It was early April 1991 and the shad run was already in full swing. It was a good year for the shad, and they were all a nice size. I’m 40 now, but I was just 11 that Friday afternoon that we set out to go fishing.
I was a lucky kid to have great people around me, and one of them was Mickey Strauss. He would take me fishing for shad, smallmouth, herring and stripers. When the river would start to heat up, the fish would start the run. First walleye, then shad, then herring and white perch. Then the stripers would chase them up the river. After that, the smallmouth would come alive.
Back then we would fish at Fireman’s Island, or maybe below the wing dam fishing for stripers, or we’d be out in the boat under the New Hope-Lambertville Bridge. During the shad run – herring as well – these spots would be packed with people. The spring run along this stretch has always been a great way to connect with people, focus on the bite, and relax in nature.
So that April day when we set out for shad, Mickey drove the boat up to the toll bridge, and we anchored close to the New Jersey side amongst all the other fishermen. It was just warm enough to wear shorts. We were anchored pretty close to each other, maybe 15 to 20 yards apart. All the guys were drinking beer, and if someone had gone out fishing without beer, another fisherman would throw him one. Sometimes they would smack one off the side of somebody’s boat. Needless to say, the guys seemed to be always trying to fish a beer out of the water with their nets.
We sat there and fished into the early evening. The shad were biting pretty regularly, and I think we already had 10 for the boat in short order. We usually fished with four rods, and occasionally, a school would come in and you would get doubles, sometimes even triples. That evening under the toll bridge, all it took was a double. Mickey had two hooked on the back of the boat, so he passed one of the rods to me.
We both started fighting our fish, but it wasn’t before long before Mickey reeled his in, netted it and brought it onboard. Now it was left to me to bring mine in. Sometimes you can’t tell how big a fish is until you fight it for a while. Other times you can tell the size from the very beginning. This time the fish that I had hooked seemed to be a decent size. It started taking line. I would gain on it and then it would take another 20 yards and run upstream. I’d get it close to the boat, but then it would go downstream.
Now, I’m a left-hander, and I was using a right-handed rod, so when the reel would come around, it would smack my knuckles halfway through the flight. My fingers were bleeding, and I was trying not to lose the fish. Shad have soft mouths and it’s easy to rip the hook out, so as much as it was fighting me, I had to use all my skills and finesse to not lose it. This went on for what seemed to be 25 minutes.
Along the way, we gathered the attention of other the fishermen. It was starting to become a spectacle! As the fish would come close to the boat, Mickey would laugh and say, “I’m going to knock it off your line with the net,” but, of course, he didn’t. He had tremendous patience with me. The fish started to get tired and closer to the boat. We tried to net it more than six times, but each time we would get it to the surface, it would run back out again.
The sun was now starting to set, the light beginning to fade. But the fight continued. Then all things came together. It rose to the surface. Mickey was in the right place in the boat, plunging the net deep in the water to pull out the fish. With the remainder of the sunlight shining on its silver belly, we stood there in amazement. The fishermen around us started to clap. Our job was done. We entered the fish into a fishing contest sponsored by the local auto parts store for the largest shad, and at 8 pounds, 12 ounces we won first prize. With the money that I won, I bought a few new fishing poles, one of those rods I still today; it’s a reminder of a simpler time.
I was a lucky kid to have people in my life that trusted and supported me. Mickey could have taken the rod away at any point, but instead, he let me fight the fish. He knew I could do it!
PHOTO
Tools of the trade for the Delaware River shad fisherman, young and old.
