While “Belonging” served as the inspiration and kickoff article for the “1,000 Words” series, this photo certainly could have taken top billing. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I have rarely ever hit the water without a camera for much of the last thirty five years. That’s a lot of fishing and a fair amount of success all captured for posterity. The result is well over a thousand pictures of myself and a multitude of fishing partners proudly showing off their trophies (nearly all of which were released to do battle again). But, hands down, this is my favorite fishing picture of all-time; the ideal finale to wrap up my “1,000 Words” series.

The youngster in the photo is my brother, Brent, with a two pound bass from Lake Storey that was caught on a buzzbait sometime during the summer of 1986. Despite my typically meticulous record keeping, this one somehow managed to slip through the cracks, which is probably the way it should be when reminiscing about our introduction to the pursuit of the largemouth bass. Over the years we’ve caught thousands more bass including hundreds that were larger, but this fish came from a different time.

Things have changed a lot since 1986.

Same kid in 2011 at The Emiquon Preserve

At that time, Dad, Brent and I were just starting to grasp what bass fishing was all about. Sure, Dad had caught plenty of nice bass over the years, but he was about to turn things up a notch with some help from two of his boys. All of us were broke and busy but still found a way to pursue this new and exciting hobby together. In those days we each had a couple rod and reel combos, a handful of bass lures, limited knowledge on how to use them and Dad’s small rowboat (it still floats and is sitting in my garage awaiting yet another adventure). Nowadays, we also resort to filling Dad’s old Bass Tracker with over a dozen rods and reels paired with forty or fifty pounds of tackle. Gas and electricity propel us rather than elbow grease and oars. An electronic depth finder now tells us how deep the water is rather than an anchor rope, an oar or the tip of an inverted fishing pole. With or without those luxuries, simply spending time on the water has helped to improve our skills and our catch rates; either we’re getting smarter or the bass are getting dumber, it’s open for debate.

Whatever the case, things have changed a lot since 1986.

I shot this picture with an old disk camera. In those days, “disk” indicated that the film was on a circular disk contained within a plastic cartridge, a far cry from today’s digital video discs or memory cards. I still remember picking up this camera for a significant discount when the Galesburg Hornsby’s store closed its doors in the mid 80’s. For some reason, I also recall purchasing a tackle box that I eventually gave away after upgrading as well as a handful of 45 rpm records. Anyway, I used that old disk camera until the film apparently went out of production and I was forced out of Stone Age photography. The last place I could find disk film was the now defunct Midwest Photo in Galesburg. They sold me the last ones they had amidst glances as if I’d arrived via time machine. I’m happy to report that I am now hip and fully digital after a number of years with the Advanced Photo System medium.

Things have changed a lot since 1986.

Same kid, same lake in 2018 as he established a new family Lake Storey Top Bass record

As previously noted, Brent’s 1986 bass was caught at Lake Storey. The specific location, seen beyond Brent’s left shoulder, will always be referred to as The Dump. During my high school and college days, from the summer of 1984 until the spring of 1990 I spent quite a few hours “working” at The Dump while employed by the City of Galesburg’s Park Department. As teenagers, me and my buddies quickly realized that when given our daily workload, it was best to make it last all day. Initially we would bust our tails and finish early only to be rewarded with some crummy job that none of the “full-timers” wanted. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that our orders were essentially, “Here’s your job for the day, get it done, stay out of trouble and don’t come back until quittin’ time.” So, that‘s what we did. Since we all played baseball we’d spend time goofing around at The Dump hitting rocks with sticks and taking target practice on bottles while staying out of the sight of any local taxpayers. I’m proud to say that my work ethic and ability to resist peer pressure have both improved.

Things have changed a lot since 1986.

Brent’s attire also deserves a mention. He is sporting what we used to refer to as “baseball sleeves.” These were the three quarter length sleeve shirts that were worn under the jersey of each season’s baseball team. During our careers, my brothers and I probably racked up every color under the rainbow. We wore blue for the Little League Rangers, Galesburg Legion or Hi-Lo Grocery, black for the Little League Giants and Galesburg Silver Streaks, red for Coca Cola, yellow for a local funeral home and finally purple or yellow for Knox College. Nowadays, we no longer need to purchase such athletic wear for ourselves as we’ve grown too busy, too old and too “Dad.”

Things have changed a lot since 1986.

