We always love hearing fishing stories from you, our loyal readers. Today we’re asking you to share a very special fishing story – your first.
Your First Fish
We’re asking you to go back – many years back for some of you. We want to hear about the first fish you ever caught.
Where? How? What fish? With whom?
We’ll pick the best ‘first fish’ story on May 1st and award its author a $50 credit to our online store.
Click right here to submit your story as a comment. We’re really looking forward to hearing about your first fish!
My father, one of our hired hands and I were moving irrigation pipe to a new setting. Of course, being 4 years old my actual contribution was minimal. I went to the end of the pipe and unhooked the water block.
This enable all the water to drain from the pipe before moving. A 6 inch siphon hose which connected to the first of over 40 lengths of pipe supplied the water from the ditch. The ditch came from the North Fork of the Shoshone River. When I pulled the block, a cutthroat trout which had managed to make it around the screen where the river water entered the ditch; and also managed to maneuver from the ditch into the siphon hose came blasting out as the water cleared the pipe. It was literally trying to swim up the water as it went down the field. My father yelled “grab it, take it to the river.” I was soaked by the time I finally grabbed it and ran the 200 yards to the river, but I had caught my first fish.
Sadly, my first fish is a tale of woe and misery.
It was the summer of 1976 and my father and grandfather decided to take my sister and me fishing. My grandfather had a small boat that he and my dad used to fish in quite a bit, although reflecting back now, they probably did more drinking than fishing. My sister was 3 and I was 7, and very excited to be included in what had been an adult activity before now. We went to a small lake in the Central Oregon Cascades called Suttle Lake. Later in my childhood, my grandfather would build me my first flyrod. This expedition would be old-school bait fishing, however. We anchored up and festooned our hooks will all manner of victuals: Worms? Check! Salmon Eggs? Check! Marshmallows? Check! Even some canned corn. Fishing started off slow, as it is wont to do, but eventually a school of fish swam into our area and the bite was on. In short order we were catching rainbow trout and kokanee left and right. I was in heaven!
My sister, at the tender age of three, was not fishing. She spent most of her time playing around in the bottom of the boat and trying to keep from getting stepped on in the chaos of landing a fish. The bite was beginning to taper off when we hear from up at the front of the boat a quiet little, “Uh-oh!” It turns out that she had decided to entertain herself by “swimming” the fish on the stringer back and forth through the water. The “Uh-oh” was from when the stringer slipped out of her hand. Mass chaos ensued as the 8 or 9 fish slowly sunk out of reach of the net. My dad and grandfather quickly rigged up some heavy weights and treble hooks to try and snag the stringer off the bottom to no avail. We eventually got back to fishing and caught a few more fish, but none as big or as special as that first rainbow trout that I had caught. When we got home my mom greeted us in the driveway and exclaimed, “let’s take some photos of you with your first fish!” I threw down my gear and angrily proclaimed, “these are NOT my first fish!” and went to my room and cried.
My sister still thinks I hold it against her, but I don’t.
I apologize for my english – not my native tongue !
We’re back in 1962 in Denmark. I was about 5 years old. My father was a railroad worker with the National Danish Railroad Company (DSB). Workers within this national organisation had the possibility to (cheaply) rent one of many small houses near a narrow sound (Lillebælt) between the main peninsula in Denmark (Jutland) and the island of Fyn (Funen).
This particular summer the whole family (Father, mother, my younger sister and I) went to this primitive cabin in this wonderfull area close to woods, beaches, the sea and pictoresque towns and villages.
My father occasionally did some fishing from shores and harbours, but I had never tried fishing before.
On this particular trip, my father did some fishing for Garfish and mackerell – but this was at hours not fit for a 5-year-old.
One day the whole family went on a day-trip to a small island in the sound, called Faenoe (Fænø). You “called” the ferryman by raising an orange ball to the top of a pole by the shore. When the ferryman saw the ball from his house on the island, he jumped to his boat an rowed across to pick up the costumers – a trip that took appr 10 minutes each way.
