I am a fisherman.
I caught my first bluegill at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park.
And I’ve been hooked ever since. I’ve probably been on over 500 fishing trips, caught over 3000 different fish, touched 40 different species of fish, spent over $3000 on fishing gear, and lost a frustrating amount of crankbaits in the trees. I frequently participate in fishing tournaments and conservation attempts to catch invasive fish species.
Sometimes, like when its over 100 degrees outside and the mosquitoes are buzzing in my ear, or when its below freezing and my braided fishing line itself freezes, I wonder why I even try to catch fish. It’s not like I’m hungry (I’m a catch and release fisherman anyways). No, it’s the thrill of outsmarting an entity that you cannot even see, the thrill of the bite, and the thrill of reeling in what might be your personal best fish that makes me return to the water day after day. Fishing is a way for me to not only connect with others, but also a way for me to reconnect with nature and escape the bustling world for a brief moment. Sometimes I wonder if I should be spending my time on other things (like doing data analysis on the fish that I catch), but I’m always comforted by knowing that
“The gods do not deduct from the hours of man those spent in fishing.”
-President Herbert Hoover
Recent Catches
Exploring the Process
The fish inhaled my swimbait, and I set the hook hard. My rod tip doubles over and my spool groans as the behemoth swims to the deep end of the pond, ripping drag and straining my line. Though I only have four pound test and a 5’6” flippy Fenwick Eagle, I muscle the fish to the banks, resisting her desperate dives. As she grows weary, I drop my rod, reach into the water, and lift up the gigantic largemouth bass in triumph. Three pounds and four ounces, a new record. The hook comes out easily and I plop her back into the water as she calmly swims away.
There is something about fishing that draws me back time and time again. Ever since I caught my first bluegill at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park, I’ve been hooked. I’ve evolved from reeling in bluegills and crappies with closed reels and hot dogs to landing largemouths with bait casters and Senko worms.
Place me on any piece of land surrounding a body of water and watch me roam the banks, scouting for the perfect fishing spots. Like a cat sneaking up on a mouse, I tippy-toe to my fishing spots stealthily so as to not scare the fish away. Seeing an opening in the forest of lily pads, I consider the angles and velocity necessary to send my bait into the target zone. With a flick of my wrist, the plastic creature bait soars in the sky, forming a perfect parabola, as I nervously pray that my calculations won’t fail me.
With my sensitive hand and mastery of jigging and twitching techniques, I am the puppet master who brings fake worms to life, enticing even the most stubborn fish to take a bite. Many people, including my dad, claim that it is easier to catch fish with just hooks and worms, but I like the challenge and excitement of fooling a fish into striking plastic.
But some days, I wonder why I bother fishing at all. Why did I spend four hours in the mosquito laden summer heat just to cast hooks to fish that won’t bite? Why did I brave the biting cold, hurling boulders to puncture a hole in the thick ice, just to drown worms? But time and time again, I ignore common sense and make every effort to go to the pond even when the fish are lazy. Fishing is really a story about hope. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t caught a fish for weeks; as long as there are fish in the water, I will come back and try again.
But more than just the thrill of catching a bass, I am drawn to fishing because it gives me the opportunity to live in the moment. Whether I am casting lures or stringing hooks, I notice that I am more in tuned with the environment around me and that I worry less about things that normally trouble me. The stress from my upcoming final exams melt away, allowing me to appreciate the fuzzy ducklings, snapping turtles, and frogs who keep me company while I fish. Such is the power of being near water where the fish live.
After I watch the bass disappear, I pick up my rod once again. There is no other place I’d rather be than here by the cool water, anticipating the next strike in my mind. As the sunset colors the sky and reflects its golden rays across the lake, I continue casting and reeling as I try to outsmart another fish.
Wanna go fishing?
Let’s go fishing! Tell me the time and day, I’ll be there. 🙂
“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”
-Henry David Thoreau