Showing posts with label Perch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Perch. Show all posts

Friday, July 30, 2021

Fish On

 


There you are, sitting on the porch. It's hot, and you've prayed the morning Office, walked to the Pick 'n Steal, drunk that 20 ounce Yeti tumbler of coffee, checked the news and wondered if "hell in a handbasket" isn't too mild. So what to do? Go fishing, of course.

And that's what happened, put those CDC Stasi guidelines in your knapsack and head off to the water, to what used to be a Cretaceous sea. 20 minutes later, there I was, casting off from the prehistoric reef, sun beating down with ferocious intensity. Would the fish bite?




Sure enough they did, round about Midday. Pretty much every cast a fish, and all Perch/Bluegill, some of them large and full of fight. In fact, they were all full of fight and I lost count. Great result. Then, just as I was beginning to melt, a fierce, predatory tug. Drag out, rod double, what's this? A good sized Bass, in you come.




Walking back to the truck meant walking over countless fossils, the crystallized relics of our primeval past. There they were, frozen in stone, under the glare of a Texan sun. Imagine, if you can, a series of great reefs, breaking up a sea which stretched from the Gulf of Mexico to Austin and beyond. Or something like that.




Above it glided Pterosaurs and in the water, ferocious beasts. Perhaps today's fish are their descendants, they're certainly fierce enough. In other news, some pals are fishing in the sea, off some island. Blessed are ye poor.

Tight Lines,

LSP

Monday, April 19, 2021

Gone Fishing

 


A beautiful, balmy, spring day in Texas. So what to do? Go fishing, and that's exactly what happened. I drove off to Soldiers' Bluff on Lake Whitney and cast out into the depths. Would the piscine adversary bite?




Hard to tell, the climate's been strange lately, thanks to its Czar, Wooden Top, and this confuses the fish, so anything was possible. To be honest, I wasn't expecting much. But what am I saying? How much more do you want than an early afternoon under the free Texan sky?




As it was, I caught a drum and a couple of perch. Not bad, and all good action on a light rod. Then it was back to the Compound to recoup before jukebox action and tracking the Shiba on various charts. Stay tuned and regardless, a good day.

Fish on,

LSP

Thursday, August 27, 2020

Texas is Very Awesome



How can Texas be awesome when the very air itself threatens to ignite, like an air bomb? Surely this sounds more like the anteroom of Hell than anywhere good. 

Not so fast, team. Yes, it may be hot but there are benefits, such as frontier style bluffs and Patriot Barges. No one's defunding the police here because they're not stupid.




And fish. Lots of fish, even in the heat of a late August afternoon. I know this because, after visiting with the flock, I headed over to the marina for some action, and got it. 




A lot of perch, mostly small but pretty much every cast a fish, always good, and few large, ferocious, piranha style keepers, which I didn't keep. Again, wasn't in the mood to clean, beer batter and fry 'em up. Foolish, I know, tomorrow being Friday, but whatever. Next time.




Then, at the very end, something ferocious took the line. Tug! Hookset! drag out, well at least for a bit, and up came a random predator bass. Great result. Bass on, what a lot of fun. And while some say fishing's a kind of therapy for trauma, conscious or otherwise, it's also good in itself. Fast, sometimes furious aquatic action. I find this exciting, like hunting but on the water.




Mission accomplished, I headed back to the safety of the Compound and it began to rain. Yes, rain. Beautiful, and yet another reason to thank God for his glory and Texas for awesomeness.

Your Friend,

LSP

Monday, July 20, 2020

Decisions, Decisions



Sure, you can sit in front of a screen in slack-jawed consternation as churches burn, statues of Christ and saints are vandalized, and a corporate-sponsored Marxist putsch plays out in Democrat run  cities, or you can go fishing. Such is free will, it entails choice. I chose to go fishing.


For Every Lure You Buy You Have to Get Rid of Three

Nothing fancy, just a marina on Lake Whitney, and it's not even hard. All you need's a rig, Texas, a couple of rods, some bait and a day pack full of lures, hooks, weights, knives, descalers, water, bobbers and all of that. I tell you, if you're not careful that "day pack" will turn into a full-scale bergen (ruck) as if it were some kind of bloated government agency. Choose to avoid that fate.


A Bird

That in mind, I strolled down the pier to the cleaning station, admiring the big hot sky, the surround-sound of cicadas, and the exciting prospect of fish. Would they choose to bite, would the small cooler full of frozen shad, perch and fresh worms entice them onto the hook? Only time would tell.


