Why I Called It My “Final Fishing Trip” (Spoiler: I Lied)
Let me set the scene: A few weeks back, I declared my “final fishing trip of the season” and came home with a solid haul. I told myself I’d take a break, focus on other stuff, and let my fishing gear collect a little dust. But when the weekend rolled around, the sun was shining, and my calendar was empty? Yeah, that “final trip” lasted all of two days. I was up at 7:30 AM, rummaging through my gear bin, and out the door by 8:30. No regrets, zero shame.
The Chaotic (But Satisfying) Drive to the Spot
Here’s the thing about fishing near the city on a nice weekend: Everyone else had the same idea. I hit the highway and immediately saw a wall of cars creeping into the city, honking and inching along like slugs. I couldn’t help but cackle—because I was heading OUT of the city, not in. The rest of my drive was smooth sailing, windows down, radio blaring, and already daydreaming about the first bite of the day. I pulled up to my secret fishing spot at 9:20 AM, and let me tell you, my good mood almost crashed.
The spot was pretty quiet, and only one guy was reeling in anything. My first thought? “Great, the fish are on strike today.” But I didn’t drive all that way to turn around and go home. I grabbed my gear—including that bulky, heavy fishing platform I’ve been hauling around in my trunk for months but never used. Today was the day to shake things up.
My Lucky Red Platform: The Game Changer I Didn’t Know I Needed
Okay, I’ve heard all the silly fishing superstitions before, but there’s one I’ve never tested: People say red gear brings good luck, like it’s some kind of fish magnet. I figured, why not? I set up my bright red fishing platform, paired it with my 5.4m rod (and no, the longer 6.3m or 7.2m rods wouldn’t have reached this sweet spot—trust me, I checked), and got to work.
My go-to setup for slow days is the “meat sandwich” bait (a classic combo of worm and artificial bait) with no pre-baiting—just casting repeatedly to attract fish. I wasn’t expecting much on the fifth cast, but then I felt that telltale slow tug on the line. A “dead bite,” as we call it, not the quick, upward float I usually look for with carp. I reeled in, and holy cow—this fish had scales so bright and shiny, I thought it was reflecting the sun! It fought like a much bigger fish, even though it was on the smaller side. That first bite was all I needed to get hyped.
The Slow Start Turned Into Non-Stop Action
After that first surprise catch, the real action began. The bites were tiny—like half a flicker of the float, so subtle I almost missed them. The first few carp were small, but then I hit a streak: one after another, reel after reel. It was like the fish were lined up waiting for my bait!
Then I caught this guy:
Yeah, that little guy was longer than my lighter. I lost count of how many of those I reeled in, mixed in with a few horsehead minnows and a single mandarin fish (the fancy one with the sleek, silver body).
That mandarin fish? It was almost as long as my tube of all-purpose fishing bait, and I was so stoked when I reeled it in… right until I realized it was the only one I caught all day. I spent the next hour casting in the same spot, hoping its friends were hiding nearby, but no luck. Oh well, one is better than none!
The Big One (And The Rest of the Haul)
By midday, my arms were starting to burn, but I couldn’t stop. I reeled in my biggest catch of the day around 1 PM: a carp that had to be at least four ounces. It put up a fight, and I might have whooped a little when I lifted it onto the platform. I’ve caught bigger before, but there’s something special about a fish that fights back like it owns the place.
By 3:30 PM, my back was sore, my water bottle was empty, and my cooler was starting to get heavy. I packed up, did my usual quick sort: All the horsehead minnows and small carp went back into the water (they’ll be bigger and better next time), and the rest went into my cooler to take home.
Breaking My Rule: Keeping the Catch Instead of Releasing
Here’s my usual routine: I either release all my fish or give them to friends who live nearby. But today? I decided to be a little selfish. I’ve been craving crispy braised fish for weeks, and what better way to satisfy that craving than with fish I caught myself? I’m already mentally planning the recipe: slow-cooked in soy sauce, vinegar, and a little sugar, with plenty of garlic and ginger to make the house smell like a dream.
When I got home, I dumped the cooler on the kitchen table and started sorting and cleaning the fish. It’s a messy, tedious job, but there’s something satisfying about knowing exactly where my food came from. No grocery store mystery, no questionable labels—just fresh, wild-caught fish I worked hard to reel in.
Why I’ll Never Trust My “Final Fishing Trip” Declarations Again
As I’m writing this, my kitchen smells like fish and vinegar, and my fishing gear is spread out on the porch drying. I keep replaying the day in my head: the smooth drive out of the city, the slow start that turned into non-stop action, the one mandarin fish that got away (okay, not really, but I wish there were more).
Here’s the real takeaway: If you’re a fishing fan, never say “final trip.” The sun will come out, the fish will be biting, and you’ll be right back in your car, gear in tow, lying to yourself about taking a break. And that’s okay—because those are the days that make all the early mornings and sore arms worth it.
