On a brisk Saturday morning, the wind nipped at my face. I saw the reflection of the blazing fall leaves on the water of northern Wisconsin. It was a Saturday morning ritual to wake up early and fish.

I hadn’t caught anything, but I knew that was going to change. With a juicy worm on my hook, and the line in the perfect position, I was confident that today I would catch a big one.

I felt a slight tug and without hesitation, cranked the reel. I pulled the line up… but nothing. I regained my composure and tried again.

It began to drizzle. The droplets gave me goose bumps and made it increasingly difficult to see the water’s ripples. Peering through the mist, I thought I saw the bobber dip below the surface. So once again, I furiously reeled and pulled the line up… but nothing. Frustrated, I checked my worm and cast again.

This is it. The rain had let up and the wind had died down. I was afraid to blink in fear that I would miss something. The bobber started to drift slowly to the right. I thought it was a mirage, but then it was sucked out of view. I jumped to my feet and tore at the reel. This time I knew I wasn’t going to come in empty handed. I heaved the line up and on the end was the biggest fish I’d ever seen.

I screamed, “Dad!” But he didn’t hear me. Being only ten the fish looked as big as me. After a struggle and multiple shouts, my dad finally came down. We got the hook out and I posed for a picture, which now hangs in my room. This is one of my fondest memories of up north, and my favorite fishing story.