The happy family had a wonderfull day on the island and as evening approached we had to get back to the mainland. Calling the ferryman worked the same way when on the island. We hoisted the ball and in just 2 or 3 minutes the ferrymans wife came to tell us, that we had to wait for about half an hour before her husbond would be there to sail us across – he had to finish his afternoon-nap.
We therefore had to kill about 30 minutes. My father quickly arranged a small stick for me and my sister and rigged them with a few meters of nylon-line he accidently had in the backpack along with a few hooks. We children were sent along the beach to turn every stone in order to find anything suitable as bait.
Thus equipped with very low-end fishing tackle my sister an i started our carriers as sports-fisher-persons. My sister with a beetle on the hook and myself with a worm of unknown (forgotten) species. After a few minutes i felt something picking on the bait. I cried out: What do i do ? My father calmly told me to wait untill i had felt the napping several times. This did not take long and i started to lift the fish out oft he water. I remember being very aroused by the feeling of the very living fish. I eventually got the fish up on the small wooden deck – not daring to touch it. My father told me it was a sculpin and that it was good i hadn’t touched it, because of its small poisonous tags. We also thought it was uneadible (which i think is not true ?). So my first fish was an ugly, poisonous uneadible creature – but nothing in the whole wide wold could take away the proudness from the 5 year old boy. My sister caught nothing and haven’t fished since……..
I think i remember that special feeling even today, every time i feel a fish at the other end of the line. And it does not matter that the equipment has become a little more advanced.
Greetings from
Kai
(fishing for atlantic salmon every summer in Norway)
Well, it was a long time ago to the day but it all started when I was about five. My father took myself and two older sisters to of all place a cemetery pond near your house. We went with a small can of worms and a bobber set up. We took turns putting small pieces of the worms on the hooks and tossed them in. The minutes the bobber hit the water it was “game on” in my mind. I would watch and wait until the line went across the water like a speed bot. That is what I would look for before pulling back and setting the hook. The Sunday fishing trips were the highlight of the weekend for many years. The first trip was the one that ignited the lifelong passion. That first trip was about 45 years ago and is still a vivid memory.
Little did I realise how profound the impact of my first day of fly fishing would be …
I grew up in Newcastle, NSW and spent a lot of time as a child in the Barrington Tops area where I developed a love for the alpine environment. I used to wonder why I’d occasionally see guys pulling out a fly fishing rod at remote places like “Black Hole” or the “Water Gauge”. How did those funny rods work? Would they really catch any fish and if so, what would they be?
In the intervening time I, like many others, watched ‘A River Runs Through It’ and the ‘A River Somewhere’ series. Each time I saw someone fly fishing it peaked my interest in the sport – all I needed was the excuse to get started.
That came this year when, for my wife’s 40th, we went to Queenstown, NZ with another couple (Paul and Ann-Maree) to spend a week relaxing and enjoying to great food and wine and of course, celebrating my wife’s birthday. Importantly, here was my chance to go fly fishing.
As it turns out my mate Paul was just as keen to try the sport. Our itinerary only allowed 1 day to give this a crack, so the pressure was on early if we had any hope of being able to cast, let alone land a fish. To that end my plan was to get some initial tuition before we left and use a guide on the day in NZ.
John Coles provided the initial tuition in March via his introduction to fly fishing day in Sydney. A really good day and though daunted by what it would take to become proficient in basic casting, Paul and I were ‘hooked’ and headed home with an Echo practice rod each and John’s good advice ringing in our ears – practice, practice, practice. Surely, with our skinny rods and fluoro wool lines, we’d be casting experts by the time we left for NZ at the end of May?
The departure date rolled around quickly and by that time I’d arranged for Paul Macandrew of Aspiring Fly Fishing in Wanaka to be our guide on 31 May – the last day of the trout season. Again, no pressure if the weather was bad and we couldn’t fish. Paul M upped the ante during our exchange of emails and warned us to be ready for a really cold day on the river as he was already seeing -4 degree mornings in April.
