April 1st marks the beginning of my fishing season, although I fish year round.
This year fishing past Labor Day weekend was scarce, only making it out another dozen times during the fall and winter. But with all that’s happening right now I’m not sure I have been this excited for trout opening day in a long time.
There’s something ancient about fishing. It makes you feel like time stopped hundreds if not thousands of years ago and there you are, nestled into a bank of rocks that have been there forever, seen it all, in water that’s thousands of years old, doing something sacred. It’s a quiet mantra that gives you something to do with your hands, your mind focused on feeling a tug, always in the ready position to set the hook, listening to the babble of the body of water in front of you.
It’s exhilarating and relaxing at the same exact time and there are very few things in life that like that.
I’ve been fishing since I was a little kid. Both my grandfathers were into it, my father, my uncle, my cousins, my friends; we all fished growing up. I remember tying my rod to my bike to ride down to Lisk Bridge with Brian Erdner and the gang and hooking worms, corn, or blue gill eyes to our hooks and hoping to catch a trout. But we were happy snagging creek chubs.
April 1st isn’t just about trout, its about the start of another year of fishing. It’s about remembering all the fish you caught the year before and talking about it. It’s about remembering years past and the fish you caught with family members who might not be around anymore to talk about it.
It’s about memories. You probably won’t remember a lot of specifics about things in life but you will certainly remember fishing. The stories are deeper than just the fish. Time spent together, the gear, the weather, the beer, the meals, all of it ties into one day of fishing. I can think back and remember specific days so well, even if there isn’t a picture to prove the catch.
Like that time my Uncle Scott caught this cat off the bank of the Chaumont River. Someone snapped this pic of me going in for the closer look. What a hog that thing was. And to this day I still set up the same way he did and try to get a bigger fish. Even though Uncle Scott passed away. This moment in time is frozen for me and I attempt to recreate it every year.
Same bank, same spot, same cat method. I’ve caught some, just not as big as the cow he brought in. But that to me is what it’s about. So when people tell me they couldn’t get in to fishing, it always surprises me at first, but then I sort of feel bad because maybe they just didn’t have someone to point out that it’s not about the fish but about the memory.
Plus, if you haven’t had the chance to search for, then locate a school of jack perch, then get them into a frenzy and pull about 100 out of the water, then filet them up and beer batter them, frying them in a skillet over the open fire; then dude, you haven’t lived.