Well, after a year of lurking, signing up for the board, and then just reading … I'm finally contributing to the cause.
My most memorable fish was a smallmouth caught many years ago in the Crystal River in the upper part of the lower peninsula of Michigan. My family was "enjoying" one of our traditional summer getaways from the oppressive heat of our home in west Tennessee. All eight of us (including parents, annoying little brother, Grandma, Grandpa, their mean little dog … and my crazy uncle) were stacked up in a condo near Glen Arbor, close to Sleeping Bear Dunes and the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. I was 14, and already addicted to fishing, so the lure of the small, fishy-looking stream running through the vacation complex was too powerful to overcome. My crazy uncle (everyone has at least one crazy uncle; I'm filling that role for my nephews, btw) took me and my younger brother to the banks of the river, equipped us with a couple of spinning rods armed with chartreuse roostertails, and set us loose.
My uncle proved to be an unusually patient guide on that day (this conflicted greatly with past experiences), as he scouted fish locations and promptly informed us of where to cast. As is the case with most youngsters fishing a small stream crowded by trees, shrubs and well, ... brothers and uncles, our casts often landed in places we did not intend. But, our abnormally understanding guide helped us through it each time.
We caught various panfish and small bass through the afternoon, including a nice little stream largemouth landed by my brother. Near sundown, my uncle spotted a good fish seeking refuge from the current behind a few large rocks. He told me where to cast, and amazingly, I hit the mark exactly and my roostertail was annihilated by a very angry smallmouth.
It leapt from the water, crashed on the surface, bulldogged downstream, then upstream, then downstream again. I swear at one point I heard the fish call me a bastard. This was my first ever smallmouth, and the memory of its dogged fight influenced me forever. After a relatively-brutal tug-of-war, I finally managed to subdue the fish to the shoreline. My now-giddy uncle pulled the exhausted smallie out of the water and handed it to me, and almost 25 years later, I still remember the feel of that fish in my hands. My forearms ached and my heart clamored in my chest, and my first thought was … my God, how could any fish fight harder than this one?
As crazy uncles tend to do crazy things, mine decided that the proper way to honor this magnificent fish was to kill it and mount it for me. At 14, I certainly didn't know what I know now, and honestly, I couldn't wait to see the finished product. The mount still hangs in my house today. All 13 inches and one pound of her. It seemed huge at the time, and maybe, figuratively, it was. Even now, as a resident of middle Tennessee, the lure of the stream down the street is still to powerful to overcome. After all, there are a lot of smallies swimming in it ...