Note: The Game Fish Issue—Vol. 130, No. 1 of the Field & Stream Journal—is out now! To get your copy, become a member of the 1871 Club.
My best spring break ever got off to a disastrous start. This was senior year of high school. While many of my classmates were packing for a week in the Florida sun, two of my best friends and I were gearing up for a week of trout camp in Kentucky. The drive from St. Louis took six or seven hours. The entire way, our spirits—and angling optimism—soared.
That all vanished on the first night.
We’d arrived with just enough time to set up camp and fish for an hour in the evening light. We struck out to fish three different stretches of the stream—and came back with the same report: None of us caught a trout. None of us even saw a trout. After dinner, as we sat around the campfire, we agreed to drive farther up the river the next day. We hit the sack, hopeful that things would improve on day two.
Things got worse.
During the drive to new water, our car broke down. Between the time it took for a tow truck to arrive and the wait at the repair shop, we lost an entire day of fishing. The unplanned expenses also left us broke. Fearful of not being able to pay for more repairs if the car broke down again (a real possibility), we decided to cut our losses. We packed up and drove home.
The next afternoon, as Joe, Andy, and I were unpacking the car, Joe mentioned that a neighbor of his had a farm in the country, about an hour from where we lived, and on that farm were two ponds.
“They’re loaded with bass, crappies, and the biggest bluegills you’ve ever seen,” Joe said. “We got the invite to fish there this weekend.”
A pair of farm ponds were a far cry from the mountain stream teeming with wild trout that I’d envisioned as the setting for my spring break. But what else did I have going on?
“I’m in,” I said.
Once you tallied all the kid brothers and rugrat cousins who were also invited, there were more than a dozen of us scattered around the banks of the two small ponds. Being the snob I was back then, I was the only angler casting fly tackle.
I didn’t need long to figure out why the rest had chosen live bait. Within minutes of their first casts, everyone but me had hooked a fish or two. As the morning wore on, every time a kid hollered as he set the hook into another fish, I became more aware of my predicament: I was on my way toward getting skunked on a stocked farm pond. My desperation peaked when I saw the first bluegill that was reeled in. Joe wasn’t kidding: It really was the biggest I’d ever seen. I’d have done anything to catch one in that moment…even steal a nightcrawler from the nearest kid’s stash and stick it onto the hook of my Woolly Bugger.
The ploy paid off. On my first cast, I caught a crappie. But as I repeated the dirty trick on a few more fish, two things dawned on me: (1) No one was impressed that I was catching fish on a “fly.” (2) Every-one was still having more fun than me.
I swallowed my pride and put down the 3-weight in favor of a spinning rig. I threaded a beefy nightcrawler onto a baitholder hook, cast into some vegetation, and waited for the bobber to plunge.
When it did, I couldn’t hide my smile.
I must’ve gone through an entire Styrofoam box of worms that afternoon, catching one bass and panfish after the next. By the time we packed the cars to drive home, the Kentucky debacle was a distant memory. All it took for me to remember how much fun fishing could be was a trip to a farm pond, surrounded by kids giggling and erupting with glee over catching fish with worms.
Best spring break ever.
I often thought about that day while we assembled the Game Fish Issue—the first 2025 edition of the Field & Stream Journal. If you're already a member of the 1871 Club, awesome; your copy of the magazine should arrive in the mail any day now. If you're not a member of the 1871 Club, sign up here to ensure you'll get a copy of this jam-packed journal.
Once you get your copy of the issue, and as you read the stories, one thing that I hope comes through is just how much fun game fish can provide. Don’t get me wrong: I love the challenge that comes with tarpon, the thrill that’s synonymous with steelhead, the solitude that a trout river provides. And you’ll find all of that in the pages to come. But you’ll also find stories that capture the joy of a bluegill strike, the euphoria of netting a lunker bass, and the hilarity that ensues when a bunch of rowdy ice anglers get together.
Welcome to the Game Fish Issue.
