Bluegill Fun

 

If yesterday, "Juneteenth," was all about celebrating famous Scots regiments, today's been about fishing. You see, the last two expeditions to Soldiers Bluff on Lake Whitney were busts, Fish 2, LSP 0 and that dismal record couldn't be allowed to stand. So, after Morning Prayer I geared up, climbed in the rig and headed south west for a counter offensive against the piscine adversary. 

Good thing too, the fish were jumping, predator bass after schools of shad and minnows. Seriously, no end of bait fish and the occasional bass strike thrashing up the water, so I cast off with a topwater torpedo. Big expectation, slow, twitchy retrieve and... nothing. Useless.

Try a worm, and guess what, almost instant tugs and ferocious little bites. Yes, bluegill were back in town and up they came, small at first, then larger. I tell you, those fierce and sometimes not so little beasts put up a fight. Tasty, too, but they all went back.

Then bass started blitzing for shad about 200 yards off, out of my casting range, but would they come in to shore? Almost, they got around 70 yards in and out went a topwater lure, which they hit with thrashing ferocity. I let it sit under assault and waited for an attack fish to take it down into the depths but that didn't happen. 

After a clamorous strike they bounced off and disappeared in search of other prey. The lure, with hindsight, was perhaps a little too large. Still, great action and a near miss or two made up for by brisk bluegill engagement. Fierce fish, light rod, big fun.

Bluegill in mind, I'll keep a few next time and fry 'em up, beer batter style, delicious.

Fish On,

LSP

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

Fish And Fossil

 

"Dad, can we go fishing?" I thought for a moment, for maybe a second, "Yes, we can." Some coffee, two bacon and egg sandwiches and a relined rod later we were on our way to the lake, Lake Whitney. And after a brief pit stop at a lakeside Pick 'n Steal for fried cherry pie and a fishing license for the kid, we were at Soldiers Bluff, casting off.

Would the fish be on? Sure enough they were, right from the get go, with voracious predator perch going at the worms we were throwing into the murky, minnowed water. Tug, snap, light rod down and boom, out comes a fish. The soldier caught first, nice, and I came in not far behind.

And so passed a pleasant hour or so in the Texan sun on the side of the lake, what a lot of fun, especially given a late bite in the last half hour; fish after fish till you started to lose count. Some of them were big too, but all Bluegill. Come on, Bass, get your act together.

As we clambered up the rocks to get to the rig and home, I reminded the world that this was once the bed of a primeval, Mesozoic sea and there were fossils to be found. Sure enough, there was a junior ammonite and some petrified shells, easy to dig out of the clayish strata.

Then, "Look at this!" Lo and behold, there was a section of fossilized shell, sticking out of the rock. Pretty cool, so we went back to the truck to get some tools to excavate it. 

Some well placed taps with the hammer end of an old axe on a sturdy screwdriver and there it was, freed from the rock. "What if there's more?" We tapped away, removing the stone which had once been mud, and there it was, the fossilized spiral of an ancient crustacean.

Great excitement, and the fossil's back at the Compound. The Bluegill, on the other hand, were put back to fight again another day, and maybe to keep. Tasty.

Fish On,

LSP.

Friday Fish

Sure, you can be a miserable Marxist Determinist, go right ahead and choose to leave your free-will behind. Or, on the other hand, you can make like a free agent and go fishing on the mighty Brazos. I chose that path.

It was a little slow at first, but that was alright. Patience, LSP, wait for the bite to switch on and enjoy the big birds casting fierce eyes for targets of opportunity. The one above swooped down on a perch I'd hooked, a first for me. Hey, my fish!

Then things started to roll and it was pretty much a fish with every cast, big Bluegill, decent Drum, and a scad of ferocious junior Striper. Back they went to fight again another day. Big fun, I tell you, and a welcome change from watching fauxtrage commies pull down statues.

I mean really, pulling down statues of Christopher Columbus, George Washington, Jefferson and General Lee is going to transform America into a genderless rainbow no-police utopia, and get Biden elected? Really? No, of course not, it's just a dropped-on-head-as-infant Marxist spasm.

Pseudo-Tet aside, I cut out while the catch was good and headed for home, the big Texan sky reflecting off the water of the river. And there it was, good action met tranquility.

Tight lines,

LSP

Fishing Ascension

It's important to have a plan, and this one was elegant in its simplicity. It went like this, drive to the marina, catch small fish and then use those very same fish to catch large fish. Compelling, eh?

And it worked well, initially. Cast into the depths with a small hook, a chunk of worm and pull out a little perch. Circle hook the perch under its dorsal and cast it out into the wider deep, and while you wait for a monster strike have fun catching more perch as you look at all the boats you don't own.