Beat The Black Drum

And it did, in the triple digit noonday sun. Long story short, the fish had heatstroke and were cooling off in deeper waters, so the going was slow. Still, I reeled in a couple of 'gills and a decent little drum, enough catching, just, to vindicate the expedition and then something tugged on the line; a soupy, lazy, sluggish tug, as if the fish was half-asleep. 


What's This? A Snag, Annoyingly

Huh. Quick experimental hookset and... KABOOM. Rod double, line out, diving, pulling, running action. What is this? A monster bass, a mega cat, a shark? No, none of those things. Some five minutes later it was a huge Buffalo (carp but not a carp), a huge fish on a light rod, big fun.

When the enormous beast finally tired of fighting the ancient mariner and came to the surface, I marveled at the prehistoric set of the thing. Large, jurassic, glistening scales and the sheer immensity of the watery beast, perhaps the largest fish I've ever caught. Then, just as I was hauling it onto the dock for a photo op, the line broke above the hook and Leviathan returned to the depths.




Well done fish, well done fisherman. And with that it was time to head back to the Compound. 

Choose wisely, my friends.

Fish on,

LSP

Thursday, July 2, 2020

Fish On, Commies




Do you feel our nation's at a turning point, a crisis, an existential decision which freedom-loving patriots have to make against God-hating, freedom-despising Marxists? Feels that way, at least to me, so to get some air I went fishing.




Nothing fancy, just the marina on Lake Whitney, and lo and behold, caught a good Bass, a junior Cat, and a handful of Perch. Big fun and I lost count. But all of this action was on a casting rod armed with worms, it produced, obviously.




The second rod was equipped with a Perch head, cast into the depths and left there. I was hoping it'd attract the BIG FISH. You know, leviathan cats, monster bass and on. 

Sure enough, the Perch head magic started to work and the rod twitched, bobbed, went double and on more than a few times. But I didn't close the deal.




In fact, the fish closed the deal, stealing one perch head and one perch tail, leaving the hook to fend for itself. Huh. Next time I'll cut the bait up into smaller chunks, easier for the predatory, cannibalistic fish to get their mouth around.




Is there a moral in this? Quite possibly. Would it be better in a boat? That's another question again.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

First Fish Of The Year



As the morning's evolution drew to a close and sun shone through the mist like the warming hand of God, it seemed right to test the waters and fish. So I climbed in the rig and headed out to the dam in search of action, first time this year.




I wasn't expecting much, to be honest, it being deep Texas winter January and solidly off-season, so having the pier to myself wasn't unsurprising, pleasant though. Regardless, I cast off in search of fish, steeling myself for disappointment. As in "hey, it's really good to be outside in the clean air of the Brazos even if nothing bites" type of deal.




But no, they were on, and on and on and on. I stopped after three perch, three cats, two striper and one crappie. OK, they weren't huge but they weren't shabby either, especially the striper which put up a good fight.




So that was that, first catch of the year and it augurs well, I think, for 2020. Plenty of fish, Mini Mike B spends all his cash on a futile bid for power, hypersonic tech goes mainstream and 45 steams into the White House on a landslide of shattered liberal dreams.

Tight Lines and Full Disclosure,

LSP

Monday, December 9, 2019

Fish Till Your Arms Ache



Today was beautiful in this part of Texas, slightly misty but warm, like an autumnal Spring. Such is Fall in Hill County, season of mists and mellow respite from having to turn on the AC. Pleased by this happy turn in the War on Weather I drove to the dam in search of fish.




Idea being to replicate last week's success against the fluid adversary and get out in the clean air, rod in hand, which is exactly what happened. First cast, up came a baby bass, then perch, followed by baby striper, followed by decent sized drum, followed by young catfish.




OK, the fish weren't as big as the ones I would've caught with a boat, granted, but there were plenty of rod-benders, tug, pull, snap and here we go, battle on. What a lot of fun, to say nothing of the tranquility of the sound of the water coming gently off the dam in the rare moments of peace between strikes.




And on it went 'til I lost count and a fierce wind blew in from Waco, exciting the immature catfish but making it hard to cast. Throw out your line and watch it go horizontal in the gale, type of thing, so I packed up and headed for home.




On the way back over the bridge a vulture dive bombed the rig, like an avian Stuka or feathered Richtofen. No kidding, I thought the thing was going to hit the truck, first time that's ever happened.

In other news, you can read about the looming threat of war between Greece and Turkey here. And while you're at it, consider how good it would be to see Sultan Erdogan sink beneath the waves of the Med in Lepanto 2.0 and Hagia Sophia restored to its glory.

Fish till your arms ache,

LSP

Friday, December 6, 2019

Age Of Aquarius


So, how do you celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas of Myra? Simple, load up the rig with a couple of light rods and head out to the mighty Brazos.




