There is not one fiber of my body that is old yet.
I remind myself of that when I commence to thinking back. Those thoughts usually occur when I believe my son has grown between blinks.
I believe that recollection is a powerful idea that anglers maintain and fear releases. Some of you recollect more decades than I.
You can recall times when fishing and life and the tools needed to fish and live by were simple. Within you are special souls that understand hunger pains and the pains of life and how catching a river cat or a pond bream erased at least some of life's pains.
Even though I am barely beyond my third decade of life, I'm reminded of my youth when I take to fishing. Occasionally, when my haphazard mind slips into a premature state of reckoning, I think back to my early days of following a path to the water.
I am certain that I am not alone when I recall walking a worn cow path on my way to fishing for the first time. For those who were not blessed with being reared on a farm, cows use a pragmatic series of paths when at pasture. Almost every pasture where cows have long roamed has at least a path to the barn, where feed is provided, and a path to water. Decades of cows have walked these paths, which are consistent from year to year.
When I began fishing, I suppose I took the paths for granted, that they were just for cows. There was no grass on these paths, and on occasion one had to step broader along the way.
Yet when I look back, I see that I was not on a path made by cows. Instead, young feet were following a path initiated by cows, which happened to end by the water.
To this day, I recall taking the path from beyond the apple tree, across the dam and to the opposite side of the pond. The fish always congregated here, on the other side of the pond at the end of this path. For many hours of late summer days and early Saturday mornings, I would walk this path.
Early walks on this path found me toting two items -- a reddish-brown cane pole in one hand and a simple white bucket in the other.
The pole would have come from John Thomas Walker's store. The bucket, which once held oil, was common on the farm. Serving many purposes, the bucket would hold the worms and a jar of water (there were no bottles then), provide a place to rest and if lucky, it would return with fish caught from the pond.
I never thought of the irony of the bucket until now. To think that a simple bucket has so many purposes is something only an angler could think of. At the end of the path, the bucket would be turned downside up so the base would face the sky.
Upon unraveling line from the knotty pole and baiting the hook with a worm dug from the barn, fishing would begin. Anticipation always is highest in the first few moments that bait is in the water. The slate is clean at this point, and until lift the hook from the water after a missed bite or when bait has drowned, you have not lost.
I began most fishing efforts on two feet. The aggression or hesitation of fish would determine when I would sit.
I found, as I waited for a biting fish, that I was not really at the end of a path. During these early days by the water, I thought of tackle and fish and boats and adventure and tactics and ideas and dreams that I wanted to accomplish as an angler and as a person.
I suppose you could say that the bucket, with its hard plastic and roundness, provided the ideal location for other paths to begin.
You see, like all aspiring anglers, a path has to have a beginning. But it was here at the end of a worn path made by cows and atop a bucket that my path and dreams began.
At some point, my trips along the path grew cumbersome as the cane pole was traded for spinning rods and the bucket housed a tackle box, worms and a drink that was not from a jar. And sadly, at some point, the bucket served only a purpose to hold fish, as I stood more or sat in a chair.
My trips to the pond eventually were from behind the wheel -- first driving a tractor, then the farm truck, then my first truck and now from the truck I drive daily. I put equipment on the tailgate now, and there frequently is no bucket in sight. When I fish the pond these afternoons of summer, it is from a boat and I routinely drift to the other side of the pond where the cow path ended.
From those early trips three decades ago, to the trip yesterday and last week, many changes have occurred. The cows, unfortunately, no longer roam the pasture. The fishing, well, I've let it become complicated.
But tomorrow, if I can find the right pole and if we can dig worms and if I can find two buckets, I'll take a youngster on a path around the pond. The path won't be one made by cows, but the bucket will be in the same spot as my own, years ago.
I cannot anticipate what the future might hold for me or for the youngster following along. However, in my mind, if I can sit him on a bucket, hand him a pole and the fish cooperate, who knows where his path may lead.
Buckets don't just carry; if you're lucky, they lead.
Enjoy your time outdoors.
