Feb 10 Favorite Spot

The Fishing Hole

I've lived in Noblesville, Indiana since the day that I turned five, and nearly every memory that I can conjure can be traced to that Indiana home. We moved into the house we still live in now, a two story ranch with pale khaki siding and forest green shudders. And when a hot summer day came along where any activity more extensive than walking made you sweat buckets, we voyaged to the greatest place in the neighborhood: the fishing hole. We'd pack up our tackle boxes and fishing poles and jump on our bikes (it was worth the sweaty ride). Dropping our bikes off at the curb a few minutes later, we'd grab our gear and embark on our journey through back yards, along picket fences, and past shady locks of forest. Finally, we'd come to an old path, complete with dilapidated wooden steps that led straight down to Morse reservoir. We would pertch ourselves on that little rock shelf in the shade of that massive beech tree and start to bait our hooks and test our reels. The sun would try its hardest to beat down and burn our small unprotected faces, but to no avail. The large beech with over grown ivy winding up its trunk stood guard as chatted and laughed in the shade of its strong branches. The water would come up to the rock shelf and splash against it ever so gently. From where we sat, we could see the occasional speed boat go whomping by with screaming water skier in close pursuit. It would then be only a couple of minutes before the waves from the passing machine would come and smack against the stone shelf, probably scaring away any fish that had been there seconds before.

If I recall correctly, we never really caught any fish of noteworthy size at this fishing hole. Usually just 4 or 5 inch blue gill or the occasional sunfish (my favorite because they're absolutely gorgeous). There was that one time that my wily neighbor convinced me to replace my bait worm with bread and I ended up catching a 2 foot carp (the most vile and disgusting fish I've ever seen). It just dangled on the end of my line because no one wanted to touch it and finally the line snapped under the fat creature's weight and it swam away with a little token of our gratitude still lodged in its lower lip. No, it's not the fishing that brings back the memories, its the smell. The fishy, stagnant water smell that completely filled that little fishing cove. Thinking about it now, I probably wouldn't be able to stand it for more that a few minutes, but along with the smell was the scenery. Tall, strong beech tree and the overgrown ivy. The rock shelf where one may find a decent skipping rock amongst the broken glass and rusty fish hooks. The old wooden steps, adjacent to an old rotting deck where one can't help but imagine a lively family barbeque taking place sometime many years ago. All these things enhance the experience into something more than a day trip to the fishing spot.