Catching that First Fish

I don't know when I caught my first fish but I would suppose it was about the age six. I do remember being on the sandy bar of the Wisconsin River next to Sauk City. My old man had put together a couple of cane poles, which is something I don't think anybody uses any more because the selling of such a simple tool does not contribute to the economy very much if at all.

He baited up two of the long outfits with a fat worm, an item that probably go more of my attention than most things, tossed the line in the water, plopped the pole down on the sand with a Y stick holding the tip up. I am sure I was told to watch the set up and if a fish jerked on it, I was to jerk back.

The smell of the river is still with me to this day, impregnated in my growing mind back then. It was the smell of dead fish, rotting algae, a few aquatic weeds and the cool water of the big river.

What a great smell and to this day every time I visit that river, and sometime others, there is that smell, the smell of my youth on the river, the smell that was running through my nostrils as I waited for the first bite. I must have been distracted or something, maybe it was a dragonfly or a giant clam, but when I looked up my cane pole was heading down the river. I remember my old man trying to retrieve it but after a few bobs fifty yards out it was gone in the grips of some massive catfish, or more likely a carp. It had been my first chance. However, I was not discouraged because it was an adventure that involved my old man laughing, cursing and thrashing in the big river. He wasn't mad at all. Probably a 20 cent pole, cheap line and a hook. He had a story tell about the lame ass kid.

So a couple of weeks ago I took Jake, the babbling grandkid,  to Glenn's pond and put the modern version of a cane pole in his hand, taught him how to cast it and off he went on a youthful experience. With the tutelage of Glenn and himself we went over the appropriate lingo and placement, and retrieval techniques of fishing for Crappies. With in fifteen minutes he had his first fish, one that he caught all by himself.

Much like me he went on and on about his catch, including yelling at grandma about the merits of the woolly bugger, and how to place a cast. Then to, I imagine there were the smells, smells of fresh grass, water weeds and algae, and the fish on his hands. His eyes were on fire. He wanted to catch the huge bullfrog and throw sticks at the bugs. Every minute filled with all of those same things I had on the Wisconsin River. The light has been lit.