So far, so good. But the monster never struck, except once, when the light rod bucked and jumped as some ferocious predator snatched at the hapless baitfish. Big excitement, drop your amusement rod and head over to the real deal, which I did, and foolishly in the heat of the moment tried to reel in too aggressively. The big fish sensibly dropped the little fish.

Still, I lost count of the bluegill and kept a few to use as bait. If they'd been a little bigger I'd have kept a few for dinner too; so tasty, fresh bluegill out of Lake Whitney. I like them beer battered and served with fries, but pan fried's good too. Delicious.

Well, that'll come in a week or two. In the meanwhile, every blessing for the Feast of the Ascension and remember, plans are all very well but as with the apprehension of truth itself, rise and fall to the extent they're in harmony with that which is. The equation of mind to thing, say the philosophers. In this case, Leviathan Bass, maybe stripers, striking small perch at the marina, or not.

Fish on,

LSP

Fishing & Antedeluvia

It was an overcast Spring morning in rural Texas and Soldiers Bluff looked beckoning, "Come on down and fish," it seemed to say. Which is what I did, but the fish weren't having any of it, they were lying low and didn't want the juicy, tempting, delicious worms I was throwing in. 

Still, there were a few fossils, rocky remains of ancient crustaceans embedded in the limestone and clay bluff above the lake. To be honest, there's fossils everywhere here, a tangled  mix of roots, branches, shells, and who knows what else, the set in stone remains of ancient cataclysm. I always hope I'll spot something useful, like a T Rex tooth, but not today, just a couple of shells.

Now, some who read this lighthearted mind blog believe fossils like these are at most 6000 years old. If that's the case, what about structures like Gobekli Tepe, which date back to at least 9000 BC? Remarkably ancient and advanced to boot, all at a time when humans were supposed to be grubbing about for nuts, berries and the occasional bit of unfortunate wildlife. 

Two things don't add up here. Firstly, the Word of God in Scripture isn't supposed to be read with a kind of boneheaded, blank-faced literalism. Read it for its truth, for sure, but know this involves poetry, symbol and metaphor as well as literal reckoning. Note, to think this doesn't make you a useless, pathetic, scornworthy, lib heretic. 

Secondly, mankind is very old, with Homo Sapiens appearing earlier and earlier in the fossil record as new discoveries are found. All this in our own century, to say nothing of ignored and anomalous finds in the last two hundred years or so, and the witness of ancient records.

It would be odd, don't you think, if people as intelligent as us remained at the hunter gather stage for several hundreds of thousands of years. Which is exactly what orthodox archeo-anthropology teaches; finds like Gobekli, water erosion on the Sphinx, and on, challenge the narrative. 

That in mind, I decided to challenge the piscine narrative of "no catching" by moving over to the other side of the dam. At first nothing, so I changed rigs in hope of having some sport with the Gar, who were gliding about the pool like deadly, prehistoric submarines.

Good call, LSP, but no Gar. Instead, a fierce  Crappie followed by a ferocious Bass, and a large Bluegill. Result. Then it began to rain and it was time to head for home, mission accomplished.

Fish on,

LSP

Burn Ban Fishing

There's a burn ban in effect because even a spark, just one tiny spark might well be sufficient to set the air itself ablaze. No foolin', it's hot, like an oven.

With that in mind, it made sense to head off to the water where it's marginally cooler. And who knows, maybe even catch some fish if they weren't suffering from heatstroke.

Simon Weisenthal

I cast off into the furnace expecting nothing. Perhaps it's a character flaw; worst case the scenario and be happily surprised as opposed to hideously let down. Whatever, the line was out and there I was, waiting for fish.

"Nothin's biting, man," said the resident gap-toothed fish head, and he'd know. All he does, every day, is fish, right from the spot I was on. I looked him straight in eyes of his neon orange sunglasses and grinned. Out whirred the line.

Perch

Tug, thump, hookset! Out came a small fighting perch. Hey, nothing shabby when you're expecting exactly nothing. Then out came another and another; I started a game, how many Bluegill can you catch with the smallest fraction of worm. Lots, as it turned out.

Then, halfway through this childish exercise, KABOOM, something hit the hook like Simon Weisenthal on the trail of Mengele. Rod double, drag out, I thought I'd caught a cat. But no, after a few minutes of fight I saw a carp, a massive, monster, outrageous carp.

Ye Gods

We fought for ages, huge great fish on a light bass setup and make no mistake, the Leviathan Carp pulled every trick in the book. But, like Strozk's lies, it didn't work, the carp came in and was brought to account.

So what's the verdict? A heckuvva fish to catch, fight and land, no doubt about it, but bass offer more ferocity and so do gar. Carp don't leap, thrash and run with the same hectic frenzy; still, they fight like a force of nature, which in a sense they are.

Gar! Note Line...

Whatever the case, they all went back to fight again another day.

Fish on,

LSP

It's An Oven, Get On The Fish

It was a typically chilly Texan 104* and I looked at Blue Climate Change panting in his fur coat, "Perhaps it's time to go fishing, Gar like the heat." 

