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.