Boom. Pretty much every cast a fish, it was like... like the Age of Aquarius. No kidding, I lost count.

Mostly perch but also drum, a couple of cats and curiously, baby striper. Ferocious little fish, all of them, but especially the striper. Big fun to catch when they're big and not bad when they're small. And here's the thing.




My friend Pedro was fishing silver spinners, slabs, the live perch which I gave him, and caught exactly nothing. He was going after big fish and failed. 




By contrast, I was pulling the aquarian adversary out of the water every few minutes or so on a worm, small hook, two split-shot rig on a light rod. Big success, "You're rippin' 'em up, man!"




Moral? No libs, fish smart,

LSP

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Monsters Of The Deep?



So you're standing on the rip-rap like a warrior on the edge of time, beholding the mighty Brazos as it flows beneath you to Houston and its enormous Dalek. You have a choice, stare in amazement at the fabled waterway and reflect on its storied history or get a rod from the truck and go after some action.




There's no "rule," either way is OK, but I chose the latter path and went to the pier armed with a light Shakespeare Ugly Stick and a couple of boxes of worms. I felt the fish would love these worms and they did, snapping, tugging and bumping with pretty much every cast.

All well and good, but I wasn't closing the deal. Fishing wizardry told me juvenile perch and bass were plundering the line and a smaller hook was in order. Such is piscine soothsaying, don't discount it.




Sure enough, before too long I was reeling in the young 'uns, and ferocious predators they were too, going at the juicy worms like Democrats boarding a Greyhound for Chicago. But you're saying, in that mocking tone of voice, "Aren't they a bit small?"




Not so fast, readers of this popular international mind blog, they may have been small but a fish is a fish and even a small fish is value on a light rod. So I left the dam pleased, mission accomplished. 




And I tell you, it's good for the soul to get out in the clean air and big sky of an overcast Texan morning and fish, no matter what you catch.

Tight lines,

LSP

Sunday, July 29, 2018

Fish in the Heat of the Day



Fishing at 2 pm at the end of July in Texas doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I admit it, the fish are pretty much stunned by the heat and not biting. But I was in it for the challenge.




Sure enough, it was pretty slow going. Still, after a few minutes there was a tug on the line and out came a medium Perch, too big to use as Striper bait but a catch nonetheless. After that?




Not much until a Black Drum decided to attack the line, a fierce little beast and followed up by another, larger cousin. 




Good action, all things considered, and then the water grew quiet in the heat haze, with the exception of  a mighty Perch which I used as bait for the ferocious Striper. 




They weren't having it, so I packed up and headed for home before the air caught fire, noting a curious message on the way.

Fish on,

LSP

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Striper! No, Not Stormy

 


Fishing wisdom says there's not much point trying to catch fish mid-afternoon when the sun's high in the sky, it's roastingly hot at 106* and the fish are stunned into stasis by the heat. They just lay there, suspended in a kind of piscine daze, not biting. 

So don't bother fishing in these conditions, runs the wisdom, it's about as pointless as trying to get Anderson Cooper into conversion therapy.


Moral Arbiter

All this ran through my mind as I loaded up the rig and headed for water. Why am I doing this, I wondered. Because I had to get out and tilt my lance at fishing wisdom, I wanted to catch fish against the odds. 

A challenge, sort of thing. Not unlike trying to convince a Democrat that peace with Russia isn't treason, or even Pearl Harbor cubed.


A Perch

Whatever. By some miracle of modern technology I reached the lake without the truck melting into the asphalt and surveyed the scene. No one was there and who can blame them? They didn't want to be baked into an early Brennanlike senescence. 

Undaunted, I cast off with a split shot, small hook worm rig and was getting bites from the get-go, but couldn't close the deal. Small perch were obviously on the scene so I switched out the hook for something even smaller, miraculously the mono didn't ignite, and result, caught 5 perch.


Striper!

They weren't large and the last was perhaps the smallest. Put him to work! I thought, like Trump trying to cure our urban hellhole inner cities. Still, I wasn't counting on anything, it was the last cast. But what a cast. 

After a minute or two, the mouth-hooked perch seemed to get vigorous in the water and  I loosened the drag, instinctively. Good intuition because the line started playing out like fury, a fish was on as opposed to the perch playing around. So tighten it up, set the hook and reel it in.


Eye of the Beholder

And out came a voracious Striper who'd pretty much swallowed the perch whole. He went back to fight again another day and I went back to the Compound in the searing heat of the afternoon.


Reward. The Compound's Finally Getting Painted...

Moral of the story? Hungry Stripers, don't say Stormy,  will eat pretty much anything.

Tight lines,

LSP