The dog said nothing, he regards my Gar obsession as foolish. All he's after is a better argument for Sola Scriptura (sorry, dog, fail) and against what he calls "the Abomination of Desolation!" 

Inner Light

No, I tell him. Having a statue of the Blessed Ever Virgin Mary in your church is not a sin against the Holy Spirit or any other kind of idolatry. He refuses to listen and wanders off in search of fried pies.

So much for the dog. I went in search of space and found Gar, lots of them, but only closed the deal on two, along with one miscreant Black Drum and a couple of opportunistic Bluegill. 

Beat The Drum

The Gar, furiously, bit through the line as they were being hauled up to the pier for a photo op. 

Maybe a steel leader is in order.

Beat the Jihad and Build the Wall,

LSP

Get On The Fish

Rather than reflect on the Church of England's devolution into mawkish irrelevancy masquerading as radical counterculturalism, I went fishing. 

It seemed better to get by the water after Mass and tangle with the ancient adversary than contemplate the Mullallyfication of the CofE.

Once again, the adventure started off with an empty pier, no pressure, and out went the lines with their tried and true #6 baitholder hooks and juicy worms, barely weighted with a split shot sinker resting around 12" from the hook.

Now, experts say the bigger the hook, the bigger the fish and I'm sure that's true but small hooks are notoriously capable of catching large fish as well as their smaller allies. You see, the smaller fish can't fit an enormous great hook in their mouth; they attempt it, greedily, then drop it in frustrated contempt.

Regardless, this hook logic works well if you're fishing indiscriminately from the bank and your emphasis is on catching fish, any fish. If you're singularly after trophy Bass or the awesome Striper or whatever, you tailor your rig to meet the need.

In my case, it's mostly just about catching fish and the above method worked well this evening, with no end of good sized Black Drum and a couple of fat Bluegills coming up for good measure. Pretty much every cast a fish, great result.

Fish on,

LSP

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day; I hope you've all had a fantastic time with family, friends and hopefully, your Mothers. Here at the Missions we celebrated in good form, with feasting after the Masses and a lot of fun it was too. Well done, team.

Then it was back to the Compound to regroup, get collected and look to the next evolution, which weirdly enough turned out to be fishing.

Useful

Things were a bit crowded at the top secret Texan location today, on account of all the Mother's Day fishing expeditions and perhaps the pier pressure scared the fish off. 

At any event, the going was slow for the first hour or so but I didn't care, it was good to see families having fun at the water.

Awesome

Picture the scene, Grandfather and Grandson, Father and Mother, all fishing away with Grandma sensibly sitting in the shade but smiling on.  

Heartwarming and I especially liked the Grandfather, who went by "Pappy." He came from a more civilized time and fished away with lures and jigs while I cast away with savage worms.

A Mother's Day Catfish

At one point the old gentleman pulled up a fishing rod, a fairly new one, too. I congratulated him on the catch and we laughed; a good moment. 

Fierce Little Predator

Then thump, tug, the fish switched on at last and with it a brisk hour or so of reeling in mostly small Bluegill. Hey, a fish is a fish and on a light rod these perch put up a fun fight. 

Country Life in Texas

I left as my new friends went after Bass with topwater lures and the sun was setting over the still, glassy waters of the lake.

What a good day.

God bless you, Mothers,

LSP

Outrageous Fishing

Unless you're a sad Marxist determinist or some kind of insane philosopher, you'll agree that we have free will, we can make choices. Some good, some bad, some tending towards freedom and others towards that other place which ends in iron tyranny.

No, Wymmin Can't Be Priests

With this in mind, we had a choice today at the Compound. Go fishing or sit in slack-jawed amazement at the wreckage of what used to be Western culture. The team took the better path, we went fishing.

Say No To Spirit Cooking

And BANG, pretty much out of the gate we were catching. Bluegill, Catfish and Bass; mostly Bluegill and a couple of keepers too, but they all went back. Some of you might want to know the detail. Here it is.

Defeat Globalist Elites

#1 Eagle Claw Bait holder hook, cheap as you like and then some. 1 medium split shot weight, placed appx 12" from the hook, 12' test (you never know). Bait, 1 half live worm threaded onto the hook with a chunk of Walmart shrimp (Cats seem to like the combo) and another half worm threaded below the shrimp chunk.

Smash The NWO

Presentation? Chuck it in! Well, test the water and see what works. I found that casting diagonally to a cross current tended to get good bites and... sometimes not at all.

Hey, a fish is a fish

Moral of the story? Get out and fish, and know the water. If you do, you'll be able to get on the fish with what they want and start catching. Which is the optimum result, but word to the wise, a few recce patrols don't hurt.

But of course you know all this. As it is, we lost count today. Result.

Gun rights,

LSP