I was young. Probably 10. Maybe even younger. My dad took me on my first fishing trip. I remember it was a very clear, sunny afternoon. We headed to the Stockertown Rod & Gun Club.
What made mine special? The fish? The day? The new rod? No. It was special, because I was fishing with my Dad. It was the first time I can recall fishing with him. There were several other times after that. But this was the first. Boy, was it exciting.
Life has come full circle. My daughter’s first fish was several years ago at Promised Land State Park. Our boys are at that age where they will remember their first fish. It will most likely be on a pond at the local fish & game club, or at the hunting cabin. Matters not. What will matter will be that they were fishing with their Dad. Someday, they will be telling the story of their first fish, and they will be getting ready to share that experience with their kids.
Seems like I am not the only one who shares this type of memory. It doesn’t have to be Stockertown Rod & Gun Club (try as I may, I wasn’t able to find a website for this club). Your first fish may have been on a lake, in a stream, or even in the ocean. Mine just happened to be on a pond. A tank, as they are called out west. It doesn’t matter where it was, it only matters who it was with. For me, that was my Pop.
I remember my first fish. It was a blue gill I pulled out of the pond in our back yard. I was proably seven or eight. I think I was using corn as bait.
I was alone, and it was later afternoon. I was so happy to have finally pulled a fish out of the pond that I ran into the house to show my mother – with the fish still flapping on the hook! She screamed, and I screamed. What a riot!
I don’t remember how I got the fish off of the hook and back into the pond, and I don’t remember how many fish I caught back there, but I will always remember the first one…
I was about 11 yrs. old and living near Swiftwater in the Poconos. It was 3 days before the opening of trout season and I could hardly wait any longer. Dad promised to take me to the Tobyhanna Creek for opening day, and that is all I could think about. Well, Mom, dad and my sister went shopping in Stroudsburg and left me home alone. There was a small run filled with native brook trout just below the house. As soon as they departed, I grabbed my rod, net, hooks and some worms dug up in the field out back. Jumped on my bike, and rode down to the the run. Wow, I caught three trout right away. Then, an awesome thought crossed my mind: What am I gonna do with these illegally caught trout? Dad was a game protector, and yes they do enforce the fishing laws as well. He would not give me a break, that goes without saying. You guessed it; I left them lay on the stream bank. He never did suspect I committed this dastardly crime!! Now, Dad is long gone to that great world with the Red Gods, and I am much older than he was at the time. But if by chance, he can read this, I know he will forgive me; perhaps even with a little grin on his face. Thanks Dad, for all the great memories.