I plopped down on the creek bank beneath the boughs of an old north Florida live oak. My chosen seat was cool, damp, and smelled like earth. Beg pardon, Pearl Buck, but it was Good Earth, and my live oak a very good tree.

Before leaning back and making myself comfortable in the welcomed shade, I reflected for an instant on the relative rarity of a mature live oak’s growing this close to the water’s edge. Strange, I thought. Ought to be a willow, or maybe a cypress. Ah, but such a shade. In the end, I just thanked the unknown squirrel that buried the acorn there and forgot where he put it. Given the oak’s size, that was likely better than a hundred years ago. That gives me goose bumps.

Lazily, I uncoiled line from my ultralight spinning reel and, squinting, threaded it through the eyelets of my rod. I fingered the contents of the small paper bag in my cluttered shirt pocket and extracted a number-8 wire hook, a BB split shot, and a tiny bullet-shaped bobber. Accordingly, and just as lazily, I attached this traditional trio of terminal tackle to the end of my 4-pound-test monofilament. Next came one little earthworm, a red wiggler, excavated from the moist debris inside my bait cup. Without thought to PETA and with little regard to the degree of pain an annelid feels when punctured, I impaled the segmented critter upon my hook.

This day began as more of a creek-side stroll than a serious fishing trip. Actually, I brought along my tackle more from habit than anything else. I was much too relaxed (lazy?) to expect, or even want, to lug home a stringer full of fish at trip’s end. But, hey, when a fella’s fished for over half a century, old habits die hard. When he gets near a stretch of likely water, he’s just gotta fish, even when he isn’t very serious.

I adjusted my bobber to a depth of about two feet and with an underhand flip tossed my baited rig into the creek. I watched nonchalantly as the orange-and-white float danced lazily in the gentle current.

With heavily lidded eyes, I moments later saw the cork disappear beneath the water’s surface. Instinctively, I set the hook and, after a short-but-enjoyable battle, an eight-inch yellow bullhead joined me on the bank. The little catfish was a mite more energetic than its captor and I was very nearly finned as I subdued it, extracted the hook, and eased it gently back into the stream.

For some reason, that uneventful catch got my attention and fueled me with familiar fisherman’s adrenaline. I became more alert, looking forward to the next indication of a bite. It came shortly, in the form of a hand-sized redbreast, which was duly hooked, brought to hand, and released. Still, though, I was not energetic or hungry enough to string anything.

My next cast produced a three-finger bluegill, followed by another redbelly, two more small catfish, and a 12-inch largemouth bass. I sat and fished until noon, in that one spot, until my bait was gone. I found myself wishing I’d bought two cups of worms. My blood was up. I thought about driving into town to replenish my bait supply.

But I didn’t. I calmed myself and simply walked away. As I left the creek behind me, I contemplated the experience I’d just had and wondered about it.

Who’d have thought it? How could pulling a few small fishes from a tiny ribbon of easily accessible water get me so excited? Then it dawned on me. The answer was simple.

More than 50 years ago, long before I ever met a mountain trout, an Atlantic tarpon, a Louisiana redfish, or a trophy largemouth, I sat on a stream bank in southeast Alabama, much like the one I had just occupied. With a hand-cut fishing pole, I hauled in one tiny bluegill, my first fish. The self satisfaction of that moment, coupled with the praise I received from my sainted grandfather, spawned one of the happiest days of my life.

It suddenly dawned on me that I had come full circle. I was back at the beginning. The simple, no-frills fishing of my youth was exciting again. Jaded when I arrived, I was not so when I left.

I did not shout hallelujah. The setting was much too peaceful for such a disturbance. Instead, I whispered it.

Quietly.

Sincerely. (Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream.net)