Fishing bug bit me early
A photo snapped when Dwight Eisenhower was president surfaced recently to reveal a bit of history that says a lot about my roots as a fisherman.
The snapshot came to light as my sister, Kitty, was going through stacks of family stuff. The picture shows Kitty and my cousin, Parke, flanking me. By the age of the children in the photo, it looks to have been around the time when I was 5 or 6 years old.
On closer inspection, the picture itself says a lot.
First, I’d like to have an XL version of the shirt I was wearing on the day the camera caught us kids. Great look, perfect for a 21st-century picnic or ball game.
But more important in that photo is the look on my face. My smile said it all. The photo shows me holding a stringer of fish and wearing a grin across my mug.
That’s what fishing does – still to this day.
For me and for many, fishing is more than catching fish. Each fishing trip is a sensory experience that, if we let them, will linger long after the day’s catch is forgotten.
The fishing bug bit me early. Among my earliest memories is a night fishing trip with my father and uncle. Still in my brain is the vision of the Coleman lantern hanging on a pole off the side of the boat and moths circling the intense light.
Burned in my memory of that summer night experience is the hiss of the lantern as the pressurized chamber fed fuel to the glowing wicks. I always got a kick when Dad lit the Coleman because it meant one of three things: fishing, camping or a backyard wiener roast. All three were fine with me.
Back to that old photo. The other two kids are not exactly smiling. While my face was beaming as three fish dangled from the stringer I was clutching, sister Kitty and cousin Parke were simply gazing at the photographer.
I see it this way: I was enjoying myself in the company of three fine fish, while my sister and cousin were just tolerating the situation.
Fishing always is a joy. Whether the heat is intense or the cold is intolerable, I find the fun of fishing. Whether the fish are biting or lock-jawed, I enjoy the experience on the water.
The sensations I soak in make each fishing trip memorable.
My most recent trip was like a National Geographic documentary. I was at Lake Milton and the morning began cool and fresh under low clouds that soon lifted.
I pointed the boat up the river and spied ospreys in the sky near the Ellsworth Road bridge.
A 40-inch muskie rolled up out of the murky water and chased the lure I was retrieving.
A dozen or so bass liked my topwater and plastic baits. Ducks and geese paddled in the river current and a pickup truck clattered over the Shillings Mill bridge. Squirrels rattled in the hardwoods towering up from the Mahoning River bank.
All images for the fishing memory book.
But as in much that defines our lives, fishing also is competition. You and me versus the fish. You and me versus the other anglers. So that photo of me grinning while gripping the stringer of fish with stone-faced sister and cousin standing by sends one final message.
Why was I smiling? Because I had fish and they didn’t.
That’s fishing.