At the tender age of eight I would visit the river almost every day. It twisted its way from a beginning I had never seen, and I figured it eventually emptied into a big lake somewhere. There, where it ended, I pictured a titanic mouth spewing its spent waters. I visited the river to escape into a world of snakes, toads and pheasants. A world where kids ruled the day and adults seldom tread, save to call us late for diner or bed. The river sat in a valley directly behind my best friend’s house. I remember very well the hill leading down to the water being enormous and overgrown, festooned in thick jungle-like vegetation. In reality it was a gentle bush covered slope, dropping all of 15 feet, at the very most. But through a child’s eyes it was mountainous and grand. In the summer we would build various ramps of earth at its base so that in the frozen winter we could rocket our green plastic sleds – the ones with the useless black plastic hand brakes - down the slope, off the jumps, stopping just short of the sometimes semi-frozen but always treacherous waterway.
The riverbank was lined with big rocks, some perfect for sitting – others perfect for resting rusty bait cans containing luncheon meat, cheese, bread or if we weren't too tired to dig around in my parents vegetable and flower garden, worms on.
At the time the water was relatively clean and I can remember catching sunfish and rock bass with a red fiberglass pole. Later on, in the pollution filled 80s, I’d catch only suckers with white horns on their heads. My line was mostly thick and dark blue, and it sprang off a squeaky reel in noodle-like coils.
I would always use a large bobber - red and white or sometimes orange and yellow. I’d find them in my garage, mixed in with my father’s tools in a rectangular wooden tool box that sat in an overhang above his brown Cutlass Supreme. I never did question how they got there, I only knew that whenever I needed one, a bobber would be there - waiting. I just assumed that the tool box was a fantastical bottomless pit, and at times when I would scurry up the ladder to dig around in it, I would purposely try to reach its bottom – sending screw drivers, corks and bottle caps crashing to the floor. But I never once found the bottom. It’s still there in my father’s garage, but I don’t dare go near it now - some things need to remain bottomless.
But I digress, my favorite sitting and fishing spot was a big flat rock with a set of smaller rocks behind it. We’d always race for it, but would rarely argue or tussle over the stone - fisherman’s code and all that. However, the one who missed out would always quietly envy the other – at least I did – and would jump at the opportunity to jump claim if the original owner moved, even for a moment.
When our lines were finally ready, few words were shared between us, and for good reason - as words held little value here, with the sound of rushing water, birds singing, crickets chirping and cicadas humming lulling a boy of eight into a silent stupor - besides, the first to string a worm or ball of cheese was the first to cast, and the first to cast meant the first chance at the biggest fish, or with some luck, perhaps a crayfish or even a snapping turtle. Yes, there was always a second fish, and even a third fish waiting on this particular bend in the river, but second and third didn’t win the race, and didn't win largest fish for the most part.
The river ran deep in spots, at least as best as we could tell as no one would dare jump in it where we fished it - you couldn't see the bottom. Of course, a few of us slipped in accidentally now and again, but we were sure to exit the green/brown water quicker than we fell into it. Standing ankle-deep collecting lampreys and minnows in the nearby rapids, eddies and small inlets was one thing, but deeper water held things we couldn’t see - big things, snapping things, or so we guessed by the stories we told each other of large shadows moving just beneath the surface. Besides that, a couple of kids would drown each year in the river - as our mothers would constantly remind us - so we were relatively careful even during our most reckless and ambitious fishing excursions.
As a hot summer afternoon would progress, snakes would sometimes visit you as you fished. They came for a drink or for a passage to the other side, and our bobbers made excellent aerial bombs to impede their way. We released everything we caught, though some fell victim to cherry bombs, as did frogs. Though I rarely voiced any concern for their fate, in order to be spared the label of sissy, I disliked this practice immensely, and I insisted on not being the munitions expert. Bravery and strength of character is typically in short supply in an eight-year-old body, so I’ve forgiven myself over time.
In any event, the experiences I had and the lessons I learned during my early days fishing, those lazy summer days - my most memorable formative years as it were, have stuck with me to this day, and they forged my love of fish - they aren't the only reason I keep fish, but those days we fantastic.
The riverbank was lined with big rocks, some perfect for sitting – others perfect for resting rusty bait cans containing luncheon meat, cheese, bread or if we weren't too tired to dig around in my parents vegetable and flower garden, worms on.
At the time the water was relatively clean and I can remember catching sunfish and rock bass with a red fiberglass pole. Later on, in the pollution filled 80s, I’d catch only suckers with white horns on their heads. My line was mostly thick and dark blue, and it sprang off a squeaky reel in noodle-like coils.
I would always use a large bobber - red and white or sometimes orange and yellow. I’d find them in my garage, mixed in with my father’s tools in a rectangular wooden tool box that sat in an overhang above his brown Cutlass Supreme. I never did question how they got there, I only knew that whenever I needed one, a bobber would be there - waiting. I just assumed that the tool box was a fantastical bottomless pit, and at times when I would scurry up the ladder to dig around in it, I would purposely try to reach its bottom – sending screw drivers, corks and bottle caps crashing to the floor. But I never once found the bottom. It’s still there in my father’s garage, but I don’t dare go near it now - some things need to remain bottomless.
But I digress, my favorite sitting and fishing spot was a big flat rock with a set of smaller rocks behind it. We’d always race for it, but would rarely argue or tussle over the stone - fisherman’s code and all that. However, the one who missed out would always quietly envy the other – at least I did – and would jump at the opportunity to jump claim if the original owner moved, even for a moment.
When our lines were finally ready, few words were shared between us, and for good reason - as words held little value here, with the sound of rushing water, birds singing, crickets chirping and cicadas humming lulling a boy of eight into a silent stupor - besides, the first to string a worm or ball of cheese was the first to cast, and the first to cast meant the first chance at the biggest fish, or with some luck, perhaps a crayfish or even a snapping turtle. Yes, there was always a second fish, and even a third fish waiting on this particular bend in the river, but second and third didn’t win the race, and didn't win largest fish for the most part.
The river ran deep in spots, at least as best as we could tell as no one would dare jump in it where we fished it - you couldn't see the bottom. Of course, a few of us slipped in accidentally now and again, but we were sure to exit the green/brown water quicker than we fell into it. Standing ankle-deep collecting lampreys and minnows in the nearby rapids, eddies and small inlets was one thing, but deeper water held things we couldn’t see - big things, snapping things, or so we guessed by the stories we told each other of large shadows moving just beneath the surface. Besides that, a couple of kids would drown each year in the river - as our mothers would constantly remind us - so we were relatively careful even during our most reckless and ambitious fishing excursions.
As a hot summer afternoon would progress, snakes would sometimes visit you as you fished. They came for a drink or for a passage to the other side, and our bobbers made excellent aerial bombs to impede their way. We released everything we caught, though some fell victim to cherry bombs, as did frogs. Though I rarely voiced any concern for their fate, in order to be spared the label of sissy, I disliked this practice immensely, and I insisted on not being the munitions expert. Bravery and strength of character is typically in short supply in an eight-year-old body, so I’ve forgiven myself over time.
In any event, the experiences I had and the lessons I learned during my early days fishing, those lazy summer days - my most memorable formative years as it were, have stuck with me to this day, and they forged my love of fish - they aren't the only reason I keep fish, but those days we fantastic.