We arrived in Queenstown and the scene was set – 2 absolute beginners (though now expert wool throwers), last day of the trout season, first day on any river anywhere and the likelihood of catching little more than hypothermia. Game on.
The sun rose on 31 May without a hint of frost and a cloudless sky. Paul M picked us up and we headed down past Glenorchy to the Routeburn River. He was confident that was our best chance to catch anything given the potential for some trout to be moving upriver early to spawn. We parked at the end of the road with no other fishermen in sight – was that a good or bad omen? On donning my waders my mate Paul confirmed my ass did look fat and still chuckling we set off.
We spent the next hour or so receiving guidance from Paul M on casting nymphs and then moved on upriver casting into pools and flows as we went. We saw lots of huge brown trout and Paul M did his best to get us to cast to the right spot then mend, etc. It was a big ask on our first day but heaps of fun and the scenery was beyond belief. I now understand what ‘gin clear’ water is.
With the score still trout 1, novices 0, we had a late lunch then drove to a lower section of the Routeburn River to try our hand at casting streamers in search of the migrating foe. We walked a good distance and whilst not sighting any trout, our casting was steadily improving.
As the sun was getting low it was time to head back to the car and any minor disappointment in not catching a trout was erased by my already growing love of fly fishing. The only dampener on the day to that point was my ability to attract NZ sandflies, even through atomic strength insect repellant.
When about 300m from the car, Paul M said it was now or never if we were going to catch a trout. To his credit, he scanned a section of river right in front of us and spotted a trout sitting behind a rock mid river. Here was my shot at the gold medal and I, applying my then encyclopedic knowledge of casting, dropped my nymph about 1 metre short of the mark. Bugger! The next cast however was on the money and before I knew it, I was hooked onto my first ever trout. In a relatively short time a beautiful 2lb brown trout was safely in the net and I had a smile on my face only a plastic surgeon could remove (photographic evidence available on request).
Unfortunately my mate Paul couldn’t get another trout to take his fly but on the drive home we both agreed the experience was more than we’d ever hoped for. Thanks again to Paul M for his tuition and guiding on the day – I’ll be back next year.
For me personally the fly fishing experience has bridged a gap between a love of the mountains developed as a child and undertaking a sport I’ve been fascinated with for years. In the short time since returning from NZ I’ve bought a rod and reel, joined a fly fishing club and started practicing (for real). My wife is complaining that I’m now obsessed and I think she’s right.
I must of been 6 years old when my dad gave me my first fiberglass fishing rod and crank bait reel. Then he told me that i could go out on the small fiberglass runabout with him and my uncle out onto lake St. Clair in Michigan for some perch fishing. I remember that it was a late June day with a clear bright sky. The lake was so big i thought it was an ocean. I couldn’t see the land on the other side anywhere. The water was a beautiful blue color and i was in heaven with the experience as we bounce across the waves going out to a big cemented bouy light out in the shipping channel. My uncle and dad were catching perch all the day long and i sat straddling the top of the boat seat waiting to catch my first fish. After more hours then i can remember in that hot summer sun, the day was wrapping up and we were getting ready to go home. As much as i had tried to do everything that my dad and uncle did i could not get a single fish to even nibble on my bait. So dad said lets pull our lines and go home as we now had our limit of perch. Even though i was sad to not have gotten any fish i still loved the experience out on the water. I could tell my dad and uncle felt bad for me as i had worked so hard to fish just like both of them. Well just as i took a sigh of “okay it’s over”. My fishing rod took a huge hit that bent the rod almost out of my hands and i cried out ” i got one” my uncle and dad came over to coach me thru the fight and it was a fight indeed. When the fish came up and surfaced it was a huge smallmouth bass that lake St. Clair is known for, a trophy fish. When i finally landed my bass in the boat, my dad and uncle were beaming from ear to ear. They both said that they would of traded all their fish that day for the one smallmouth bass that i caught. I was so proud. We didn’t have a camera back then like we do today so all i have is that memory and the way my dad called me”Tiger”whenever he told that story of my first fish. That was 50 years ago and i remember it like it was just yesterday.