Same boat, same photographer, same kid with a 2019 trophy catch from Snakeden Hollow 

While that 1986 pic obviously conjures up a cascade of memories, the one aspect that goes a long way towards making this my favorite fishing picture is “The Look.” As mentioned earlier, Dad had already landed his share of quality bass with his twenty plus year head start. However, Brent and I weren’t in the same boat, figuratively speaking. So, for a pair of young, novice anglers, the bass was literally the bass of a lifetime, something to brag about. I’m sure we couldn’t wait to get home to tell Dad about the trophy (which was released after the photo). The right lure, an accurate cast, the proper retrieve, a good hook set, steady pressure and a firm grip on the lip all added up to a prized catch. To me, “The Look” says that he knows what he’s doing, has it all under control and “luck” isn’t in his vocabulary, although back in those days we all knew better. But there’s still something inspiring in the picture of that 16 year old kid who appears barely able to suppress a grin, full of confidence and satisfaction over a job well done.

“The Look” is evident in countless other photos in my collection and will continue to surface as every cast bears the potential of magically turning any of us “experienced” anglers back into that 16 year old kid.

I am grateful that some things never change.

Talk to you later. Troy

Date: August 15-17, 1985
Location: Big Creek at Pat’s.
John, Brent, Doug and I went camping for three days and two nights and set out bank poles and a throwline. We started out with twenty poles and a ten hook throwline. During our trip we ran our poles three times, twice the second day and once the last day. We caught three on our first run (one hit a pole we had baited less than a minute and was about twenty five feet behind us). On our final run we caught four (one on our throwline), including a small flathead. The largest channel was 3.5 pounds; we also had a 1.75 pound fish and three or four 0.5 to 1.0 pound fish. Bait – used minnows and crawdads.

Portion of original log entry as detailed above

Beginning around 1984, this crew (and various other assorted characters) dove headlong into fishing (some of us quite literally at times). Along the way, we also did our share of goofing off as big kids get distracted just like little kids. The bulk of our “learning” took place at Lake Bracken although we also frequented Sperry’s Pay Ponds on occasion. We put in a lot of effort targeting either carp in the Lake Bracken spillway or anything that would bite on the main lake. All told we put in hundreds of hours rowing and beating the banks discovering a passion for fishing that remains with me to this day.

This particular adventure was concocted by four teenagers with a penchant for both the angling and the distractions. But this time we took our show on the road for a three day/two night vacation shortly before three of us headed off for college: a time when real jobs and responsibilities seemed about as remote as our campsite in The Big Timber.

A more recent shot of a couple guys from this crew

Starting from the left is John Junk who has been a friend since 1982 when we were teammates on the Galesburg High School sophomore basketball team. Previously we had been junior high basketball and Little League baseball opponents. We would later serve as co-captains for the Silver Streaks basketball team and then room together at Knox College where John continued his impressive basketball career. We then spent several years renting a house along with John’s brother Mark/”Geek” and another buddy, Matt “Hacksaw” Reynolds, worked together at a local plant, took part in each other’s weddings and enjoyed more than a few beers along the way. Though we rarely see each other these days, I’m proud to consider myself an honorary Junk and he will always be held in the same regard by my family.

Youth sports opponent and later teammate and friend, Doug Dawson

Next up is Doug Dawson whom I also befriended during the same time period when we played together as freshman on the Galesburg sophomore baseball team. I’d also known Doug as a rival during two seasons of the heated Lombard-Churchill Junior High basketball series. We took part in the football rivalry only once as he and his buddies (primarily GHS Hall of Famers Joe Dennis and Bob Jackson, who would later become friends and teammates) convinced me that baseball and basketball were much less painful pursuits. We’d also competed in Little League and Junior Hardball before teaming up in high school and American Legion baseball. In addition, we spent several summers working (most of the time) for the Galesburg Park Department. Doug went on to play some baseball at Carl Sandburg College and Olivet Nazarene College and last I knew lived somewhere in Iowa.

The campout wasn’t the first time me (left) and my brother, Brent (right), had been up a creek

I’m next and the kid with the tree branch in front of his face is my younger brother, Brent. Growing up, we used to joke about one of our parents having a tendency to chop heads off in photos. I’m not sure if she snapped this picture but it appears to be a similar mishap (if only we’d had the instant feedback afforded through today’s digital photography). Anyway, I’ve obviously known Brent his entire life. Our hardball careers started out as Little League teammates and would culminate in spending some time covering the left side of the infield together at Knox College. Later we would play softball together for a number of years, serve as best man in each other’s weddings and spend considerable time pursuing various fish species.

