Reflections: The Fish I Remember

A few years ago, I started keeping a list that I titled “The Fish I Remember.” The list’s purpose is simple—it allows me, as I grow older, to retain the memory of notable fish I have encountered as an angler, most of which had been brought to hand without the benefit of a camera nearby. Of course, the first question is how one defines “notable.” While every fish that takes a fly is worthy of appreciation, I’ve found while working on this tally that only a very small number remain vivid in my mind. Just 24, in fact (see sidebar). I do not want those still-living memories to vanish like a trout that slips the hook.

The opening entry on my list, “That first rainbow out of the Lodge’s swimming pool,” records my first ever hook-up, a hatchery trout I caught on a salmon egg from the pool at Long Barn Lodge, east of Sonora. The pool had been stocked so that a visiting fishing club could enjoy sport near the bar, and Hank, the lodge owner, who Mom worked for as a waitress, gave me permission to catch one fish. I was nine years old, and the frantic excitement as I fought and brought the trout up lit a fire that continues to burn more than six decades later. 

The interesting thing I discovered when I wrote those nine words was how easily they returned me poolside, reliving what had happened, the emotions I felt. A photograph wasn’t necessary and might even have been an impediment for my step back in time, with the lens capturing perhaps too much that meant too little, obscuring the elements that made the experience special.

The entries that followed the first were similarly terse, again a few words, or a single sentence, maybe two, highlighting some aspect, often visual, that triggered why that fish was significant to me. A dorsal fin protruding into air as a creek trout fed in thin water, believing the weave of branches above kept it safe from predators. A small trout, lip punctured by my hook, that took the fly twice more after being released. The salad-plate sized bluegill that floated, like an apparition, up out of darkness to suck in a tiny popper as I crouched motionless, just feet away.

Few of my entries focus on fish size, the usual subject of grip-and-grin shots. The fish I remember, I remember mostly because of their novelty, such as the first fish of a species new for me, or because something occurred that was unusual or gratifying. Sometimes it was how a fish behaved; sometimes it reflected the satisfactory resolution of a tactical problem. Sometimes it was the setting, or a mood that deepened the experience. And in one instance, the fish never took the fly, another bluegill popper, but its explosive attempt to do so in a sediment-laden river absolutely thrilled me.

That thrill of being surprised is surely one of the reasons, maybe even the most compelling reason, why we’re drawn to connect with those sleek creatures that lay beneath the water’s surface. Photos are a fine way to capture for posterity the dimensions of a fish caught and the look of satisfaction of the catcher. But just a few well-chosen words can bring you deep into the memory of an experience, rekindle why it was special. Try listing the fish you recall. (It may take a while for each one to appear.) You might be surprised by what you remember—and over time, grateful for it.