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Some men have a so-called midlife crisis when they turn 50. The number is a stark reminder that our lives are well more than half over. Many of us try to deny our fading and failing bodies by buying late-model European sports cars and using pills and ointments in a desperate attempt to retain the same virility, muscle tone, and short-term memory we had in our 20s.

I understood this well-documented reaction to aging on an intellectual level but didn’t really feel it until an AARP application arrived in my mailbox earlier this year. I stared at the envelope for a week but didn’t dare open it. Just what would be my reward for turning 50? A free large-print book? A discount on an early-bird special dinner at a chain restaurant? Or even (please, no!) The Clapper?

The thought was frightening. No wonder so many 50-year-olds run out to get botulism toxins injected into their face wrinkles and start using the salutation “Dude!” to begin every conversation.

What I wanted to do instead was what had always made me feel right about life—go fishing. A whole lot of fishing. And therein lay a perfect way to mark my 50th: Instead of staring aghast at 50 candles on a birthday cake, I’d spend a week trying to catch 50 different species of fish. It would be an exhilarating way to celebrate an inauspicious birthday, and cheaper than buying a car shaped like a giant Rapala Fat Rap.

To do this I needed a place that wasn’t too far from home, where I could spend a week without spending a fortune, where I’d have access to docks and boats and guides and a lot of water, so I could spend as much time as possible fishing. And, of course, where I’d have a realistic chance of catching 50 species.