at the bridge pools-as well as into the plastic grocery bags we'd brought. Greg caught his limit of 10. Beasley caught seven, and even I, with my makeshift fishing stick, caught four. Kelly had five in his bag when a big goon of a kid on the far side, who'd been fishing unsuccessfully with a saltwater rod and a colossal Mepps spinner, screamed, "I've got one!" as he jerked back hard on his line. Suddenly, Kelly's spanking new, straight-from-Kmart combo jumped clear off its forked stick and sailed end over end into the drink.