“Eventually the watcher joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It
I don’t remember precisely the first time that I cast a line into a body of water, but I remember my first rod. It was red with a Zebco 202 on it. My dad taught me how to tie a knot, bait the hook, press the button, roll back, and then sling forward sending the bait bobber and line sailing in the wind to the middle of the pond. A fisherman was born.
Our home pond, a small spring fed pool down the hill from our house, was hand dug by my dad before I was born. He stocked it with fish he caught and brought home from other ponds as there were no fisheries around in those days and if there were he would not have spent money one getting fish he could get himself.
There were many summers days spent fishing other farm ponds. One of them, Hershel’s pond we called it, was the one I remember most. Dad, mom, and maybe my brothers would pack a cooler or two and head to the pond located somewhere out in the county though I have no idea what it’s exact location was. It was a good sized pond in the middle of a farm field. A dirt path, used for tractors I assume, led up to its banks lined with cattails and cottonwood trees. Coolers unloaded and lawn chairs in place, we would fish all day. Sooner or later Mom would open a cooler and get out bologna sandwiches, chips and soda for what I saw as a mid afternoon feast. We sat in the shade of trees eating and talking.
One of the cooler in Dad’s truck was brought to the pond empty. We all knew why as we had done this drill before. That cooler, a metal red and white Coleman with a hinged lid and a latch like you find on a window, was for the fish we would take back live. No, we did not catch to eat. We caught to stock. Any fish worth keeping went into the cooler, which dad had filled with pond water, to be taken home to our pond. As I think about it now, I find it a wonder they survived as well as they did. But survive they did and by days end were released into our little pond at home.
One particular hot summer day we made the trip out beyond the airport down the blacktop past the farm house to Hershel’s pond. I couldn’t have been ten years old at the time but I was well instructed and capable of fishing without supervision. Venturing along the bank I stopped at a spot I had often sacrificed worms at before. My plastic blue tackle box which was at my side. It was stocked full with a few spinners, bass bumpers (my favorite lure) hooks, bobbers, and of course pliers for if I made the cardinal sin of allowing a fish to swallow the hook. This was where I’d be today….. or until I was bored and hungry.
The cast was good and long. The bobber settled on the surface and the bait, hook, and sinker righted its lean a second later. Under a hot morning sun minutes turn to eternity to a kid on the bank of a pond with pole in hand. And so as often impatient boys do I start to draw the line in slowly. It was just something to do. It wasn’t necessarily the proper thing to do. But I was a kid and couldn’t sit still long.
The strike was not hard. The fish was not big. I couldn’t see it but I didn’t have to. It was a small Bluegill. It had gotten excited by the worm and took the hook. He was on now so I’d had to bring him in. The Zebco spun and the bobber , sinker, and now fish came in tow. Then, without warning, just yards from the bank the little red pole was nearly ripped from my hands by a violent attack on the end of the line. But just as sudden as the line went taught with electricity, it was light again. Whatever had struck at my fish did a hit and run.
That’s when I had a great idea. Well great for a kid around ten years old. I removed the fish, threw it in the cooler and turned my attention on the hook. It was too small. I’d need something bigger. I clipped the line and tied on the largest hook I had. I retrieve the bluegill (which by this time had little life left in him. It didn’t matter now, he was bait in a new game. I ran the hook threw his side and hurled him into the water. This time there was going to be no waiting. No bobber. No boredom under the hot sun. There was action and motion… I was hunting a fish. I reeled quickly and hoped. That’s what fishing is isn’t it, faith and hope? (And maybe luck) Just as I had planned (hoped), it happened the large-mouth attacked the smaller struggling bluegill. This time, though, he got my line to.
The fight was on.Little red rod, Zebco and me verses the bass. The bass didn’t stand a chance. He was no match for the three of us.
When I dragged him onto shore I had my first good fish story and the biggest fish I had ever caught. I’m not sure to this day he still isn’t the largest bass I’ve ever caught. I quickly ran hm down to dad and into the Coleman cooler he went to be taken home for transplant. I told everyone how I caught him (I may have used extra emphasis on some of the details). Of course, my brothers didn’t believe me., but it didn’t matter. I had caught the largest fish of the day and created a life long memory.
Fish stories… they’re the best. In my five plus decades I have amassed many.