Like everyone else, male or female, the first fish caught on a fly is imbedded in the silky folds as permanently as the occasion of first intercourse. For the sake of brevity, which was the case in the latter mentioned, I’ll stick to the fishing query.
I’d been a Pennsylvania opening day spin guy well into my thirties, gathering in a camper with like minded lads at stream side for a few days of a little fishing, more baloney sandwiches, beer, cigars and poker games than an entire year could produce. Then one spring, my friend Peter asked me if I’d give him a hand readying his family’s summer retreat cabin in the upper peninsular of Michigan. A weekend sortie. He had his own plane and I was learning to fly so I jumped at the opportunity to have wheel time logged. When we got there Peter ended up hiring locales to do the work, and so I was pretty much in the way. Peter knew I fished and that his father, who had passed away early that year, was a “keen” angler as Peter put it. His father’s den was a legitimate fly shop. Not being familiar with fly fishing, but eager to fish, I selected a three piece H.L. Leonard bamboo rod that was still in its wooden case (can’t recall line weight) and a Pflueger reel that also appeared new and already rigged. I added a leader of a length that I can’t recall and grabbed two wooden fly boxes full of flies. Peter said that his father fished a local stream every spring and directed me to it. A worn path walk of about a quarter of a mile.
The nameless stream turned out to be one that fed into Lake Superior – less than a mile away. The first riffle I came to had suckers so I practiced on them – snagging one. I got good enough to get the fly to land where I intended it to land. Moving on was a challenge because of heavy growth bordering the widening stream. Every so often there were breaks in the foliage, but impossible to cast unless you got in the freezing water – there were still bits of ice and snow around and the temperature was in the 40s and it drizzled all day.
Peaking downstream at every opening was rewarded by spotting a fish that appeared to be over 3-feet long bedded next to another in the 2-foot range. They were next to the bank in a depression of pebbles and sand. I hand threaded my fly down stream so as to annoy them and entice a take. The take was violent and the larger animal headed for Lake Superior with my fly at Porche speed – breaking me off in seconds. I can to this day call-up the remembrance of the power of that fish and still see the blood on my hands from the line sawing my flesh. However, it was I that was hooked and landed.
That day, I managed to hook four more fish and land and release two in the single digit range. Soaked from head to toe, lost and shivering to death as darkness approached; I made my way through the woods only to be startled by a small herd of white tails and then by an attacking eagle whose nest was in the tree I was walking under. Finally, lights meant cabins. I’d made it. After a lengthy shower and a few single malts, Peter and I cooked some steaks. I wearied early after a few hand of cards and retired. All I dreamt about was STEELHEAD! The next day I repeated the experience with great success and the joy of more fond memories.
Fortunately, the fish of a thousand casts was accessible a few hours away from my home in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and I indulged seasonally until moving to South Florida only to get hooked on tarpon and bones in the Bahamas.
In my seventies, the thrill isn’t gone of either of my analogies.
