Trout Whisperer finds answer to: Wanna sandwich?

Wanna sandwich?
When I step up on a new beaver dam, it reminds me of a very old one, that when I was about seven years old, I first discovered.
My grandfather would take me to what in life has turned out to be without question my favorite place to catch brook trout, and part of being able to go with him was this. He had a law; you do what I say, or you aint going with, which I adhered to as often as possible.
I directly recall disobeying him only twice in life. The first was over the eating of green apples. It was strictly forbidden, but one day he wasn’t home when I knocked on his door so, on a late September afternoon, I picked a couple of the green fruit and ate them which he never knew about, but I still feel bad for to this day.
The other time I didn’t adhere to his rule was on the brookie creek I so dearly now cherish.
There was a rock up near the headwaters of the stream and his policy was never fish above that rock. If I got there first, which I did many, many, times, I was to wait for him there, and when he caught up, we would have lunch together, then hike back downstream finishing our fishing day.
Well, one day when I got there I knew I was way ahead of my grampa. I didn’t think he would be along for about an hour and sitting there, I started to wonder, what was up stream, beyond the rock.
I set my creel down, laid my fly rod against the rock and thought, I’m going for a hike. I’ll be back before he gets there and away I did go.
It was barely raining, just a light drizzle and without snagging my creel or fly rod in the brush I breezed my way up stream to a place I couldn’t quite see into. The river seemed to rise, so I started my climb up on my very first beaver dam. Once up top, on the far bank stood a cow moose; it was the first moose I had ever seen.
Oh, I wanted to sneak up closer to that moose so I went back down the beaver dam and was working my way round it when I became mired in the bog’s morass and before I knew it, I was sinking in it. I clambered for some alder brush and luckily for me, I drug myself out of it before sinking out of sight forever. In no short order, I beat feet for the rock.
When I got back to the rock, grampa wasn’t there. I waited and waited and waited for what seemed like forever. Finally I grabbed my creel and rod and started hiking back down the river and found my grampa sitting in his station wagon sipping a cup of coffee from his thermos.
He asked coolly how I was, did I have fun fishing, anything fun happen this morning? I told him all about seeing my first moose, but I left out the part about where I spied it or that i almost drowned in the swamp, and then I asked him why he didn’t want to have lunch on the rock.
He said, not looking at me, oh today I just felt like doing something different. So he opens the lunch box gramma packed like she always did, and he grabbed a sandwich for himself. Then offered me the lunchbox. He said would you like a sandwich?
I said sure, so I looked inside, but there was no second sandwich. I looked at him. Now he looked at me, right in my eyes, very sternly, and said, your sandwich, is in your creel. I put it there when I got to the rock. The rock you weren’t waiting for me at, and that isn’t ever going to happen again, is it?
--The trout whisperer