At the time of this adventure, Brent and I must have sufficiently matured to the point that Mom and Dad felt comfortable allowing us to go camping together unsupervised. For a number of years there was a distinct possibility that only one of us would have made it back home. As further proof, I don’t particularly recall being forced to let my younger brother tag along, I think we actually welcomed his presence. In fact, he was a more seasoned outdoorsman than any of the rest of us, having spent a fair amount of time hanging out with Dad and Uncle Dick as a youngster. These days I could probably give him a run for his money when fishing or camping but I concede in the areas of hunting and trapping.

The four of us camped in The Big Timber near a small creek that served as both a livewell and a baitshop (seining minnows and crawdads). Each time we ran our bank poles and throw lines we would haul our catch back from Pat’s Creek and stash them in a shallow pool that was dammed up on each end with rocks in order to prevent the fish from escaping. Fortunately, the raccoons didn’t get wind of our trophies as they would have had a fairly captive feast.

Our campsite was not far from The Waterfall which served as a swimming hole for some relaxation. I remember using BB guns to shoot snakes out of the bushes overhanging a portion of the pool prior to taking a dip, giving little thought to the prospect of the angry reptiles exacting revenge. Yet it wasn’t all valor as we were later startled by a large snake while making our way to Pat’s Creek to run our lines. I suspect that Doug was likely the most alarmed of the bunch since he was the one who actually stepped on it.

Checking and rebaiting our lines also held its share of adventures. The incident mentioned briefly in the original log entry was rather unusual as I can’t understand why a catfish would have been anywhere near a group of wild teenagers noisily tromping through the creek. I also recall the rest of us electing John to check several of the deeper holes when it appeared that we may have hooked a snapping or softshell turtle. Often, a turtle will rest on the bottom causing a steady bend in the pole. However, you can also be fooled by the hook or sinker catching on a root or snag. You never really know until grabbing the pole or poking under the water with a stick or dipnet handle. If it’s a turtle, things get quite exciting in the vicinity and equally amusing from a distance. I guess we figured that John had the longest arms which gave him the greatest distance between another angry reptile and human flesh. John was a good sport although I’m pretty certain that he wasn’t quite as fond of the arrangement as the rest of us. Since we did not hook a turtle, John can still boast of his courageousness while I’ve always been left to wonder just how quickly he could have exited armpit deep water with or without an unhappy creature attached to some part of his anatomy.

Most of what the four teenage boys discussed has been lost in the passage of time but I surmise that the majority of topics would either be uninteresting or unfit for print. Yet I do recall my computer genius/scientist younger brother schooling us in the laws of physics. The middle of nowhere, starry skies and the meager light of a campfire provided an ideal backdrop for pondering the complexities of the universe. I clearly remember his dissertation on inertia and momentum using the example of landing in the same spot when leaping upwards inside of a moving train. There was also a discussion concerning the behavior of a ball shot from the back of a pickup truck moving at various speeds in the opposite direction of the projectile. I believe he also explained why The Roadrunner cannot really avoid physical harm by simply stepping off of a plummeting rock platform just before it smashes into the ground at the bottom of a cliff. Interesting stuff for sure but I’m pretty certain he left us baffled as he approached infinity.

As far as table fare and accommodations, I really don’t have a clue although we apparently had a plan as we all returned safe and sound. I would have to guess that the meals were not too involved (read hot dogs, sandwiches and donuts) and shelter was probably somebody’s tent. Whatever the case, I’m sure we felt pretty rough. For me there was certainly a feeling of independence and investment as it was “our” fishing trip with the nearest parent some forty miles away. That meant something as a teenager.

Many years later I discovered a second pic but still favor the original “tree branch” version

Beyond the adventures, the simple image of the four skinny guys always brings a smile. Obviously, we’re no longer teenagers and if you’ve seen us, we’re also no longer quite as skinny. The four men have probably “matured” enough that our additional weight could account for another skinny kid joining the photograph. I am proud to say that through some hard work in the last year, I’m only about twenty pounds (as opposed to formerly about fifty pounds) heavier than that eighteen year old in the camo pants.

Looking back at this photo I can’t help but be reminded that nowadays I’ve got four kids of my own. Sometimes I’d sure like to send them out to the woods for a few days. Talk to you later. Troy