You can’t go home again.

In his novel by the same name, author Thomas Wolfe advanced the idea that any attempt to relive our youthful memories will always fail.

Perhaps, but isn’t it worth trying once in awhile?

In the most northern reaches of Maine’s North Woods, there is a small remote trout pond that has always held special meaning for me. It’s a scenic pond. The trout aren’t big, but they are plentiful. And you can keep a couple for the pan. It’s a helluva drive to get there.

As a young father, I tented there with my wife and young sons. I taught them all to throw a fly line and handle a canoe. They took to it all, with energy and passion. As my boys grew, we made a number of trips to this pond and packed away some razor-sharp memories.

The years passed. My boys became men, middle-aged men with big responsibilities and children of their own. We never stopped hunting and fishing together, but usually on a catch-as-catch-can basis, a day here a day there. Recently, out of the blue, my sons suggested that the three of us go back to this special pond for a few days of bonafide backwoods camping and trout fishing — a father-and-son re-visitation, a nostalgic pilgrimage to our coveted Trout Cathedral.

We did just that. We packed two canoes, three bellyboats, fly rods, cribbage board, a jug and some good chow and headed north.

Typically, the first two days were cold and rainy, but the fishing was great! Watching my sons enjoy each other and share the contagious joy of fly fishing over hungry trout stirred in me a father’s pride and love just as it did years ago. The last night on the water, as a premeditated act of reminiscence, I uncased a delicate 2-3 weight fly rod that had not seen the light of day in 30 years. The late Bangor rafting guide and fly shop entrepreneur Nick Albans sold me the willowy little stick in 1969. It may have been used once, I’m not sure. Once on the water and after a few trout hookups, I kicked myself for letting the rod lay idle all these years. What fun that little rod was with a 10-inch brookie dancing on the tippet. It will get a lot more use in the angling days ahead.

When the unrelenting Aroostook County scud line finally lifted and the sun shone through to brighten things up, it dawned on me: nothing at this pond had changed in almost 50 years! The view was the same. The pond was gin clear and the trout still were feisty and willing to hit an emerger stripped beneath the surface. The picnic table at the campsite was the same one that was there in the 1970s. Son Josh showed me where he had carved his name in the cedar table as a 10-year-old.

What a remarkable thing, especially in this era of accelerated change, and a tribute it is to those whose vision has helped protect this natural heritage, organizations like North Maine Woods and many others.

Wolfe may have been a legendary novelist, but, like the rest of us flawed critters, he had no monopoly on truth when it comes to the human condition. Indeed, last week my sons and I did go back home again.

Perhaps you can, too. It is worth a try,

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The author is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network (WVOM-FM 103.9, WQVM-FM 101.3) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected] . He has two books “A Maine Deer Hunter’s Logbook” and his latest, “Backtrack.”