Less than two weeks ago I wrote “The Last Time You’ll Fish.” I’ve included a link to the article below, but here’s the gist of it: There are places that you have gone fishing that you will never fish again. Some of these places aren’t anything special. Others, when framed in this manner, are the kinds of places that you’ll make a concerted effort to get back to. Sometimes you can do something about it. Sometimes, you can’t. My goal in writing? It wasn’t to cause anyone to mourn. Rather, the intention was to share a few works with the intention of getting you to think.
So here I am, two weeks later, realizing I’m having to think about my own words.
When I started fishing in earnest I was in 8th grade. The summer of that year, I moved to a new house that was only a five minute walk from a large pond. The Northern Virginia pond was surrounded by townhomes, ballfields, and a public pool. But it held fish. There were big bass, plentiful sunfish, and monster catfish. I could fish there whenever I wanted. Homework was a priority in those days; but it was behind fishing in the overall hierarchy. Following Saturday morning fishing shows, I’d head to the pond to emulate what I learned from Bill Dance and Roland Martin.
I fished in other ponds in town. Once I could drive, I would fish all over the Mid Atlantic. I went off to college. But I would always return to that pond. For nearly a decade, that pond was an integral part of my life.
That last statement is significant because I can think of plenty of non-fishing moments that took place at the pond. There was silly middle school melodrama. There were important park bench conversations. The rehearsal dinner for my wedding was held in an adjacent function hall. Some of my boys’ foundational fishing moments happened there, too.
I’ve always had family in the area. So even though I make efforts to visit some premium trout an smallmouth fisheries in the region when on vacation, I readily carve out time for the pond. This summer that is going to change. It is a good change for everyone. I’m happy for my family and their anticipated new home. And all the aforementioned sentimentality surrounding this subdivision pond doesn’t even register when thinking about what vacations will be like moving forward.
But if I stop and think about it, I can acknowledge that I’ll miss catching a few sunfish in the pond. Perhaps being done fishing that pond is representative of the conclusion to the epilogue to my time in Northern Virginia. It isn’t so much about being done with one thing as it is about being done with a lot of things. Again: I’m okay with that. It is just good to think about it. It is good to reminisce. It is also good to plan.
I know that I’ll probably have one more chance this summer to fish the pond. It is a place that is only special because of the meaning I’ve given it. But that is worth packing a fly rod, dropping a cup of poppers in my pocket, and ensuring a few hours are set aside for the last time I’ll fish there.
Maybe.
Here’s the original article: The Last Time You’ll Fish