My feet dangled over the edge of the dilapidated pier, the archaic structure itself swaying in the breeze supported by twisted rotted trunks and secured by age and two to three old rusted nails for every meter of construction(yeah, I went metric on your ass) . Hand hewed planks a multitude of sun bleached muted greys warmed our backsides and threatened a debilitating splinter. This pier belonged where it stood, only slightly penetrating the expanse of water I then considered an uncrossable ocean[ I would later swim it’s breadth in the dark of night severely intoxicated with a young voluptuous co-ed and (found out later we were somehow distantly related) and her overzealous pup lab that continually tried to climb onto my back for a ride, the pup left me back scratched and exhausted on the far shore. Behind us a bonfire blazed and the silhouettes of savages danced and howled at the moon. With this new found privacy and a body flooded with exercise induced endorphins my large breast stroking companion shed what little clothes she still wore and mounted me there in the moss and mud amongst the loudly copulating frogs, no sweet kisses and nibbling of nipples, but a fierce groping and dirty melding of flesh, there is no making love in nature(the pup licked my ear as I let loose a puddle of primordial ooze…first ménage a trios?). Its criss-crossing lower supports that quickly disappeared into the bovine stained waters were home to monstrous tomato spiders, yellow jackets, maybe an aggressive water snake avoiding the sweltering summer heat; possibly the lochness monster lurked below, this was grand and dangerous adventure in the wilds. An awkward and gangly Blue heron stealthily hunted inch-by-inch the cat tail lined edge with utter focus, in complete contrast to my frame of mind, which wandered away with every flitting red shouldered black bird and care free monarch. The succession of hypnotizing waves that rolled one after another would occasionally elicit a premature and aggressive Bill Dancesque wrenching of the rod when the plastic red and white bobber would slide into a trough sending treble hooks and stinkbait whizzing by my father’s head as I toppled to my back, ‘I missed another.’ The patience of youth is fleeting, and the glob of stink would only settle to the bottom if I became distracted with guessing where the water turkey would pop up next or became cross eyed by the macro inspection of a damsel perched upon my nose. Too much focusing and fantasizing on the hope that hung below would bring about doubt, and now it would be time for a new flavor. Sharp cheddar and roasted garlic was obviously not what these finicky fish wanted today; they must want chicken liver pate or maybe they are on a Tabasco soaked Vienna sausage bite? I considered myself a connoisseur of stink at this young age and day dreamed of concocting an irrefusable recipe of shad, crawfish, earthworms, frogs and grasshoppers held fast with crunchy Jif(the crunch was the key, you have to have texture) and a few chocolate chips because everyone loves chocolate, all brought together in my mother’s ten speed kitchen-aid blender, but only in third gear for best consistency(remember texture is a key, and now looking back on these early experiments I see my blossoming interest in the culinary arts). A major leaguers wind up and a poorly timed push of the button would more often than not lead to one more chunk of chum plopping hookless into what I imagined was now a feeding frenzy below the surface after a dozen errant casts. I would pretend I didn’t see my offering soar free of my terminal tackle, and out of shame for my incompetence would leave my baitless offering a few minutes, ‘must have missed another, sneaky buggers are tough, stole my stank.’ Failure led to indifference and the offering was lowered directly off the edge of the pier and abandoned in favor of skipping rocks or ambushing imaginary cowboys in poison ivy thickets(I was always an Indian). Then came the sudden boom of my father’s excited voice and my resolve to capture one of these elusive creatures of the deep was renewed. Swift little feet soared in the direction of much anticipated success, single minded feet indifferent to the pierce of prickly pear spines penetrating my Levi’s or the rake of briars across my face, carried me confidently until I reached the pier when my minds desires toppled me head over heel scraping to a hault at the friction of splinters digging deeply into my excitedly quivering arms and anchored by an old rusty nail piercing my thigh, scrambling on all fours the last few feet to get my sweaty anxious hands on that magic wand. There was life on the end of that line and it intended to keep on living and if at all possible end mine by dragging me into the cool dark depths. My aching white knuckled grip would never let go of this sensation. The strenuously epic battle was a blur of give and take, but in the end, millenniums of evolution(the ability to create tools, namely a Zebco 33, superior engineering) endured over the simple bottom dwelling feeding and fucking minded fish. And there stood a gleaming boy battered, bruised and bloody with his first fish, a glorious yellow hued one eyed half pound mud cat, ‘Can we keep it and show it to Grandpa?’
A conglomeration of hyperbole, skewed personal perspective, and flat out lies(because sex sells and incest is funny?).
My first bonefish… Wayne Walts and I were down South with Norman on my first morning of bonefishing. We stop and Wayne gets right out of the boat and starts wading. Not knowing anything I am still tying on a fly. Wayne gets a bonefish and asks me take a picture, so I oblige. I walk back to Norman and get ready to start wading, but Wayne gets another fish and again asks for a photo, so I oblige again. Well…. this goes on for about 2 hours, and finally Norman says to me “Hey Mon, tell your friend to take off !” Wayne bursts out laughing and says ..” I wondered how long I could get away with this!” The fishing gods were good to me as later that day I caught my first ever bonefish, a nice 6-7lb bonefish with 4 GOLD scales on it.
