Top_Heavy's World

It was going to take all of our talent and creativity to get them to bite. We could see the school of trophy fish, huge, awesome fish, as they swam around the structure. Even the average fish in this school was as large as our personal bests, we were excited and amazed at even getting a chance at a group like this. Mixed species swam in the crystal clear water. The depth was considerable, over our heads for sure. The close proximity of this many huge fish to our location was enough to drive us wild!
We had the best equipment we could get our hands on, the best line and terminal tackle in our area. We spent countless hours practicing for this trip. We often took turns casting into buckets at unknown distances until it was automatic, our aim almost precise. We pretended to be fish for each other, one of us grabbing the rod and the other the line. The "fish" would pull and make huge romantic runs, shaming the sailfish on the Virgil Ward show. We would jump as high as our legs would push us, as though we were Dolphin or Tarpon. We would hold, almost until the line broke, like a grouper, holding its depth against the oil rigs. As the fisherman, we used our cunning and calculated pull then real, pull then real method, we made the American Sportsman hosts look like amatuers. We fought the "fish" up to the side of the boat, dock or pier, the rod almost doubled over... with careful reach, we would grab the fin and land our trophy. The fisherman would call out what he caught and how big... the "fish" would then call out what HE thought he was, based upon personal preference and amount of fight he put into the show. I was usually a shark or a sailfish, anything that was known for long runs and fantastic aerial displays. Andy was much younger, smaller and thus more controllable by me. He would claim to be a snook, a Great White Shark or a Barracuda, while I would only call him a throw back bass or catfish, never allowing him to be anything glamorous or exotic.
We grew up together, my younger brother and I, on a simple farm in Iowa. We had no water feature to play in, no lake, pond or stream close by. As we got older, we were allowed to travel the half mile to the Otter Creek. This rapidly flowing stream was heaven in the sun for a pair of young boys. We grew up there amongst those trees and ripples, currents and pools. We practiced each spring for our annual fishing trip. We went to trophy lakes across the north in search of record fish, all species were in trouble when Andy and I were on the prowl. Our constant work would prove valuable as our talents would be tested on a day like this...
Our plans were made, we would take turns using the rod, I went first, after all I was 4 years older. We would get one bait, if the bait was lost, or if a fish was caught, the other person got the rod. The spotter or nonfisherman was to constantly be looking for the largest fish in the school, this sight fishing method proved deadly on selectively harvesting only the biggest fish. The bait was threaded, delicately, onto the rigging, just a tiny piece of tail hanging free to entice the delicate biters. Slowly setting the bait infront of the sought after fish proved to be the best way to prevent ripples or splash that sent them deeper. We worked the tiny baits with the passion only a seasoned angler could have. Fish after fish fell prey to our presentation...

This picture is of the hefty catch from that fateful day in 1980. I am going to start a series of stories about growing up, brothers, and the loves that keep me grounded. We should all be so lucky as to never forget where we came from