I can’t really pinpoint when the obsession started. What I do know is that a fishing rod has been an extension of my arm since I was a kid. Whether it was casting back bays for big largemouth, or hours of trolling for giant pike; fish so big (at least to a kid anyway) that my arms would ache for hours afterwards.
Maybe it was watching a monster musky engulf a three pound bass on the end of my uncle’s line; watching him fight that musky for what seemed like an eternity, yet never getting a good look at the fish again.
Maybe it was the fall salmon migration, skipping school and spending countless hours tossing big spinners and spoons at aggressive, angry fish
It could have been the spring trout openers. Lying awake all night, to excited to sleep, as if it were Christmas Eve; visions of rainbows dancing in my head.
Or maybe it was the annual walleye weekend in May. Patently waiting for the midnight opener, then making the trek across the lake where the incredible fishing made me forget just how tired and cold I was.
The list of impressionable moments can go on and on, but the truth is, rifling through these memories won’t get me any further ahead than I am right now. It’s impossible to pinpoint the exact moment where hobby turned to passion and passion to obsession. All I know is that it isn’t something that eases with age; in fact it only gets worse. If I’m not fishing I’m writing about it. If I’m not writing about fishing I’m reading about it. If I’m not reading about fishing I’m, well…… obsessing.