For most of my high school years, I lived next to a pond. This wasn’t some secret, backwoods farm pond or private golf course pond. Just a typical, Northern Virginia, water retention/park pond. But it was only a five-minute walk from my house. And seeing as I didn’t have a car until right before my senior year, a walk of that length fit the bill quite nicely.

For most of the 1990’s and early 2000’s, Loudoun County was not only the fastest growing county in the commonwealth, but in the whole country. Between federal jobs, government contractors, and technology corporations, everyone was coming to what was once just horse and sod farms. The infrastructure buckled under the weight of hundreds of thousands of homes lining freshly paved cul-de-sacs. But by and large, attention was paid to the green space that bolstered the environment, mitigated flooding, and presented a few idyllic, leisure opportunities.

In these spaces there were ponds. And in these ponds, there were fish.

Largemouth bass, channel catfish, common carp, along with various and sundry panfish were introduced to these ponds through a number of measures. Today the associations stock the ponds, but back nearly twenty years ago the word was that people would catch big fish in the Potomac and bucket them in. (Consequently, we’d also have the occasional piranha “scare.” Who would have dreamed of snakeheads all those years ago…)

The fish sometimes got large. There were always murmurs of bass that pushed that ten-pound milestone. Such an achievement would be noteworthy anywhere, let alone in an eight-acre lake surrounded by townhomes. I had catfish snap fifteen-pound test, carp run me into my backing, and bluegill that hardly fit in my hand. Don’t let the jogging trails and mown-down-to-the-bank scenery fool you: these ponds were no joke.

Upon moving back to the area last week, I made getting out to a pond with a fly rod a priority. My four-year-old loves all things fishing, outdoors, and Daddy, so he came too. Although my current address puts me in close proximity to a few really quality ponds, I decided that I would drive us over to the one I used to live near. I talked it up to my little guy. He was psyched. I was psyched.

The familiarity of the scene was incredibly strong. After not fishing at the pond for over 15 years, a lot came rushing back to me. I was aware of the smells, the contours of the bank, and the ominous impediments to my back cast. But with a child swinging a popper around, there isn’t much opportunity for whimsical reminiscence.

I had him on a big bluegill within a few minutes. I double hauled his little four-weight out there as far as I could and got a good hookset on this fish so he could stay occupied for a while. But it was a lot more than either of us had bargained for. The thing pulled line, bulldogged, and made a spectacle of us. Passersby stopped to watch the little boy fight the leviathan, called in by his squeals of shock and delight.

It was awesome.

I know this is about returning to the pond I fished as a child, but let me tell you: watching my son fight this chubby male sunfish blows any of the big fish I’ve caught out of the water. Unless you’ve had the experience yourself, it is probably hard to comprehend the utter joy of seeing your boy pulling hard on an angry panfish – all the while giving his own exuberant play by play of “this is awesome” and “I love you, Dad!”

Yeah, you can have all the fancy gear, blogs, and industry goings-on. I’ll take more of those moments.

But I guess they are kind of part and parcel with each other. My love for all things fly fishing undoubtedly influences his. He knows about some of the gear that I’ve received through writing, and he thinks the guys at those companies are “cool.” He knows that I fished in this pond when I was a teenager, and that I caught bass and sunfish with my friends on hot summer days. That I learned to fish here, just like he is learning to fish here.

Loudoun County isn’t the same place I left over fifteen years ago. But it, like anyplace (and anything) else, has the constant of being constantly changing. New subdivisions exist where one would never imagine they could cram a few dozen half-million dollar homes. Restaurant choices today probably outnumber residents a few generations ago. But that is the price of growth and, coincidentally but not intrinsically, success.

Personally, I’d like to think the same thing is happening in my life. I didn’t get a chance to cast much on that fishing trip. I was either untangling his line or taking fish off for him. I’d literally get him ready to cast, take ten steps away, and then hear him shout “fish!” But that “complication,” that “density” of my time – even my fishing time is indicative that I’m doing something right. That, by God’s grace, I’m in a situation where life is so much busier and crazier and richer and better.

One week into this next step in my life and I’ve already had numerous moments of confirmation that I’m doing the right thing. I haven’t spent a minute on a trout stream, haven’t met up with a single angling contact, and haven’t even unpacked all of my fly gear. But driving around this town, spending time fishing and with my family has bolstered the career/calling/whatever else that makes up everything that I’m doing. I’m seeing places and remembering things that I’d forgotten about from some really formative years of my life.

Like the compounding sprawl around me, I’m reminded that it is all built on and from something. In the same way that the landscape has been permanently altered by dynamite, bulldozers, and concrete pylons, I can’t go back to the way things were when I was 15, 20, or 25. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Everything and everyone else has changed, so why would I want to revert? I might be fishing less, but I’m fishing better. In skill, expertise, and appreciation. And no offense to my cadre of fishing buddies: I’ve never been as excited watching anyone else catch a fish than I was this past week with my son.

Returning home is a risky proposition. Ecosystems are fragile and rivers themselves change their course. But if you do it right, including having the right expectations and priorities, you can go home again. And you can go fish as a better person.