My first fish on the fly was about six or seven years ago. I went fishing with my Dad and our good friend Kirk on the 11 Mile Canyon section of the South Platte. It was the first time I had ever been fly fishing and I had no idea what I was doing.
I went to Gart Sports and bought an $80 fly rod and reel combo, which I thought was super expensive at the time, and 1 dozen Adams in different sizes. I drove up and showed off my new gear to my Dad and Kirk. I put on my Dad’s old school canvas Hodgman waders, tie on the biggest Adams anyone has ever seen, and whipped the water into a frenzy with my superior casting skills. Day one, I get skunked.
Day two, more skunking and water whipped thicker than a milkshake. On my last cast though, BANG!!! Hooked up with my first fish. It was a fingerling Rainbow Trout just about the me size as the Adams I was using. I’m sure it was very comical to see. A 6’6″ 300# man waving a glorified stick around with a fish the size of his cell phone dangling off the end. I was so proud, that I forced my buddy Kirk to take my picture on his disposable Kodak camera.
I remember it was yesterday. Kirk ended up loosing that camera somewhere and we have no idea where. I would love to have that picture if anyone ever finds that camera!
I was five. We were poor. My grandfather had fashioned a rod for me from a bamboo cane and brought me fishing to the local canal. It was my first time ever seeing fishing. My rod had a thick brown cord of about eleven feet length attached, a wine cork, ( Guinness cork actually, as this was Ireland in the 1950’s), pierced by a matchstick with a heavy, black size 6 “eel hook” attached to the end, with an unfortunate three-inch “blackhead” worm impaled thereon.
I swung , with help, the rod and the cork plopped down on the calm canal water. Within seconds I was hooked on angling for life.
The water had just stilled after my ungainly cast when bob, bob, bob..the rhythmical flow of circles emanated from my cork indicated that there was life below this mirror. I raised the bamboo pole and simultaneously landed a small a four-inch perch, ( a near-small-mouth bass), all in one movement. But it wasn’t the fish that excited me, or the landing that excited me, it was the bob, bob, bob…. the sudden, unexpected movement of that cork.
Fifty years later, I’m almost exclusively a dry fly brown trout fisherman, catching fish up to 9 pounds weight, but usually about two pounds, on river and lake in the central midlands of Ireland.
But it’s not the size of the fish I catch that excites me, nor the first run, nor the battle to land the trout.
It’s the excitement of the sudden breaking of the calm water as a trout appears out of nowhere and devours my fly. After that first rush of excitement the rest is immaterial… I don’t care if the trout misses the fly, throws the hook, breaks the line or is eventually landed. That first bob, bob, bob, sealed my fate as a fisherman and has made me a dry fly fisherman for most of my life. Even when the weather is horrible, my friends are all catching more on wet-fly, I persist until I rise that fish to the surface.
My first fish has destined me to be a dry-fly fisherman all my life…
When my daughter was 6 years old I took her on a fishing adventure. She was so excited. She had her fishing pole, a net, and couldn’t wait. She talked about it for days before and that morning was beaming. Listending to her talking about catching a fish I was sure hoping she would get one. Finally we got to the spot. Helped her bait her line and cast it out. I would say that within a minute she caught her fish. It almost caught her as it pulled her forward I had to catch her and her pole. I talked her through reeling in it. I was amazed at the beautiful 3 lb rainbow trout on her line. She was so excited. Big smile on her. Until I asked her to hold it for a picture. She looked up in total discuss and said,”I don’t want to hold it I want to eat it”!
I had just gotten my first fishing poles after my family moved to a house on a lake. My uncle had let me borrow his poles until I got mine. I had fished for about 4 days without any luck. Then I got my new poles and on my second catch I caught a 2 pound largemouth bass. I ran inside to show my family. My mom took pictures and I released it.