I have been reading a bit in the Burned Out thread and started to really think about why I loved fishing. I realized that one of the reasons I love fishing is the memories that I make with my friends and family. I am starting this thread so people can share those favorite memories with everyone. So people can spread that feeling of joy you get when you think about your favorite trip, that moment you knew you were “hooked” on fishing, or that one person that was “the fishing influence” in your life. So come on IDO, lets make a thread that could be turned into a book someday. Ha Ha.
I remember that fishing to me was a huge deal. My family didn’t have a ton of money, still doesn’t, and when we went to go and visit my grandparents I knew that was going to be a fishing trip.
My grandpa and father were the two biggest fishing influences on me. My dad for panfish and my grandfather for salmon. I can still remember sitting on the living room floor at my grandpa’s house digging through his and my fathers tackle boxes as they preped our gear for the next morning. It was like a treasure chest with all the lures that they had. Spoons, plugs, stick baits, crank baits, spinners, and everything else inbetween. My brother and I were like kids in a candy store just browsing but being able to touch everything we saw.
I would listen to them talk about the wind, how that would affect the fish. What the water temp was and weather or not their target species would be favored in the morning. It was a wealth of knowledge that I can look back on. Come to think of it, I believe that I heard some of the things so many times that now they are just instinct.
That night before the fishing trip I could never sleep. I was just so excited at the promise of what could come in the morning. I can still remember the only thing that would put me to sleep was the sound of the 11:30 PM train running its cource and the clack of the wheels would sooth my active mind.
We would all wake up before the sun had any sence to rise and hop in the van. It was never hard to get up on those mornings having dreamed of wrangling giant fish all night. Once we got to the lake we would begin that long stroll down the boardwalk towards pier. It was about that time that the world began to wake up. The wind began to whisper through the dune grass, the gentle rumble of the surf created a background of bass as the gulls started their mourning cries to meet the sun.
Grandpa had a cart he made to tow all his gear and that added to the natural symphony of sounds with a man made rattle that somehow didn’t seem out of place. It just jumped in and created another layer of what the pier sounded like.
To watch Grandpa and dad walk ahead of us as we played on the rocks was a thing of beauty too. Their slow, steady strides could keep time on a score of music as they talked about what they would do first.
We would pass the old timers sitting on their buckets, not moving, like they had somehow become part of the concret pier where we walked. The only way I could tell if they were real was the slight nod they gave to my elders. They acted like moving was a waste unless they had to set a hook.
Once we found our spot, out came the rods and luers. Unless we would be fishing for perch, which dad was most of the time, they out came the minnow bucket. Grabbing the minnows was always a fun thing to do as a kid. Feeling them swim around your fingers as you grabbed at empty water. Once you did catch one though it was like you had just reeled in a huge fish cause I would say, “Look Dad, I got one!” He would chuckle and show me how to place that shiner on the hook so it would still live and give those fish a nice target to eat.
All of this was well and good for my brother and I untill our rods were in the water and then we had to wait. I don’t know how long it was untill him and I were roaming the concrete jetty but it couldn’t have been much time. We were always called back when my father would say, “You gotta bite Zach!” or Ben depending who’s poll was being attacked by the fish below. That would always reel us back into our buckets and focus our attention, at least for a little while, back onto our rod tips.
While all of this was going on my Grandfather would be casting his spoon for salmon. It was like watching an artist paint a masterpiece with each cast because each cast was something of perfection in my eyes. The rod arching under the weight of the lure, the snap of his arms bringing that rod through, and the silver streak of the spoon as it rocketed out to the deapths. Then came that steady rotation of his reel. Around and around and around time after time, never slowing, never to fast, only to repeat the whole process again when it was time to re-launch his lure.
I still remember hearing his reel sing as he hooked into a steelhead. That scream of the fish taking off is a sound no one who has heard it will ever be able to forget. His concentration became aparent but it still looked as if he was relaxed enough to talk with anyone who may pass by. Once he got his fish in it was a celebration all around at first and then came the decision to keep or throw back. On to the roap it would go, over the side of the pier, and then the roap would be tied to his leg. When I asked him why not tie it to the pier he would always say, “Just to make sure buddy.”
When I hooked into perch though it was like someone had told me I won the lotery. It always felt like I could have the biggest fish on in the world as you reeled in.
“Keep your rod tip high bud. Don’t want to get him caught on those rocks.” my dad would say as I fought with the yellow belly below. Swinging that fish onto the pier was one of the best feelings I ever have had. No matter the size of the fish it was always like I had just landed the biggest fish in the world. High fives and hugs were handed out and from my grandfather, a nod and a smile. I knew he was proud of me.
The best part about that whole experience was doing it with people that I loved, with people who loved me, and knowing that sometime soon, I could possibly do it again.
That is one of the memories that I cherish and it can keep me going sometimes when I don’t feel like I want to fish anymore. I feel like going back to the root of everything, remembering why you loved fishing in the first place, that is one reason why we fish and it is that drive, that memory that will in turn push us and will us to make new ones to look back on in the future. I hope you enjoyed this and I hope it will inspire you to take 15-20 mins of your day and share your best memory with all of us. 
