Tony's firm grip on a "hammer handle" pike.

There's something special about a personal first. I'll never forget my first solo ride on a bicycle. It brings to mind my first catastrophic bicycle wreck when I managed to get a corn cob stuck up my nose. Such things tend to stick in one's mind for a lifetime.

Each time that I have the pleasure to guide anglers on their first fishing trip to the Nebraska Sandhills, I'm reminded just how special this adventure is. Last week, my long-time fishing buddy, Vince, brought along a pal who had some fishing experience, but never in the Sandhills. Tony was in for a treat.

"Wow, listen to those birds!" he exclaimed as he crawled from the truck. Canada geese pairs were scattered about the meadows and sitting on their nests atop the muskrat lodges. Acres of cattails which framed the lake were alive with yellow-headed and red-winged blackbirds, marsh wrens, and distant bitterns. I smiled as Tony scrambled for his well-worn Nikon camera. I could tell that he was going to enjoy this day even if the fish didn't bite.

Once on the water Vince almost immediately hooked a pike and Tony had one mouthing his lure but didn't get the hook set. "You really have to jerk back hard when you feel them take the bait," I explained. "Pike have iron jaws and clamp down on your lure."

We had a stiff northwest wind so I steered the boat across to calmer water where Tony declared, "This is beautiful out here. Look how blue the water is!"

Later that morning, I maneuvered the boat into a quiet bay and told Tony to get his camera ready. "This looks like a good spot to get a photo of the elusive little marsh wren. They are easy to hear but not so easy to see," I explained. "They are loud like the house wren but are well camouflaged in the cattails."

Suddenly, Vince yelled "Yep!" and I looked to see him straining against a good fish. We scrambled for the net as the pike tested Vince's reel drag. The powerful fish surged into some cattail roots and I figured that would be the last we saw of it. But miraculously, it turned and came back out and I was able to scoop it into the landing net.

"Thirty-one and a half inches," I announced to the excited anglers as I laid the pike on my yardstick marker. We took some photos then Vince returned the fish to it's watery domain.

As I pointed the boat out of the lagoon Vince said that he was hung up. I looked and saw his lure stuck on submerged coontail moss behind me. I grabbed his line and gently pulled the lure free. Just as I said he was unhooked, a pike engulfed the lure right underneath me. I knew that Vince had a bunch of slack in his line that was draped the length of the boat so I gave the line a hard jerk with my hand, then let go. "Vince! You've got a fish!" I yelled. After another hard-fought battle we netted the thirty-two and half incher.